#i have loved ones with chronic pain so i feel grateful that i only get bad cramps about every other month and the very occasional headache

[leftmysoulbythesideoftheroad]

i don’t like taking medicine + i have adhd, and i forget that over the counter meds even exist. so when i do take something like midol for my cramps because they’re so bad i can’t stop thinking about it, it feels like fucking magic. like i just swallow these little guys, and 20 minutes later, i feel perfectly fine. my hips have stopped aching, i don’t feel like i’m going to throw up any more, my body can actually relax. it feels like i just took a health potion from a video game. and it’s silly because i always have this option but i almost never use it, and i don’t think most people even put this much thought into it. but i think about all the ways people who had periods have found methods to reduce suffering over the centuries, and it took so much testing and knowledge being passed down over the generations, and now i can just take a little pink pill and feel so much better. those remedies still exist, and they work, but not everyone has that knowledge passed onto them. how nice is it that people who were afab don’t have to struggle to find a method that works when there’s no one in their life to turn to? how wonderful that we don’t have to be in pain, and how excited our ancestors would be to see how easy it is for us. i didn’t mean to get all serious about this, but yeah. magic.

(*all of this applies to people like me who can take some midol when the pain is too much. it doesn’t work for everyone, and some have much more pain than others. i am not discounting those people, only speaking to my own and similar experiences. i hope everyone who suffers on their period can find a way to lessen the pain; we all deserve to be comfortable.)

[drgnflyteabox]

can't get much better

pairing: ghost / simon riley x fem reader summary: simon is forced to take some time off - he makes the most of it. tags/warnings: very soft, pregnant sex, size difference, softdom!simon- he's a masculine man who doesn't let his lady lift a finger :'), oral (f), one (1) butthole kiss, dacryphilia, daddy kink (sigh), minor minor foot stuff, allusions to injuries and chronic pain, title from an adrianne lenker song w.c: 2.5k

You try very hard not to think about it, but it's hard not to notice how massive he is.

Even shirtless, he somehow looks bigger, muscles flush with heat and exertion under the sun. He toils and breathes hard like an ox, working while you sit on the porch wrapped in his big flannel. Wearing his clothes is like being swaddled in a blanket straight out of the dryer, warm and nostalgic and syrupy with love. It leaves you feeling some type of tender. You're afraid of that feeling sometimes, of how soft it is and how soft it makes you. He could ask anything of you, and you'd yield like he was pressing his thumb into a bruised peach.

You have.

"How are you two?" Simon is so quiet when he wants to be. One would think he'd clomp like a horse with how big he is, but he can float like dust. It used to startle you, but you've been sinking deeper into the memory foam mattress of this life with him and it doesn't anymore.

"Tired, even though I'm not doing anything," you squint at him through the late afternoon sun. It haloes him like an angel.

"You're growing my baby in there, love. That's not nothing," his voice is rough, it always will be. But it's rough now like earth and soil rather than rough with pain and smoke the way he'd sounded when you met him.

You're feeling especially nostalgic, it seems, not like it's hard here. His hand is warm on your belly.

"I guess so," you let him pet you for a moment. Your stomach is swollen but not as big as it'll get, just enough to veto pants. A few months to go still. "How's your back?"

"Argh," Simon says, taking a heavy seat next to you. Dismissive and yet he groans a little when his muscles unclench. Classic.

You slowly reach up and nudge him until he's facing the field opposite to you, face toward the golden afternoon sun and his back to you. He's never asked you to do this, to take care of him, but it's your favourite thing in the world.

His back is always rock-hard no matter how many times you take your knuckles and fingers to it. Just a condition of a hard life lived for him, countless falls and impacts and pushing through injuries. There's a slight slant to his spine now that isn't there in the pictures he's shown you of his youth, but the stiffness is the same. You might've said he was born to be a soldier, had you not known him as a father. He could do both, but - you'd never say this out loud - you were privately grateful for this injury. It wouldn't take him out forever, but the recovery would be long. Long enough to get the homestead started, to get you pregnant.

Simon would never be completely still. This was compromise. Sweet compromise, a life started and time with him you could think back on the next time he shipped out. Making the most of things, he would always say. Making the time count.

"That feels good, love" he groans. Bending forward slowly, relaxing, he's like an aloof stallion finally accepting an apple from your hand. Acquiescing. Showing you his back. It's trust, and you savour it.

"I bet it does," you tease back, just a little. Your fingers are nimble and attuned to his specific aches and pains. "Are you hungry for dinner?"

"I'm hungry for something," he turns, slowly, hands reaching for your thickened waist. Huge, work-roughened hands. War-roughened hands, holding you like a delicate egg. Sometimes it feels like he's the only thing that holds you together; all your pieces, everywhere, until he's holding you.

Kissing him is a contact sport. It's his hands moving, cupping your breast and then your pussy through your panties, your own hands wrapping around his broad shoulders like he's the only thing keeping you from drowning. It's open-mouthed, breathing into each other. Impossibly, you get softer, melting like ice on a hot day. 

Before you can lean back on the bench, he stands and lifts you with him. He's still hot from the day, damp with sweat, pushing you into the house while kissing you still.

"Simon-" you start, with no goal in mind. "Please."

"I've got you, love," he murmurs. He always does. Before you know it, you're laid back onto the plush armchair in your living room. Simon knows this is the most comfortable place for your newly-aching body. Affection swells in your chest uncontrollably and comes out through your eyes leaking down your face. Sure, pregnancy makes people emotional - but you're still embarrassed, touched by how considerate he is.

"It's alright, shh," he thumbs the tears at the corner of your eyes. His cock tents his work pants, aroused by them. "Let me take care of you."

The next words he murmurs are into your cunt, right over your panties, tongue laving over the already-wet fabric. "Just need your daddy, don't you?" You clench in tandem with his words, hot all over, skin prickling. He pushes your dress up, bunching it right under your tits.

It's reminiscent of how you spent the first night with him, on the very first day you'd met. Hurried, his big head between your thighs and clothes hanging off you still while he made you fall apart.

He's fucking good at it, too. Pulls your panties to the side and builds up the pressure with which he sucks on your clit, softly and then harsher until you shake. You've been extra horny lately, always wet around him and always so swollen. The scrape of his five-o-clock shadow against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh is what tips you over, clamping his head tightly and shouting your orgasm into the heady summer air.

"That all it takes?" Simon grins, chin wet, fingers moving from your hips to your pussy to gently rub along your slit.

"Give me a second, please," it's humbling how quickly you come nowadays. Quick and intense. Fireworks.

You set your foot on his shoulder and he turns towards it, kissing your ankle. Patience is rare with him, something come about only since you confirmed your pregnancy. You miss being overwhelmed by him, miss the nights where he'd guide you over the edge one, two, three times in succession.

He pushes now, just a little, not waiting for your go-ahead but watching you intently. His fingers spread your cunt in a V and he puffs a breath on your sensitive clit. You jump. He grins again, leaning down to lick you, using one hand to hold both your legs under your knees and push them until they meet the soft bump of your belly.

"Hold them there," he says. It's spoken not to you, but to your hole, which he spears his tongue into. You obey as you're helpless to do, holding your legs up and giving him an unimpeded view. It's more than vulnerable, it's not only baring yourself to him completely but giving him the authority to do what he wants. What you need.

Simon eats you out like it's a kiss, slurping you down and letting you leak until the evidence of your weakness to him is all over you. Your legs are wet, and it drips down onto your other hole. He pushes a thumb into your cunt, dipping it in and out.

"Needed me, did'ya? Watched me all day," he's so smug, sometimes. His lips find your bare foot, kissing your sole. "Been wet like this all day?" His other hand finds the meat of your asscheek, spreading you open further, letting the split of you open to him. He leans down, kissing your inner thigh, then your other hole. You whine and clench your pussy around his thumb. 

"So needy," he murmurs, finally finally moving back to your clit. Flicks his tongue over it, something that might've been teasing before but is intense now. Your hands tighten against your legs, head thrown back.

"Oh please- Simon!" You shout again, abs drawing up, stars in your eyes. "Ahh- I'm-"

"I know, honey," his lips suction again around the hard little pebble of your clit, eating like a man starved. 

This is how he likes you. Losing control, coming apart, helplessly vocal against the onslaught of his tongue. No matter how many times you've done this, it never gets old. The release almost always makes you cry, especially intense like this. You're wet all over, face and cunt and legs. He is, too.

"You still with me, love?" He pets your flank like you're a horse.

"Yes," but that's not what he wants.

"Yes what?"

"Yes, daddy."

"Good girl," and fuck if that doesn't always fill you with warm fuzzy energy. Wipes your brain, keeps you soft and floaty.

He guides you up and out of the armchair, lifts you into his arms when your legs shake too much. That electric feeling is still coursing through you, tingles in your extremities as they come back to life.

The hand he strokes over you is half affectionate, half proprietary. You've been his since the first time he laid eyes on you.

He reminds you of it as he sets you down gently on the bed, your hair a halo around your head and hands reaching to his face where you pull him down for a kiss. Hands find his shirt, pulling it off you, and then the dress. Fingertips touch the headboard, your arms stretching up, making room for him. Slips your panties down your legs.

It's a lingering, indulgent kiss. Breathing each others air, gasping into his mouth, he puts his elbows by your head and lays as much weight down as he can without cramping your full belly. He's as vocal as you, groaning and rutting like a dog.

