#disabledwhc2025

[faerynova]

The Long Haul

Day 3: Chronic pain | Forced endurance | “Aren’t you better yet?”

(prompt list/challenge here)

happy 15th anniversary to generator rex i didnt mean for this to be the thing i post to celebrate but its on brand for me

[disabledwhumphurtcomfort]

Disabled Whump & Hurt/Comfort 2025 Prompt List

These are the prompts for the 2025 Disabled Whump & Hurt/Comfort writing challenge, a 30-day challenge running from April 1-April 30, 2025.

Below the read more are the content and posting rules for this challenge.

Feel free to start writing your works before April, but please only post on and after April 1st.

The prompts are divided by themes, but can be mixed up or taken out of order or only a few at a time. See rules for more information

LIFE IS LIKE THAT Established disability

1. Hurt: Hitting a weak spot | “I knew this would happen” | Exacerbated injury

2. Comfort: Challenged expectations | Relapse recovery | Disabled comforter

The Long Haul

3. Hurt: Chronic pain | Forced endurance | “Aren’t you better yet?”

4. Comfort: Support network | Recognizing the signs | Reassurance

Acquired disability

5. Hurt: Accident | Deliberate injury | Medical aftermath

6. Comfort: Accommodation | Physical therapy | Learning curve

Recovery

7. Hurt: “I feel like I’m going backwards” | Exhausting recovery | Side effects

8. Comfort: Long-term treatment | “New normal” | Healing from trauma

Adaptation

9. Hurt: Destroyed assistive device | Painful healing | Go it alone

10. Comfort: “My own way of doing things” | Work-arounds | Assistive device

PAIN AND PERIL Environmental

11. Hurt: Extreme temperatures | Mobility restriction | Isolation

12. Comfort: Safe place | Survive together | Coming home

Sensory

13. Hurt: Flare-up | Relapse | Adverse reaction

14. Comfort: Quiet place | Helping them calm down | “Hang in there”

Trapped

15. Hurt: Painful restraints | Chemically subdued | “No one’s coming”

16. Comfort: Rescue | “It’s alright, you’re safe” | Support/carrying

Medical

17. Hurt: Emergency/field medicine | Hospitalized | Medical trauma

18. Comfort: Being believed | Symptoms relieved | Diagnosis

Breaking Point

19. Hurt: Self-sabotage | “Pushing through” | Collapse

20. Comfort: “You’re not alone” | “Give them time” | Loyalty

EMOTIONAL HURT Loss

21. Hurt: Frustrated ambition | Something lost permanently | Missing out

22. Comfort: Adjusted expectations | There no matter what | New paths

Autonomy

23. Hurt: “I know what’s best for you” | Defiance | “My body’s not mine”

24. Comfort: “It’s your decision” | Leadership | At home in their body

Psychological Effects

25. Hurt: In a bad mood | Out of energy | At the end of their rope

26. Comfort: Moral support | “You can rest now” | “Give them space”

Stoicism

27. Hurt: Hiding a condition | Impossible standards | “I’m used to it”

28. Comfort: Explicit support | Opening up | “I won’t leave you”

Intimacy

29. Hurt: Miscommunication | Trust issues | Fear of rejection

30. Comfort: Adapting intimacy | Let it all out | Kiss (or more) and make up

Rules below the cut:

This event will be centered on characters with disabilities and chronic conditions, both visible (ex, paraplegia; limb differences) and invisible (ex, migraines; CFS). For writing to qualify, please have one or more disabled/chronically ill characters as the focus of your story, rather than a side character/cameo in a story about abled characters. Prompts are meant to facilitate stories about disability and disabled characters in the genres of hurt/comfort and whump (also known as hurt-no-comfort).

"Disability" can have a broad definition, and many conditions can be disabling. The moderator will not be filtering or rejecting submissions based on what medical conditions "count"; the only parameter is that the central character lives with a chronic condition of some type which is disabling for them in some way. Disabililties which come about in a fantasy or sci-fi setting are welcome as long as they are portrayed as being disabling in some way which is anaolgous (eg, a permanent problem caused by magic, or vampirism as a fantasy-disability).

Please do not TAG your posts/links with the names of disabilities you are writing about, or with “disability” or “chronic illness”, as those tags are used by disabled folks to talk about our RL disabilities and in the past there have been issues with writers inadvertently clogging those tags with fiction/writing advice.

Please DO tag your posts and links #disabledwhc2025 and, in a second tag, the day (eg, #day 1: established disability) so the mod can find and reblog them to the blog!

Original work and fanfic are both welcome; anything goes in terms of settings and genres (fantasy, sci-fi) as long as it’s h/c or whump.

You do not have to write for every prompt (that’s why there’s a mix of hurt and comfort!) or every day to be featured. If you don’t have time for 30 days, do as many as you feel like. If you only write either H/C or Whump, you can do a 15-day challenge, reinterpret the hurt prompts to include comfort, and/or find a whumpy spin on the comfort prompts.

If you write prompts out of order please still tag which day you are writing for and the title of that prompt set. So if you decide to post the prompt “frustrated ambition” from the set “Loss”, which is day 21, on April 3, please still tag your April 3 post “day 21: loss”.

There are no restrictions on what content can be posted, but please use content notes for the following topics: "Rape/noncon" "Underage" "Graphic Depictions of Violence" (ie gore), and "Major Character Death" before the start of your piece. You can also use the warning "Creator Chose Not to Use Content Warnings" if you do not want to spoil fic. Please use a "read more" for these pieces.

Please tag any NSFT works (explicit sexual content) as "NSFT". Please use a "read more" for these pieces.

[letsplaythermalnuclearwar]

It doesn't hurt much

Fandom: The Owl House Summary: Hunter has chronic pain post-possession. He doesn't tell anyone Word Count: 2.3k Warnings: no archive warnings apply, references to child abuse (also on AO3) Written for the Disabled Whump & Hurt Comfort 2025 Event. Prompt list here.

Hunter was used to pain. 

He was used to broken bones and bruised ribs. He was used to split lips and twisted ankles. He was used to stress headaches and bloodied knuckles. He was used to gritting his teeth and dealing with it, because the only alternative was more pain.  

He was not used to his skin being on fire. 

Scars itched—Hunter knew that very well. Sometimes they itched so bad they hurt. And sometimes they just hurt, full stop. 

The scars he’d gotten from the possession were different. They burnt. Burnt through his selkidomus skin, burnt past his flesh and the muscles, burnt straight through until the fire reached his bones, and burnt them too. 

Hunter had never been burnt before. The boiling rain was just a hot shower, the boiling sea a warm bath. His selkidomus skin protected him. He wished it didn’t. Maybe then, he’d be used to that specific brand of pain.

As it was, he could barely focus enough to work. And there was work to be done. 

The Isles needed to be rebuilt. A refugee town was being constructed to house the former inhabitants of the Left Arm. Governmental and religious systems were being overhauled. Giant, sparkly stars stuck out the sides of buildings. Roads were unusable. Rubble needed clearing. Everyone needed to help. So, Hunter gritted his teeth, and helped however he could.

This worried his friends to a frankly confusing degree, since he hadn’t told anyone that the scars hurt. Apparently they thought he was running from his grief for Flapjack.

Which Hunter wasn’t. He was just doing whatever he could to make up for all the hurt he’d caused as the Golden Guard—all the witches he’d arrested, all the lives he’d ruined, all the palismen he’d killed—in whatever way he could. And would continue to do so until the day he died. Because he could never make up for that much hurt. So what if that meant he threw up in bushes because the pain made him nauseous? So what if he fell asleep crying most nights because another day was almost more than he could take? So what if he wanted to rip out his lungs to stop them from burning with every breath? He wasn’t dead, which was more than he could say for Flapjack. 

He told his friends that being productive helped him relax. They accepted this with minimal ’whenever-you’re-ready-to-talk-about-what’s-really-happening,-we’re-here-to-listen’-ing. Which was sweet but totally unnecessary because he was fine. 

***

Moving his eyelids hurt. Which did not bode well for the rest of the day. 

Hunter gritted his teeth—which also hurt—and sat up. 

His head span. His throat went dry. He was shivering and drenched in sweat, which was just gross.

He focused on the grossness instead of how his skin was pulsing like some sort of terrible heartbeat, as he crawled out of bed, onto the floor, and managed the thirty feet between his bed and the shower. He sat in the water with his pyjamas on and let his thoughts drown. 

He’d been in there for too long before crawling out. He lay on Darius’s ridiculously fluffy bathmat for too long before sitting up. He’d been sitting up too long before he peeled off his wet clothes. He’d been sitting there, naked, for too long before he snatched his towel off the hook. He sat there with his towel for too long before drying himself off, one limb at a time, taking too long for each one. 

He crawled back into his bedroom slowly, until he finally reached the standing mirror Darius had gotten him.

He lay there in front of it for a while, breathing, and ignored the tears sliding down his cheeks. They were just an involuntary pain response, like gasping for breath after getting winded. Nothing more. 

His pentagram was lying next to his right arm. With much effort, Hunter reached over and tapped the screen, causing it to light up.

8:42. A few months ago, he’d have finished yesterday’s paperwork, completed a patrol, dealt with the paperwork that Lilith or Kikimora had let slide through the cracks, reported to Belos, and headed off on whatever his job was for the day by now. 

He’d have been beaten bloody for being this late. 

That thought gave him enough energy to sit up and face the mirror.

