#and i cant stand without pain now

[arcaneyouth]

*disabled guy voice* why the fuck is this happening to me

[moeblob]

You know, when I kept getting asked "so you didn't ever have severe pains before now?" in the hospital and I kept replying "I have a high pain tolerance" I meant it. However, there is only so much pain my tiny 4'9" body can hold... (aka I am sweating and in agony bc I'm getting told to use LESS severe pain meds so I don't rely on them too much and it is AWFUL)

[goodnightwindy]

realized i definitely have at least a mild form of scoliosis recently. sighs

[corvidexoskeleton]

Turning into the joker because both of my landlords keep threatening to kick me out every single time i have a slight disagreement with them or dont do exactly what they want

[milimeters-morales]

Hobie: so what are we gonna do about that huge fire in the city?

Miles and Gwen grabbing a bag of marshmallows: what do you mean

[sugared-violets]

now i may not know much about biology, but i'm pretty sure 6 isn't the correct number of times your period is supposed to make you pass out on the floor

[biohazrd]

spent the last week in mourning for the person i could have been and the life i could have had if i was not disabled this shit blows !

[opens-up-4-nobody]

...

[niishi]

I'm getting a massage in a couple days and boy do I fucking need it

[kirishwima]

and bc, yknow, life HASNT given me enough punches the last few weeks-im also sick w covid 🤡

[tiktaaliker]

god damn i should probably get a cane or something at some point

[toastsnaffler]

my supervisor AND my manager both aren't in today so I'm just practicing shit... im boored

[mephiles-the-jester]

beginning to think maybe i do have chronic pain for real,,

[factual-fantasy]

Originally Asgore was going to "help Grillby move on and cope with his grief" by just being very wise and guiding him verbally.

But then I had large brain and realized that in this state, Asgore cant feel pain- or at least not feel it in the same way he used to. Which means that he could safely embrace Grillby, no matter what emotional state he's in.

This might've been the main thing Grillby was missing in his grieving process. In losing his wife and daughter, he also lost his ability to embrace anyone. Back then if he was emotional and burning things, he could retreat to his wife's arms and safely hug her without hurting her. But now he has no one he can turn to for physical comfort. No one to hold his hand while he cries. Lest he burn them..

This moment could be a turning point for Grillby. Asgore stands as this enormous comforting force that says "you are not alone anymore". Finally there is someone who can handle his outbursts. Someone who can physically stop him from hurting himself or others in his grief. Finally he can just melt into someone's arms and feel comfort once again..

[shotmrmiller]

i wrote about 15 sentences when i chose to give it up, cuz i cant finish it without it seeming like crack so im just gonna say that cbf!johnny would totally "Let's wrestle" himself into some pussy.

Using his strength to put you in positions you can't escape from, maybe pins you down from behind. You're stubborn as a mule though, refusing to yield, so you start bucking your hips to try and get him off but the only thing you're doing is unwittingly rubbing your arsecheeks into his slowly stiffening cock and when he's finally had enough, he harshly grinds back.

You freeze at that because you really didn't think about what you were doing, and now he's pulling your bottoms down, just enough to be able to thrust himself in between your thighs. The noises shouldn't be so loud, so sticky, but he's just smearing his pre-cum all over your inner thighs and pussy lips— or maybe it's your own arousal, who knows, who cares. His heavy breathing hitches when his flared head eventually nudges at your entrance, and he doesn't move after that. You realize he's waiting to see if you'll stop everything, if you're gonna come to your senses, but your head is so fuzzy with lust that you silently arch your back, and he lets out a long groan as he oh so slowly sinks into you until his hips are flush with yours.

There's a bit of pain that comes with being stretched by him, but he starts undulating his hips and the ache quickly melts into a pleasure so heady, that the hair on your arms stands on end.

Johnny lowers himself onto his elbows and wraps a hand around your throat, bringing your head back to whisper in your ear. "Ye feel so good around me, squeezing me like ye dinnae ever want me out. Like yer made for me, pretty girl." He grinds his hips into you, going deeper than where he already is, and you can feel a small trickle of arousal drip from you when he presses his cock firmly at the entrance of your womb.

"Liked that, did ye, bonnie?" He squeezes the side of your throat, restricting blood flow, and grunts, "Try to keep quiet, hm? Dinnae want wake the parents."

[luveline]

Bombshell reader is my queen. What would happen if she like got hold hostage or something? She’s usually so confident, I’m sure going thru that would rough her up. Would Spencer take up the more ‘active’ role and take care of her

tysm for requesting ♡ fem, 1k

Spencer doesn't know if you're aiming for him when you come out but he grabs you as soon as he can get his hands on you. You were running hard enough to wind him, breathless yourself as you gasp into his shoulder. He can't feel you right wearing the FBI vest, desperate to take it off. 