"Ready for me, sweet girl?" He leans out of the kiss, sitting back on his heels. You nod, desperate and pulsing between the legs again like you didn't just come twice.

"Daddy's gonna take care of you, don't you worry," he rearranges you like a doll, turning you to your side and getting between your legs. A pillow is tucked under your belly, and he tests your flexibility by holding your leg tight to the length of his body. Your hamstring burns a little with it.

A hand holds your knee, another to your waist. His jeans scrape against your sensitive skin.

You focus on little details. His scar, touching his eyebrow and splitting through his nose, ending down by his jaw. The knuckles on his fingers holding your knee, and how rough the pads of his fingers feel on your waist. This man has never had soft hands in his life. Those same hands capable of so much force, so much violence, the very same that hold you and guide you. A shepherd, you his lamb.

The weeping head of his cock kisses your hole, catching there and traveling up. He taps it against your clit until you're tensing, whining, needy again. Tears down your cheeks.

He steadies you, pets your waist, guides his cock inside and it feels like you can breathe again. His mouth laves hot kisses over your ankle, the sole of your foot again, reverent and controlling all at once. The stretch burns - it always does, and maybe always will. Simon is just so big, thick all around and the mushroom head of him could always bump your cervix if he's not careful.

He's careful now, but only just. You can sense his control fraying, his hips driving forward steadily but his thighs tensing and his grip getting meaner. This is your favourite part. Watching him sweat, breathe hard, taking his pleasure in you.

"Yeah-" he cuts himself off with a long, drawn out groan. Deep, from the bottom of his belly and out. "Already so full of me, aren't ya? Can't get full enough."

You plead with your sounds, words out of your grasp. Your hands clutch at the sheets but it isn't enough. He's solid, he's your anchor, but he's losing himself in your cunt and you're free falling.

"Play with your tits for me," he commands, pumping faster. You're reflexively tightening around him, clit jumping for attention, squeaking each time he lets himself in as deep as possible and touches the mouth of your cervix.

Sunlight slowly fades on the bed, the last golden rays escaping out the window as you're bathed in dusk. 

There's nothing to do but obey, hands finding your swollen breasts and squeezing. They've been sore and huge, like that week before you get your period only it's been a couple months. None of your bras fit anymore.

Simon appreciates it, he loves it. Has you cooking for him with your tits out, nipples peaked and pussy leaking. They bounce, now, stopped only by your hands pinching and twisting. It's insane - no one in the world could replicate the feeling. No artist, no musician. Electricity zips from your breasts down to your clit and shit - you might come just like this, untouched, just full of your man and fondling yourself.

"Fuck, I can feel you squeezing me. Fucking," he pants, leaning over you, bending your leg. "Pinching my dick, sweetheart. Your pussy's so fucking good."

The orgasm begins in your toes, tingling. Your muscles tighten, drawing up, up, towards your cunt, which is making obscene sounds around him.

Simon sees the signs, sees your eyes rolling and your body going taut. He abandons your leg in favour of rubbing your clit with two big fingers quickly, up and down.

"That's it, sweetheart, come all over my cock. Go on," his voice is a snarl, barely distinguishable as human, beastly. "Be good for daddy.”

It's like the crescendo of an orchestra, like a summer afternoon in august, like waking up without a clogged nose after being sick, it's - really fucking good. You're near sobbing, crying out his name, abandoning your tits to reach for him desperately. He meets you halfway, shuddering his own orgasm into you. The press of his hips against yours is better than buttered toast, the delicate press of his chest against yours as he lets your leg go is bliss.

"Si-imon," you slur, hands on his cheeks. He laughs and kisses your forehead.

"What's that, sweet girl?"

"I love you," you cry a little more then, feeling him pull out and lay next to you. You're boneless.

"I love you too," his arm reaches across you, pulling you into him. "Both of you." Hand on your belly again.

"That was insane," you pant. He barks a laugh against your hair. "I'm serious."

"I know you are, love," he kisses your forehead, petting your stomach. You can tell it's meaning, can feel the gratefulness behind the kiss. He's saying thank you, for staying with him, for making him a father. Your hand finds his, squeezing back a wordless reply. Of course, it says.

<3

[inkskinned]

most writing advice is good as long as you know why it is good, at which point it is also bad. the hardest thing (and most precious thing) about being an artist is that you gotta learn how to take critique. i don't mean "just shut up and accept that people hate your work," i mean you need to learn what the critique is saying and then figure out if it actually helps.

i usually tell people reading my work: "i'm collecting data, so everything is useful." i ask them where they put the book down, even though it's too long for most people to read in 1 sitting. i ask them what they thought of certain characters. i let them tell me it was really good but i like it more when they look a little stunned and say i forgot i was reading your book, which means they forgot i exist, which is very good news.

sometimes people i didn't ask will read my work and tell me i don't like it. and that is okay, you don't have to like it. but i look at the thing that they don't like and try to figure out if i care. i don't like that you don't capitalize. this one is common, and i have already thought about it. i do not care, it's because of chronic pain and frankly i like the little shape of small letters. you use teeth and ribs in all your work. actually that is very true. i don't know what's up with that. next time i will work to figure out a different word, thank you. you're whiny, go outside. someone said that to me recently and it made me laugh. i am on the whine-about-it website as an internet poet. you are in my native habitat, watching me perform a natural enrichment behavior. but i like the dip of whiny, how the word itself does "whine" (up/down, the sound out your nose on the y), but i don't know if i want to feel whiny. maybe next time i will work on it being melancholy, like what you would call a male writer's poetry.

repeated "good" advice clangs in a bell and doesn't hold a real shape, dilutes in the water. like sometimes you will hear "don't use said." you turn that around in your head and it bounces off the edges of your brain like it is a dvd screensaver. it isn't bad advice, but it feels wrong somehow, like saying easy choices are illegal! sometimes i will only use "said." sometimes i will just kick dialogue tags out to the trash. sometimes i make little love poems where the fact that i do not say "said" is very bad, and makes you feel bad in your body, because someone didn't say something. i am a contrary little shitbird, i guess.

but it is also good advice, actually. it is trying to say that "said" sometimes is clutter. it makes new writers think about the very-small words and very-small choices, because actually your work matters and wordchoice matters. "i know," you said. "i know," you sighed. "i know." we both know but neither of us use a dialogue tag, because we are in a contemporary lit piece.

it is too-small to say don't use said. but it is a big command, so it gets your attention. what are you relying on? what easy choices do you make? when you edit, do you choose the same thing? can you make a different choice? sometimes we need the blankness of said, how it slides into the background. sometimes we don't.

i usually say best advice is to read, but i also mean read books you don't like, because that will make you angry enough to write your own book. i also mean read good books, which will break your heart and remind you that you are a very small person and your voice is a seashell. i also mean you need to eat books because reading a book is a writer's version of studying.

my creative writing teacher in the 7th grade had a big red list of no! words and on it was SUNSET. RAZORS. LOVE. GALAXY. DEATH. BLOOD. PAIN. I liked that razor and love were tucked next to each other like birds, and found it funny that he believed we were too young to know the weight of razor in the context of pain. i hated him and his Grateful Dead belt, where the colored teddy bears held up his appraisal of us. i hated his no list. it is very good/bad advice. i wasn't old enough yet to know that when you are writing about death you are also writing about sunsets and when you write about love you are tucking yourself into a napkin that never stops folding.

back then my poetry was all bloody, dripped with agony when you picked it up. i didn't know there is nothing beautiful about a razor, nothing exciting about pain. i just understood sharpness, which he took to mean i understood nothing. i wrote the razor down and it wasn't easy, but it was necessary. that's what i'm saying - sometimes it's good advice, because it's not always necessary. and sometimes it is very bad advice, because writing about it is lifesaving.

hang on my dog was just having a nightmare. i heard that it is a rule not to write about dogs - in my creative writing mfa, my teacher rolled her eyes and said everyone writes a dead dog. the literature streets are littered in canine bodies. i watched the rise and fall of his ribs (there is that word again) and had to reach out and stop the bad dream. when he woke up he didn't recognize me, and he was afraid.

it is good/bad advice to say that poems and writing have to mean something. it is bad/good advice to say they're big feelings in small packages. it is better advice to say that when my dog saw where he was, he relaxed immediately, rubbed his face against me. someone on instagram would make fun of that moment by writing their "internet poetry" as a sentence that tumbles across a white page: outside it is sunset and my dog is still in a gutter, bleeding a galaxy out of his left paw. or maybe it would be: i woke the dog up/the dog forgot i loved him/and i saw the shape of a senseless/and impossible pain.

the dog is alive in this one, and he is happy. when i tell you i love you, i know what i said. write what you need to write, be gentle to yourself about it. the advice is only as good as far as it helps. the rest is just fencing. take stock of the boundaries, and then break them. there's always somewhere else you could be growing.

i love you, keep going.

