#I hate chronic pain so much and I feel like such a baby for whining about it but I just don’t care at this point

[birdinabowl]

I know I have final projects but I’m literally in so much pain I can barely do the work needed

[1moreoffkeyanthem]

Fair Maiden!! I come bearing questions!

Specifically because I love domestic OJV Style so much and I need to know!!

7. Who secretly knows all the lyrics to the other’s favorite songs but refuses to expose themselves?

33. Who takes on boring tasks around the house so the other person doesn’t have to do them?

52. Who whines the most when they get sick?

ILY hehehe thank you!!

DARRRRRRLLLLINGGGGGG your local Wizard has summoned the energy to think upon these questions, and the answers actually did require some thot! Because OJV style are very similar in a lot of ways, especially in their dedication to the other’s interests, feelings, and well being. Simps lmao.

7. So I’ve said in an ask a while back that Stan and Kyle like a lot of the same media in general, BUT the biggest difference? Stan gets way more into musical theatre. He does the Annoying Tenor Boy Things. Show tunes are a not-so-guilty pleasure of his, and Kyle absolutely pretends to be irritated by the belting of hero tracks and the “kyyyy c’mon I need you to sing the other half of the duet” but he honestly thinks it’s precious and even if he doesn’t share the same enthusiasm for musicals, he loves that Stan gets excited, but he will deny until the end of time that he does in fact know Elphaba’s part to As Long As You’re Mine.

33. Oh my god they so both try to take on the boring chores to spare each other. It’s like a competition, and they’re both pretty competitive. Kyle usually wins because he’s definitely more stubborn and far better at arguing.

52. You know I was excited to think about this one lmao, but it’s kind of another tie, I think. So yes Stan will whine on the very rare occasion that he gets sick, mostly because, especially later OrangeJuiceVerse, he takes a lot of pride in being healthy and sober and strong, so any reminder that he’s human has the potential to bring up sadsack thoughts (“Staniel you’re literally fine it’s a sore throat happens to everyone”). Now KYLE ohhhhh boy. That man can complain, and he has every right to! I put OJV Kyle through it lmao I don’t blame him for complaining about his shit immune system, chronic pain, diabetes, ed, any of it. And it does amuse me that his first reaction is to be pissed off at his body and his luck before he lets Stan take care of him, and that’s when the “I don’t feel good” “I know baby” “I hate being sick, dude” “I know, Ky” lmao my boys

THANK YOU FOR ASKING MY DUDE I HAD FUN THINKING ABOUT MY BELOVED OJV STYLE

[littlehypnone]

something ive been struggling a lot with is regressing as a disabled person im wondering if you were able to write a fic with some comfort revolving around that? like little rain or really anyone regressing and being upset about their bodies not being like the other regressors who can run around and play as much as they want while they have to really pace themself to not overdo it and get hurt. maybe a little bit of crying and them accidentally getting hurt but a whole lot of comfort?

it's not that good, not as much comfort as I wanted to write but I'm afraid I can't do better now. I hope it's still okay <3

1145 words, little rain (she/her), chronic illness flare up, pain and crying, then comfort, guest appearance from little phantom and cg swiss, cg mountain, cg aether, cg dewdrop

Rain wasn’t feeling the best the last few days. His POTS was flaring up—he’s been having at least two episodes a day—as well as his pain. His whole body was hurting, joints dislocating over and over again.

It was in times like these that Rain remembered he was actually disabled, that it wasn’t just a funny quirk.

He wasn’t taking it the best, never was. Rain was regressed most of the time of the flare up, which only made her more sensitive and emotional about the whole ordeal.

She woke up—day five—in Mountain’s arms. The night before he made her his pain relieving tea, helped her drink it before bed and then curled around her as they fell asleep. Rain started to squirm slightly, limbs a bit numb, and soon enough Mountain woke up too. “Mhm… g’mornin’, Petal. How’r you feelin’?”

“Still liddol, Mounty,” she whined, burrowing her face in the earth ghoul’s chest. “Still hurts.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry, baby,” Mountain cooed, running his hands through Rain’s hair. She wiggled some more, snuggling up to the giant as he wrapped his arms all around her tight. They laid like that some more, neither of them eager to get up, until Rain mumbled something into Mountain’s skin. “Hm, what was that, Petal?”

“Need pee,” she repeated, blushing lightly. Mountain chuckled, letting go of her.

“Do you need help? Want me to walk you to the bathroom?”

“Uhm… dunno yet,” Rain threw her legs over the edge of the bed, head spinning just a little, and holding on to the frame she tried to stand. She did manage to do that, but the two or three steps she took were extremely wobbly. Mountain was by her side in a second, arm loosely curled around her waist.

“Hate dis,” she muttered, lips pouty and eyes glassy.

“I know, baby. I know.”

The earth ghoul left Rain alone in the bathroom, waiting for the door to open again. Once it did, they went back to bed. Rain let Mountain dress her and not long after, he scooped her up in his arms and they left the giant’s room to hunt for some breakfast.

They came across Dewdrop, Cirrus and Sunshine in the common room, everyone cooing over Rain, kissing her forehead in hello. Rain always liked attention, but not the patronizing and pitiful kind. When regressed, though, and in as fragile a state as she was in currently, she appreciated all of it.

“Do you want scrambled eggs, cereal or oatmeal, Angelfish?” Dewdrop asked. “Or maybe something else?”

“Uhm… I fink eggs, p’ease.”

“Got it,” the fire ghoul ruffled Rain’s hair and disappeared into the kitchen to make eggs for her. In the meantime Aurora, Cumulus and Aether came down, everyone greeting Rain with a kiss again, Aether’s laced with quintessence. It gave her enough of an energy boost to move from the couch to the table and eat her eggs and toast on her own.

Swiss walked into the commons next, Phantom hanging off of his back like a silly, sleepy backpack. He dropped them onto Cumulus’ lap, and her immediate pampering made them wake up and start purring.

Rain spent the next half an hour in Aether’s arms, with her legs in Dewdrop’s. The quintessence ghoul was relieving her pain as much as he could, the fire ghoul’s warmth helping with her lower limbs. She wasn’t feeling well, but it currently wasn’t as bad as it could be, both mentally and physically.

Worsening came with Phantom’s seemingly endless energy. After devouring their cereal for breakfast they shot up and crouched by Rain, head tilted to the side and a big smile on their face. “Rainyyyy, wanna p– play outside, d’ya wan’ go wiv m– me? We can run to de lake or– or in de garden!”

“Kid, Rainy ca–” Aether started, but got cut off by Rain’s loud whine as she curled up and hid in his neck. He felt wetness on his skin and the little shakes of Rain’s body, as well as her scent souring, told him she was crying. “Oh, Tadpole.”

“Oh… w– what’d I do?” Phantom mumbled, tears filling their own eyes. “Why Rainy so sad?”

“Hey, Batling, it’s not your fault,” Dewdrop assured, scooting closer to Aether and Rain to add some comfort. “She’s just not feeling well.”

“You can still play, though, I’ll go with you, okay?” Swiss walked in, nodding to Dewdrop at the silent plea in his eyes.

“Okay…” Phantom agreed, even if still a bit upset. They grabbed Swiss’ hand and let themself be led out of the room. Rest of the ghouls hid in the kitchen.

“Hey, Angelfish,” the fire ghoul whispered to Rain when Phantom’s giggles got quiet in the distance. “Can you look at me? Please?”

Reluctantly, Rain shifted so she’d be able to look at Dew with one eye. He reached out and with a kind, sympathetic smile wiped a few tears from her flushed cheek. “I know, baby, you’d like to go play with them. I’m so sorry you can’t.”

“I don’ like dis,” Rain sobbed, “don’ like when I can’t do fings.”

“We know, Tadpole,” Aether sighed. There wasn’t anything better to say, really. “Do you want us to take you back to bed? Maybe some cuddles will make you feel at least a bit better?”

Rain nodded, and Dewdrop pulled away to stand. Aether adjusted his grip on her and got up too, taking on the direction of the fire ghoul’s room right away. He knew Rain liked it the best there, it was always warm and smelled nice. Dewdrop didn’t follow immediately, and Rain thought she heard him talking to Mountain before running after her and Aether.

Soon enough she was put down in that cozy bed and she straightened and stretched, whining at the strain her curled up position already caused.

“Alright, where do you want us, Angelfish?” Dewdrop asked, sitting on the edge of the bed, hand gentle on Rain’s knee. 

“Uhm… can I… can I lay on your chest?”

“Of course, baby,” he smiled. “Lemme get in position.”

And Dewdrop did, crawling to the top of the bed and laying down against the mountain of pillows by the headboard. Once he was done, he patted his chest in invitation. Rain took it and wiggled up to take her spot. “What about Aeth, Rainy?”

“Hm, Aef, you can… behind me an’ help my back?”

“I absolutely can,” the quintessence ghoul assured and laid behind her just as she asked, a big hand landing on the small of her back. He pulled a blanket over the three of them and started to slowly pump some quintessence into Rain.

“Da’s nice,” she mumbled and little purr wanted to break its way free. “Fank you.”

“No problem at all, Tadpole.”

“We love you so much, Angelfish.”

“Love you too.”

[natasha-in-space]

ohhh I really do love how you write Saeyoung! could I request something with Saeyoung with an MC that has chronic pain/chronic illness and is worried about being a burden to him? I'd really appreciate it. >< 👉👈

"Hey, Saeyoung? Don't you... ever get tired of me?"

His eyes widened as he sharply turned around to meet your tired gaze, like your words physically burned him in some way. You felt guilty for making him worry about you like this... But, you were getting so, so, so tired of bottling all of this up for so long. At this point, you were too tired to even care, and this thought alone only made you feel worse about yourself.

It was a twisted spiral of negative thoughts that you were helpless to fight against.

"What are you talking about?" Clear confusion seeped into his hushed murmur, strung together with the growing sense of dread that was slowly making itself known on his deeply concerned face. He was worried sick, you could see it clear as day. There was so much stress on his weary shoulders as it is, with both Saeran struggling to adjust in the hospital and the threat of the prime minister looming over you all as close as ever.

And here you were just adding even more to the problem with your stupid personal issues.

A frustrated sigh fell from your lips as you felt your eyes start to sting from the bitter angry tears threatening to run down your cheeks any minute now. You were such a burden, and you hated every second of it. He should really focus on much more important things than this. "It's just- I'm just nuisance to you right now, isn't that right? I'm always tired, always too sore and painful to help you in any meaningful way, and all I can do is just lay here and whine about my own hurt to you. Doesn't that get tiring for you? You don't have to baby me, you know. I can handle the truth just fine. Just say it as it is and-"

"Stop." Saeyoung interrupted you before you could finish this ugly line of thought, getting up from his seat at the monitor and quickly making his way over to you. You pursed your lips into a thin line, feeling too ashamed of yourself to look him in the eyes right now, as you turned your face away, hoping that he wouldn't notice your tears that were getting harder and harder for you to hold back with every passing minute. He kneeled down next to the couch on which you were laying down in, cautiously taking a hold of one of your hands, before he spoke up again.