He didn’t wipe away the tears running down his cheeks. Instead, he lifted his hands and covered his face, pretending his fingers were a mask.

Hunter was done for the day. Hunter couldn’t function with the pain. So it was the Golden Guard’s turn. 

He stood up, wiping the tears from his eyes, and got dressed. It was too warm for a hoodie, but he grabbed one anyway. He wanted to hide as much of his skin as he could—it had gone pale. 

He brushed his hair into something presentable, washed his face, and headed downstairs.

Darius was sitting at the kitchen counter, eating cereal and drinking tea when Hunter walked in. “Good morning, Little Prince.”

“Morning,” Hunter said, grabbing a granola bar. He was pretty sure he’d throw up anything heavier. He headed for the door. 

“Ah, Hunter, wait,” Darius called. Hunter turned around. Darius was half-standing. “Where are you going?”

Well. That was a stupid question. “To work,” Hunter answered. Like he’d been doing every day for the past three weeks. 

“…You don’t have a job anymore.” Darius it slowly, gently. With that worry in his eye that everyone got around Hunter. 

Hunter was getting sick of it. “I know that. I’m working to rebuild the Isles. Like everyone else.” Except for the Clawthornes. They were figuring out the Collector’s portal door instructions. 

Darius pursed his lips. “Why don’t you stay home today, hm? Get some rest.”

Hunter reminded himself that Darius had graciously allowed him into his house, and that Hunter needed to be respectful and grateful. And that yelling at him for daring to imply that Hunter would ever have a home again would not be respectful or grateful. 

“I got up at five AM every day in the Emperor’s Coven,” he said instead. “I’m resting plenty.” This was true and not changed by the fact that everything took more energy than it used to. 

Darius sighed, and stood up. Hunter wondered if he’d used up all the grace that he’d gotten these past few months and was about to be punished. He also wondered if being so numb about that idea was normal. 

“At least let me fly you there,” Darius said instead of whatever Hunter thought was going to happen. He strode past Hunter, summoning his staff as he did. “Where are you headed today?”

“Uh, the third-left rib,” Hunter said, trailing after him. “The message board said they need volunteers to clear the stars.”

“I wish that child had taken the stars with him,” Darius said, “it would’ve saved everyone a lot of trouble.”

“I wish they’d fixed the Titan’s arm,” Hunter grumbled. At the words, his left arm gave a twinge. Hunter quickly thought about something else, before all the pain could come rushing back.

“Didn’t he say his magic didn’t work on Titans?” Darius opening the front door. 

The Owl Lady was standing there, one arm raised like she was about to knock. “Heya, Darius.” She glanced at Hunter. “Kid.”

Darius froze. “I forgot the meeting.”

“You sure did,” Eda said cheerfully. “Raine’s been calling me all morning.”

“What meeting?” Hunter asked.

“Raine’s talking with some people they trust about how to fix the political system,” Eda explained, “and Darius was meant to be there a half an hour ago.”

How could Darius forget something like that? If Hunter had been invited, it’d be all he could think about. “I can walk,” he said to Darius. 

Darius looked torn. “I—if you’re sure—”

“I can drop him off,” Eda said, lowering her staff for Hunter. “Where you headed?”

“The third left rib,” Hunter said, getting on. 

“Please be careful with my ward,” Darius said, getting on his own staff. “Apparently this is the longest he’s gone without breaking a bone and I would like to extend that streak.”

“You worry too much,” Eda said, before telling Hunter to ’hold on tight’ and taking off.

Eda flew at a leisurely, steady pace, which was somewhat disappointing to Hunter, but made holding on easier. He didn’t have to grip the staff too tightly, which would aggravate the scars around his fingers and make them pulse and burn and—

“How’s Lilith doing?” Hunter asked to distract himself. 

“Eh, okay,” Eda answered, “she’s heading to the meeting too, so she felt very important about that. How’re you doing, living with that old fart?”

“Isn’t he younger than you?”

“Nah, he’s way older. Like, a whole year older,” Eda said. “The curse aged me a bit—I still look hot though.” 

Hunter didn’t comment.

“What are you doing out by the ribs anyway?” Eda asked. 

“I’m helping remove stars.”

“Oh yeah, those things are a real pain in the…” Eda fell silent.

“…you can say ass,” Hunter said after a bit. “I’m sixteen.”

“What? Oh, I know that kid,” Eda continued, “I was just wondering how you remove the stars without any magic?”

Hunter felt himself bristling. “I’m not useless. I just pull them out.” It took longer than it would for someone else, but that didn’t matter. It still helped. It was still something.

“Easy kid, I didn’t say you were,” Eda continued. “Just…Raine’s been dealing with some real bad pain ever since…well, ever since Belos possessed them. I assumed you were too.”

“Nope,” Hunter said too fast, “no, I’m completely fine.”

“…Right,” Eda said after a moment. “So the work isn’t exacerbating any injuries?”

“I’m fine,” Hunter continued, perhaps a little desperately. “Maybe it affected me differently because I’m—I’m young.” 

Eda nodded in front of him, in a slow, thoughtful way. “Maybe.”

They rode in silence for the rest of the trip. 

Eda landed carefully and Hunter scrambled off the staff. “Thanks for ride,” he said, before turning around and heading for the nearest star. He needed to get away from her before she figured him out even more. 

“Wait.” Eda flew in front of him. “Here.” She was holding a tiny vial of glowing blue liquid.

Hunter frowned. “What’s this?”

“My hair’s full,” Eda said with a shrug, “so I figured you could hold onto this for me. As payment for the ride.”

Hunter glanced between her and the vial. “Sure…” he said, taking it slowly, like maybe it would blow him up. “What is it?”

Eda gave him a look that was definitely meant to say something but Hunter wasn’t sure what. He returned it with his natural confused expression. Eda’s look morphed into something horrified. “Have you never seen a healing vial before?”

Hunter shook his head. 

Eda stared at him for a long moment. “Any chance that you’ve never been in pain before?” 

Hunter snorted (which made his nose feel like he’d shoved it in burning embers but whatever).

Eda sucked a breath through her teeth, gaze dropping to the side. “Titan, that is…” she shook her head, looking back at him. “It helps with pain. You drink a little when you have a headache, or burnt your finger, or whatever. Don’t drink it all at once, you gotta take little sips. It can make you kinda sleepy, so watch out for that.”

Hunter stared at the liquid. “This,” he said slowly, hands trembling around the vial, “this makes pain go away?”

“Not go away,” Eda said, “more like reduces it. Dulls it.”

Hunter felt tears well up in his eyes. “You’re—” he swallowed, throat stinging in protest. “You’re giving this to me?”

“Yeah. This vial cost me two snails,” Eda said. “They’re—look, kid, there’s no reason you shouldn’t have been taking these whenever you got injured, alright?”

Hunter couldn’t believe these had always been around. “Okay.” His voice was wobbly. “Thank you.”

“No problem,” Eda said, smiling awkwardly. “I’m going to head home now—unless you’re in pain and want a ride?”

“No,” Hunter said quickly, wiping his eyes, “no, I’m fine.”

“Uh-huh,” Eda said dubiously. “You know, I’ve been in a bit of pain ever since I got cursed, back when I was about your age. And I pretty much ruined my life trying to hide it from the people who loved me.”

Hunter rolled his eyes, ignoring the ache in his left shoulder. “I’m not hiding anything.”

“It’s embarrassing,” Eda continued like he hadn’t spoken, “getting help with stuff other people can do alone. It can feel shameful. But the people who love you want to help. They want to take care of you. They’d rather share the burden—the pain—than have you go it alone.” Eda’s lips quirked into a smile. “You’ve got a lot of people who love you, kiddo. Don’t forget that.”

“I’m fine,” he insisted, not meeting her eye.

“I know. Call me if you want a ride,” Eda said, then took off into the air.

Hunter waited until she was out of sight, then opened the vial and sipped it. The effect was much quicker than the painkillers Mrs Noceda had given him. The pounding in his head lessened and pulsing pain in his skin dulled. He sighed in relief, eyes drifting closed for a moment. 

Then he turned around, and headed for the nearest star. He had work to do. 

[ninthfeather]

but i don't need a cure for me

Fandom: One Piece Summary: Romance Dawn, but make the Strawhats disabled. (also on AO3)

A/N: Title from "Cure for Me" by Aurora. Thank you to FabHawk for beta-reading and for brainstorming help!

Before everything, before anyone outside of Foosha Village had heard the name Luffy, Monkey D. Dragon’s son spent his time running through the jungle with two boys he calls brothers. His joints popped and ached sometimes, but Ace passed out regularly and Sabo sometimes had headaches so bad he couldn’t move. It was just how things were.

I was always bendy, even before I ate my Devil Fruit , he told his prospective first mate.

And Zoro, who could cut a fly in half with his blade but couldn't seem to read a map, no matter how long he tried, looked at Luffy and saw something familiar. 

They met a thief in their travels, a beautiful woman with a bulky prosthetic attached to her shoulder. She twirled her staff in her other hand and wore her coat so that the harness around her torso was perfectly visible but the swirling symbol embossed into the prosthetic’s upper arm was obscured.

I”m hardly the first sailor to be short a limb, she laughed.

At Syrup Village, they met a boy so cheerful that it was easy to believe him, even when you could see his hands shaking. Nami and Kaya spent hours talking about how to push through fatigue, and then even more hours talking about the shenanigans their friends got up to.

When they left, Usopp followed them, filled with almost enough excitement to quiet the fear.