[princessbrunette]

˚˖𓍢ִ🐰໋✧˚.🎀୨୧ ⋅˚₊

let’s go back to my roots. let’s talk about girly, prissy, spoiled bunny!reader with rafe.

you’re untouchable, kook royalty just for your attachment to the cameron’s but you don’t even care about all of that. all you care about, is rafes time money and attention.

he loves you a lot, but more so — he puts up with your shit. whilst you don’t have much of an attitude, soft in all corners of your life, you can still manage to be a nightmare. you clutter his sink with your makeup and skincare, decidedly a maximalist when it came to your self care and beautification rituals. he plucks a clump of mink eyelashes from the side of the sink, something he nearly mistook for a spider and sets it aside— only calling out a “jesus chr — bun, told you to clear out your shit. my bathroom looks like fuckin’ sephora. in here, now.” before he hears the soft padding of your feet come tottering along, happy to do as your told.

if that’s not making him huff and puff — it’ll surely be the outfits, moreso scraps of fabric you parade around in. expensive, according to his black card, for items of clothing that cover so little — and he can’t say you don’t get your moneys worth, toddling around in strappy powder pink dresses that leave nothing to the imagination or white mini skirts that cling to the fold of the bottom of your ass cheeks, giving not only the chumps at the country club a good look — but his closest friends too. his life had become a sequence of tugging down your hem, manhandling you to be decent. “you—y-you think i need my fuckin’ friends getting an eyeful of your pussy each time you move? are we gonna have to have another talk about what’s appropriate, bunny girl? huh? or maybe the belt will help you learn a valuable lesson. fuck.” he sulks, stomping around after his threat. you’re clung to his bicep with a dazed smile only five minutes later because his mean treatment usually flew through one bedazzled ear and came out the other. soft and dopey as ever.

back to him ‘putting up with you’, there’s a ton of reasons why that is. like aforementioned, he does love you a lot. you’re his little prized possession, his trophy. you were soft in all the ways that mattered and understanding, always listening when no one else would, even if he was admittedly in the wrong. that, and you really did fuck like a bunny rabbit.

you had a libido that was constantly set to high, all hours of the day. you were a chronic pillow humper when rafe wasn’t available to sate you, the man often times walking in to find you teary eyed with a white lacy thong binding your spread knees, pulled down just enough to grind your messy, glossy pussy against the fluffed white pillow from his side of the bed. because really, you were a chronic rafe humper— but you were well behaved enough to know that sometimes he had to handle business and didn’t have the time to feed your greedy cunt.

you’d grown accustom to taking him in any position too, whether it was in doggy style — waving your plush ass in the air, pointing that fluffy pink bunny-tail butt plug straight at him as you mewl into expensive pillows, or you’re crouched on his lap on the couch, feet planted either side of him, a high pitched whimper punched out of you each time you slam your hips back down on his cock, mushroom tip thumping your cervix. you said you liked the pain, liked when it bruised, liked when you could still feel him the next day when you missed him. reminded you of how grateful you are to have a boyfriend who dicks you good.

you had a little obsession that was serving as a problem though— having to give you plenty of ‘sit down talks’ when he talks to you real slow like you’re stupid because you keep begging him to breed you. it seemed no amount of “sweetheart, i’on know how many times i have to say this to get it through that head, but you are too young for a baby. i—i gotta get my shit together first, alright? promised you as many babies as you want after i secure tannyhill did i not? i…i really need your patience… okay?” would stop you from bouncing on his cock with a feverish and determined look in your eye, or locking your legs around his waist when he’s about to nut— babbling tearfully as you beg “please daddy, please gimme a baby. please want — want your babies!”

you’re lucky he was so much stronger than you, often wrestling you down to straddle your face and aim his cock at your mouth before he blew his load, gritting out a spiteful “well you’re gonna have to fuckin’ swallow them ‘til the time comes. fuck.” through gritted teeth as you mewl miserably (but lap it up nonetheless)

you gave him trouble, but nothing he couldn’t handle. he wouldn’t trade his spoiled bunny girl for the world.

˚˖𓍢ִ🐰໋✧˚.🎀୨୧ ⋅˚₊

[moonstruckme]

apple pie please <3 would love something with remus and #30. 7k is so well deserved and your writing has served as inspiration for me to finally do my own. many thanks for giving us all comfort through your words :)

I'm so happy for you that you're writing! Thank you my love <33

³⁰⁾ trembling hands

cw: chronic pain

Remus Lupin x fem!reader ♡ 495 words

Remus is in pain. But when isn’t he, really. It’s only flaring up now, in his bones and in all the places where his bones grate up against each other and, for some godforsaken reason, in his eyes (though that might just be because he’s tired). It relieves the eye ache at least somewhat to close them, but he can’t do that because you’ve got him all spellbound and stupid with how precious you look asleep on his chest. 

You’re only on the couch with him in solidarity, so Remus can hardly blame you for drifting off when his Saturday is full of such scintillating activities as quietly reading and waiting for the next time he can take painkillers. Your hand is trapped underneath your cheek, sandwiched between your face and Remus’ chest like you’re trying to feel his heartbeat. You look very relaxed, which fills him with both pride and a weird sort of envy, wishing he could join but happy that if one of you is able to relax it’s you. One of your eyebrows is all ruffled from being rubbed against the fabric of his shirt, and a few strands of hair have fallen in front of your face so that they’re rustled by your breaths like blades of grass in a soft wind. 

Remus lifts a trembling hand, moving them away. You stir with the slow ease of someone who knows they’re waking up somewhere safe, your eyelashes fluttering and then opening. 

You look up at him for a handful of moments, your lips gradually turning down into a frown. “It’s gotten worse,” you say. 

Remus doesn’t know what gave him away. “A little,” he admits. 

Your frown worsens. It spreads to your eyebrows, which hook upwards compassionately. “I’m sorry,” you say, lifting your face. Your hand gives his chest a couple of short rubs, consoling. “It’d probably help if I wasn’t laying on you, yeah?”

“No,” Remus lies. He’s not sure which comfort he values more at the moment, the physical kind or the funny, intangible sort that comes from having you in his arms. You could at least stay until he figures it out.

But you get up anyway, as gently as you can, your knee digging into the cushion beside his hip. You look at the clock in the kitchen. “You could’ve taken pills half an hour ago.” You sound sorry, your hand finding his forehead to brush some hair away from his face, a useless but tender touch. “You should have woken me.” 

You’re gone before Remus can reply, bustling down the hall and returning soon with a glass of water and two pills cupped in your hand. He tries not to look too eager as he takes them, though just the action of swallowing them down brings some relief, the promise of real respite in only a handful of minutes. He’s more than happy to have given up a few of them to lay with you.

[mooshkat]

thinking abt the first time buck accidentally snaps at tommy while he's dealing with some pain flaring up in his bad leg. he's hurting and he's been trying to hide it, trying to get through the date night with tommy because work has been hell and kept them apart for too long, but it only gets worse as the night goes on. tommy keeps giving him these concerned little glances, and asks twice if he's okay, and everything is starting to be too much. too loud and too grating and too painful. he just wants to go to bed and sleep until the pain stops.

when he snaps at tommy, part of him thinks this is it. he's going to drive the best thing that's happened to him away because he's too much.

only, tommy looks at him and doesn't let himself get pushed away, doesn't get scared off in the face of buck lashing out. he just looks at him and asks, "how can i help?"

and later, when they're in bed after a hot bath together and buck is trying not to cry while tommy rubs warming massage oil into his leg, he apologizes for his outburst. and tommy, too sweet and kind and understanding, tells him that he gets it. he's had bad days too where he's been angry at everything and everyone because of the pain he deals with, and that he's put in the work to be better about it, but he also reminds buck that it's okay to ask for help when he needs it.

so for the first time in a long time, buck lets himself be vulnerable about the chronic pain. he tells tommy how much it hurts sometimes, especially during rainy days. he tells him about how hes gotten so used to the pain that he can ignore it and push it aside to focus on work when he needs to. he tells him about how, for the longest time fresh after the accident, one of the only things that made him feel better was this mac&cheese recipe that maddie used to make for him when he was younger.

the first time buck tells tommy "i love you" is after he admits to he's having a bad pain day and tommy gently nudges him to get in bed instead of going out on their date. and tommy surprises him with a bowl of that mac&cheese, having gotten the recipe straight from maddie, and how is he not supposed to fall in love with this man after that?

[drchucktingle]

POUNDED BY DR. GLOBUS

wanted to post today about recent health journey of chuck. ALL STARTED at texas show when i began to feel tightness in throat. i have learned this is called GLOBUS which is a tingler character name if ive ever heard one. got through appearance and had blast but felt terrible

plane journey home was even worse. first thought i strained my voice, then tested for covid (negative) and then figured it was just some kind of virus. had running nose and hoarse and extreme pain behind face and MOST of all this golf ball throat

figured i would get better as viruses tend to go but I DID NOT. after a few weeks went to way of urgent care and they took one look and said you have EXTREME FORM OF ACID REFLUX called laryngopharyngeal reflux (also great tingler character name)

basically this is when your stomach acid comes all the way back up into your throat and erodes it. they immediately put me on medications name of pepcid plus tums plus gaviscon and on and on. was inhaling a dang pharmacy every morning

problem is, NO CHANGE. in fact it started getting worse. in addition to previous symptoms i now couldnt keep any food down. upset stomach all the time. could barely sleep. plus it is scary to have a sickness that gets WORSE over time like this

more doctor talks. i up doses of medication to combat sickness but does not seem to work. one night wake up and think 'dang i need to go to er my stomach is going to just melt or something' (keep in mind because i cant keep food down i am always hungry too).