"I never got tired of you. Not even for a single second. And I never would. I love you Y/N... I love all of you, your body and soul. You don't need to do anything to be by my side. It's only thanks to you that I ever got to meet Saeran again. If it weren't for you believing in me, for you holding onto my hand and telling me that I can hope for a happier future with you... If it weren't for you, I'd still be living in the shadows, never daring to come out and seek out the truth for myself. You're amazing Y/N. You're the strongest person I have ever met, and I would never, ever, think that you are too tiring for any of the reasons you that just listed. You're not a burden for letting your body rest. In fact, I'd be very upset if you were trying to push yourself over your limits for me... I have no problem with you being too tired to go out with me somewhere, if that's something you're worried about. Your company is what matters most to me, starshine. You don't have to be someone you're not in order for me to adore you, because I already do exactly that. With all of my heart."

You swallowed the lump in your throat, shutting your eyes as tightly as you could. He was telling you the truth, you knew that. You knew that with every fiber of your being, but your stubborn mind just kept on trying to find every possible loophole in his words that could lead you to a different conclusion, like your life depended on it.

Finally, the first tear slipped down your cheek as a silent sob wrecked your tense body, making you clutch onto his hand, going against everything that you just said to him before. Of course, you didn't want him to leave. In fact, deep down, you didn't want to be viewed as a burden by anyone, even if your cruel thoughts kept telling you otherwise. It was... so hard to distinguish your true and honest feelings at times. Just like minutes prior, when you let this darkness overtake your mind for a brief moment of time.

You felt Saeyoung's hand gently caress your damp cheeks, brushing away the stray tears, and you leaned into his touch, seeking out the warm comfort he had always provided you in your worst moments. Next thing you know, he's already placing light kisses on your knuckles, making your heart flutter to life as you wondered whether or not you truly deserved to have such an amazing person by your side.

As if he could read your very thoughts, he seated himself on the edge of the couch, bringing his face closer to yours and gazing deeply into your teary eyes. You whimpered, not knowing what else was there for you to say. So, he spoke for you, peppering your entire face in loving kisses in between his words. "I can't say that I understand what's it like to be in your shoes every single day, starshine. But that doesn't mean that I don't want to learn. You will never be a burden to me, I promise you that on God himself. You are my most priceless treasure, my angel, my starshine, not a burden. I know that it can be... hard to manage these ugly thoughts inside of your head at times. But, please, rely on me whenever things get too hard to bear for you. You are not alone in this. You can tell me if I'm being overbearing, and you can tell me if you need any help. We may have problems... But, it's okay. Because I want to figure this out together. How does that sound?"

All you could do was nod, feeling more tears slipping down your cheeks at such a heartfelt confession from him. You had no idea just how much you needed to hear this from him. It felt like a huge weight was lifted off your shoulders, and all you wanted to do was hold onto him and never let him go.

So, you pulled him closer, hiding from the whole world inside of his safe arms for a few fleeting minutes of peace.

"Thank you. That sounds perfect... I love you. I love you so much I can't even put it into words." You whispered, sniffing some of your tears away and trying everything you can to ingrain his promise into your mind, so that you would not forget it any time soon. "I'm sorry for being stupid..."

"You're not being stupid. In fact, I'm very happy that you shared your worries with me. It couldn't have been easy for you." He stated matter-of-factly, this time, placing yet another kiss on the top of your head. "Do you want me to stay with you?"

You hummed in agreement, wiping away the last stray tears and nuzzling into his shoulder. "Yes, please."

[gothamsworst]

Could I get a HC for the Nerd Trio + Harley and Ivy who have a S/O with a chronic body illness, please? One where there is good days free of most pain, but days where they cant even walk due to pain.

I adore your work, hope you have a good day!

Jonathan Crane:

He’s very understanding, since he often deals with his own aches and pains. (Granted, they’re ones that have come with age, not genetically.)

Somehow, he’s always got painkillers on hand. Strong ones. Just don’t ask how or where he got them from, that’s not important.

He tries his best not to be overbearing, but there are times when it can all be a bit much. Especially if he’s been stuck in Arkham recently.

Edward Nygma:

Yeah, he can be the same. The cane is used for a reason. He really hates being bed-bound, though, and will whine like a baby when he is.

He knows that you probably feel the same way, though, so he takes it upon himself to look after you when you’re the one who’s stuck in bed.

Plus, it gives him the chance to show off his domestic skills! Thus proving what a great partner he is! (Not that you had any doubt, of course.)

Jervis Tetch:

That man has a tea for everything. Stress, chronic body aches, insomnia...you name it, he’s got a tea for it! They’re damn good, too.

He can be such a mother-hen that it's downright annoying at times. Still, you know he means well, and that he’s just trying to help.

And, during your worse off days, you have to admit--having Jervis around is a blessing. (Especially when it comes to chores and the like.)

Harley-Quinn:

Just like Jervis, she can be a little overbearing when it comes to looking after you. Don’t give her that face--she just wants to help!

Even so, it still makes her feel bad to see you in such a rough state. She wishes that there was more that she could do.

When she’s not fussing over you, she likes to curl up by your side in bed, and talk to you about her day. It’s the little things that help the most.

Pamela Isley:

You know, Pam can grow more than just deadly things. She’s just as versed on plants that can heal the body, as much as those that hurt them.

It’s similar to Jervis’s “cure-all” teas, but with various flowers. Plus, just having them around makes you feel a little bit better.

She’s never been great at handling other people’s “issues,” but for you, she’ll make an exception...because she knows you’d do the same for her.

[yee-fxcking-haw]

hello and happy holidays! i hope you’re doing well. i was wondering if i may please request a fluff piece for shinsou with a chronically ill gf 🥺👉👈? like who stays home bc she feels sick a lot, likes stuffed animals, enjoys cuddling with him, etc. thank you so much have a great day ♥️

Happy (late) holidays to you too! Thank you for this soft request! We adore soft Shinsou around here, it's pretty short but I tried to make it as sweet as possible.

•Stay In With Me•

Summary: Cuddles and caregiving with our fav purple boy. This is cheesey, I'm a cheeseball, y'all know this.

Pairing: Hitoshi Shinsou x FemReader

Warnings: Chronic illness, caretaker Hitoshi, a dash of Daddy Kink, oops :-)

A/N: As somebody who gets sick a lot, this scratched a big ol' brain itch.

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

The thing you hate most is the pressure in your head, maybe the aches in your body, maybe the unease in your stomach. Actually, all of it. You hate all of it the most.

You hate being rendered incapable of functioning, working, and just being a human. It sucks, it makes you feel useless, it makes you feel too dependent.

The only thing that seems to ease the ache, are Hitoshi's hands as the rub soothing circles into your back. His soft lips against your forehead and his gentle whispers of comfort. You had told him late last night that you were feeling bad again, assuring him that he didn't need to come over, something he always ignored.

He had stopped by the store on his way over, gathering a few if your go-to comfort items. Your favorite candy, your favorite salty snack, a heating pad and some meds. He also snagged a stuffed, purple kitten. He liked that it matched his hair, and hoped it might make you smile.

You groan into his chest as your body throbs, eyes drilled shut as you cling to his warmth. Waking up when you're sick like this is always a painful process, a dreadful affair that occasionally ends in tears.

Hitoshi's arms slide around you, pulling you in as you scoot closer.

"Is it still bad?" He asks knowingly, keeping his voice quiet, keeping his hands soft.

You offer a pitiful "mhm", still not opening your eyes.

"Can I make you some tea?" He tries, fingertips trailing down your spine.

You shake your head and pull at his shirt, desperate to keep him close.

"Will you come with me to make some tea?"

You wait for a moment, considering the horrid idea of leaving the bed, but adoring the thought of staying with Hitoshi.

You nod gently against him, this earns you a kiss on the head and gentle chuckle from him as he carefully rolls onto his back. He pulls you on top of him, moving thoughtfully, mindful of your aches and pains.

You crack your eyes open to see him looking up at you with nothing but adoration in his lovely eyes.

"Mornin' kitten." He smiles then, one hand coming up to brush some hair off your forehead.

"Mornin'." Your voice is scratchy and weak, head pounding with the effort it takes to speak.

Regardless of the discomfort, you smile. Enchanted by Hitoshi's morning beauty. His skin is dewy, kissed with a blush, puffy eyes and messy hair. He's beautiful, so damn beautiful.

"Come on then, let's get that tea." He sits up carefully, keeping you in his lap.

You bury your face into his neck and wrap your limbs around his torso, allowing him to lift you as he stands. You cling to him as he hauls you off to the kitchen, all painted in fuzzy morning light.

You whine when he sets you on the counter, grabbing at him when he tries to pull away.

He laughs against your head at your neediness.

"Can't make tea when you've got me locked in, baby." His hands run down your sides, thumbs rubbing at your waist.

"Then don't make tea." You say simply.

"You need tea." He argued, voice slightly firmer than before.

"I need you."

This earns a slow sigh from him, chest swelling and releasing against you.

"Let me make you some tea, and then we can get right back in bed." He barters, the offer is definitely attractive.

"Fine." You huff, regretfully releasing him.

"Good girl." He praises, he pinches your cheek and kisses your nose before setting to work.

The honorific makes your heart swell. Fondness drowns your aches, comfort soothes the painful muscles. He offers you some medicine while he makes your tea, thanking you and praising you while you take them without argument.

Eventually, you're back in bed, curled against him whole you clutch the lemon lavender tea he made for you. You already feel yourself slipping into a more normal state of being. The illness seeping out of your body as Hitoshi tends to you.

"Thank you, Daddy." You say, leaning up to kiss his neck.

He shivers a little at the unexpected use of his favorite name, hands gripping you a little tighter.

"Of course, gorgeous, gotta take care of my kitten." He kisses your forehead.

The day is spent wrapped around each other, Hitoshi keeps you on a regular schedule of meds, helps you through a shower and puts on your favorite movie. His voice is guiding, his hands are gentle, and his love is persistent. As usual, he makes you feel utterly and completely taken care of.

[rainbowshawn]

Pure Devotion

A/N: I got lots of requests for fluff with some angst so this is what I came up with. Not sure it counts as true angst but I gave it a shot. This is entirely me projecting my issues into a fic after a rough couple of weeks so hopefully y’all like it!! Comfort!Shawn is my fav

Summary: Things have been hard for you lately and Shawn knows just how to comfort you. 

Warnings: Language, detailed experience of an anxiety attack, angst I guess? Laced with a ton of fluff

Word Count: 3.7k

It was no secret that life had been really hard for you lately. It felt like anything that could go wrong, did and the stress had started to eat you alive. As things pile up, your mental health goes down and quite frankly- you’re just fucking exhausted.

You’re a chronic bottler, though. It’s very rare that you ever unload your baggage by talking about it because usually, you’re too busy helping everyone else. You’ve always been strong but somehow being strong is one of your weaknesses.