I can be a brave warrior of the sea, even like this, right ? He asked, and his voice barely even shook.

The floating restaurant was supposed to be a detour, nothing more. But then Luffy met the waiter whose sharp tongue didn't match his flat expression, and moved getting a cook up his list of priorities. Sanji was good in a fight, and he was trustworthy, even if sometimes the faces he made were confusing.

A chef doesn’t need to smile, or frown, or whatever; they just need to cook, and I’m the best damn cook in the East Blue, Sanji told him.

Then, Nami stole the Going Merry .

Luffy could see the others getting frustrated with him for not taking it seriously enough, but he wasn’t going to change his mind. Nami had betrayed them, yes, but he didn’t believe she was doing it just for fun.

And sure enough, they learned about Arlong and the Fishman Pirates. And Luffy understood, because if anyone tried to take his freedom the way theirs had been taken, he would want to destroy everything too. But Nami didn’t do anything to them, and Luffy’d had more than enough of the people he cared for being looked down on.

Arlong sneered down at them--Zoro in his bandages, Luffy with braces on his elbows and fingers, Usopp and his quivering hands, and Sanji's expressionless face. 

Luffy knew what they saw, because it was just what the people in Grey Terminal saw when they looked at him and his brothers. They were outliers that didn’t fit into their ideas of what kids were like. Now, he and his crew were people who didn't look like what Arlong thought of when he imagined humans.

Luffy, being Luffy, could never have a normal crew. He wouldn't want one.

He wanted back those lazy afternoons, bobbing along on the waves. Usopp singing off key because it helped with his nerves and Nami drowsing next to the wheel with her prosthetic on the deck beside her.

He pulled his fist back and ran at Arlong.

[boatcats]

Light on the Water

Written for the Disabled Whump & Hurt Comfort 2025 Event. Prompt list here.

--

Francis Crawford awoke and was dazzled. He could feel the soft sheets beneath him, could smell grass and warmth and wood-smoke through the open bedroom windows, and his vision was awash with dark stars, like inverted sunlight on the water, like staring too long at a candle flame.

Another headache, then. There was already pain somewhere in the vicinity of his left eye socket. He sighed, resigned. His tongue felt thick in his mouth and his mind sluggish.

Next to him in the bed, Philippa stirred, stretched, offered him a smile half seen through the dazzle. He smiled back, fully involuntarily, unable to not smile at her despite the pain in his head. But there must have been something of a grimace in it because Philippa seemed to come more awake when she saw it.

"Francis? Are you well?"

He wasn't. And there was no use hiding it. "Ah, no. My head. I'm sorry, Yunitsa. Perhaps if I sleep a little longer."

"Hmm," she sighed, seeming both concerned at his pain and pleased at his honesty. She laid her cool palm against the side of his face. Her touch was a balm and he leaned into it making a soft contented noise in his throat.

"Rest," she told him. "Chris and I will get up to greet Richard when he arrives."

"Richard...!" The thought of his brother nearly sent Lymond tumbling to his feet. He'd forgotten the planned visit.

"Francis. Richard won't want you to hurt yourself on his account." Philippa's voice was soft but firm, assured, and while Francis might once have argued the point he had come to learn that Richard had no love for seeing him in pain. He had seen rather too much of it over the years.

"Alright," Francis sighed, turning his face into Philippa's palm again. "I'll rest."

[i-can-even-burn-salad]

Coming Home

All of our Lives

The book isn't out yet, so I keep it to things that happened before - in this case, roughly 6 months before the start of the novel!

Prompt: Day 12 - Coming Home (Prompt list)

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

WIP Intro

Ross peeked out behind the curtain of the carriage window, watching each passing tree and counting the minutes until he would be home. Not merely a visit for the holidays or in summer, but finally, truly home. He missed his room and his books and his bed, but most of all—most of all he missed Irina.

He had worried about her since the moment he had left for school, but the last time he had been home, a few days over Summer’s Soul, she had looked worse than ever. Between hollow eyes and pale skin, he hadn’t seen her smile even once. He knew her mother was sick, and that his parents, instead of hiring more help, worked her to the bone. Only a few more months, he had promised her, then he would do anything in his power to get her out.

He needed the real world experience, he would say. He needed to stand on his own feet, he would say. He needed some help with his household tasks, and someone familiar with his needs, he would say. He needed to pay her a proper wage and make sure she got enough food and rest instead of treating her like property.

He would not say that.

When the mansion came into view, he slipped his crutch over his forearm, eager to waste as little time as possible. Only the good manners instilled in him were the reason he didn’t open the door himself the moment the carriage came to a halt but waited for the driver to do so. 

The man assisted him down the two steps, and he would also take care of Ross’ luggage, so Ross walked along the path to the entrance. As every year since he had left for school, he had missed late summer, but parts of the garden were still in full bloom. Hedges were carefully trimmed, leaves raked up the moment they touched the ground. Everything always had to be spotless, ready to impress at any given moment.

Ross knew he rarely fulfilled those expectations, but perhaps this time, he could be lucky. He greeted the porter and stepped into the entrance hall, finding himself face to face with his mother.

“You’re later than expected.” She looked him up and down, but didn’t seem to be able to find something to criticize, other than his general existence, he guessed. “Refresh yourself,” she said anyway. “You will be expected for dinner.”

Ross merely inclined his head. She clearly was in a mood, and since there was a chance that anything he said could be taken as offense, it was better not to speak at all. When the door opened behind him and the driver dragged his luggage inside, Ross showed him the way up the stairs and into his room.

His room! He told the driver where to put his bags, and the moment the man closed the door behind him, Ross let himself drop onto his bed—his huge, soft, comfortable, warm bed. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, taking in the smell of home.

He hadn’t exactly expected a welcome party, but the fact that no one seemed to care that he was back stung a bit. Well; he was sure Irina cared, but for all he knew, his parents had her slaving away in some hidden corner, doing the job of two people alone. The sooner he would be able to talk to them, the better.

He opened the smaller of his bags and pulled out the leather-bound folder. Perhaps, for once, he deserved a bit of goodwill. Not only had he done what they had expected of him—he had excelled at it. Graduating with honors wasn’t something to be taken for granted even among those with private tutors, a benefit he decidedly had never had. His father had hinted that after his graduation, he might consider giving his youngest son some responsibilities. Responsibilities Brad didn’t want, for sure, but Ross didn’t care. Whatever got him out of the house and let him prove that he was good for more than staying out of sight.

Slowly, carrying every object one by one, he put away his most important belongings: the folder in one drawer of his desk, his reading glasses in another, the bottle with his pills on the nightstand, and his notebook next to it. It was a good feeling reclaiming his room.

A knock on the door made him spin around with a huge grin on his face, which faltered as he realized that the rhythm had been off. While he tried to stand up straight and gather his voice, the door opened and a young woman he had never seen before entered. Whatever had happened to waiting until one was called in?

“Young mister DeWitt.” She curtsied, which was as unnecessary as it was uncomfortable. “I’m the new maid.”

Oh. So his parents had hired more help. That was nice, he guessed, and it took away his scruples as he said:

“Would you fetch Irina, please? I’m tired from the journey, and I would like some help unpacking and refreshing myself.”

He didn’t strictly need her help, but as always after the hours-long carriage ride, he was pretty sore, and if he could get her away from her chores a few hours earlier, all the better. The maid looked at him with eyes as big as saucers, and Ross forced himself to smile. It had been a while since the last time someone had been rude enough to stare at him like that, but there was no point in antagonizing the new personnel first thing after his arrival.

“I apologize,” he said, even though he wasn’t the one who had something to apologize for. “I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Ross. When I am at home, Irina is my personal maid, because she, well.” He raised his crutch a bit. “Knows what I need.”

The maid nodded hastily and was out the door as quickly as she had entered. Would have been nice to know her name, but skittish as she was, she probably didn’t think it was important to him. He would talk to her once he had settled in and make sure she knew that he wasn’t like his parents. 

His parents, who expected him for dinner. He walked to his wardrobe and inspected his clothes, hoping to find something fitting for the occasion. The ones he had taken with him to school would have to be laundered or at least steamed before they would be adequate.

This time, the door opened without warning. Ross whirled around, gaze falling upon the young woman who entered. Her dark blonde hair was smooth as silk, her eyes of the same hue as his, and her lips pressed together as if they had never learned how to smile.

“Mel?” Something was off. His sister never came to him; she barely ever acknowledged him. “Why are you— Where’s Irina?”

“Our parents didn’t want to tell you while you were focusing on your finals, but that—” She broke off and cleared her throat before she added, “Irina is gone.”

Ross could only stare at her. Surely, he had understood her wrong?

“What?” he croaked. “Why?”

He hated how the sudden anxiousness made his throat tight and turned his voice into a squeal, just like he hated the expression of disgust flicking across his sister’s face.

“She killed Brad,” Mel said, in a tone that was entirely inadequate for relaying such news. “Two weeks ago. The next day, I brought her to town to be arrested. The new girl was hired to take over her duties, but our parents think it’s about time you make do without extra help.”

Arrested. The word echoed in Ross’ mind, over and over and over again. Arrested. In town, because this place barely deserved to be called a village, and there hadn’t been a prison in decades, and the next place big enough to have a judge able to deal with such things was more than an hour away.

The room around Ross blurred. Two weeks ago. She was already gone. It wouldn’t have been a trial. Not when she had killed the eldest son of the richest family in the region. No matter what her reason—and she must have had a reason, she must have—no one would have listened to her. It would have been a farce followed by an execution. 