i go to hospital and they say 'WHOA we need to intervene right now we are doing some tests and putting you on SERIOUS LIFE CHANGING MEDICINE. but here is catch to do the tests we need you to stop all your medication for 48 hours and it will be HECK but you gotta do it bud'

so i stop all medication in preparation for new SICK LIFE and suddenly… i start feeling better. not just a little but after weeks of this awful way i wake up in ONE DAY and feel fully cured. now heres twist: at the same time this was happening I started taking allergy medicine

you may already know where i am going with so i will just hit you with it. my INITIAL SICKNESS was just extreme seasonal allergies that required nothing more than claritin and flonase. however i was misdiagnosed with ACID REFLUX and medication was making my stomach a wasteland

the second i stopped taking acid reflux meds and started on allergy trot i was better almost instantly. today i feel HECKIN GREAT. (SIDE NOTE: after 4 years of chronic pain i am so thankful to not have some OTHER long term health trot to deal with. DANG)

so what is lesson here? first of all please do not think this is in ANY WAY anti-doctor rant or anti-medicine. my doctors were trying their best and made a mistake, they are just people. ALSO while acid reflux medicine made me sick, allergy meds made me better. i am SO fortunate

but what is REALLY fortunate is that chuck is covered under SWEET BARBARAS HEALTH CARE (she gets very good coverage under the frozen lake). most artist buckaroos, even WILDLY successful ones, do not have health care which is huge issue that should be talked on more.

point is EVERYONE should have healthcare. this whole adventure was bad, but it also only cost me 50 dollars. hundreds of thousands of other buckaroos would have to deal with this PLUS it would completely upend their life to cover medical expenses because of a SIMPLE MISTAKE

so that is my story, usually there is more of a lesson to these rants but this one is really just ‘dang what a trip.’ so grateful for my health and my way and the fact i can get simple allergy medicine over the counter. most of all THANKFUL FOR MY BODY it is such a treat to exist

thank you for reading and remember to advocate for yourself and your feelings both BODY and MIND at the doctor. listen to your trot and do not forget that LOVING YOURSELF AND THE SYSTEMS OF YOUR BODY proves love just as much as loving others. trot on buckaroos

[poeticpascal]

White Lies (Joel Miller x Reader)

Masterlist | Request here!

Summary: Joel would do anything for you. He does anything for you. And he makes sure you don't know a thing.

Word count: 3k

Warnings: violence, Joel kills 3 dudes (what murdaaah?), descriptions of blood and wounds, stitches, Joel feels guilt and shame but is also very soppy and very in love, fuff and angst all tangled up, descriptions of chronic pain

A/n: I have had a bloody nightmare the last few weeks with suspected endometriosis, which is what inspired me to write this. In my head, reader has endo and the medicine is some sort of contraception or strong painkillers to help her manage it. But it isn't explicitly mentioned so you can imagine whatever you most relate to. Please do let me know what you think, and as always, requests are open!

It’s a harsh winter, even by Boston’s standards.

The QZ is coated in a veil of thick snow, the blizzard that took hold weeks ago now bruising the streets with an icy fist.

Joel pulls his coat tighter around himself, grateful at least for the cover the snowstorm offered, the skies foggy and grey. He can slip through the alleyways much quicker, much quieter beneath the frost. His footsteps are erased almost as soon as he leaves them, and when things get messy, he can soothe his wounds in the freeze.

Which is good, because things get messy a lot.

Not that he’d tell you that. You were too pure, too gentle; not unlike the snow that paints your doorframe now.

No, Joel keeps those things from you. The world has been unkind enough, and if he has one purpose now, it’s to protect that sweetness of yours. To collect it, each golden ray of sunshine that so easily radiates from you, to give it back and let you bask in the warmth of your own soul. 

No one deserves it more than you do. Least not him, and yet you’d given him more love, more sweetness, than he could ever dream of.

That’s why he told you he was working a late shift today - sewage, he thinks he said - rather than where he actually is at 3am, catching his death in an old littered alleyway.

He occasionally shifts to avoid the silver moonlight dripping from the gaps in the fire-escape stairs above him. Tonight’s meeting should be a simple one, free from FEDRA’s strict patrols; he’d done this long enough now to know when, and where, was safest for these things.

He stays on high alert, though. Just in case.

Marco’s late. He isn’t known for being the most competent of dealers, but Joel was getting desperate now, and he was the only crook in the QZ who could get what he needed. He was a small man, a bit pathetic looking, really. But he was smart, and he had connections that even Joel couldn’t make for all his smuggling and dealing.

So when Joel’s supplier told him he couldn’t help him anymore, he didn’t have a choice. That’s what he tells himself, anyway.

“Miller, there ya’ are.” Joel’s snapped out of his thoughts, his looming regret of this whole situation, as Marco strolls down the alley. He grins, in the same cocky way he always did, the sort of grin a man who couldn’t win a fight but has enough men who could wrapped around his finger, doing the dirty work for him.

Joel insisted he come alone. Not because he couldn’t handle his goons; he knew he could. Maybe. But it would cause a scene, and draw attention, to something he very much wanted to keep under wraps.

He’s semi-surprised to see the two men walking behind Marco. Deep down, he’d had some faith that the dealer would stick to his word.

“Quiet the fuck down,” Joel warns, seething through his teeth as his eyes search the alley behind them, making sure they hadn’t been heard. “Who are your friends?”

Marco follows Joel’s gaze towards his companions. “They’re just here to observe.”

The men are the same height as Joel, maybe a little taller. He recognises both from the sleazy speakeasies that lie beneath the floors of the QZ. Where the bad guys go. 

One is bald, with a jagged scar carved across his cheek and over his eye. He’s scowling, unlike Marco and the other man, who looks somewhat softer with thick hair grown to his shoulders and brown eyes that stayed on Joel like bedrock.

“That’s not what we agreed,’ Joel growls.

There’s tension in the air, thick, and they must feel it too because Marco’s henchmen each have a hand hovering near their sides, where silver blades reflect the white of the snow.

“I recall us also agreeing that you’d get your meds in return for the money. But we’re doing things a little differently today.” Joel remains stoic, though his eyes turn dark and angry, the moon’s light no longer illuminating his features. Marco tiptoes slowly towards him, getting so close that Joel can feel his breath and raising a hand to pick a piece of lint from his flannel shirt. “I want my money. But you might have to wait a little longer for your meds.”

Joel reacts then, squaring up to him, stepping forward and clenching his fists. The other men wrap their hands around their blades, anticipating a fight. Marco just laughs.

“‘Scuse me?” Joel asks, though they all know he understood what was going on.

“You’re gonna give me the amount we agreed. And then, you’re gonna speak to one of your guard friends, and cut me a deal. Then you might get your meds.”

Joel’s anger swells inside him like a beast, his previous care to stay hidden long gone as he imagines driving his fist into Marco’s smug, son of a bitch face again and again and again. 

He has to think this through, though. He needs those meds. Marco can see the cogs turning. “Just give me the money, Miller. Don’t make this difficult. You can’t take three of us.”

“No?” Joel retorts, already decided in what he’d do next. “I don’t think it’s worth findin’ out. Give me the meds.”

Marco sighs, dropping his head and stepping away from Joel, leaving him to face his men. “Shame, Joel. You really coulda helped us.”

He nods to his men, who immediately draw their blades and attack. The first lands a punch on his face, the weight of it surprising him as he falls back into the railing. Before he can recover, the other has already plunged a blade through his stomach, right below his ribcage. He controls himself, swallows the yell that claws its way up his throat, tries to think. The cold steel of the rail stabs into his back, and when another fist collides with his cheek and sends him to the floor, he uses it to haul himself up and tackle one of the men - the softer one - to the ground with him.

Marco only stands and watches as Joel throws his weight onto the man and smashes his head into the stone floor. The other grabs his shoulder, spinning him round but Joel’s prepared this time and he dodges the swat of his knife. Instead he throws a punch into his stomach, making him double over which gives Joel the opportunity to grab the knife strapped to his calf and drive it through the bald man’s throat. He stumbles, collapsing to the floor with a choked cry, and Joel turns back just in time to see the other man trying to stand, though the injury to his head makes him dizzy. Joel stands first, easily pushing the man to the ground, and stomping on his head with as much force as his steel-toed boots would let him. Both men stay down.

Marco has regressed into the darkness of the alley, and he looks somehow smaller than usual. He’s pathetic, and if this was any other job, he’d laugh. But this wasn’t a laughing matter, and there was only one target for him; the medication.

The smaller man reaches into his pocket, searching for his gun, but Joel anticipates the move and has already reached him and thrown him against the wall before he can find it. His movements strain the wound in his abdomen, but he doesn’t care. Doesn’t feel it.

Joel’s fist pins Marco to the wall by his throat, making him splutter and flail like a fish out of water.

“Where are the fuckin’ pills, Marco?” He just continues to flail, trying to pull Joel’s hand off of him with both of his own, to no effect. Joel scoffs, throwing him to the floor and dragging his knife out of the now dead henchman’s neck. “If you won’t tell me, I guess I’ve got no use for ya.” He uses his shirt to clean the blade, the flannel already soaked in blood, his own.

“For fuck sake, Marco whines, slightly out of breath. “They’re at my place.”

“There anyone else there?” Joel asks, so nonchalantly that it almost sounds like a passing thought.

“No, no one there. But you’ll need me to get you in.”

Joel looks up again, the now-clean knife held in his fist with a vice-like grip. He stalks towards Marco, ignoring his desperate pleas. 

“Shouldn’t be a problem-” 

With that, he stabs him in the chest, letting him choke and gasp on the floor and searching his pockets for a key. He finds it, and does a quick, final survey of the alleyway. The once perfectly settled snow is disturbed, kicked up in the fight, and deeply stained with blood.