Today had been especially hard. Not particularly for any reason; just little things all day. But your tolerance had been fizzling out for weeks as the stress added up and now you’ve found yourself spiraling. Anxiety was eating at your mind and you couldn’t find any way to make the thoughts stop. Your mind is moving at such a fast pace, you can’t even think straight anymore. You’ve tried everything; music, meditation, deep breathing, and even a short run. Nothing seems to ease your mind.

Now you’re laid on the couch; feeling overwhelmed and empty at the same time. There’s only so much you can take; you know that. But stripping your walls down felt nearly impossible. You would rather suffer in silence than burden others with your problems. It’s only a matter of time until it catches up to you though.

Everything feels exceptionally heavy today and you know it’s only a matter of moments before you break. But you decide to grin and bear it when you hear the front door closing shut behind Shawn. You blink back the tears pooling behind your eyelids and take a deep breath as he toes off his shoes by the door.

“Hey sweetheart,” he says in his incredibly soothing voice, walking over to the loveseat where he haphazardly drops his backpack and guitar case.

“Hi, baby,” you murmur in response, “how was your day?”

You busy yourself by pulling your hair out of the ponytail you had it tied up in; avoiding his gaze. Luckily, he doesn’t take notice, giving you extra time to pull it together.

“Goooood,” he draws, smiling down at you as he approaches the couch, flopping down next to you. “Got lots done at the studio. I’m so excited for my muse to hear all the songs about her,”

He wraps his arm around your shoulders, pulling you towards him to press a sloppy kiss to your forehead before moving to press a kiss to your lips. He watches a small smile break across your lips but it feels oddly wrong to him. It doesn’t meet your eyes. Those beautiful glowing eyes.

“I’m excited to hear,” you chirp, rubbing his thigh.

You can tell by the way he’s squinting that he’s onto you and your anxiety grows tenfold. You can tell he's in a good mood and the last thing you want is to take it from him by dumping your problems on him. Before he can even pitch out a question about your day, you’re halfway across the room; waltzing towards the stairs.

“M’gonna go take a nap,” you say, glancing back towards the confused boy on the couch, “My head is killing me.”

“O-okay. Can I do anything to help you?” he asks, shooting you sympathetic eyes.

“Nah, thank you though,” you shake your head, turning back towards the stairs, “Just need some quiet I think,”

He nods slowly behind you, still squinting a bit at the slight wobble in your voice. He watches you bound up the stairs and he wonders if something else is going on in that head of yours. It’s not like you to be so quiet. So short with him.  And that damn smile. Something just wasn’t right about it. But ultimately after a few moments he supposes it must be your head. After all, it was true that you frequently got headaches. So he decides you just need some space to sleep for a bit and then everything would be okay. At least he hoped.

Once you reach the dimly lit room, you swing the door shut and climb into the plushy bed. The lump in your throat feels like barbed wire and tears prick at your eyes. You know you’re about to break and there’s nothing you can do to stop it. You take a deep breath before pulling the covers over your shaking figure and nuzzling into Shawn’s pillow, breathing in his comforting scent as your emotions begin to pour over.

Your body shakes as quiet sobs start to roll out of your body. Pain courses through your veins and it feels like there isn’t enough air in this entire world anymore. You do your best to keep quiet but sniffles and choked sobs escape you every so often. You do your best to take deep breaths but it feels like absolutely nothing in the world can help you anymore.

The sound of the bedroom door opening moments later makes you wince, burying your face further in Shawn’s pillow.

“Babe, I found your pain meds in the cabinet do you-“ he blurts out before stopping in his tracks at the sight in front of him.

Your eyes are bright red, soaking your cheeks in hot tears. His eyes widen at the sight of you, clutching onto his pillow for dear life and breaking down right in front of him. Your breathing is jagged as you gasp for air and choke out pained sobs. He swears he feels his heart break in his chest and its only a second later that he’s bounding towards the bed you’re laid out on.

“Honey, what’s going on?” he says, climbing onto the bed where he sits next to your aching body. You’re laid on your side with your back facing him and you hope to god he can’t see your face. Your heart thrums in your chest at the sheer embarrassment you’re feeling. This was the last thing you wanted him to see.

“It’s nothing, Shawn,” you try to whisper, burying your face into his pillow in a lousy attempt to reassure him.

“Y/n,” he pleads, brushing your hair behind your ear, “Something that’s making you cry like this isn’t nothing,”

“I’m okay Shawny,” you whine, choking on another sob.

He sighs, looking down at you hopelessly. A lump grows in his throat as he watches you cry. He’s felt an off energy from you for weeks and he knows you’ve had a lot on your plate. Socially, professionally, and personally. It would overwhelm anyone.

“No you’re not,” he insists, reaching to swipe his thumb across your tear-soaked cheek, “Come here, baby. Let me help you.”

You lay just lay there, trying to find the strength to let your guard down. Trying to find the courage to let it all go. You hated putting all this pain on him.

After a moment, you reluctantly sit up, hesitating briefly as you try to suck in a deep breath before turning around and slowly leaning into his embrace. His warmth envelops you immediately, wrapping you in a shield of comfort as his strong arms pull you into his lap. His presence is where you feel safest and somehow that thought makes you cry even more.

Your body shakes with sobs; ebbing and flowing with uneven breaths. Shawn’s heart aches deep in his chest and he feels the familiar sting of tears behind his eyelids. Your pain is palpable, radiating off of you uncontrollably. Your legs are straddling his hips and his face smothers into the crook of your neck as you rest your head on his shoulder.

His breath fans across your cold skin as he presses kisses to your shoulders. You feel his hands rubbing up and down your sides comfortingly as he slowly rocks you back and forth.

“Shh, baby you have to take a deep breath,” he whispers soothingly, “Can you do that for me?”

“I-I can’t breathe, Shawny,” you stutter, tears still flooding down your flushed cheeks.

He pulls back from you, shifting to brush your tangled hair back from your soaked face. His eyes are drowning in sympathy as he watches your panic and he wishes he could just take it all away. Take all your pain as his own so you would never have to feel like this again.

“Remember grounding, lovey? I need you to do that with me, okay?” he says softly - as if he was afraid the sound of his voice would worsen your state. You give him a frantic nod, wrapping your arms around yourself.

“Need you to tell me five things you can see,” he says, still rubbing your sides soothingly.

You take a shaky breath, blinking more hot tears out of your eyes. You gulp and squeeze your eyes shut momentarily before opening them again.

“Umm, I see you,” you whimper, feeling overwhelmed.

“Mhm,”

“I see the lamp... the candle... the um, the blankets,” you stutter out, trying your best to focus on the task he gave you, “I see the floor.”

“Good, good, sweetheart,” he praises, petting your hair softly, “Now tell me four things you can feel,”

Your senses shift, zoning in on his touch. His hands take turns sweeping through your hair and trickling down your back. “I feel your hands,”

He smiles softly, waiting for you to continue.

“I feel my body on top of yours,” you whisper as you feel the backs of your thighs press against his lap, “I feel my sweatshirt.”

“Mhm, good. One more?”

“Umm,” you huff, feeling a bit frazzled as you struggle to find something else. He notices your struggle and his large hand grabs yours, tugging it to his chocolate curls.

“Feel my hair?” he prompts, aiding you in fishing the task. You nod, still sniffling as cries left your aching body.

“What can you hear? Three things, babe. You’re doing so good.”

“I hear your voice,” you croak, smiling incredibly weakly; realizing just how comforting the sound of his voice is. “I hear the fan. And the birds.”

He hums, kissing your hand that isn’t slotted in his hair.

“Gimme two things you can smell?”

You breathe deeply for what feels like the first time in forever, trying your best to find something in the familiar air.

“I smell your cologne... you. My shampoo,” you shrug, feeling underwhelmed with your answers. He chuckles a bit at your demeanor.

“Last ones kinda tricky but one thing you can taste?” he raises his eyebrows, hoping you could come up with something since he was at a loss at the moment and he didn’t want to make you trudge into the kitchen to find something.

“I-I don’t know,” you whimper, bottom lip quivering again.

The minuscule movement sparks an idea for him and he pops up at the thought.

“Kiss me, honey.”

You quirk your eyebrow, shooting him a confused look as you wipe tears from your face. You go with it though, pressing your quivering lips to his. The kiss is slow, saturated in tender love. It doesn’t demand anything from you; just serves as a reminder of his undying love for you.

“Taste me?” he whispers against your lips. You hum into him. He kisses you for a second longer before resting his forehead against yours. “Did so good, lovey. Think we can take some deep breaths now?”

You don’t realize until now that your breathing has started to even out. Your limbs are still tingling and your mind still races but by some miracle - you’re breathing.

Grounding was something he had taught to you months ago when he found you crying on the bathroom floor amid another panic attack. The sight sent chills down his spine and he vowed from that day that he would never ever let you feel that way if he could help it. Seeing you in the same state today broke his heart on another level and somewhere deep in his soul, he feels as though he’s failed you.

“Y-yeah, I think so,” you say, huffing in ragged breaths.

“Okay, dear. Follow my lead, yeah?”

With tear flooded eyes you watch as he fills his lungs with air, puffing his chest out dramatically to keep you in time with him. You follow his movements, sucking in as deep of a breath as you can and holding it for a few moments until you feel your heartbeat slowing in your chest. He smiles softly as the two of you sigh the breath back out, into the still air of your shared room.

“Good, good,” he praises, reaching up to swipe some stray tears from your face, “Keep going.”

You continue on for a while, breathing deeply with him as you search for solace in his amber eyes. They’re softer, more sympathetic than usual and part of you hates it. It reminds you that this is hard on him as well. Your emotions shouldn’t be his issue too- at least that’s what you’ve convinced yourself.

After your breathing returns to a semi-normal rate, the unbearable wave of exhaustion hits you and you find yourself wrapping your arms around him, burying your warm face into his neck. His fingers ghost up your spine, leaving nothing but love in their wake. Goosebumps riddle your skin as the feeling returns to your tired limbs and you sigh lightly into his skin.

“What’s going on, honey? M’so worried about you,” Shawn croaks after a while, breaking through the quiet moment.

You hesitate, still sorting through your thoughts. Images of the past month or so swipe through your mind and you have to remind yourself to blink them away before it became too much again.

“It’s everything, Shawny,” you whimper, beginning to sniffle again, “and I’m just fucking exhausted.”

He gulps when hears your voice break once again. As if your vocal cords were being weighed down by pain. His hands shake as they trail down your sides; completely in tune with your emotions. It was a blessing and a curse to be so in sync with each other. To be connected at your cores. But he takes a deep breath, reminding himself that you need him. He needs to be strong for you.

“I know, baby, shh,” he soothes, seeing tears leak down your face once more, “don’t cry, baby, I hate seeing you cry.”

Warm kisses are stamped onto your forehead softly by his soft lips and you feel him slowly sway your distressed body. Your nose nuzzles into his pulse point, inhaling his warm scent. You stay silent for a moment, hoping and praying your body wouldn’t betray you and send you into another panic.