You won't let him go. 

It must've been bad inside to panic you like this. "Are you okay?" he asks, forcing you away to check you over. "Do you need medical?" He's mildly hysterical.

"No," you say, eyes closed, shaking your head until he lets you back into his arms. "I'm fine." 

"You don't sound fine–" 

"Spencer, I'm fine." 

Spencer can't remember the last time you called him Spencer. He's used to Spence, babe, baby, handsome. He's even used to your hand on his elbow to say hello without speaking. So no matter what you say, he knows you're not fine. 

Spencer leads you over to the back of an ambulance, where you glare at him. You've definitely never done that before. 

"I don't need medical–" 

"You have to get checked out." He's definitely never spoken to you like that. Terse, his hands on your arms to stop you from getting up. "Non-negotiable." 

Your eyes shine with betrayal while the EMTs check your vitals. You have a bruise like whiplash against your neck that's tender to the touch, wincing as they prod it with their white gloved fingers. You're acting peculiarly but not outside of the realm of reasonable. 

A car backfires somewhere in the street and you flinch. "Spence," you say, looking up at him through your lashes, "can we go?" 

He waits for a nod. "Yeah, we can go." 

The issue is that you can't stand. You push up, you blink, and you sit down hard again, making a small pained sound from the back of your throat that Spencer cant abide by. "What's wrong with her?" he asks.

"Adrenaline." The EMT squeezes your shoulder affectionately. "You're alright, hun. You can sit here until you feel ready." 

She and her partner take a break in the front of the ambulance and tell you to shout if you need help. Spencer hesitates for a few seconds, looking down at you with a quick assessment of behaviour. He finds the things that are wrong with you —shaking hands, painful contusion against your throat, obvious emotional distress, weak legs— and he runs through options on how he's going to help you. 

Spencer takes your hands into his, just a little smaller, less skinny, and way softer. He doesn't know whether he can truly smell your hand cream or if he knows the scent from the hundreds of times watching your routine. You take it from the pocket in your purse, squeeze the smallest bit from the tub, and rub it in slow circles around your palms. It calms you in your rare wounded moments, and Spencer imitates that now. He draws gentle circles into your skin, the tremble ever so slightly quelled. 

"Is it bad?" he asks you, transferring both of your hands into one. Freed, he trails the knuckles of his left hand parallel to your wicked bruise. 

"It hurts." Your eyes are glassy, your lips in a downturn that turns his heart. "Hurt my ego." 

"He got a cheap shot," Spencer says sympathetically, dipping forward to kiss your jaw just above the bruise. You go still. He worries it was the wrong thing to do, but you crane your head forward into his chest.

Your tired sigh is like a rake.

"It's okay. It's okay." He takes your hand again. "We'll ice it at the hotel. With arnica, it'll be gone in a week."

"I was really scared," you murmur. 

Sitting as you are in the back of the ambulance, he doesn't have to bend much to press your joined hands to his chest. Eyes shut, that close to one another, Spencer swears he can hear your rapid heart. 

"But you made it out. You're always going to make it out, because we have a great team and you're good at what you do. You're strong. Smart. And you're brave, because you got scared and you kept going anyway. You saved someone just now." 

You push him away without malice, your perfect eyebrows pinched up at the starts. "I thought maybe this time I wouldn't make it out. Not like me, huh?" 

Spencer sits next to you in the ambulance, sliding his fingers into yours with more confidence than he feels. "That's easily explainable. Do you know what working memory is?" 

Your stress melds fond. "No." 

"Working memory is one of the brain's systems necessary for thought and function. It's important for everything. And when you're under immense pressure, the strength of your working memory depletes– being in a high stakes situation like that, it's natural to choke. It doesn't mean you underperformed. It doesn't mean you let anyone down." 

"I never said I let someone down." 

"I worried you were thinking about it." 

"I was." Your glassy eyes have clarified. Spencer lets out a breath of relief as you raise your hand to his cheek, stroking it briefly with the back of your fingers. "I'm glad you think that, but I doubt Hotch will say the same thing." 

"Hotch will tell you well done and make you take mandatory leave for a week. We should regroup with the others." Spencer nudges you in the arm. "I'll write your paperwork if you tell me what to say." 

You drop your face into his shoulder. "I'm recovering from a traumatic event. Can't you do the muscle work?" 

"Y/N!" Hotch calls, a phone glued to his ear. "Well done. Nothing else tonight." You smile. "You can do the paperwork when you get back next week." 

"Ugh." 

"Told you. Well done, mandatory leave," Spencer says. 

"Excessive," you mutter into his arm. It takes you a few seconds to warm up, and when you do it's like groundhog day, sunshine filtering through the chill, "Thanks, handsome. For everything."