Joel curses, but leaves, only now noticing the burning pain from his torso. He leans against the wall, now stood out in the street, open; but there are no guards. He doesn’t think he’d care. Instead he grabs a fistful of the snow around his feet, packs it into the wound, hissing at the sharp pain of the ice but quickly feeling relief as it numbs him.

This was going to be a long night.

—------------------

It’s another couple of hours or so before he returns. There were, in fact, people at Marco’s place - but Joel knew that would be the case anyway. They weren’t a problem.

He’d showered in Marco’s flat, after taking out the men hanging out in there. Protecting it, he assumed. And he’d found a med pack that let him stitch up the wound to some degree; it was a hack job, but it should do the trick. He’d had worse.

The most important thing was that he found the meds.

The old door of your place creaks as he steps inside, quickly closing it behind him before the cold could enter. It’s futile, really; the wooden pillars are rotten, decaying so badly that the wind sweeps through the cracks with ease, and he can see dustings of snow on the floor around your windows. But he tries anyway.

“Joel?”

There you are.

It’s scary, honestly, what your voice does to him. Even so quiet, so distant from the bedroom upstairs, it lifts the weight from his shoulders that he thought he’d carry forever.

“I’m here, baby. I’m comin’.” He pulls off his shoes, placing them neatly beside the door just how you like, and heads upstairs. His bloodied shirt is long gone, buried in some forgotten corner of the QZ, where he has a collection of discarded items by now.

You don’t reply, he doesn’t expect you to. He reaches your bedroom, gently opening the door and sighing at the sight of you lying there, curled up between mountains of sheets and pillows.

He’d almost think you look peaceful if he didn’t know how much pain you’re in.

“Oh, honey,” he laments, crossing the distance from the door to you and kneeling down beside your head. You open your eyes, though they’re weighed down by exhaustion, and a small smile creeps onto your lips at the sight of the man before you.

“Hi,” you whisper, letting a gentle hand poke out from the duvet and brush his jaw. He can’t help but grin back at you, the total mess that took place just hours ago wiped from his mind completely, and he leans into your touch.

The both of you just stay like that for a moment, your thumb sweeping across his cheek, his eyes never leaving yours. Then you wince, and no matter how much you try to hide it, he can see the wave of pain inflict your body.

“I’ve got your tablets, sweetheart.” He reaches into his pocket, a desperation to his actions now; he hates seeing you like this. You just nod, pushing a meek but honest “thank you” past your lips, so quiet that he almost doesn’t hear it. His heart swells.

Joel presses out one tablet and hands it to you, then picks up the glass of water that stands on your side table, making a mental note to replace it later. You take the pill, grabbing hold of his hand before he can pull it away, and give it a gentle squeeze. He follows your lead and tips the water to your lips once you’ve placed the tablet on your tongue, gently helping you swallow and squeezing your hand right back.

A look of relief washes over your face, and he finally lets himself relax. He stands, letting go of your hand and leaning over to kiss your forehead, before pulling off the clothes he’d taken from Marco’s wardrobe and climbing in beside you.

He only knew heaven in these moments with you, late at night, when your hands reach for him beneath the sheets and your head nuzzles into his neck. It’s no different tonight; he’s quiet, unsure if you’d fallen asleep in those few seconds, and as much as he wishes you’d rest, he can’t deny the way his lips curl when he feels your gentle touch wrap around him.

“How was today? Doing the sewage?”

Joel swallows. “Yeah, yeah. It was fine. Don’t you worry about it, sweetheart.” His arms envelop you, holding you tight against him, one hand drawing gentle circles on your back. He’s lost in the bliss for a moment, letting it wash over him in waves, when your hand brushes his haphazard and you freeze. So does he.

“Joel,” you say; it’s still a whisper, but not the tired kind you’d given him earlier. It’s like you’re too scared to ask. “What’s that?”

He panics, holding you tighter, trying to think. He can’t believe himself for not remembering to cover it, to make sure you didn’t see. 

“There was an accident today. I did some building work before I went to sewage, a pipe fell. Nicked me real bad-” you gasp, forcing yourself to sit up with shaky arms. Joel immediately pulls you back down, his hands grasping your face, staring into your eyes like they held the world inside them. It’s dark, but they glimmer, and he just hopes you can’t see his fear.

“No no. It’s fine, baby. I’m fine. Got seen by the doc, got a couple ‘a stitches. Says i’ll be all good by tomorrow.”

“By tomorrow? Joel that doesn’t sound right-”

He interrupts you. He hates this. “I promise, baby. That’s what she said. I promise.” He wipes a thumb across your cheek, and the way you seem to settle, to believe him, makes him ache. He hates this.

You nuzzle back into his side, placated. You trust him, endlessly, and he hates that he abuses that trust just as much as he needs to protect you. A means to an end, he thinks.

The two of you are silent for a few moments, your hand lay gentle over his wound. Like you’re trying to heal it. He thinks it’s working.

“Thank you for picking up my medicine,” you say.

“It’s okay.” His words are quiet, muffled; he’s got his face buried in your hair now, revelling in your scent, and really, he doesn’t want to talk about this with you. He doesn’t want to lie anymore than he already has.

You’re still oblivious, though. Still sweet.

“I’m so glad you can make my rations cover it. I don’t know what I’d do if they made them more expensive.”

Oh, babygirl, he thinks.

Because your rations don’t cover your medicine. Neither did his. Even combined, they’d hardly cover a drink in the bar these days. He’d seen you work and work and work, in spite of the pain that bloomed in your abdomen and tortured your bones until you could hardly stand up anymore, and he saw the way they laughed in your face and turned you away when you tried to get the help you needed. When you tried to trade your labour for medicine. You were nothing to them.

So he told you he could barter the price down. That it was best if he goes from now on, to make sure you’re not taken advantage of. He takes your rations, stuffs them right back in the savings pot you keep above the shelves in your kitchen, and leaves to make whatever underground deals he needs to in order to get those meds. And you didn’t know a thing.

He must’ve been quiet for a while, because you continue. “And I’m glad you don’t do those scary things anymore.”

That gets his attention. “Scary things?”

“Yeah. Like, the smuggling and stuff.” You take a breath, tighten your arms around his waist. “I mean, I know why you did it. I’m glad you were able to look after yourself.”

Joel curses to himself, unable to wipe the tears that brimmed in his eyes as you spoke, because that would mean letting go of you.

“But I’m also glad you don’t do that anymore. You go out, and you work, even the horrible sewage shifts like tonight.” You giggle, but Joel can’t even force himself to smile. Shame consumes him.

“I’m proud of you, Joel.”

He’s silent. He doesn’t know what to say. He feels like shit.

If you notice his stillness, you don’t mention it. That alone makes his heart ache; you’d always been so understanding, so careful to make sure he’s okay while knowing exactly how to handle his feelings.

It’s odd, really, how fiercely you protect one another. He doesn’t let the darkness of the world so much as touch you, and you extract the horrors from his veins like a vacuum, making him forget the damage was ever even there.

His eyes flitter down, watching you drift asleep, finally at peace and free from pain. He exhales.

He’d never feel good about lying to you. But some things, he thinks, are worth it.

You are worth it.

And so he brushes away the hair that’s fallen over your eyes, trying to fight the droopiness of his own so he can keep them on you for just a second longer. But sleep overtakes him, and the only reason he lets himself fall into dreamland, is because he knows he’ll find you there, too.

[ribread03]

tummy problems

Content Warnings: mentions of throwing up, Talk of being/going to the hospital and or emergency room. Probably fluff to.

AN: This holds a place in my life due to the fact that I have a chronic illness that deals with my stomach #chronicilless so yeah. I think this is really cute and I hope this all make sense to other people.

lowkey got lazy at the end [the whole thing bc I'm in a block rn] but yeah, I just wanted to get something out, I have some good ideas in my head but request are always appreciated.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Baby" I say whining slightly. I am currently curled up into a ball on mine and Matt's bed. Trying to fight off this god awful pain in my abdomen.

"What's up with my love?" Matt ask, concerned that you haven't taken any pain meds yet. You have refused to take any knowing that they wouldn't do anything for your pain. "What can I get for you?"

"Can you get me the heating pad and just come and cuddle?" You ask looking at him.

"Of course baby" Matt answers you, giving you a quick peck on the lips before leaving to go and grab what you asked for.

"Thank you" You speak softly. You know that you're not really "sick". You've been dealing with the same pain since the 4th grade and now you're almost 20 years old. You know that it will go away after a week or so, so you just push through the pain trying to make the best of it.

Matt comes back into the room and kneels down next to you to plug the heating pad in. "Here you go" He says with a soft smile. He walks over to his side of the bed and lays down next to you.

"I love you so much" You tell him. You've been friends with the triplets since your freshmen year of high school. They are the only people that have really stuck by your side through all of your medical experiences. Being truly grateful for them.

"I love you to y/n" He kisses you cheek. "Wanna watch a movie? It might help you distract your mind"

"Yeah" You grab the remote next to you and turn the TV on. Moving closer to Matt to snuggle into his warm body. Slowly you are finally falling asleep when all of the sudden you have this horrid pain wash over you causing you to move uncomfortably which Matt notices.

"y/n? babe, come on talk to me..." He pauses for a moment. "What can I do to help you?" He asks concern laced in his voice. "Pain med, food, water, a bath?"

Coming to your defeat you finally decide to take some pain meds "get me the ones my doctor gave me please, they will help the most." You speak so softly afraid if you talk too loudly you'll experience more pain.