“Work has just been so stressful, my family life is in shambles, my friends barely talk to me anymore, and now it feels like the world is fucking ending,” you rant, voice wobbling uncontrollably, “it’s just fucking everything. I feel so alone,”

“You aren’t alone, my love. You are never, ever alone. Not as long as I’m around. I’ll be there for you until my last dying breath, you know that right?”

“Mhm,” you hum, nodding quickly as you lift your head up and wipe your face, “I just don’t like putting all this on you. I know how you carry it all.”

“Well, it doesn’t matter. Your pain is mine and mine is yours. That’s just how we are. And I love that about us,” he starts, brushing your hair behind your ears before continuing once he knows he has your attention, “You can’t bottle things up, lovey. You can try to hide it all you want but you know I feel it. Like some Long Island Medium psychic shit,”

He shoots you a smart ass look and you actually crack a smile. A real smile. The smile that could knock the world off its axis and stop people in their tracks. The smile that could make his heart skip and burst at the same time. The smile he loved more than anything.

“There’s my girl,” he smiles back, leaning in to ghost his lips across your soaked cheek. You groan and hide your face in his shoulder again before his fingers tap your chin, pulling your attention back to him.

“Listen, I know I can't fix or change what you’re going through,” he starts, staring into your eyes, “and I know that it’s a lot. It would be too much for anyone to deal with. But that’s just a testament to how resilient you are, hm? God, if I were in your shoes I would’ve had a nervous breakdown months ago,”

You blush at his words, heart thumping with adoration for the boy holding you.

“I can't make it all stop as much as I wish I could. I would take all this pain from you in a heartbeat if God gave me that chance. Feel it all so you wouldn’t have to,”

“Shawn-“

“I’m serious, baby,” he insists, “I would. But I can’t. But what I can do is be there for you. Be your support. Your shoulder to cry on. That’s what I’m supposed to do,”

“But you have your own things, I don’t want to-“ you interject before he stops you with a long finger pressed against your lips.

“Ah ah ah- no buts!” he cuts in, “I’m your lover. That’s what I do. You wouldn’t hesitate to be there for me, hm? You’re always there when I need you, so let me do the same,”

His eyes search yours, noticing every ounce of pain hidden deep behind your eyelids. Your forehead leans into him, nose resting against the tip of his and you breathe him in while he whispers to you.

“I’ll be damned if I ever let you feel like you’re alone in this world. That’s my job- making you feel loved and attended to. Always. You’re my whole heart, baby. You don’t know how lovely you are,”

A single tear escapes your eye as his words hit you. Shawn’s a beacon of love and light. Your shelter from the storm and nothing he has ever done has made you feel like he didn’t love you. It was just your stupid mind; a master manipulator of convincing you that your problems were a burden to everyone around you. Your mind forces you to push his comfort away when you need him the most.

“I know it doesn’t help much but I’m here. I’m with you. You’re my person, remember?” he whispers into the quiet air, hoping that his words could alleviate your pain somehow, “You’re not alone in this,”

“It does help. Thank you,” you whisper weakly; sniffling air through your stuffy nose. “I love you so much. I’m sorry I’m like this,”

“Don’t apologize, baby. There’s no reason to. Just remember you don’t have to carry it all by yourself, okay? I cant help you when you don’t talk to me about it,”

His face drops to your shoulder, littering the skin with loving kisses. Stamping you with little pecks as he moves up your neck and eventually, your cheeks. You nod in response and close your eyes, focusing on the feeling of his lips.

“You’re sad and you’re scared. And that’s okay. But things will get better. I promise you that,” he whispers, popping his head up to meet your gaze. You smile softly, glancing down at his pink lips. He wastes no time in connecting them with yours, hoping you could feel his love through the kiss.

You sigh into his lips, wrapping your arms around his shoulders while his hands trail up and down your spine before resting at your waist. The kiss isn’t demanding; no underlying motive other than to remind you of his pure devotion to you. His lips are soft against yours and his arms take purchase around your waist, holding onto you tightly. Reminding you that he’s here.

You break away breathlessly after a few minutes of lazily loving on each other, just gazing into his honey pot eyes. He smiles up at you with a hopeful glint in his eyes, turning over some ideas in his head.

“Until then, it’s my job to keep you stress-free, hm?” he prompts, pecking your lips again, “How does taking a nice long bath with me sound? I’ll get your favorite bubbles and your favorite candles set up for you,”

You beam down at him, eyes squinting more than usual from the slight swell your crying had brought to your eyes. “That sounds lovely, Shawn,”

He hums, kissing you again and again, “And remember that bath bomb I got for you a couple weeks ago when Aaliyah dragged me into lush? M’thinkin we could use that.”

“Oooo the rainbow one?!” you smile, remembering the night he had come home with bags full of soaps and lotions insisting that ‘everything in that damn store reminded me of you,’

“Mhm,” he nods quickly, even more excited than you, although he would never admit it. “Nothin' but the best for my lovey. We can even watch Tangled again if you want. I know how much you love it,”

You take a moment, nearly cooing down at the soft boy slotted between your legs as he lays his plan out in front of you. You know he would do anything to make you feel better and your heart that was just aching in pain is now saturated with love for him.

“I love you so much. Thank you for being you. I’d be lost without you.” you whisper as you rub his strong chest, feeling the need to remind him that he’s your safe space and not a second goes by that you don’t appreciate him.

“I love you too. More than you know,” he hums, kissing your warm lips, “Now let’s get in that bath.”

You don’t expect his next movement, standing up quicker than you can blink and tossing you over his sturdy shoulder with ease. You giggle wildly as you smack his back, blood rushing to your head as he trudges to the bathroom. The sound is like music to his ears and he decides right in that moment that it’s all he wants to hear for the rest of his days.

[janekfan]

Hello friend!! I thought of a prompt, and if you like it, it's yours!! What if Tim was kidnapped by the circus with Jon?? They're having a bad time together; Tim is hostile. Eventually, Jon starts to get quieter, and Tim thinks he's in a mood. Jon complains of a headache, and Tim thinks he's being a baby. Until he finds out he's burning up and was just too afraid to say anything because he didn't think he could take Tim telling him he didn't care 😭 (but, begrudgingly, he DOES) 💖

oooooooh this prompt! Had me feeling things! Thank you @taylortut!

https://archiveofourown.org/works/26400745

It was Tim who woke up first, unsure of where he was, still with the residual anger he’d had on his way to confront Jon about all of this nonsense still burning incandescent. Hindsight being 20/20, he probably should have taken the anonymous tip on Jon’s location with a grain of salt and a fistful of caution but he was just so angry it was filling him up like a poison, overflowing with nowhere to go, and it was so much easier to focus on his boss because it was his fault they were in this mess.

It was his fault Sasha was gone.

It was his fault they were all trapped.

“T’Tim...” Barely an exhale and if the room they were contained in hadn’t been dead quiet, he’d ignore Jon. Still might. Let him sit in the guilt and shame of having inflicted whatever this was on yet another assistant.

If he even cared.

“Where...are we?” There was some light to see by, but not nearly enough to determine the answer to that even if he’d wanted to speak to him in the first place. Based on his own headache, Tim assumed that Jon had been knocked unconscious as well and corroborated it with the hiss of pain drawn sharply between his teeth.

“Shouldn’t I be the one asking that?” Snapping callously and surprising even himself at the harsh bite in his voice, Jon flinched hard, turning with it to examine the space.

“We’re tied up.” He remarked, nonplussed, and Tim heard him pulling at his bonds. It wasn’t rope, but something softer and before he could think on it further a shaft of light fell upon Jon as a being, not quite a person, stepped through a door. “Nikola.”

“Well acquainted are you?” Tim scoffed.

“Not by choice.” And he didn’t look anywhere except straight at the thing he’d named, vitriol in his eyes, in the firm set of his jaw.

“Oh, Archivist. Don’t be like that.” Her smile was inhuman, too many teeth, not quite right. “And please do stop frowning like that.” Jon turned away from the fingers claiming his chin and Tim had once been so close to him that he knew he didn’t like to be touched unless he trusted you. Like Tim had trusted him. “I want you in pristine condition for the show.” She snapped once and several mannequins surrounded and released Jon from his bonds. They tried to drag him through the door and Jon fought like a beast possessed, wild and feral and loud and no match for their sturdy yet gentle grip as they carried him off against his will. It left Tim alone in sudden silence, a little stunned and more than a little worried and he’d take that to his grave, thank you very much.

With nothing else to focus his attention on, Tim could only think of how awful Jon looked illuminated in that cold beam with that monster leering down at him. Could only think about how hard he fought before he was hauled away in cold, plastic hands and wondered if that was the last of him.

But he was returned, quiet and haunted, still and silent when they tied him back down and resisting the water they held to his lips until they forced it on him by holding his nose, sputtering and hacking as they poured it down his throat. Calm, Tim took his ration, puzzling over his strange behavior and trying to get a closer look, but Jon just hid behind his overgrown hair, using it like a curtain to shield his face and visibly shivering.

“Given up already?” He sneered, trying to get a rise out of him.

He failed.

Time waxed and waned, strained and stretched, dilating like a pupil in the dark whenever Tim tried to keep track of it. Eventually, he gave up. It didn’t seem like there was any rhyme or reason regarding when they took Jon, but he assumed it was at least once a day. Each time he raged against them with everything he had and each time they overpowered him like he was a child and hurried him off to god knows where. Each time he was tied back down he had an odd blank look in his eye that gradually cleared until it didn’t, trembling finely and Tim used it as a way to needle him, goad him, tried to make him do something, anything. Without a response he didn’t know if he was getting through to him, but it made him feel better to take out his frustration on Jon.

Days passed. Inexorably slow with nothing to do save yell at his sole companion. Jon still tried to make his taking as difficult as he could, but he was slowing down, losing strength on a diet of bread and sips of water. Now when he returned he shook with the effort of weeping without sound, turned away as far as he could and spilling sorrow down the front of his shirt.

“Oh, little Archivist.” Nikola purred one day, lifting his face with a delicately placed fingertip. “Do you know why he hates you?” A new game they were forced to play. Because they were held captive by the Circus. And the Circus had taken Danny. And Tim screamed himself hoarse demanding answers from Jon when he'd been told.

“You’re lucky I’m tied down, Jon! I would take my answers by force if these fuckers would let me!” Jon never said anything other than apologies and it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t fair and when Jon cried it made him that much more furious because what right did he have to be upset when he was the one doing all this to them!

“We can’t have that, Tim.” She would smirk, placing her hands over his shoulders in a mock massage, tone soothing and so understanding. “We need him to be perfect.”

“Perfect.” Tim spat. Perfect. And Jon shook harder at Nikola’s cryptic words until she turned her machinations toward Tim because, after all? If he’d kept a closer eye on his precious family, would he have lost him at all?