Alone. Always alone. Dragged away to face trial and conviction alone. Dragged out to be killed alone. Had she been scared? She must have been, and he hadn’t been there for her. Hadn’t been able to speak for her, to beg for her life, and now it didn’t matter what had happened. Now it was too late. 

They had probably buried her in an unmarked grave by now. Under the earth, alone and cold, so cold, and he hadn’t even been able to say goodbye, hadn’t gotten a chance to tell her how much he loved her. His little Ivy. She had always been so warm and so soft and so kind, but the memory faded as his mind conjured up the image of her cold and stiff body, decaying in her lonely grave. The emptiness in his heart grew until it threatened to choke him.

A touch on his arm made him lash out, shoving the person away so hard, he slid off the bed himself. When had he sat down on it? Why couldn’t he remember? He pressed his back against the mattress, but it didn’t help against the sick feeling in his stomach. 

Mumbled voices that didn’t make sense. Not enough air in the room as the walls closed in on him. He wanted to walk out the door, out the house, walk and walk and walk until he found her grave, until he could be as close to her as the earth allowed it, just so she wasn’t alone. His body didn’t even allow him to crawl back into his bed, stiff and trembling and unwilling to listen to him. 

The light faded while he cried, feeling so numb, he didn’t know where his body ended and where the floor began. Cold crept through his clothes and through his skin until it settled in his very bones, but he couldn’t bring himself to move, lacking both willpower and strength to get his limbs to obey. 

When pale morning light crept through the curtains, Ross stared blearily at the mattress in front of his face. His tears had long dried up, leaving his eyelids sticky and his mouth dry and fuzzy. Everything hurt. Irina would have scolded him for sitting like this the whole night before helping him up and using her warm hands to ease the pain of cramped muscles. The thought was enough to make him sob again, pressing his forehead against the mattress.

He would never hear her voice again. Never feel her touch again. She was gone and cold and alone, and he was still here and cold and alone, and he didn’t know how he was ever going to do anything but cry again.

A knock on the door. A pause. Another knock.

Ross didn’t bother to answer. Irina had always knocked in a way that was hers alone, just like so many things had been theirs alone. Their little jokes. Their shared memories. The trust between them. He had never trusted another person like he had trusted her. He never would, either.

Apparently unwilling to wait any longer, the person outside pushed the door open. It was the new maid. She was clearly uncomfortable, but apparently not enough to leave him the fuck alone. Ross tried to scowl, but he was too tired to control his face. He probably looked like shit, still wearing the clothes he had arrived in and sitting on the floor because he couldn’t scrape together the energy to get up.

“Young mister,” she said in a tone so low, it was almost a whisper. “I’m here to collect your laundry.”

Quietly, the door closed behind her. She shuffled closer, clutching the hem of her apron. In front of him, she stopped, crouching down as she extended her arm.

“Do you need—”

“Don’t. Touch,” he snapped. “Take it. Go.”

He was shaking again, the fingers of his right hand clutching the bed as he swallowed a groan. Everything hurt, his heart and his body, and while it wasn’t the woman’s fault, his broken heart didn’t care who it lashed out at. As far as he was concerned, his family had killed his one and only friend. Every possible future had included her. Never, not even once, had he considered a life without her.

“Your father…” the maid started.

Can go fuck himself, Ross wanted to say, but it was probably for the better that his rebellious tongue turned it into unintelligible noise.

“Tomorrow evening is the harvest banquet. He expects the. The usual guests?” she said in a questioning tone, obviously hoping she wouldn’t have to elaborate. “He wishes you to attend.”

It had to be a joke. Ross’ laugh turned into a sob, but he tried to keep it together, not willing to fall apart in front of this stranger.

“I’m not really supposed to, but.” Her hand hovered close, but she didn’t try to touch him. “If you need help?”

“No.” Ross’ tone was still sharp, but no longer as hostile as before. “I will be. There.” He moved his jaw from side to side. Even those muscles hurt, tense as he had been. As he still was. “My laundry. I have not yet unpacked. My bag.”

He watched her gather his clothes and retreat, and only when the door had closed behind her did he stir. Unfolding his limbs made him groan, but he needed to go to the bathroom, and he needed to take his pills. And then he needed to figure out what the fuck he was going to do.

He didn’t want to attend this dinner. If he was honest, he didn’t want to see his family at all. Fuck, how could his father still think about holding the banquet as if nothing had happened? The man didn’t give a fuck about his servants, but he had lost his son—a fact that hadn’t yet settled in Ross’ mind. He should have mourned Brad’s death, he really should have, but they had never been particularly close, and Ross knew it in his heart that this asshole had done something terrible to drive Irina to deadly violence.

No one was going to tell him though, were they? Perhaps if he was lucky. If enough wine flowed to loosen Greer’s lips. The possibility wasn’t enticing enough to make sitting through a whole dinner worth it, quiet and obedient like a slightly defective doll no one was supposed to look too closely at. But what other choice did he have? For now, he was still dependent on his family, not that the thought of getting disowned held much of a threat.

Ross groaned as he pulled himself up onto his bed, the fingers of his left hand clutched to a painful fist as he grabbed blindly at the bottle on his nightstand with his right. He would have to play along until he figured out what to do, because there was one thing he knew for sure: Irina wouldn’t have wanted him to give up.

I don't wanna use the MCD tag, because she's the second protagonist of the novel, so she's obviously not dead. Not saying she's doing well, but she's alive! 😅

Anyway, if you wanna see more of my guy(s), the book's gonna be out on May 15 :D

[coldwind-shiningstars]

https://archiveofourown.org/works/64979284

"lo que el agua me dio" The Locked Tomb, Gen, T, Creator chose not to use archive warnings Cytherea the First & Dulcinea Septimus A conversation in an eddy of the River.

I have two other fics in progress for this month and this one just kind of appeared, experimentally, in my fic folder. For day 23/ "autonomy".

[wolffyluna]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: ダンジョン飯 | Dungeon Meshi | Delicious in Dungeon Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Kabru & Mithrun (Dungeon Meshi) Characters: Kabru (Dungeon Meshi), Mithrun (Dungeon Meshi) Additional Tags: Kabru POV, Spoilers past the anime, Hurt/Comfort, Huddling For Warmth, Set in Volume 9, Hypothermia Summary:

Mithrun didn’t shiver, even with his bare chest in the cold air. He didn’t even get goose flesh. How much of staying warm needed you to want it? The floor felt too loose under Kabru's feet, like it could fall any time. How much of staying alive needed you to want it?

Many thanks to @coldwind-shiningstars for beta reading!

I had plans to write more fics for this event, but alas, time.

[badassbutterfly1987]

Fandom: The Devil Inside (video game)

Characters: Dave Cooper, Deva

Disability: leg prosthetic

Prompt: hitting a weak spot

Summary: He's fortunate, really, that the harpoon hit his metal leg and not his meat one. It still hurts like hell.

One moment, Dave was on his feet, whirling around and taking down big-fanged monsters with a shotgun. The next moment, sharp metal hitting his leg and yanking him down to the ground. Muscle memory guided his arms into place, a single headshot to take out the last enemy, a stupid harpoon-wielding fish monster.

Metal leg, Dave noted. Metal, not flesh. At least Tank (because he might as well name something that's locked to his body every mission) didn't bleed or bruise, even if the pain radiating up past his knee suggested otherwise.

He dropped a cringe-inducing one liner about making sushi for the sake of the cameras. Jack would throw a fit about not entertaining the audience otherwise. He kept the same stupid grin on his face as he walked out of the cavern, pretending that he wasn't limping and trying not to whimper.

Dave was off-balance in a way that wasn't naturally correcting after a few steps, which probably meant the artificial proprioception nerves had been disrupted; one of Jack's technicians would throw a fit he'd damaged their fancy tech again. A shame the pain sensors were still intact.

He could feel the worried buzz in the back of his head, his demon partner uneasy at the strange feedback. She had linked to his soul when his leg was originally taken, she understood on a level no one else could just what it felt like. She empathized remarkably well for her species, even if she didn't get why he was like this.

Alright, he assured her while making his way to the trailer. Just a bit sore.

"Err, you okay, Red?" One of the cameramen (Tom? Tim?) hovered nearby. 

"Fine," he hissed out. The field guys knew to respect the boundaries he'd set up. They might think him as a showboating diva (hah, Deva) but they knew when to give him space. 

It was dark and quiet in his trailer, all of it remarkably simple despite the assumptions of how a reality tv star would travel. He sprawled across the simple cot, taking nearly a minute to get the dead weight off him. He hissed as he did so, nerves sparking as the prosthesis detached.

The harpoon had pierced the titanium shell, tearing the mesh inside. He was lucky it had hit below where his leg ended. The impact had still jostled against his stub. The skin felt heated under his fingers as he rubbed numbing cream onto it. He was sure there would be bruises and plenty of aches later, even when he switched over to his normal prosthesis. 

Though Deva remained immaterial, the ghostly echo of her wings wrapped around Dave as he laid down to rest.

[disabledwhumphurtcomfort]

Introductory Post

Welcome to the 2025 Disabled Whump & Hurt/Comfort Writing Challenge!

This is a 30-day writing challenge for original and fan fiction in the whump and hurt/comfort genres which centers on characters with disabilities. One general writing prompt is given for each day, and participants post a piece written to fill the prompt (any length) on that day, tagged appropriately (see rules 3 and 4).