"Of course my love." Matt says as he gets off of the bed and heads out into the hall to grab your meds.

Matt comes back into the room with the pain meds, but you are up and out of bed rushing towards the bathroom. As soon as you step foot into the bathroom everything that you ate in the last 12 hours comes out of you. You feel Matt behind you gently rubbing your back.

"sweetheart this is normal, do you want to go to the emergency room?" Matt ask. He knows that you hate it there knowing there isn't much they can do for you, but will go if you need more then what you have at home.

Whipping your mouth and standing up you nod your head yes. Walking back into the room you grab your phone, water, and a phone charger as well as a hoodie. "I didn't think it would be this bad." You say defeated.

"I know sweetie. It's okay tho I'm here." Matt says grabbing the sweatshirt from you and heading to the car.

Once in the car and on the way to the emergency room you start to relax a bit, knowing what's going to happen once there.

~~

(I'm skipping the whole time they are in the emergency room bc I think it would be boring)

~~

"Ready to go" Matt says yawning. We've been in the emergency room for 6 hours now.

"Mmh" I say as I cling onto him. "I'm ready to sleep to."

"Same here." We are walking back out to the car now hand in hand.

On the ride home we stop and grab a snack at the gas station. Once we are home I head straight for the bed room flopping onto the bed and opening my arms for Matt to come and lay with me. Matt climbs into bed and wraps his arms around me peppering my face with kisses.

"Thank you babe." You tell him, really great full he took you to the emergency room and got you some better pain medicine.

"Anytime, you know that all I want for you is to feel better." He speaks, still holding you and lightly kissing you.

"Still, thank you for everything and for sticking it out with me." You say, now kissing his face. Ending up falling asleep in that same position.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

an: hoped you guys liked this even if I feel like its a little poopy and short but oh well. BYE LOVE YOU!

[foldingfittedsheets]

okay follow-up ask to the bed thing: pillows?

I like the mattress I have, it molds to my body in a good way and offers good support, but I CANNOT find the right pillow. I use 2 right now depending on if I'm sleeping on my side or back (I have chronic pain and sleep poorly, which causes a lot of reshuffling and switching from side to back to other side over and over). I hate the overly fluffy pillows, but I feel like the foam ones squish down so quickly they only last maybe a couple of months max, and even then it's not ideal.

Any suggestions? I would be so so grateful 🙏

Okay, but you have to take this with a huge massive grain of salt, because pillows are SO personal. Not only that, our bodies get used to shitty pillows and switching to good neck support can suck in a very major way.

My pillow tips are as follows:

For side sleepers, this very quickly googled image is the exact right idea. If you can, test pillows on a bed like your bed at home and have someone check your spine. (I can't actually say if every mattress sales person will be competent at this because most of the ones I worked with didn't care so bring your own person if you can)

The right pillow should fit the gap between your head and your shoulder to keep your spine level. The best ones I've found for this are solid memory foam, and not that money is everything but if it's about $70 that's usually where the good foam starts. Stay away from polyfill and down.

Back and stomach sleepers will typically want a lower pillow than side sleepers.

I personally really love my tempurpedic symphony pillow. The quality has declined over the years but it's the exact shape for me, and each side is a different shape for back or side sleeping. If you sleep warm Technogel makes a freaking amazing cooling pillow in a few heights. It's really spendy but damn it's a cool pillow.

Lastly, if you find a good pillow get a waterproof protector. Also for your bed. Waterproof protectors on all your bed shit! Nice ones breathe well and don't feel plasticy but we are creatures made of water between sweat, drool, accidents, and dust mites for the love of god get a protector on everything.

[mrs-snape5984]

“There is a light and it never goes out…”

“Take me out tonight. Oh, take me anywhere, I don't care, I don’t care, I don’t care…” (“There’s a light that never goes out” by The Smiths)

Overstimulation. Disorientation. Light sensitivity. Chronic pain. Fatigue. These are only a few of those symptoms, which are torturing me day in and day out for the past two years, already. Due to them, caused by a disease, that is called “Myalgic encephalomyelitis/chronic fatigue syndrome” (ME/CFS), I’m currently forced to live a life within the strict confines of my dark and silent room, mostly enduring my daily existence in solitude.

I miss being a part of this world….and fuck, I miss being a part of other people’s lives! Living like this makes me feel like an old piece of furniture, which has been stored away in a hidden chamber…not worthy enough to be used or seen by anyone, and yet still not bad enough to be discarded.

Some months ago, two wonderful people started taking me out to see their worlds by sending me pictures and videos of the places, they’re heading to. Thanks to them, I’m allowed to get a glimpse of places, I’ve always dreamed of being able to explore them on my own.

Furthermore, something else became apparent whenever one of these precious gems of human nature took me with them: I wasn’t just carried around in their phones, but they carried me in their hearts. This realisation blew my mind! It’s not only me, who’s clinging to them as if they’re my lifelines…no, this little German mess, that I am, became important to these people, too! Words can’t express how grateful I am for our connections…and that I was also lucky enough to find true love in this bond (I love you, R. 🖤).

One of those amazing people is my beloved sister in Christ @vulnus-sanare, who will soon come to visit me in my small world. Finally, I’ll be the one, who can show her the beauty of the tiniest things in my environment…always surrounded by the securing gloominess of the nights. Magda, my heart, I’m going to introduce you to the stars above my town, to the soothing sounds of the Moselle River right next to my house and I hope, we will manage to experience the mesmerising dance of the bats in the vineyards, if we take my wheelchair with us. I can’t wait to have you here and pull you into the tightest of all embraces, sweetie!

I’ve commissioned my dear friend @snake-queen7 to create this breathtaking piece of art of Severus and my undeniably self-inserted OC Jules on a nocturnal walk through the vineyards behind my house. Before I caught ME/CFS, I used to enjoy these nightly strolls in order to watch the bats with my children, so I sent her a photo of the exact spot, I want to share with Magda. Since it was Severus and Snapedom, which brought us together, it’s only fair to bring our beloved dungeon bat to this special place as well.

My friend, I’m more than happy with the outcome of your artwork and it’s a pleasure to share it with all those lovely people of our Snapedom. Please take my apologies for taking so long to write this post, but I wanted to honour your work the way, it deserves to be honoured. For this reason, I had to wait patiently for a moment, when my brain wouldn’t refuse me to do its job (brain fog is such a pain in the ass!). Thank you for everything, Natalia! 🥹

🖤Severus & Julia🖤

🖤Sevy & Jules🖤

[mewguca]

I was thinking about how people should talk more about the parallels between hunter and moon

This is a rather self-indulgent piece...I find it very comforting to be able to express my emotions through a media I love like this...that's probably my favorite thing about art. Being able to express something...being able to connect emotionally with the viewer...is really nice

textless versions and a long rambling under the cut

Hunter is often viewed as a very strong and agile slugcat...they are the "hard mode" after all. Hunter probably has a lot of physical prowess. But, with the rot...they become weaker. At its worst, they struggle to do basic movements...until they eventually die. Of course, in my version of events...Hunter's rot is cured, but it still leaves lasting side-effects. Their scars go beyond simple battle wounds...there's a sort of pervasive sickliness throughout their whole body. Treatment helps, of course...but

You know how that is, right...? You have to keep getting treatments. You have to work for your recovery. And you have to work to prevent your body from getting weaker again...Or y'know, that's how it is if you've ever had any reoccurring or chronic health issues. It's...a struggle I feel like doesn't get expressed very often...so I wanted to express it through my version of Hunter.

Even though Moon isn't anywhere near as organic, I feel like she can relate to similar struggles. She used to be like a god...a powerful supercomputer who could do just about anything! But...she couldn't bring herself to do the one thing that'd preserve her own wellbeing. She delays and delays on forcing Pebbles to stop with her administrative powers until it is far too late...

Maybe she thought she could handle it. That everything would be fine if she just waited for Pebbles to understand...or waited for him to stop. If she just kept sending messages, eventually he would listen.

But he didn't. Things didn't get better. And by the time she finally took action against it, it was too late...her forced communications did nothing but make her brother furious with her...because she "ruined everything." She could only accept her imminent collapse...

When she woke up again, she had only a few neurons left to run on. Her umbilical was broken, her overseers were out of her control, and even the roof over her head was incomplete.

She couldn't do most of the things she used to. She could hardly move. She could hardly even think. She could barely remember who or what she used to be...and she didn't have great ability to remember the present, either.

It must have been really painful...but she keeps doing what she can anyways. She reads the pearls you bring her. She tells you about the items you bring. She gives you information as best as she can. She is kind and hospitable. She encourages you. She could be so bitter and depressed...so resentful and cruel...but she isn't. I'm sure she has plenty of bitterness and resentment, plenty of hopelessness and great sadness, plenty of suffering...

But when she sees the little slugcat, she's still kind to it. She is grateful for what she has. She is happy to see you. And she keeps on living.

She's so strong...she is a huge inspiration for me.

So, I think if anyone could relate to Hunter's struggle...Moon is probably the closest. I think people should talk about their relationship more...after all, Hunter is her "little savior." I think they would be wonderfully close. They could support each other in their struggles to keep living, even if their bodies fight against them. I also think their friendship is just cute! Great potential for angst, for fluff, for comfort...idk. everything, really. It would be wonderful for them to reunite when they're both in better shape...as creatives, we can make a versions of events where that happens. It's really wonderful to me...for a work of art to inspire others to create art because of it.