“It’s really your fault if you think about it.” Tim tried his damndest to get closer, grappling so hard with his bonds he fell over and still tried to take a chunk out of her with his teeth. She merely laughed, ridiculing them both.

“Leave off!” Jon shouted, Tim’s chest was heaving against the floor as he twisted and bent himself into all manner of shapes in a fruitless attempt to attack her again, blind with rage and hate.

“Only because you asked so nicely.” Nikola caressed his skin and Jon bit his lip until blood ran in rivelets but she left.

“I’m so sor--”

“Save it. Don’t think this changes anything.” Uncomfortable and sore and still seething, Tim laid there until they came for Jon.

Whatever they were doing was taking a visible toll and Jon’s resistance began tapering off and he became too tired to put up a fight. He’d developed a cough that kept them both awake. It began small, chronic and dry, but no less obnoxious and only Jon could find more ways to make this captivity more difficult.

“Stop it.” Clipped and bitter.

“Sorry, sorry. Smoking, you know.” Tim didn’t answer and Jon’s attempts to stifle it were sorely lacking, bursting from his chest like a gunshot.

“You know what they want, don’t you.” Surprised, he looked up, nodding slowly, brow furrowed. “Well?”

“It’s. It’s.” Real fear raced across his face before he could stop it and he swallowed thickly.

“Lemme guess. It involves you.” Tim’s ire began to rise because of course it did.

“Yes.”

“And you won’t just give it over to save us?” Jon looked away, eyes shut tight.

“No.” He tried to take a deep breath and it lodged somewhere in between. “But it’s becau--”

“Save it. Coward. It’s enough that you won’t consider it.” Resentful, Tim again wanted to get his hands on him because of course he’d refuse. There wasn’t a more selfish man in the archives. “So this is it then? We go the way of Sasha?”

“I--”

“Because you didn’t help her either. Didn’t even notice.” It was his turn to hide because he’d be damned if Jon saw him cry. “Maybe if she’d been the Archivist, it would have been you.”

Jon didn’t, couldn’t fight this time and was more lifeless than any time before when they secured him which seemed to please Nikola and she praised him, dragging fingers through his messy hair, pulling sharply on the tangles.

“Ah, you’ve finally learned, Jon." And she tapped his cheek, sickeningly tender, before finally leaving him alone.

“Giving up so soon?” Tim scoffed; ‘so soon’ being weeks into their capture when Jon was clearly exhausted, sleeping more and more in between waking enough to hack up a lung. He could hear the wheeze on his breath from where he was across the room. “Figures.”

“Jus’… m'head hurts.” Laughing bitterly, Tim told him to keep it to himself. Dealing with Jon when he was in a mood or whining for the sake of it hadn’t made it onto his agenda. But the part that cared, that he’d tried to stamp out and fill with hate, reminded him that they were both dehydrated and hungry.

Reminded him that Jon was getting quieter and quieter, going long stretches between speaking and this time when he was carried away, he was frighteningly lax and loose, head thrown back and gasping, overbright eyes half lidded. This time, when they dragged him back and tied him up, he was crying openly, shaking fit to fly apart and eerily quiet. But the tears were there, streaming down his face and gathering on his chin before his trembling got the better of them.

“Jon?” If anything, he sobbed harder, the sound choked off as he tried so, so hard to be quiet.

“Please s’stop, Tim.” And his whisper was so broken, so small and sad, that Tim shut his mouth, because Jon was at his breaking point and he’d helped push him to it.

Now Tim couldn't stop looking at Jon and it made the other man self conscious when he was awake enough to notice, trying to keep his head turned away when he had the strength and it wasn't thrown back over the chair while he gasped like a fish out of water.

The few times Tim caught him looking his way were fraught with weariness. Jon's red rimmed eyes, bruised and ringed with shadow, held a constant question and reminded him too much of his paranoia. Truthfully, the stare was heavy and he was uncomfortable with the weight of it leveled across his shoulders.

"What're you staring at?" But it was a half-hearted attempt at inflicting hurt and Jon shrugged, blinking and a few times as if to clear his vision.

"You okay?" It sounded like he'd been swallowing gravel, rough and low and painful.

"What do you think?" And Tim couldn't stop responding in anger, swearing to himself that Jon's defeated expression meant less than nothing.

Jon wasn’t well.

He’d been unconscious for the better part of a day and Tim hadn’t been able to rouse him; shouting at him from the other side of the room wasn't enough but he tried once more out of desperation.

“Jon, buddy. Jon!”

“Mmwha'Tim?” Cracked right in the middle, it was forced through a deep wet cough that sounded bad. Really bad. The effort left his narrow chest heaving with every difficult pull for air, like he was breathing through a straw.

“Oh, thank god.” Even with the distance between them Tim could see his face twist up in confusion. “You weren't answering me.”

“Talkin t'me?” Panting and pale in the weird light, Jon’s features seemed carved from shadow and sweat.

“Yes, who else??” More than used to Tim’s frustration and annoyance, Jon just let his chin tip forward on his chest. “Jon, what's wrong.”

“Head hur's.” Slurring badly, Jon gave up words altogether in favor of letting his dark lashes flutter closed.

“You've said! What else?” Yelling and angry and helpless, the guilt rose in him like a slow and deadly tide when he saw tears slipping down his face. Tim was scared and he was mean, shouting and demanding, because of it. Because he thought he was done caring about this paranoid menace who had posed as his friend and gotten them into this mess. And he wasn't, oh he wasn't and something was seriously, seriously wrong and he was tied to a chair two meters away and couldn’t do anything about it. “Jon! Don’t, hey! Don’t go to sleep!” But it didn’t matter, he was already gone.

“Well, don’t you look tetchy.” Tim ignored Nikola’s jab the next time she and her clowns came to visit and through a surge of protectiveness he hadn’t felt in so long for anybody, he spoke on his behalf.

“Please. Jon, he. Something’s wrong.” She didn’t look impressed.

“He’s stopped his fighting.”

“Let me check on him. Whatever you need him for, he won’t be any use if he’s dead, right?” Nikola laughed, cruel smile striking fear into Tim’s heart for the first time.

“It wouldn’t matter, truly. But. Well," grabbing a fistful of hair, she forced his head back and forth to get a good look at him. "I just don’t think he’s done yet. And that would be a shame--I do so wish to look my best.” Tim was no closer to figuring out what was happening but it didn’t matter anymore. “I assure you, if you try to run.”

“I won’t.” Swiftly promised, they’d escape another time. Somehow, someway. “Untie us?”

“Us?” She chuckled and in the end, only released Tim but it would have to do, and once he was sure she was well and truly gone, he stumbled on numb legs to stand over him.

“Jon?” Gently, like he might break under the weight of his hand, Tim laid it over his forehead, brushing back through his tangled hair when the heat of it met his palm. He was a furnace, burning away to nothing and very sick. “Jon?” He tore a strip off the bottom of his shirt, wiping away the sweat because there was nothing else he could do until he finally came around. “Hey, Jon.” Jerking away with enough force that Tim had to catch the chair, he coughed with his shoulders hunched around his ears like--

Like Tim was going to strike him.

“Oh, no, no.” What a mess they’d made. “Hey, none of that.” When he went to apply the compress again, Jon flinched, shaking, muttering breathlessly:

“Don’touch, please, don’touch me any’anymore. Pl’please.” So now he was free, free to see up close the terror and fear, faced with it plainly enough to question that Jon wanted any of this at all, or if he was just as caught in it’s spiraling web. He wore himself out, body slumped uncomfortably where he was tied as he lost consciousness and Tim was at a loss as to what to do. He wasn’t able to pick apart the knots, didn’t have anything to slice through his bonds. No medicine, no water. Nothing, and so he finally relegated himself to pounding on the door, shouting, pleading for water because Jon was out of his mind with fever and wouldn't let Tim touch him. Of course it went unanswered, and instead he found himself sitting crisscross at Jon’s feet. “Don’...don’touch…”

“I won’t, I promise. Not, not until you say I can.” Wringing his hands, remembering every time they'd helped each other through a sick day at the institute. Remembering when he was free to touch and free to comfort. Jon ruined that. But it shouldn't mean he was afraid of him.

“T’tim?” The whimper of recognition made the fist around his heart squeeze. “They...they’re. My skin. Take it. G’g’gonna take it.”

“Calm down, you’re not making sense.” And shaking so hard with chills his teeth were chattering.

“It’s going to, to hurt. She, Ni-she.” Worked up, Jon was hyperventilating, barely getting any air between his coughing and rambling but he wouldn’t listen to Tim. “It’s, it’s. I, I, I don’wan’to h’hurt anymore…” Delirious, he had to be, paranoid and ill and delusional and he said as much.

“Okay, Jon? That’s not going to happen.”

“Why Tim!” Nikola’s delighted voice rose up behind him and he startled. “He didn’t tell you? This ritual requires a special ingredient, a costume! Of special power and distinction and you,” she tapped his forehead sharply, “just don’t fit the bill!”

“Costume?”

“Of course!” When she clapped her hands together it made a sharp plastic clatter. “Our Archivist here will have the most lovely skin when we’re through with him.” Tim felt sick to his stomach. Jon. He’d. He’d called him a coward. Wished awful things on him and maybe it would be impossible to be friends again but, but they’d been friends once. Been close once. And.

“Please. He, he needs water.” His voice shook. “His--” skin “It’ll be better if he’s had enough water.”

“A wonderful idea!” She turned away from where she was tracing lines over his body, “to think I wanted to kill you upon arrival, when you’ve been so useful in keeping our mutual friend in line!”

“Slow, slow Jon.” He pulled the cup away when it seemed he’d try for the whole of it at once, “you’ll make yourself sick.”

“T’Tim...need.”

“I know, be patient.” Jon’s brown eyes were piercing even glassed with fever, all his limited focus directed at Tim.

“N’no.” He paused to get enough breath to speak. “Run. You n’need to run.” Days ago, Tim would have done so in a heartbeat but the thought of abandoning him now. He couldn’t.

“I cant.”

“Tim”

“No, not without you.” His gaze was devastating and he dropped his head.

“Why?” He didn’t have an answer and thankfully didn’t need one because at that very moment a yellow door appeared where one had never been before and through it stepped a man who both was and wasn’t, face ever changing, limbs elongating in strange intervals and he had to look away.

“I’ve come to kill you, Archivist.” A distorted echo that was also not an echo filled up the room.

“Get in line, you’re not the only one who wants a piece.” The being seemed taken aback, tickled that a human would even dare, and Jon used the gap in their conversation to draw its attention.

“Michael.” The thing that was Not What It Is shifted focus, oil on water. “Tell me.” And while Jon couldn’t say anything more than that, he did and instead of killing the archivist, Helen saved him, using sharp fingers that warped and writhed to slice the bonds and send him sprawling to the ground. Or would have, if Tim hadn’t caught him. He wouldn’t respond to Tim’s shaking and shouting and when Helen offered to grant them both safe passage as a favor to her favorite Sims (her only Sims, Tim figured) he lifted him into his arms and stepped through the door.