The challange runs through April 1-30 2025, but late submissions tagged for the event will be accepted and reblogged to be featured on this blog. Prompts are posted now, so feel free to write things ahead of time, as long as they are posted on or after April 1.

All writers are welcome! This challenge will uplift the work of disabled writers, but you do not have a disability to participate.

There is a post with resources for writing disabled characters respectfully and learning more about disabilities here.

The moderator is Mod K (she/her), and can be contacted via the ask box or messages.

The Optional AO3 Collection for the event is here

Please read the rules and goals before sending asks as they have many FAQs in them!

Rules:

This event will be centered on characters with disabilities and chronic conditions, both visible (ex, paraplegia; limb differences) and invisible (ex, migraines; CFS). For writing to qualify, please have one or more disabled/chronically ill characters as the focus of your story, rather than a side character/cameo in a story about nondisabled characters. Prompts are meant to facilitate stories about disability and disabled characters in the genres of hurt/comfort and whump (also known as hurt-no-comfort).

"Disability" can have a broad definition, and many conditions can be disabling. The moderator will not be filtering or rejecting submissions based on what medical conditions "count"; the only parameter is that the central character lives with a chronic condition of some type which is disabling for them in some way. Disabilities which come about in a fantasy or sci-fi setting are welcome as long as they are portrayed as being disabling in some way which is analogous (eg, a permanent problem caused by magic, or vampirism as a fantasy-disability). In fanfic it does not have to be canonical - headcanons and AUs are fine.

Please do not TAG your posts/links with the names of disabilities you are writing about (eg tagging a story about an epileptic character with “#epilepsy”,) or with “#disability” or “#chronic illness”, as those tags are used by disabled folks to talk about our RL disabilities and in the past there have been issues with writers inadvertently clogging those tags with fiction/writing advice.

Please DO tag your posts and links #disabledwhc2025 and, in a second tag, the day (eg, #day 1: established disability) so the mod can find and reblog them to the blog!

Original work and fanfic are both welcome; anything goes in terms of settings and genres (fantasy, sci-fi) as long as it’s h/c or whump.

You do not have to write for every prompt (that’s why there’s a mix of hurt and comfort!) or every day to be featured. If you don’t have time for 30 days, do as many as you feel like. If you only write either H/C or Whump, you can do a 15-day challenge, reinterpret the hurt prompts to include comfort, and/or find a whumpy spin on the comfort prompts.

If you write prompts out of order please still tag which day you are writing for and the title of that prompt set. So if you decide to post the prompt “frustrated ambition” from the set “Loss”, which is day 21, on April 3, please still tag your April 3 post “day 21: loss”.

There are no restrictions on what content can be posted, but please use content notes for the following topics: "Rape/noncon" "Underage" "Graphic Depictions of Violence" (ie gore), and "Major Character Death" before the start of your piece. You can also use the warning "Creator Chose Not to Use Content Warnings" if you do not want to spoil fic. Please use a "read more" for these pieces.

Please tag any NSFT works (explicit sexual content) as "NSFT". Please use a "read more" for these pieces.

Challenge Goals:

Help destigmatize writing about disability in the whump and hurt/comfort genres. Complete recovery is not the only way to have a happy ending, and whumping already-disabled characters is a valid option for stories. So is having disabled characters doing the comforting, or the hurting!

Highlight disabled characters, canonical in media or original, in the genre.

Make disabled creators visible! A lot of us are drawn to hurt/comfort partly due to our disabilities.

Encourage nondisabled creators to try writing about disability, and dispel fear or anxiety about being “allowed to”.

Expand horizons of who disabled characters are. Headcanons or AUs about a character having or acquiring a disability are entirely welcome.

Other Ways to Contribute:

Do you want to participate but don't have the spoons (energy) to write anything? Here are some other ways to be a part of this event!

Make a reading recommendation list of works with disabled representation in whump and hurt/comfort. Please make sure that these are tagged #disabledwhc2025 and have "reading recommendation" somewhere in the post title. Please only do this with works whose authors have tagged them as whump, hurt/comfort or related terms. If you find a work on tumblr which you really, really want to recommend which you feel fits the genre and criteria but is not tagged as such, please ask the author if it is OK to include on the rec list before doing so, as some people may be uncomfortable with the genre tags being applied to their work, and ask or message mod K with a screenshot of the permission you received.

Like, reblog and comment on others' works! By following this blog you will see featured works and can give some love to the people who made them.

Reblog the prompts or otherwise spread the word about this event.

[faerynova]

if you've got my back i'll go on

fandom: magic kaito fic series: wheel of fortune (aka wheelchair au) characters: kaito & saguru for the disabled whump/hurt/comfort challenge (prompt list here)

Sensory

Day 13: Hurt: Flare-up | Relapse | Adverse reaction

~

Kaito has to cancel a heist because of a flare-up.

~

Kaitou Kid (Kuroba) sent a notice of cancellation 9:19 minutes ago, 12:28 minutes before the time of the announced heist. Nakamori released Saguru 2:03 minutes ago, saying he's “off the hook” for a debriefing since “there wasn't even a damn heist in the first place”.

The museum is loud. Officers and night guards and staff talking over each other. They dismantle traps and take down safeguards. Night guards and staff ask why, and the officers explain that Kaitou Kid never goes against his word when it comes to time and places of heists.

Saguru leaves them and systematically checks all escape routes that are wheelchair accessible. (Déjà vu.)

Upon finding nothing at each building exit, he retrieves his phone from his pocket and pulls up his text messages with Kuroba. (Something he never would have considered doing little more than half a year ago.)

>>READ THE REST ON AO3 HERE<<

[ninthfeather]

a hole in a pot, curry without meat

Fandom: My Hero Academia Summary: The end of All Might and Sir Nighteye's partnership. (also on AO3)

A/N: Title from "Therefore You and Me" by Tadanoco feat. Hatsune Miku. Thank you to FabHawk for beta-reading!

Warning for ableism, canon-typical All Might backstory medical content, and dysfunctional relationships.

The death knell of Toshinori’s working relationship with Mirai came during one of his visits to Toshinori’s hospital room.

The physical therapist was there, helping Toshinori with a few basic stretches that were supposed to help prevent muscle loss during a long convalescence. Toshinori had been idly musing about what kinds of exercises he’d have to learn in the coming weeks, and he’d said something along the lines of “of course, if I can’t manage a few stretches, I’ll need to retire right then!”

The physical therapist had laughed along with him, because she was polite and because the Mighty Agency was paying her twice her normal rate in order to guarantee that she wouldn’t leak anything to the press. But Nighteye had made a face. The kind of face Toshinori usually saw him make at research, when his datapoints weren’t lining up properly.

“You don’t plan to retire?” he’d asked.

Mirai wasn’t stupid, Toshinori had rationalized. He was worried because of the injury, but he’d think for a few minutes and remember that without a replacement Symbol of Peace, Toshinori couldn’t retire, not without crime rates spiking. The government was more stable now, so maybe things would turn out okay eventually, but the casualties were still likely to be above anything Toshinori or Mirai could accept.

So Toshinori just said, “Why don’t we discuss that later?” and moved the conversation along.

But Mirai didn’t put the pieces together, or if he did, he decided to ignore the shape they made. He brought his certainty that Toshinori should end his career with him every time he visited the hospital. 

Toshinori would mention how his physical therapist had him knitting as a way of exercising his hands, and Mirai would suggest that he’d have more time for the hobby once he left heroics.

When Toshinori explained how he’d have to eat in order to accommodate his stomach injury, Mirai pressed his lips together and said, “Won’t that be hard to keep up with in the field?”

One time, Mirai actually brought a brochure for one of those high-end retirement communities that catered to ex-pro heroes, and suggested that he could take Toshinori for a tour. Toshinori, fresh off of physical therapy and exhausted to the point of irritability, had told him to either put the brochure in the trash or leave. 

On his next visit, Mirai started in with an apology. “I’m sorry, I’ve just been worried--”

Toshinori wouldn’t have ever called himself a perceptive man. Of the two of them, that was Mirai. But he was a field hero, and he had certain instincts. 

Mirai generally avoided eye contact as a result of his quirk. But he’d trained himself to keep his chin up while doing it, so he didn’t come off as nervous. But now, his chin was practically tucked against his neck. He was ashamed of something. 

Perhaps Toshinori was jumping to conclusions. But paired with his sudden fixation on Toshinori’s retirement…

“Did you use your Quirk on me?” he asked Mirai.

Mirai didn’t answer. 

Toshinori repeated the question, and Mirai flinched.

It was as good as a verbal admission.

Mirai and Toshinori were colleagues, first and foremost. Close colleagues who got along well, yes, but colleagues nonetheless. Certainly, Toshinori had trusted him with his secrets, and maybe even hoped that they might become something closer to friends, once Mirai got past his hero worship and after Toshinori no longer had the threat of All For One dogging his heels. But in the end, Mirai was a coworker who Toshinori had entrusted with certain secrets. 

In some ways, that made it easier to treat the betrayal as a business matter.

“You’re fired,” Toshinori said. “Go back to the agency and clean out your office. We’re through.”

Mirai got desperate. He started shouting about what he’d seen, about how Toshinori was going to die violently in the field.

As if Toshinori didn’t know that. As if that wasn’t exactly how he’d expected to die since he was a teenager with a newfound quirk running through his veins.

Toshinori shouted back, about how he’d trusted Mirai, about how he’d considered the man a partner. The words caught in his throat, and turned into another of the really nasty coughing fits that were the only reason the hospital wouldn’t let him move into rehab. The cough itself wasn’t all that bad, but the force of the fits kept jarring his ribs and tearing open scars and the result was him coughing up blood on a regular basis.