This game means a lot to me...and it means a lot to me that it resonates so much with other people as well. So, thank you...

[sapphic-moon-child]

Chronically Ill Truths

Fibromyalgia

Larissa x Wife!Reader

Chronically Ill Truths

Fibromyalgia - Larissa x Reader

Chronically Ill Truths

Fibromyalgia - Larissa x Reader

It was truly the worst time of year for you. The warm summer days that eased your joints in the early sun were fading and the chill of fall was setting in. You knew a flair was coming on when you went to bed the night before, but when you woke up it was so much worse. You kept a bin next to the bed for bad pain days, and today was no exception. Rolling over your joints ached and cracked as you're swollen hands quickly reached for the bin. Retching almost painfully, you felt your hair being moved from your face and a soft hand rubbing circles on your back. Once you were finished the bin was removed from your shaking hands and taken care of quickly. You could hear the water running in the tub and the smell tea followed.

“Come darling, let's try to get a head of this and ease the symptoms while the needs kick in.” Larissa said sweetly, handing you your purple cane and helping to steady you on your feet. This woman was your rock, and you loved her. When you first came to Nevermore as an English teacher you only had mild symptoms, now 5 years later you were happily married to Larissa and together you co-taught your classes allowing you to still work and enjoy your passion even with your disability. The worst of your symptoms started two years ago, it was just a lot of swelling and aches. Now it was full blown flair ups, that sometimes lasted for days and on the rare occasion a week or more.

When a bad flare would start, Larissa would help start an IV of fluids to help ease your symptoms and push Your meds if you needed them. She was insistent that she learned how to do it, so that you could have them at home instead of the hospital. After a soak in the hot epsom salt bath and a cup of ginger tea she helped you dress in something comfortable and settled you back in bed. Starting one of your IVs she asked if you wanted some pain meds to help, you nodded and were grateful for her help and dedication. “Riss, I think I'm going to need my compression wraps” you told her, admitting defeat to the hell they were. She handed them to you and prepped your meds before pushing them through your IV and flushing it. After getting one leg wrapped in the tight compression wrap, you were exhausted. Handing her the other she took it without complaint and wrapped your other leg for you. The relief was worth the trouble of these stupid things, but you didn't care right now. “Can I have some Zofran please?” You asked, still feeling nauseous. She gave you a quick kiss and retrieved the minty tasting pill for you before placing it on your tongue to dissolve. After she did she set the flow rate on your IV and climbed into bed next to you. It only took about 5 minutes before you were so tired you couldn't hold your eyes open anymore. The fatigue set in and you easily succumbed to it.

When you woke it was midday and Larissa was gently stroking your cheek. “Hello darling, I brought you something to eat. It's time for some more meds too. You noticed she replaced your IV bag with a new one and it was on a very slow drip. Smiling, you thanked her and ate as much as you could of the cheese on toast and tomato soup she made you. “I have your pain meds as well as some anti inflammation meds and some more Zofran for you if you want it. I noticed you were perking in your sleep a bit too so I grabbed your spasm medication too.” She set the different syringes of meds down on your nightstand as she sat on the edge of the bed. “What would I do without you? You could have fallen in love with someone normal, and instead here you are taking care of me.” She almost looked hurt at your words. “Darling I married you because I love you, that means all of you. Good, bad and ugly.” You leaned forwards and gave her a soft kiss before settling back on the pillows again as you watched her push your meds again and flush your IV for you.

The day went on with lots of love and patience from your wife. You were blessed that she was compassionate with you, always making sure if you needed her she was there for you. You dropped your mobility aids and she would pick them up without question. And even during the night she would feel you start to get up and would wordlessly come around to your side of the bed and help you to your feet. She never complained, you hated how much like a burden you felt. She would just scoff and give you a kiss and tell you how much she loved you and that you were never a burden to her.

One of the things you most loved was how much she came to bat for you with your doctors, none of them seemed to take you seriously thinking you were just another drug seeker. She would tear each one a new one and bring your medical binder to slam in their faces if need be. She kept a detailed record of everything for you, calming her own anxieties in doing so keeping it all put together as fine as her updo. One doctor made the mistake of telling you on one of your bad days that it was all in your head and to try meditation. That was a mistake. “You mean to tell me that the pain, tears, swelling of her joints and other various symptoms are just a figment of her imagination? Well if that’s the case I’d rather like to take my stiletto to your ass and see how you think that imagination feels!” you still giggle over the memory of that poor doctor's face when Larissa was done with him. She could be down right scary when it came to the ones she loved. She was your lover, protector, wife, and blessed caregiver, and you loved her with everything you had in you.

Your students were also very loving and compassionate to you, they were always eager to help around the classroom and stay after class to help you prep if you needed it. You and Larissa thought of them like your own and had become mother figures to most of them. Your disability and adversity to it was the reason one particular girl came to you and Larissa with her own issues showing signs of the same chronic disease that plagued you. When you found out she had worthless parents, Larissa and yourself were determined to make sure Amara got the care she needed so she could thrive. When the diagnosis came back true, she cried and cried. That was when she told you she had lived with the pain for six years, her parents accusing her of attention seeking. Larissa made sure her medicine was picked up like clockwork every month personally and she had your cell numbers if she needed you anytime day or night.

There were a few times she was unable to go to class and would spend time in Larissa’s office doing make up work or homework under a heated blanket with a cup of hot cocoa. The girl thrived after she was given the help she needed. Her grades improved and she graduated in the top of her class, that was two years ago now. She stayed at nevermore as a dark arts teacher, and when she got married to a lovely gorgon boy a few months ago, her own parents decided they wouldn’t be attending. She didn’t mind though, because she walked down the aisle with pride having both of you on her arms guiding her and giving her away. This is what love was. This was acceptance. She was so worried that she would have a flair the day of the celebration and wouldn’t be able to enjoy it, you remember it like it was yesterday. Kneeling down to her eyes where she sat, you spoke softly.

“Your disability doesn’t define you, anyone who thinks it does can go to hell. You are strong and just as able as any other girl, your mum and I will be there with you and will hold you up if we need to, just like we did when you walked the stage at your graduation. You will never be alone my love, you have us to lean on when your own feet can’t hold you up.”

*********

My Groupies: @aemilia19 @lostmyotheraccount @shyladyfan @dingdongthetail @barbarasstar @maxfanartfan @no-phrogs-in-hats @weemssapphic @cissyenthusiast010155

[pennedbylisse]

Individual Analysis of A Quiet Place: Day One

so so grateful for the reblogs and interactions <3

SPOILERS AHEAD!!! SPOILERS AHEAD!!! SPOILERS AHEAD!!!

Few films (or media, for that matter) manage to captivate me or make me feel as deeply as this one did. I say this as someone who sat through the ending credits with tears streaming down my cheeks and a stinging lump in my throat threatening to undo itself into a sob.

What makes this film so special is the way it managed to achieve this even with such scarce dialogue, such little background information of the characters during the exposition.

I believe this is due to a highly skilled cast and compelling narrative. The way LUPITA NYONG'O and JOSEPH QUINN projected emotions through the screen with nothing but a quivering hand, a watering gaze, hesitance to speak when given the opportunity to, had me in awe (I literally lost all interest in my concession snacks, becoming so enthralled in their performance). But the performance skills were not limited to the starring actors, and, rather, extended into the acts of ALEX WOLFF and DJIMON HOUNSOU.

It really made me sit there in the theatre and recite in my head "This is it! This is why I love writing! It's so powerful. So beautiful. It's the only thing that makes sense to me."

I’ll make this quick! I’ve got school assignments due at midnight.

If I don’t take this brief moment to vomit my thoughts out, they’ll be gone forever.

Analysis of character:

SAM

A character crippled by a terminal illness, on Hospice services with no hope of surviving. She's come to acceptance with her fate: death. The irony, the interesting twist, though, arises when she is forced to consider the possibility that death will be quicker than she'd been counting down towards, and be delivered via a different medium than she'd steeled herself for from hearing countless of specialists.

She's only got months to live, we, the audience are reared into believing. It is alluded through her Hospice membership, heavy reliance on chronic pain management as opposed to treatment, the flashing alarms at the Hospice facility indicating the death of a fellow member likely in her condition, and her writing tone. This fact makes it the more interesting to watch this character escape from death by the hands of the "aliens" time after time after time. Perhaps she is not ready to face a death that differs from that which she's prepared herself to accept. Perhaps she's not ready to die before she gets that one last glimpse of home (the jazz bar, the pizza parlor and memories of her deceased father). Or, perhaps, most probable, Sam didn't die early on in the film because she had a purpose to fulfill - in my interpretation, she was pivotal to the survival of Eric, and catalyzed his evolution from a scared, lonesome, helpless character into one that is strong enough to venture into the unknown world with the hope of surviving.

A trait that weaved in and out, entirely through the narrative was Sam's kindness towards strangers. It is shown when she first visits the city, during the marionette show; she speaks softly at the curious child seating in front of her, tells him the cat's name, reassures his parents that the child is no nuisance. Then again, when she finds two stranded kids by the fountain, offers them food she'd bought for herself, and attempts to guide them towards evacuation. Then again, when she takes Eric under her wing, steers him away from the edge of dissolution into panic. Oh! and how could I forget the numerous times she risked her own life to save the cat!

ERIC

Found him comical, endearing, sweet and lovable.