And into his own flat.

“Do tell him I say hello, would you?”

“Uh, yeah. ‘Course.” Awkwardly, he waved with his arms still full of Jon. “Thanks.” When he was sure his flat had only the same number of doors it came with, he laid his burden down on the couch, heading to the medicine cabinet for any fever reducer he could find and filling a glass with water on the way. It took too much time to wake him and he wasn’t aware enough to parse the instructions Tim was trying to explain, that dreadful whistling almost deafening this close and the crackling in his lungs like dry leaves in autumn. So he propped him up against his shoulder, body blazing through their clothes, and slipped the pills onto his tongue one at a time so he could swallow them with small sips. Replacing himself with several pillows shoved behind him, Tim wrung out a cool flannel and smoothed it over his forehead, ignoring the sluggish, enquiring gaze until it disappeared behind heavy lids and his face relaxed into sleep.

There wasn’t anything in the fridge that survived his absence save for the bicarbonate of soda and beyond that, Tim didn’t want to take a chance opening anything. The bread was moldy, but a packet of biscuits with peanut butter helped dull the hunger and, though he would never admit it, gave him a reason to stay up to watch over Jon. Flushed and fevered, he mumbled nonsense in his sleep, and Tim recognized enough that he soon decided not to listen, the horror of it too much to bear just yet. He fell into his own bed, relaxing sore muscles and glanced at the clock blaring too bright numbers that he didn’t want to read, his last conscious decision that they’d been gone this long, what was one more night before telling everyone else they weren’t dead.

The sun, blessed sun, fell across his face and he let himself have a lie in until he remembered who was passed out on his couch and he dragged himself towards responsibility, a knot of apprehension tight in his throat, relaxing when Jon looked, well, not well, but better. Apparently sensitive to being watched, their eyes collided briefly before ricocheting away and Tim was irritated by it and the way Jon was avoiding him again.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were that sick?” Though Tim stood over him, Jon continued to look at his hands, tracing a finger over the rough scar spanning his whole palm. He took his time, thinking, so long that when Tim shouted “well?!” he jumped, eyes wide, breath catching.

“You. You said.” Coughing into his elbow, he needed a moment to recover. “Said t’to keep it to myself.”

“When you were complaining about a headache!” Jon shrugged with one shoulder, curling into himself small and fragile, somehow more so in the late morning light.

“Didn’t think--”

“No, you didn’t, you never do, Jon!”

“--you’d want to know.”

“Jon.” But would he have wanted to know? Would he have ignored it like he had his anguish? What reason had Tim given him when he’d used everything he experienced in that room and out of it as a weapon against him? Jon was looking up at him, wan and pallid, waiting for whatever Tim had to say and he knew he would take it like he’d taken it in their captivity. He sat on the low table in front of the couch. “Jon. I’m. You know I’m angry with you.” He nodded. “I’m sorry for, I took it too far. But, I’d still have wanted to know.” He pressed the next dose of medicine into his unblemished hand and made sure the water glass was within reach. “Take those.” Before he slipped into the kitchen and away from their shared mistakes, but he could still hear.

“Thank you, Tim.”

“Oh,” he popped his head back into the sitting room. “Helen says hello.” And chuckled when Jon threw an arm over his eyes with a groan.

[professional-benaddict]

Could you write a fic where peter has chronic pain and needs a wheelchair/cane? Maybe it’s little peter too? And his daddy(s) help take care of him on super bad days

“Da-ddy...”

“I know, buddy, I know. Daddy’s fetching the heating pads and medicine for you.” Tony coos and helps Peter back into the wheelchair after a necessary bathroom break.

It’s one of those bad days again where Peter’s chronic pains flare up. Sadly, there is not much that can be done to cure it, but it can be managed with physical therapy, medication and some helpful tools like canes and wheelchairs. It’s just that the trouble is that Peter hates whatever actually helps him when he is in his littlespace.

“No, Da... Up!” Peter whines, his mood just plummeting further and further the more he has to move.

“Pete, just sit back and relax. I’ll lift you into bed and I’ll cuddle with you. Just sit tight.” Tony tries and keeps one hand on Peter’s shoulder while he wheels the boy back to his bedroom. Or at least tries to.

“No, but- don’t wanna!” Peter argues, and uses his hands to stop the wheelchair by grabbing onto the wheels. The action causes Tony to halt all of a sudden and he frowns softly at how uncooperative Peter is being. Instead of insisting further, Tony rounds the wheelchair and crouches in front of Peter, but the boy won’t meet his eyes.

“Pete, baby, what’s going on?” Tony prompts gently, both his hands resting on Peter’s thighs.

It takes a while, before Peter speaks, but Tony is patient and so is Stephen who joins them with the heating pads and medication.

“I don’t wike it... bein’ this way. ‘M not- normal.” Peter spits out the last word and rubs at his eye with the heel of his palm, trying to catch the tears before they can fall.

“Pete, I understand that you feel that way, I do. But, Daddy and I have all these things to help you. It will feel better in a bit, we promise that.” Tony tries to console, knowing it can only heal some of the emotional hurt, but not all of it.

“We see that you’re hurting, baby, so let us help you.” Stephen adds from behind Peter.

After some more waiting, and lots of thinking on Peter’s part about a lot of things, he nods glumly and lets go of the wheels on his wheelchair. With a light and relieved smile, Stephen shares a look with Tony and pushes Peter’s wheelchair to his bedroom.

“Shhh, it’s okay, I got you.”

“You’re so brave, baby. I know it hurts, I know.”

Half an hour, with his stomach half full of snacks and medication, Peter manages more or less to settle. The heating pads are situated on his knees, where the pain is the worst at the moment. On each of his sides, Peter has Stephen and Tony, cuddling and murmuring sweet nothings to him. As he starts to drift off to sleep, Peter starts to think how this might not be so bad. That this is manageable, that he is loved and cared for, and that this is okay. He is okay.

[septic-skele]

US - Heed The Signs (Part 4)

[Part 3]

A/N: Don't mind me projecting my own feelings about my chronic illness onto poor Pap. It's just nice having a character to relate to ^^"

Why did I lie to him? Why did I say I wanted to walk? Are we there yet? How much longer? This is taking forever…I’m so tired. Everything hurts, I just want to stop.

Lying was wrong. That was what his brother always told him and by the looks of it Papyrus’ body agreed; it was doing everything within its power to punish him.

True to Blue’s advice, his bath had been chilling but even with his clothes half-dry he was still shivering. The worse twitches sent crackly jolts of pain through his joints, akin to insect stings, and when he clenched his teeth to stop their clattering his head pounded dreadfully.

My skull’s a knock-knock door now, he mused dazedly, though it wasn’t as funny without a joke to tell. He couldn’t think of a good one for the life of him.

Sick. Sick who? Sick me. But don’t tell Blue.

He just wanted Blue to be happy. His brother had seemed sincere enough when he offered him the chance to stay but what if Papyrus had taken it and Blue had gotten mad at him? When he was honest about his fears and the idea of being left behind, that had upset him enough; the last thing he wanted was to disappoint him again.

If he disappointed him again, Blue might actually do it. Wasn’t that an awful thought?

“I will never, ever leave you behind. No matter how tired you are, no matter how slow, I will always be there to help and protect you.”

Those words should comfort him; they had at the time but now, through the slogging fog in his mind, they sounded so far away.

What Blue didn’t know when he made that promise—what he still didn’t seem to fully understand—was that Papyrus was always tired. In his soul he knew it wasn’t the “normal” tired. It wasn’t normal to sleep and sleep and sleep and still feel so drowsy, like he had never gone down. It wasn’t normal for his vision to go black and his legs to buckle just because he stood up too fast. It wasn’t normal to feel this weight dragging on him, like he was constantly trying to wade through a mudslide. Was that what it would be like at their new home, with all the snow in their way? The very thought of it stirred anxiety.

Something was wrong with him and nothing was wrong with Blue. His big bro was so cool, running and jumping and climbing and lifting heavy things. All the while he barely gasped for breath. How did he do it?

Jealousy was wrong too. Papyrus hated the sore, mean longing caged in each of his tender bones. He always insisted that he would never hope for bad things for his brother…but in a corner of his mind that would probably never come to light, he wished Sans could know how he felt, even if it was only one day. What if Papyrus was like this forever? He could never live up to Blue’s example, no matter how hard he tried. He could never be that good.

Yet again his nose and eye sockets stung with telltale moisture but perhaps he didn’t have enough magic left over to form real tears, given how much effort the rest of his body was putting forth.

Blue was right when he said he would run out of tears if he kept it up. Of course, Blue was always right. I’m such a baby bones.

How far had they walked by now? Lost in thought and misery, Papyrus couldn’t be sure. Over time Waterfall started to blur together whether one was paying close attention or not. All he knew for sure was that his feet throbbed for mercy and he had a stitch pulling in his ribs that made it harder to breathe with every step…so that must mean they were making progress, right?

Blue had been babbling on for a while, filling the silence, but only now did Papyrus register what he was saying. “Gosh, I’m starving! We didn’t have any dinner or breakfast, huh? Are you hungry, Papy?”

Strangely he wasn’t. His nonexistent stomach panged with discomfort, yes, but not in the raw, empty way. All he mustered was a shrug. Blue hesitated, eyes flicking uncertainly over him, but after a long moment he tried for a smile regardless.

“I’m sure there’s something around here we could munch on for a while. Umm…” As he turned to examine the area, he no doubt saw the same things Papyrus had: grass, water, flowers, and crystals in every direction. To Papyrus’ surprise, however, he lit up. “Hey, those could be pretty tasty!”

“Hmm?”

“Well, they’re called water sausages, aren’t they? Sausages are edible so if these go by the same name, they must be too!” With no further ado he snatched at the nearest group of new shoots, waving them wildly to rid them of droplets and pollen. Papyrus coughed, belatedly trying to muffle it in his sleeve as the cloud clogged the air and made his head spin.

Even the trash they had scavenged a couple of nights ago had been a little more appealing than muddy uprooted stalks. With some nausea he remembered the wet, mushy crab apple and the cracked bottle of fluid that was…hopefully sea tea. Both had been bitter and acidic, rather difficult to swallow.

When he noticed his distaste, Blue didn’t hesitate to share his lucky find of a gloopy, half-smashed Nice Cream, insisting that it was too big to finish on his own. He was so cool. That sweeter flavor was long gone now; Papyrus could still taste the metallic tang from the upheaval earlier, lingering in the back of his throat.

No, he was definitely not hungry. Cradling his arms close to his chest, trying to get the tremors under better control, he coughed twice, thrice more and hung his head. Tuning Blue out as he peeled and crunched thoughtfully on the weeds, the younger focused instead on savoring the break from walking.

If he sat down he had a sneaking suspicion that he would forget he had to get up again. Now that they weren’t moving, he became fully aware of how moist and heavy the air felt as it crawled over him. There was no breeze this way. Why was he still shivering and swaying, as if a supposed wind might knock him over? Was that sweat, too, slithering down his back? That didn’t sound right. What was hot and what was cold?