That was how it ended between him and Mirai, with shouting and hurt and the taste of blood in his mouth. 

A/N: I could write so much about how much of a violation it was for Mirai to use his power on All Might without asking and indeed against his express wishes, and then to use that look into All Might's future to justify trying to force All Might into retirement because Mirai was scared of what would happen to him. I need this man to research the concept of dignity of risk and then to start treating his co-worker like he's an adult capable of making his own decisions. Yes, AM is a little bit airheaded but he has the right to make his own bad decisions, and Mirai starting to treat him as incompetent after he becomes disabled is not a good look.

Ok ok I'm done now. Thanks for reading!

[ninthfeather]

Drowning amongst lights in a sea full of stars

Summary: All Might is just trying to get back to hero work after his injury.

For Disabled Whump and Hurt/Comfort Writing Challenge Day 1. Hurt: Hitting a weak spot | “I knew this would happen” | Exacerbated injury

Title from Sayri's translyrics for Rachie's cover of "Marieaux" by n-buna. Thanks so much to FabHawk for beta-reading and title help.

The problem with having a secret identity was that everyone made assumptions about what you were doing while off the clock, Toshinori reflected.

He was only a few weeks out of physical therapy, but most of the damage from the injury All for One gave him had healed and he’d been given the tentative go-ahead to resume hero work. He’d elected to avoid mentioning anything resembling a hospital stay to the HPSC or the media, lest any villains decide to take advantage of his absence. Unfortunately, this had instead resulted in several of his colleagues assuming that he’d been on vacation. 

The next person who asked him how his time off had been would not be getting Detroit Smashed only because Toshinori was doing his best to be a good person.

Damn, it was tempting, though.

He’d been careful of his newfound time limit and had also tried to stick to situations that wouldn’t cause obvious problems for him--he’d left several fires to be handled by other heroes, and had also held back from responding to a villain with a poison gas Quirk.

The situation he was currently responding to was the kind of thing Mirai had usually delegated, because it wasn’t the kind of thing that particularly required All Might’s level of strength. It wasn’t that bank robberies were below him (at least in his own opinion, though Mirai sometimes seemed to disagree). But in general, hostage situations called for people whose Quirks or other skillsets lent themselves to nonviolent suppression, rather than for a hero who could punch hard enough to change the atmospheric pressure but often tripped over his own tongue.

Still, the only other heroes onsite were a recent graduate from Ketsubutsu with some kind of perception-based ability and Manual, who was acting as hostage negotiator. Both were doing a very good job of putting the villain at ease, but they needed an implicit threat to convince the villain that he should work with them. 

Toshinori was great at being an implicit threat!

Honestly, it was exactly the kind of thing he needed to get used to being in the field again. There was no small amount of strain involved in simply maintaining his All Might form, and focusing on doing that while surrounded with distractions was more challenging than he’d anticipated. He just focused on his breathing, kept an eye on his surroundings, and hoped no one actually needed him to punch anything.

“You know how All Might feels about people who take hostages, right?” the Ketsubutsu graduate was saying.

The robber nodded along. He was an average-looking man who had some sort of area-of-affect Quirk that either froze people or slowed them to a crawl. He wasn’t even wearing a real costume, just a facemask and a ballcap, but he’d gotten ahold of a knife, and if he decided to use it, no one under the effects of his quirk would be able to do anything.

“It’s just, I really need money, and they denied my loan again--”

“The standards for those loans can be ridiculously high,” Manual said sympathetically. He was getting progressively closer to the robber, obviously trying to figure out how far his area of effect spread.

“There are some charities based out of Hosu that might be able to help you,” the Ketsubutsu grad said. “I’ll even help you apply for them. I just need you to release those people.”

Very, very slowly, the small clump of hostages behind the robber turned their gazes towards her.

The robber searched her expression.

“And jail time?” he asked.

“I can’t promise anything, the courts--” the Ketsubutsu grad started.

The villain moved.

Or, no, Toshinori just slowed down. It wasn’t just his movements, it was his breathing, his heartbeat, how quickly information moved from his senses to his brain.

What a terrifying Quirk.

And that was all he had time to think before the Quirk effect dropped, and Toshinori’s chest lit up with pain.

The robber had elbowed him in the side while trying to get past him. He’d hit a patch of barely-healed scar tissue. That, on top of the sudden lack of air from his breathing being slowed down, left him swaying on his feet.

Manual said something. Toshinori didn’t catch any of it.

“All Might?” That was the Ketsubutsu grad, high and worried.

A year ago, he would’ve been able to call Mirai and have him make some excuse for him. Then again, a year ago, he wouldn’t have needed the excuse.

“Halation, All Might’s been hit with something, call for EMTs!” Manual said. “Hey, did any of you see anything?”

“I think he might’ve shoulder-checked him, but that shouldn’t have done anything?” one of the former hostages said.

“He had a knife, remember?” Another of them said. “Did he stab All Might ?” 

Seeing as how Toshinori could feel blood soaking through the material of his costume, that seemed as likely a story as anything.

“I think so,” he managed.

“Okay, the EMTs are on their way,” the Ketsubutsu grad reported. “Apparently someone from Mighty Agency is coming?”

Toshinori resisted the impulse to sigh in relief. It was probably one of the new medics he’d hired after he got out of the hospital. They were all being paid ridiculously well to keep their mouths shut, and also all of them had access to his full medical file.

“Maybe you should sit down…” Manual ventured.

Toshinori didn’t feel that was necessary. Also he had no idea what trying to bend his torso would feel like right now, but his guess was it wouldn’t be good. 

“I’m fine like this,” he said, and tried not to be too obvious about clutching his side.

[i-can-even-burn-salad]

A Sunny Day

Till Death

Another bonus chapter, also set after the end of the book, but a bit earlier — in early summer, not in fall.

Prompt: Day 30 - Adapting Intimacy (Prompt list)

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply - there is, however, mild sexual content, more awkward than explicit. Eilis is very ace, and Finnian is not.

WIP Intro | Ebook

Sitting in his chair just outside the door, Finnian let his gaze wander. It was a beautiful day: the sky clear, the sun bright, and the breeze warm. The first day of summer, if not according to a calendar, then at least according to his feelings. 

Eilis had grabbed a knife and a bundle of twine and had vanished into her garden a while ago. She would be busy for a few more hours, weeding and pruning and watering. Finnian pushed himself backwards, into the hut and to the bed, where he grabbed one of the blankets.

He loved her, more than he would ever have thought possible, but there was one thing he wanted to be alone for. Well, not so much wanted—he had to be. He grabbed his cane next, pushing himself up very slowly and very carefully.

It was a good day. His leg didn’t even hurt that terribly, and if he didn’t overdo it, he would barely regret it. Probably. He pinned the blanket under his free arm and walked to the door, peeking out.

He couldn’t help it, he moved with his head pulled between his shoulders as if he were doing something forbidden instead of merely taking a short walk to the edge of the meadow. In the shadow of a large tree, he threw the blanket on the ground, using the tip of the cane to pull it this way and that, until it was flat enough for him to settle down on.

Exhausted from the few steps, he stretched out, closing his eyes. It was pleasantly warm, the air filled with the humming of insects and the song of birds. He could have done without the birds, but his terror had lessened ever so slightly. He cracked his good eye open, watching the sky. As long as he had his hands free, as long as those beasts didn’t come too close, the thought of beaks and feathers didn’t send him into mindless panic anymore.

He dozed until his muscles relaxed in the warmth and his heartbeat calmed down. Raising his head ever so slightly, he found that nothing in his vicinity moved. Everything was as quiet as could be, no chiming of bells nearby. He raised his left hand and slid it into his pants.

Bending his fingers into the right shape was hard; moving them even harder. He tried to find a position that worked, but no matter what he did, they cramped almost instantly, making it impossible for him to do what he wanted. He rubbed half-heartedly along with the side of this thumb, but it wasn’t enough, frustrating more than satisfying.

He swapped hands, trading the one he had more motor skills left for the one he had always used. It didn’t change anything. He couldn’t move his fingers with enough precision, couldn’t exert enough pressure. Every few seconds, pain shot from his fingers up to his elbows, and he had to take more and more breaks without a chance to find any kind of rhythm. This was… this wasn’t working. He had figured it would be hard, but he had hoped it wouldn’t be impossible. It clearly was.

Just another thing he would have to live without, then. He closed his eyes against the sudden bitterness. There were so many things he had lost, so why was this bringing him to tears? It wasn’t like he had a particularly high libido in the first place, as evident by the fact that he had lived with Eilis for months already and only now had decided to try his luck.

He blinked until his eyes were dry and he had his breathing under control. It was fine. Now that he was out here, he could at least enjoy the sun and pretend that had been his plan all along. Soak up the warmth and let his aching muscles relax.

“Finnian?”

He jerked awake. He hadn’t heard the bells, and gods, he had fallen asleep outside, but there were no birds, there was only Eilis, and—

“What are you doing out here?”

—that was probably bad in a whole different way. He swallowed.

“Finnian?”

Slowly, he pulled his hand back, cursing the fact that it was still in his pants.

“Can we talk about… something else?” he mumbled.

An expression of confusion flitted over her face. Confusion and hurt. Fuck. She really didn’t understand, did she? Any excuse might have done the trick, but he didn’t want to lie to her. She was too important to hurt her for the sake of saving himself from a bit of embarrassment. 