Tired, tired, tired…

“Papyrus?”

Blue’s hands on him made him startle but it was too much effort to reel back upright. Murmuring something that might not have been made of real words, he let himself wilt and trusted that Blue would catch him. He did, though he didn’t give him an opportunity to go entirely boneless. Hurriedly wrangling and propping loose limbs out of his way, Blue cupped his cheekbone.

“How are you still—? Never mind. I—I don’t think this is good for you, Papy, going hungry. You need something to keep your strength up!”

“Throat h’rts,” he mumbled, flinching away when he felt Blue nudge the end of the water sausage against his teeth. “Head h’rts.”

“Please, just a bite or two, alright? There’s only a little left and that’ll leave my hands free! I’ll be able to carry you.”

That deal didn’t sound half bad. Though his jaw ached from gritting for so long, he pried it open just enough that he could be fed. The stalk didn’t smell awful but it failed to belie the true sour taste. Suppressing a whine, he barely chewed before choking it down and absorbing Blue’s patting and praise.

It was more like six or seven bites before the stalk ended, the seventh going to waste as Papyrus coughed too roughly to swallow it. Nevertheless Blue kept his word, scooping him off his feet with surprising gentleness. Since Blue wouldn’t be running, all Papyrus could do was hope that this easier pace wouldn’t jar him into vomiting again. He fell asleep within the first thirty steps.

___________________________________

Thick black fluid bubbled up from cracks in the ground, taking shape. Sticky, spindly hands were grabbing at him, their touch burning, their grasp so tight that his bones started to crack on contact.

Sobbing and spitting, he thrashed to be free, phalanges snapping off his feet to be engulfed instantly. Somehow he ran—or swam—or was he drowning already?

The waves of blackness were overrunning the world. Trees and buildings and people were melting around him in every direction. As the hands gained purchase, they scaled the far walls. They would bring the mountain down on top of them!

“Sans, help me!”

He stood several yards ahead, motionless, with empty, gaping eye sockets—yet still he smiled, the blackness seeping between his bared teeth. Purring ominously in a language Papyrus knew he’d forgotten, he opened his stretched, warped arms for an embrace.

There was a voice somewhere beyond the pounding and crackling in his skull.

“—rus! Brother, it’s alright! You’re going to be alright. It’s over now…We’ve made it!” Familiar. Soothing, relief and hope.

When he broke the surface of his dream, he was only given a second’s glimpse to register—shapes, white, hurt, too hot, too much—before his eyelights rolled back in his head. Back arching, limbs flailing and locking wildly, he was hurled by momentum out of Blue’s arms into the snow.

[colitisandme]

The last week has been awful. The arsenal I have gathered to tackle this bloody disease, head on has failed me. The meditation, the mindfulness, the mantras, the stroking puppies, picking four leaf clovers, drinking potions, rubbing poultices and ointments on myself, lighting candles or anything else I could possibly have snaffled, eaten, drank or rubbed on myself to encourage this disease to give me a sodding break, has not worked. Instead my immune system has put a colander on its head, rolled up its sleeves and charged full pelt into each of my arsenal, knocking them over like bowling pins, then continued to sit on them, shout ‘who’s your daddy?!?’ whilst squishing its massive arse cheeks into each of their faces. As they try to run away, screaming and covered in arse cheek indentations, my beefed up, (probably green) eyes wide and terrifying immune system grabs each of the squealing group, sending them on their way with a final present of a massive wedgie. So in the end I am left with my immune system performing a victory dance, waving his hands above his head whooping in delight, and a group of wailing, whining group of treatments, all waving a white flag and all trying to gingerly coax their pants off their ears, snivelling in a corner vowing never to go back into the fray. How bloody useful is that?

As a result, I hold my hands up and say, it has been a struggle to maintain my sunny disposition. At times, I admit I have felt like hiding in the fridge. The only place I can lessen the pain of these bloody bites. I have felt like putting a ‘gone to lunch sign’ on my head, sitting with a blanket over myself, hoping all the world will just bugger off and let me be. I have dragged myself out of the house kicking and screaming, and through gritted teeth stepped out into the world attended meetings and appointments whilst avoiding eye contact and looking almost certainly like a bum with eyes. My nerves have been frayed. My eyes are bloodshot, I feel like my hair is on end. I am most certainly irritable and cranky, sleepy, hacked off, dopey and several other Dwarves in the process.

It hasn’t helped that I have had to fill in my PIP at the very moment I can’t remember the word for umbrella. Sometimes I get such bad brain fog, the conversation becomes like a game of Articulate and I start to scrabble around like a frightened raccoon climbing a curtain, desperately trying to wrack my brain and search for and assemble the correct words, nouns and adjectives I need, and enter into a maddening description game, so I can form sentences that actually make sense. “You know,it goes up, big, rain... oh YOU KNOW” clearly my husband doesn’t have a bloody clue and looks at me with a look that can only be described as a cross between, pity, alarm and probably wondering if he can nudge me into the shed without me realising, so he can go back to having normal conversations with people without turning it into a game of charades. My brain would not work this week. And I have no idea how I managed to fill that thing in.

The PIP is the most demoralising piece of paperwork I have ever had to fill in. I spend my time trying not to give IBD energy or power. I am mindful not to start sentances with ‘my IBD’ in order to prevent it from giving it an identity or a personality. I try not to go over my symptoms or dwell on what I can’t do, or go to, or participate in because I refuse to give the IBD control over me. The PIP is designed so you have to go over, in great detail, why you can’t do things. Why your disease/disability deserves financial help? What can’t you do? Where can’t you go? Name all the horrible ways it effects you? How does it make your life a misery? Can you bathe? Can you eat? Can you walk? If so how far? Is it unaided? Tell me, tell me TELL ME NOW, TELL ME HOW RUBBISH IT IS!!!! It’s like there are a group of people all sitting in the dark listening to you tell your story, all cackling and rubbing their knees in delight as you become more and more miserable, smaller, insignificant and finally succumb to the very meaning and nature of the disease. This form is made to reduce you to jelly. And that’s exactly what it did. I felt so awful after completing it. So angry, so stressed and so tiny. Here it was in black and white, in front of my eyes, all the ways in which my disease hurts or hampers me on a daily basis. I hated writing it. I hated admitting that sometimes I eat only one meal a day because it hurts too much to eat more. I hated stating that sometimes I can be in pain for hours. I loathed writing down that I sometimes only sleep 2 hours a night because I am so uncomfortable. Here it all was. My life with IBD and I really struggled reading it. This form gave the IBD so much power it was able to light up a neighbourhood. So much strength, it could pick up a bus, so much presence that if it was leading a motivational seminar, it would have every person screaming its name, leaping out of their seat with joy, suddenly seeping inspiration and motivation from all of their pores. It would have so much gravitas, that every woman and man in the room would want to either be with them or be like them. But I had no choice, I had to fill it out. I even asked my lovely husband to tell the arse hats judging this, what it was like for a loved one to watch someone precious to them, to live and function with this disease and I knew it made him uncomfortable because he didn’t want to give it any power or presence either.

After we both finished it. I admit I was upset. It had to be done. I know it did, but once I completed it and the words stared back at me, it forced me to admit that IBD is rubbish. It’s bloody rubbish. It’s a scary, non sensical disease. It robs you of sleep, looks, vocabulary, bowel function, loo roll, company, finances, control and equilibrium. It makes my immune system go completely crazy, which is why I am still battling hives, and a prickly rash snaking up my arm and the worst itching imaginable, 4 WEEKS later! It stops me from eating yummy things or from eating at all. It prevents me from doing kick boxing (a sport I used to love) or hiking, or enjoying long walks because of the pain and severe chronic fatigue I get. And it means I have to fill in bloody forms like that one, just to get a bit of financial support because all the symptoms have been so bad I haven’t been able to work. It’s hard. IBD is hard. And this week has been really hard. Battling just a couple more symptoms than the regular IBD symptom symphony, has sent my fatigue, my immune system, my sleeping pattern, my pain threshold and my patience into overdrive. It’s meant that moving my bunnies house into our dining room to give our fur babies some more socialisation, drove me to tears. It’s meant that I can not control my bowel movements. It’s led to me cancelling meetings and not going to Choir. It’s made my hair frayed and my nails brittle. It’s given me horrible nausea, sore throat, cough and headaches coz my immune system acts like it drinks red bull 24 hours a day. But what I have realised is. Sometimes it’s okay that it’s all rubbish. Sometimes you have to give in and agree. By doing that you actually give yourself back the power and control. By accepting the way it is at that moment it means that you rest. It doesn’t mean you give up, but it’s okay to feel sad and frustrated having this disease, to look like a bum with eyes, to accidentally put keys in the fridge, and not be able to think of the word for ‘pyjamas.’ And then, when we are ready we need to go back to whatever we need to do to deal with it again. So at the moment I am ‘out of order’ because I need to be, in order to make it better but before long, I will be ready to tackle it again. Ready to get back to the meditation and mindfulness, and remedies and slathering anti itch creams on myself. But just for a little while it’s okay to close the door, cuddle up on the sofa and hide away from the world in order to miss parts of your life before IBD. It doesn’t make us weak. It makes us strong and it’s necessary to heal. And if any of you have ‘gone to lunch’ for the past few hours or days, come on over. We can all wear our matching jackets and go on strike together.

[dakotashorror]

1-70 for the asks bro

Bitch for real

01: Do you have a good relationship with your parents? No not really :(02: Who did you last say “I love you” to? Bear03: Do you regret anything? Yes pretty much everything I’ve done I regret04: Are you insecure? Yes very much 05: What is your relationship status? Very single and I’m keeping it that way06: How do you want to die? Idk… suicide07: What did you last eat? a cheeseburger that me and my dad made08: Played any sports? I used to play soccer but I had a serious injury and now I have chronic pain and can’t 09: Do you bite your nails? I used to10: When was your last physical fight? Like a few weeks ago11: Do you like someone? I have school yard crushes most of the time but I can’t uphold a relationship12: Have you ever stayed up 48 hours? Yes I do it a lot13: Do you hate anyone at the moment? Yes I hate almost everyone in my life 14: Do you miss someone? Yes I miss my friend who passed away a while ago15: Have any pets? I have a doggo named ruby 16: How exactly are you feeling at the moment? Numb and sort of angry17: Ever made out in the bathroom? Many a time18: Are you scared of spiders? Let’s see… yesterday I was at my neighbors house and their cat was on the stairs so I didn’t go up them I put my hand through the gate to keep you from falling and there was a spider on the wall. I froze and whined for a moment and backed away and went around the house to lock up rather than pass it.19: Would you go back in time if you were given the chance? Absolutely 20: Where was the last place you snogged someone? Their house21: What are your plans for this weekend? I’m going to the pool with my friend to help her babysit them22: Do you want to have kids? How many? I don’t like kids23: Do you have piercings? How many? I only have double piercings on my ears but I plan to get a lot 24: What is/are/were your best subject(s)? English and history25: Do you miss anyone from your past? Yes pretty much everyone who’s abandoned me 26: What are you craving right now? Cuddles 27: Have you ever broken someone’s heart? Yes28: Have you ever been cheated on? Yes29: Have you made a boyfriend/girlfriend cry? Yes30: What’s irritating you right now? The fact that my life is fucking fine but I still want to die31: Does somebody love you? I guess32: What is your favourite color? Red or black33: Do you have trust issues? Very much so34: Who/what was your last dream about? It was a m*a*s*h dream. I came into the 4077 with a busted up knee but couldn’t remember what happened so they were trying to figure it out. Charles came by and so did hawkeye but no one could figure it out. Then BJ came over and was like, “let’s give this kid a break, would you like to see the rest of the compound?” So I said yes and radar brought a wheelchair and they showed me around! 35: Who was the last person you cried in front of? I don’t cry in front of people often but I guess my therapist36: Do you give out second chances too easily? Very much so 37: Is it easier to forgive or forget? Forget38: Is this year the best year of your life? So far no39: How old were you when you had your first kiss? 1440: Have you ever walked outside completely naked? Yes I did yesterday 51: Favourite food? Mexican 52: Do you believe everything happens for a reason? I hate that way of thinking tbh 53: What is the last thing you did before you went to bed last night? I looked at the moon and fell asleep in her light54: Is cheating ever okay? No 55: Are you mean? Kind of yes. 56: How many people have you fist fought? A lot57: Do you believe in true love? I believe in compatibility 58: Favourite weather? Rain rain 59: Do you like the snow? Yes60: Do you wanna get married? Idk 61: Is it cute when a boy/girl calls you baby? Yeah I like it but only from certain people 62: What makes you happy? My dog, markiplier, bear, and kat63: Would you change your name? Well I have but I’d like to change it legally 64: Would it be hard to kiss the last person you kissed? Not at all65: Your best friend of the opposite sex likes you, what do you do? Tell them I like where we are. Too many times have I messed with that and it ends up being messy66: Do you have a friend of the opposite sex who you can act your complete self around? Yes67: Who was the last person of the opposite sex you talked to? Bear 68: Who’s the last person you had a deep conversation with? A kid I haven’t talked to since 8th grade and we talked for a while and suddenly we were both talking about our drug addictions and stuff69: Do you believe in soulmates? Yes. I believe in them in a way that they will find you, not that you are perfect like a puzzle piece but that you’ll be compatible and safe with them. Also doesn’t have to be a love way too70: Is there anyone you would die for? Yes. 4 people.

[theliterateape]

I Wouldn't Give a Shit if Mark Died

By J. L. Thurston

Hi. I’m Bob. Mark was my big brother, and I distinctly remember realizing one day that I wouldn’t give a shit if Mark died.

That may come across as harsh or whatever. But he’s my only brother in the whole world and I found that his death wouldn’t be all that sad. I realized this the day I was told he was about to croak. I had gone to visit him. He was in a pretty bad way.

In order of birth, it goes Mark, then Leslie, then me. Bob. The youngest. Between me and Mark are seven years. As the youngest, I always got a lot of attention, but Mark acted like the whole world revolved around me and left him in the dust. That is so not true. He always got the most attention. Mark was born with problems. When he was a baby, he constantly stopped breathing. At age three, he had some kind of cancerous tumor they had to remove. And worst of all, he had cerebral palsy.

If you don’t know what that is, you’re lucky. It’s a condition of the brain that kids get born with. There’s varying degrees of it. Some kids have to be stuck in wheelchairs, some can’t even talk or do much at all for themselves. Some are just about as normal as you or me.

Mark was kind of in the middle of good and bad. He was always small, always sickly, and slow in the head. Not like to where you have to baby talk him, but slow enough that he couldn’t figure out concepts like taxes or Algebra. He couldn’t ever spell for shit, either.

He had big dreams. He’d tell me he was going to be an NBA player, and no one could tell him otherwise. No one ever helped him in the right way, either. They put him on the basketball team in school — regular school — and let him play when the team was ahead. Other schools kinda knew him, or at least they knew enough to be kind. They let him double-dribble, they let him take his sweet time to shoot. He had decent upper body strength and could make a basket from time to time. He had this deep, throaty giggle that always kind of rumbled out of him in times of high stress. So, there’d be Mark, stumbling and dribbling and shooting, all the while giggling loud enough to echo in the crowded gym.

Everyone cheered like adoring fans when he was on the court. Like it was some great thing he was doing. It filled his head with false ideas. He saw himself as big and bad when he was really four-foot-ten and floated between ninety and one hundred pounds. I never thought that was good for him. It made him an even bossier big brother.

My parents never gave him slack, either. They never talked down to him, never felt sorry for him. Whenever he’d stumble and fall, they’d try to make light of it, they’d make him pick himself up every time. He’d cry, he’d whine, he’d stay down, hoping for a sympathetic helping hand, but my parents thought that if they helped him then he’d be too reliant on other people’s strengths. They wanted him to be a successful adult. They wanted him to be able to live on his own, if he wanted. They wanted him to know how to care for himself, to pay bills, to hold a job, to be able to get himself out of sticky situations.

Mark hated that. He loved the attention, the sympathy, the poor Marks.

The type of people who gave him the most love, the most sympathy, and the most fun were the kind of people you didn’t invite inside your home. The town druggies made Mark feel cool and he fell in line with them. His mind was very moldable, he was very easy to manipulate. Mark gave the kids his lunch money for weed and then threw the weed away because he didn’t know how to smoke it.

I remember when he got caught with other kids’ cigarettes in his bookbag three days in a row, giggling the whole time Mom yelled because that’s what he always did under pressure.

I went away on a camping trip with some other guys and when I came back, Mark was gone. He’d done the unthinkable. Him and his pothead friends called the cops on my parents. He claimed they had been beating him his whole life. That they’d take him to the laundry room and abuse him.

Being as pathetic-looking as he was, we were terrified what authorities would do. My sister and I were fairly young. Would DCFS take us away? Would my parents be able to show their faces anywhere ever again?

Luckily, nothing ever came of it. I think my parents were respected enough that when they claimed their innocence the authorities believed them. Also, there was not a scrap of evidence to support Mark’s claims.

Let me tell you, the hissing behind our backs went on for years. My parents never forgave Mark, and Mark never came home. He was reduced to couch-surfing at all his druggie friends’ houses until he finished school. Then he moved in with a dealer and stayed with him for over a decade. The drama never ceased and the rare times I talked to Mark just involved me hearing his stories of getting away with drug busts, domestic disputes between his roommate and the various women. Just trashy shit.

Ultimately his roommate went to prison for selling heroin to an undercover cop. Mark called me a lot after that, yes he did. Bob, I need a ride, or Bob, I need a place to crash. And my favorite, Bob, I need some money.

I remember calling Mark when my wife was pregnant with our first child. I was so proud, my head was swimming, I wanted to tell everyone at once. I told my parents first, then I decided my siblings should be the next to know. This would be the first child to make them an aunt and uncle. On the phone, Mark heard me tell him I was going to be a daddy. He responded with a long list of complaints about the thieves in his apartment building and how he can’t hardly make it down the stairs. Also, he was very concerned that the government wouldn’t pay for him to get a scooter. I hung up on him that day.

So, I stopped answering the phone when Mark called. I deleted the voicemails, I never responded to Facebook messages. I was over him and his dramatic bullshit. Mark was a bad egg. Selfish, stupid, and mixed in with a bad crowd that I didn’t want anywhere near my family.

My cousin knew he was in the ICU and didn’t tell anyone. It was four days after he was admitted that word slipped. Mark went to a hospital complaining of bronchitis. He had many health problems, all of them chronic, and he was on every pain pill known to man. The local hospital saw him as a drug seeker and sent him home with albuterol and instructions to stay in bed. The big city hospital took one look at his X-Rays and intubated him immediately. They said if he would have waited another day he would have died in his sleep.

On top of the double pneumonia, little Mark had some kind of blood infection coursing through his body that caused his bones and muscles to ache. In the four days that he was intubated in the ICU he’d completely lost the ability to walk. When my mother and I visited him in the comprehensive care unit, Mark was bedridden with three tubes in one arm and four in the other. He had a Christmas tree of bags hanging off an IV pump next to him. Any little movement would jack up his heart rate to about one-forty, causing the nurses to panic. He broke down into tears many times.

He didn’t giggle once.

It didn’t look good for Mark, and I left the hospital wondering where my head was at. My big brother, the only one I had, was doing poorly. Maybe this would be the thing that would kill him. When he was a baby, the doctor said he probably wouldn’t make it to his thirties because of all his problems. He was nearly forty.

I thought about what I’d say at his funeral. I know that sounds morbid and kind of sick considering I should have been praying for his recovery, but it’s the truth. My speech would be fairly void of good things to say about him. What good was Mark? He only cared about himself. He never learned from his mistakes. He caused my parents and my sister and me pain and never once apologized for it. He would rather live in moldy shacks with meth-heads than be an independent man.

Did I feel sorry for Mark? Yes, I sure did. He was suffering, and he spent much of his life suffering. He’d been given the short straw. I was lucky that I was the good son, the one who was born normal, the one who never spent a day in a hospital. I had a great job, a wonderful family, I was happy and healthy. All the while my brother was being fed through a straw.

But I felt about him the same way I’d feel about hearing this story about a stranger. I think, Sucks for that guy. Too bad it couldn’t have been better, and then I move on.

He died of a medication error. That’s what the bottom line was. He’d been on so many things. His little body, eighty pounds at that time, couldn’t take it all. He slowly suffocated to death. We found out two days later when my pothead cousin decided to tell my mother.

This is what I said at his funeral. “Hi. I’m Bob. Mark was my big brother. He was seven years older than me. When we were kids, we’d fight all the time. I know it might be hard to imagine Mark being able to fight anyone, seeing how little he was, but he was actually a lot stronger than me in those days. But when we weren’t fighting, we’d go to the pool a lot. Mark was the one who taught me how to do a backstroke. When I was in the fifth grade, I won first place in swim team for it. That was something wonderful Mark did for me.

“Mark showed me how to turn our bunkbeds into a fort. Then we’d listen to music on his bottom bunk. He introduced me to Aerosmith and it is still my favorite band to this day. That was another wonderful thing Mark did for me.

“When Mark was sick in the hospital, he told me that the ghost of his best friend was visiting him. He claimed that every night he saw Carl, and that Carl would tell him to come with him. That he’d take care of him. When Mark told me that, I told him that it was sad Carl died of an overdose, but he was a good guy and a good friend. So, I guess Mark decided to leave with Carl. And, I think that’s kind of wonderful in its own way, too.”

Then I said goodbye to Mark, and we parted ways forever. I once thought that I wouldn’t give a shit if he died but I was wrong. Our relationship was ugly and we never made it right, but it is what it is. He’s still the only big brother I’ll ever have.