“I was trying to… pleasure myself,” he said, feeling the heat creep into the tips of his ears. “But it doesn’t—my hands. I can’t.”

“Oh.” 

The process of filing this information away was written so clearly on her face. He wished he knew what was going on in that head of hers. There was no doubt that her relationship to that kind of stuff was a severely fucked one thanks to her asshole of a husband, but her lack of understanding ran deeper. It was as if she never once had had a sexual thought in her life. Perhaps she hadn’t. Who was he to judge.

At least she finally sat down, no longer looming over him like a giant shadow. Settling on a sliver of the blanket, she wrapped her arms around her knees and gave him another long look. 

“So you just. Use your hands?” she asked. “How? Do you put them… inside?”

On second thought, perhaps it would have been nicer if the ground had decided to swallow him whole.

“There’s a spot. Outside.” He could do this. He wasn’t a shy teenage boy anymore. “It’s sensitive and I just… kinda rub it.” He sure felt like a shy teenage boy around her. “I don’t like it when there’s something inside.”

As embarrassed as Finnian was by his explanation, Eilis merely nodded.

“Do you want me to help you?”

Finnian almost choked on his breath. He propped himself up on his elbows to get a better look at her. Her expression was serious. She really meant it. The thought alone made his insides clench in a way that was half pain and half pleasure, but he called himself to reason.

“No,” he said. “I know you don’t want to.”

With a sigh, Eilis stretched out next to him, completely oblivious to what her closeness did to him as she looked up at the sky.

“I don’t… want to,” she said, “but I also. I don’t… don’t want to? I don’t really… care.”

Overly aware of every spot where her skin touched his, Finnian tried to pull his scrambling thoughts together to form a coherent reply.

“You shouldn’t do things you don’t want.”

Eilis made a noise that was half a laugh and turned her head. “That doesn’t make sense. I have to do lots of things I don’t want to do because they’re worth it.” Her chin rested on his shoulder, honey eyes barely visible to him. “Do you think I want to… to shovel snow or muck the shed?”

Despite his best attempts, Finnian couldn’t hold back a laugh, prompting her to frown.

“What?” she asked.

“Comparing it to mucking the shed is probably the least romantic thing I’ve ever heard.”

She pulled away from him, her gaze lowered to somewhere behind his shoulder. “I’m sorry. I’m not— I know it’s different for you. It’s. Not. For me.” The muffled chiming of bells accompanied her words as she fidgeted with the bracelet. “I mean it is. In a way. But not. Not like this. I know it should—”

“Hey. Hey, stop. Come here.”

He spread his arm, and she curled up against his chest. Glad to feel that she was somehow still relaxed, he stroked her back. He wouldn’t trade this kind of closeness for anything in the world.

“I want you to be happy,” she mumbled into his shirt.

“I am happy.” How could he not be, warm and sleepy and with his heart so full of love? “I am.”

“But you wanted to do this.”

Hard to deny it when she had caught him red-handed.

“Yes,” he admitted. “It’s a nice feeling.”

“Hm.” She didn’t sound convinced. Her fingers played with the hair above his ear, the bells chiming along. “I don’t mind,” she eventually said. “I mean. I don’t want it myself. That feeling.” She raised her head to meet his gaze. “But I don’t mind helping you.”

It was a bad idea. The worst. But she was so close, he could smell the sun in her hair and felt the warmth of her skin, and he whispered, “Are you sure about that?”

Her hand found his, closing ever so gently around his fingers.

“If you show me what to do?”

He shouldn’t, he really shouldn’t, but how was a man supposed to resist? Slowly, he guided her lower, pushing her fingers in the right positions and prompting her to move them. The slightest touch was enough to send a shiver through his body. He closed his eyes, using his free hand to hold her tight.

“Are you all right?” she asked. 

The feeling of her breath on his cheek sent another shiver through him. The chance for coherent replies had definitely passed, so he merely grunted an affirming noise and leaned his head against hers.

After all the times she had taken care of him, she could read him like an open book. He barely had to guide her, barely had to tell her what he needed. Feeling her with every breath, every touch, every fiber of his being was better than he could have ever imagined. Slowing down whenever it became too much, she kept him afloat longer than he would have thought possible, longing for release and not wanting it to be over at the same time.

When she eventually pushed him over the edge, he opened his eyes, sinking into the depths of her honey gaze. For a moment, a wonderful, all-encompassing moment, everything was perfect. She stopped moving, the warmth of her hand pressed against pulsing muscles as shivers ran through his whole body.

Finnian let himself fall into the feeling. She slowly removed her hand, but he was too weary to open his eyes. He had to tell her just how wonderful that had been. How much he loved her. In a moment, when his lips and eyelids wouldn’t feel as heavy anymore.

When he felt her move, accompanied by the chiming of bells, he blinked his eyes open, taking a moment to focus his gaze. The lazy smile froze on his lips.

Eilis was gone.

“Eilis?” 

His croaking voice didn’t carry far enough to reach her—or she ignored him, fluttering skirts vanishing behind the edge of the hut. Cold dread crept into his heart, replacing the last tendrils of lingering bliss. How could he have been so fucking stupid. After everything he knew about her past. Everything this piece of shit had done to her.

He gathered his strength to roll onto his side, but his trembling arms wouldn’t allow him to push himself up. A moment ago, he had welcomed the blissful weariness—now he cursed it. He had to make this right. Make sure she was all right, if she could even stand to look at him. Slowly, his fingers twitched in the direction of the cane, refusing to grasp it.

By the time he finally managed to pull the cane closer, Eilis’ footsteps returned. The chiming of bells followed a moment later. Finnian closed his eyes, fighting down the onslaught of fear and guilt as he slowly, ever so slowly, turned his head. When he dared to open his eyes, she stood over him, clutching a rag to her chest.

Her lips were pressed together into a thin line. She pinned the rag under her arm and moved her hand, making the gestures for pain, and for a question. 

Did I hurt you?

He couldn’t have gotten it right. “What?”

She moved her mouth. No sound came out. She swallowed against a lump he might as well have felt in his own throat and tried again. “You’re upset. Did I hurt you?”

He was upset? He? “I thought… I thought…” How could he put the colossal mistake he thought he had made into words? “I thought I hurt you.”

“But you didn’t do anything.” She looked him up and down, and understanding dawned on her face. “Oh.”

She dropped to her knees next to him and wrapped her arms around him, holding him so tight, she must have felt his nervous trembling. Finnian soaked up her presence, utterly overwhelmed by the conflicting emotions of the past few minutes. He tried to focus on what was real, on what was now. She was back. She didn’t hate him. As long as he hadn’t ruined what they had, he would never even think of such pleasures again.

Slowly, his heartbeat calmed down and the knot in his stomach untangled. When Eilis finally sat up, she kept her left forearm on his shoulder, always touching him.

“I’m sorry.” She said it and she gestured it. “I went to wash my hand. I didn’t like the feeling. It’s. Weird.” She paused as she plucked the rag from the blanket and squeezed it. “That’s why I brought this. Would you like me to clean you up?”

Would he like to—

With a groan, he dropped his head onto the blanket. If he was honest, he wasn’t keen on that sticky feeling either, and she had cleaned much nastier stuff off him before. Fuck, he still needed her help sometimes, when a day was particularly bad, but that didn’t make the current situation any less embarrassing. Judging by the look on her face, not only for him.

“Sure,” he said, his good eye open a crack. And because he had to find a way to take the seriousness out of the situation, he added, “At least it’s not worse than mucking the shed, right?”

Eilis laughed. The sound was more beautiful than music. She cleaned him up and put the rag aside, drying her hands on her skirt. Finnian watched her, mesmerized by the golden shimmer of her hair and the laugh lines on her face. Perhaps, if he could forget how it had ended, he could treasure this moment, because it had been better than he had ever imagined, lying awake at night with her body pressed against his.

Instead of getting up, Eilis stretched out next to him, draping her arm loosely across his chest.

“You’re done in the garden?” he asked.

“Mhm. No. I plucked all the weeds, but I think I’ll need some help with the knots.” Her stump bumped against his shoulder. “I thought I had it down to tie them with one hand, but it’s not easy when I also have to hold the plants.”

“I’ll help you,” he said, wondering if his limbs would carry him. He should have stayed closer to the hut, but the grass was so soft here. “I might need some help getting up, though.”

“Not now.” She pulled herself closer, one of her legs mingling with his. “The beans aren’t going anywhere.”

Neither were they, it seemed. That was fine with Finnian. He closed his eyes and let the rise and fall of her chest lull him almost to sleep; at least until she said, 

“I’ll bring something to clean myself next time. Then I won’t have to get up.”

Next time.

“Wait wait wait.” Her arm prevented him from getting up, but he nudged her with his head as he said, “You’re not doing that again.”

“Why?” She didn’t even bother to raise her head, so he couldn’t read her expression. “Didn’t you like it?”

Didn’t he— 

He groaned. She was killing him. Unwilling to ruin the moment, he decided to leave the question unanswered. He didn’t think she needed an answer anyway.

“Can we talk about this later?” he begged.

They needed to talk about boundaries when both had a clear head, with no hands down any pants. Eilis hummed her approval, and Finnian sighed in relief. He closed his eyes.

“I love you,” he whispered.

Her lips brushed his cheek, and her arm held him closer, and his heart was warmer than the sun in the sky.

I died writing this, so you can die reading this, kthxbai.

[ninthfeather]

the future, perfect in theory, is crumbling in overload

Fandom: To Be Hero X Summary: Nice signs his contract with Treeman Agency, and his life unravels as a result. (also on AO3)

Title from Amalee’s translyrics for "Gravity Wall" by Sawano Hiroyuki. Thank you to FabHawk for getting me into TBHx and for beta-reading!

Warnings for an abusive/ableist/homophobic workplace, including one extremely ableist statement from a named character (it's Miss Jie and imo that's in character for her), a very depressed POV character, and the general horror undertones of TBHX's trust system.

When the two of them signed their contracts, the recruiter made it clear: the agency wanted total control of their public images.They were young, after all, without any experience in PR, so they would need some help in that regard. They just had to trust in their manager and everything would work out fine.

After well over a year in the industry, Treeman Agency Hero Nice stared at the ceiling of his nearly-empty apartment and despaired.

The agency set his boyfriend up as his designated supervillain. They couldn’t even go on dates anymore, because Nice got too much media attention and if someone put together his boyfriend’s appearance with Wreck’s, Treeman would have to choose between thousands in hush money or just dropping both of them. He’d noticed that Miss Jie tended to keep the schedule full after his fights with Wreck, and he suspected it was on purpose. Worse, she kept showing him pictures of women Treeman represented and asking him how he’d like working with them. Nice was almost certain that she wanted to put together a fake marriage for him.

And if all of that wasn’t bad enough, Nice couldn’t even go to therapy for his OCD.

He had medications, yes, but those didn’t handle everything. And his image as a “perfect” hero, and the Trust that generated--it both magnified his condition and directed his compulsions. 

Before all of this, his worst compulsion was double-checking that he’d turned off appliances and locked doors. He and his therapist had worked hard at helping him figure out how to feel safe without having to individually inspect every device in his apartment every time he left.

That wasn’t how it worked anymore.

Nice was “perfect,” so now everything around him had to be perfect. He used to be fine walking around in rumpled clothes, but now everything had to be straight and even and completely clean. All of his furniture had to be laid out just so, and every part of his place setting had a position it belonged in. Over time, the knowledge that something was out of place would grow from something small and annoying, like a bug crawling across his back, to an overwhelming tide that threatened to swallow him up.

The stress wasn’t helping. He knew it wasn’t helping. A lot of hero work was smoke and mirrors and agency-affiliated villains, but there were also real threats out there and now that Nice was in the top hundred he was expected to deal with them. Sometimes when he went to work, his actions were the difference between people living and dying. Even someone with no history of compulsive behavior might end up doing the occasional superstitious ritual in those circumstances.

But Nice did have that history, and now it was manifesting itself in the desire to spend hours double-checking that everything in the apartment was lined up perfectly--furniture parallel to walls, place settings centered on the table, and so on. Because now, instead of worrying that he’d leave on the stove and burn his house down, his brain had decided that if his forks weren’t lined up properly, the people he wanted to rescue would die.

And still, Miss Jie wouldn’t let him go to a therapist.

“I can pick up meds for you, if you’d like, but seeing someone is too much of a security risk,” she said. “Even online visits can be tracked. The medication is only possible because we’re using a pseudonym to fill it.”

Nice wasn’t sure that was legal. To be fair, he wasn’t sure how much of any of this was legal. It didn’t seem like it should be allowed for his employer to interfere in his relationships and his healthcare and his apartment like this, but Miss Jie just told him it was all in the contract.

Back when he’d signed, he’d flipped through it a little, just in case his boyfriend was watching, because he didn’t want to look like the kind of rube who signed a contract without reading it, but he hadn’t actually read any of it.

Now he was paying for it.

When he was with his boyfriend, it was easier. He got it, and he would listen to Nice complain and do what he could to help and wouldn’t stop him from completing a ritual unless Nice asked him to or he was actively hurting himself. 

But now, in Hero Tower, with an apartment that Miss Jie had the key to, he couldn’t have his boyfriend over without getting an earful about it, and agency personnel were willing to drag him out the door if he was taking too long to leave.

None of them got it. Miss Jie actually said the line about “everyone’s a little OCD” to his face when he complained about how long he’d spent trying to realign the furniture the previous night. The one time he tried to bring his mental health up on a talk show, she muted his mike remotely and then lied to the host about it being a technical issue. 

He missed his therapist. He missed having a door that only he had the key to. He missed his boyfriend.

He’d gotten rid of most of the furniture the agency gave him. He’d kept the statue, because when he’d first shown it to his boyfriend, he’d laughed so hard he pulled a muscle. But pretty much everything nonessential went away. Miss Jie made him keep the couches because she needed somewhere to meet with him, but if he’d had his way, the only furniture would have been the bed, the kitchen table, and a few cushions on the floor for when he needed them. 

He knew he was getting worse. The anxiety was pretty much constant, and he’d started dissociating his way through meetings with Miss Jie. It was getting harder to remember to text his boyfriend back, when all he wanted to do was either sleep or double-check that all of the cups were lined up properly in the cupboard.

Miss Jie kept talking about getting him a girlfriend, and Nice kept saying no, but he knew he couldn’t keep it up forever. She’d figured out how to get to him, now. She was moving around his china and “accidentally” spilling coffee on his white furniture and suggesting that he’d have more time to himself to “clean, or whatever it is you like to do” if he just said yes to the girlfriend.

It would devastate his boyfriend, even if he knew it was fake. He’d always been the jealous type.

But Nice was running out of strength.

[ninthfeather]

stand with beginnings, not endings

Fandom: Dungeon Meshi Summary: The first step to developing desires is figuring out your preferences — or, Kabru gets Mithrun to try on some clothes. (also on AO3)

A/N: Title from the official subs for "High Flame" by Queen Bee. Thank you to FabHawk for beta-reading!

Light warnings for one instance of canon-typical fantasy racism, vague whole-canon spoilers, and some body dysphoria issues.

“Here, try this one,” Kabru said, holding out a dark green robe.

Mithrun slipped it over his shoulders. It was woolen, he thought, but with a softer texture than the cloak he usually wore.

“It’s soft,” he said. “I like it better than the red one.” He moved his arms experimentally. “The sleeves are heavy, though.”

Kabru scribbled something in a notebook. “Okay, the fur cloak next.”

This was one of Kabru’s ideas for helping Mithrun find new desires. He said that if Mithrun started trying to puzzle out small preferences and dislikes, he might find it easier to move on to figuring out larger ones. So far, it was actually working.

Normally, Mithrun didn’t think about clothing, apart from the fact that he needed to wear it in order to enter dungeons with the Canaries. He wore what he was told to, when he was told to, because he didn’t care.

Except, now that Kabru was making him think about it, he kind of did.

They’d been going through Kabru’s wardrobe together, with Kabru making notes as they went. At first, Mithrun had just been humoring Kabru, but as he tried on different garments, he started really thinking about it. 

He still couldn’t think about how they made him look; it was too difficult to think of himself as anything other than the demon’s unfinished meal. But texture, weight, fit—he could think about those. To his own surprise, he had opinions about them.

The fur cloak was even softer than the robe, but a little heavier. On Kabru, it was nearly floor-length, which meant that on Mithrun it dragged on the ground.

“If it were shorter, I would wear it,” he declared. “But not if I thought there might be a fight.”

“Laios wears furs all the time, and he does fine in a fight,” Kabru said.

“We fight very differently,” Mithrun said.

“You really do,” Kabru agreed. “Why don’t you try on one of the shirts next?”

Mithrun took off the fur cloak, then shucked off his shirt. A few months ago, he wouldn’t have noticed how Kabru’s eyes were drawn to his chest.

He couldn’t think of himself as someone that another person would want to look at. But he could tell that Kabru felt differently. It was interesting, to see how he could affect the normally unflappable tallman, just by taking off a garment.

Still shirtless, he inspected the shirts hung up in Kabru’s wardrobe. Most of them were the undyed linens he’d worn in the dungeon, but a few were clearly meant for fancier occasions. He selected one made of pale blue silk with a few moth holes in the fabric.

Misiril bought this for him, and that’s why he doesn’t wear it, Mithrun thought.

A few decades ago, he wouldn’t have put that together. He might have noticed all the same things, might have even put them together at the back of his mind, but the effort involved in actually thinking any of it through would’ve been far beyond him.

But Kabru had forced his way into Mithrun’s attention, and then upended his worldview, and now, Mithrun found himself paying attention to details he used to dismiss. To both the minutiae of human interaction that fascinated Kabru, and to Kabru himself.

Kabru was a man brimming with desires. His desire to eliminate dungeons had been fulfilled, but in its place were half a dozen others—a desire to have inferior races taken seriously, especially by elves, a desire to understand King Laios, a desire to see Mithrun recover his own desires.

Mithrun still didn’t understand that last one, but he was willing to benefit from it nonetheless.

He slipped on the silk shirt. It was thin, and slippery, and smelled faintly of mothballs. Immediately, he shucked it off.

“I don’t like that one either,” Kabru said, offering a sympathetic smile.

Disliking things again was a novelty. Mithrun had gone so long without caring about anything outside of dungeons that just having an opinion felt odd.

But yes, he disliked the shirt. Silks were fine if they had some weight to them, but when they were flimsy and smelled bad? He disliked them.

“Yes, I don’t like it,” Mithrun agreed.

Mithrun was never going to be the same person he’d been before. But he could see the shape of the person he was becoming, now.

He picked out a bright red shirt to try on next.