My first impression of him was that of someone who doesn't know how to exist alone. Doesn't like to be alone. Doesn't know how to follow his own volition, because he's rather used to having orders barked to him by his superiors - it is implied his parents forced him into law school.

He's likely never had an opportunity to secede from all the orders and just exist for himself so when he's catapulted into a world where literally it's everyone for themselves, he freezes, stammers, and clings to the nearest form of refuge (the company of Sam and cat).

My impression of him being a constant people-pleaser, and dependent on extrinsic validation/orders became solidified when Sam instructs him to knock the door to her apartment down during the storm. The stakes are obvious: agonizing shredding and death. Yet, he proceeds to do as he is told. Under the rain, he speaks when instructed to, despite being at risk of...you got it, death. For someone who verbally states he "doesn't want to die," he sure places himself in situations that almost negate that believe. Perhaps it is because he doesn't have an internal sense of self (yet). Perhaps because he is selfless.

Throughout the film we see him face challenges, see him evolve into someone who faces his fears - from the scene in the drowned subway, to the lone mission for meds, to retrieving the cat from the "alien" nest. In the end he takes this big leap into the sea, which in itself could be a metaphor; willingly jumping into the unknown instead of stalling at the dock and waiting for death.

HENRI

He's a leader, a strong patriarch with authority. Don't believe me? The first scene we see him in, he's ordering his son to stop bothering the lady (Sam). The next scene, he's got his hand over Sam's mouth, ushering her to silence before allowing her to join the rest of the refugees.

He's a man with responsibility. Keep his family safe. At first his family was just his wife and son, but then, perhaps it extended to encompass all who relied on him to maintain order in the refugee site. No one truly nominated him, he just assumed the position out of his own strength of will and duty.

So, it is in this sense of duty and responsibility that he commits his first murder. It is quick, rushed, blinded by fear, when he slams one of the refugee's heads against a concrete wall to keep them from killing and dooming everyone to the same fate. He kills one to save all, and perhaps that should be heroic? But it's tainted with guilt and disbelief, this fall into immorality and the conflict can be seen play across his face (super talented actor!!).

Analysis of symbols:

WATER

salvation. cleansing. catharsis. heaven/haven. sanctuary.

Sam first encounters water at the fountain where the kids are hiding. Then, while walking towards her apartment, being followed by Eric, she dares to talk, associates it with protection, safety from the perception of the beasts. In her apartment, while it is storming, she screams, venting all of her frustrations, unfulfilled hopes, fear; the white noise of the rain and the rumble of thunder serves to dampen her commotion from being perceived by the beasts. She feels light, relieved. Eric joins in at the next rumble of thunder.

Then it is flooding the subways, and muffles their steps from the sleeping beasts. It guides their way out of the depths where the beasts sleep (could this be perceived as hell? being underground and full of monsters?). The stream ends up leading them to a church (salvation, heaven?). I think this was purposeful symbolism.

WHITE CAT

drive of survival. strength and advantage. comfort, grounding energy.

The cat is the reason Sam escapes many killing sprees throughout the film. It somehow always manages to dash away just before the creatures arrive, luring Sam out of there.

The cat is said to be an emotional support animal. It is shown being cuddled and nuzzled by Sam on many occasions of distress, and eventually by Eric, who assumes ownership of it.

MARIONETTES

Sam visibly grows emotional at the sight of the marionette boy levitating with the balloon, only for it to pop and him to collapse. Perhaps she sees it as a reflection of her life; how it turned on her so quickly, how she might have been in the peak of her success (as a poet) just before being diagnosed with a terminal illness. Perhaps it represents lost innocence, when she was just a little girl at her father's side, listening to the piano, and now it's gone, she can't retrieve it.

YELLOW JACKET

Have you ever heard of that quote that goes something like "You are mosaic of the people you've loved"? People change people. People leave traces, imprints on others. The jacket originally belonged to Sam's father, as shown in the picture at the Jazz club. Sam wears it religiously, perhaps to feel close to him now that he's gone. Before she sacrifices herself, she lends the jacket over to Eric - it could symbolize the way he'll carry her with him on his journey.

Favorite scenes: - probably the one where they are screaming through the thunder. felt very cathartic and I do believe it was the first scene in which they weren't fearful of speaking and just being human. - the leap Eric takes with the cat into the sea. to be told he is safe by the members on the ferry, the tears of relief welling in his eyes, and maybe of grief at losing Sam, too. - when Sam miraculously makes it back to the marionette theatre refuge and Reuben gives her a hug of relief, tears streaming down his face, then hands over the cat. - the opening scenes of Sam navigating the city, and the way it was implied that the city was in danger of something strange without really spanning the cameras to the threat yet. i liked that we, as the audience, first saw the treat face-to-face as the same time as our leading character, Sam. It really aids in the sympathizing. It was interesting to hear the sirens and see the flashing lights, and hear the rumble of choppers over the city whilst the camera focused on an oblivious Sam.

I said I would be quick...lol

Can you imagine what I mean when I say I'll be slow???

[thrashkink-coven]

Lucifer has been such an incredible presence in my life when it comes to addiction.

I am disabled and suffer from chronic nerve pain and debilitating migraines that cause paralysis and other not so fun things. Most days weed is the only thing that can bring me relief. The painkilling drugs have helped a bit, but weed is the only substance I’ve found that can actually ease the pain almost instantly. Because of that I have become heavily addicted to weed. There’s really no way for me to function without it. Or maybe there is, I wouldn’t know because I have an active addition. I don’t want to stop smoking weed, and unless it’s posing an immediate threat to my health, I probably never will.

I can be completely aware of how heavily I rely on my addiction whilst still being addicted. Weed is medicine for me, but I also know that sometimes I smoke just because, not because I’m in pain or anything, but because I’m just bored. I know that I don’t need to constantly be using weed as medicine to be allowed to just enjoy it, and others in my same situation may not consider it an addiction, but I do and I’m at peace with that. I can confidently say I am addicted to weed.

Lucifer helped me come to terms with the reality of my situation. Everyone is addicted to something, using some kind of substance or drug to cope with this sick fuck of a world we live in. Being addicted is not a moral dilemma, it doesn’t make you a bad person, and being sober doesn’t make you a good person. The problem is not with the reality of needing something, the problem is with letting that indulgence get to the point of causing me real harm.

There have been times when I’ve been being so hard on myself, actively trying to cut back or quit, putting myself through unnecessary nerve pain, and migraines because I feel “bad” about giving into that urge. It makes me feel weak, like I’m not in control of myself, and Lucifer has come to me and been like

“Bro… lmao you’re fine. Smoke a joint and chill out, you deserve it today. This isn’t causing you harm right now, it’s okay. You’re not doing anything bad. Im here to tell you that this is okay.”

And, at the very same time, there have been days when I’ve smoked 5 or 7 a day, scraping the last scraps of weed together to smoke a pathetic bowl from a dirty ass pipe, and Lucifer has come to me and been like

“Bro, it’s time to take a break. Your tongue is caked white from the constant cotton mouth. Your throat is sore and inflamed. You’re dizzy, your eyes are glazed over. You feel dumb. You can’t think. Your smoking is actively giving you an even worse headache. You’re not even getting high any more. It’s time to stop.”

and … I’m so fucking grateful for that. There’s a very human tendency to either be super strict with myself to the point of borderline self harm or not give a fuck and let myself indulge to the point of hurting myself. Lucifer has always been the one to keep me in line respectfully, to say “you can do this thing if it makes you feel good, but I will not let you do it to the point of making you feel bad.”

I love how understanding he is of the human condition. He doesn’t pressure me to be perfect or scold me when I’m doing bad. He just presents the facts the way it is, without judgement or disappointment. Hey, you’re slipping, we need to get it back together. Hey, you’re doing fine, allow yourself to relax for a bit. Life is a balancing act. If we keep in check with ourselves and we’ll be just fine.

Thank you infinitely, Lucifer. I know Im in good hands when Im with you.

[ssruis]

Idk the treatment of saki’s disability by the writers just irritates me bc like (& full disclosure this is written by someone who’s chronically ill but able to live w/o major symptoms) there’s so little thought put into how her disability specifically intersects with her mental health & overall life beyond a general Inspirational Look At Her Go She Can Overcome Anything type of take.

I dislike fully articulating my thoughts but to sum it up my experience with my own chronic illness was manifestation at 18 -> horrifically managed for 2 years bc doctors/parents did not take it seriously -> in so much pain that I couldn’t really move until i was put on immunosuppressants during peak covid and I watched close friends treat me like a burden for wanting the group to take covid precautions/abandon me because I couldn’t Party Hard anymore (to the point where one friend brought me somewhere where her friend fucking had Covid and sat next to me & then she texted me the next day like whoops heehee) -> severe depression & life ruining ensued. My family had to deny a good insurance opportunity bc my RA was an existing condition & they wouldn’t pay for my meds for two years and I had the fun side effect of my mom implying it was my fault/it was a burden over it. Etc etc. I don’t want to get into the full story because it’s unfun and also lengthy but I want to provide context for why saki’s treatment bugs me.

Her not really caring about honami/shiho not visiting bugs me. I get that life gets in the way but them going (semi?) no contact is a little shitty. Being disabled & not being allowed to be upset about the treatment you receive from your loved ones because you know they don’t see it as a big deal is. So frustrating. She deserves to be upset with them for that and have a conversation about it. There’s so much pressure on people w disabilities to essentially go “yeah I am a burden it’s my fault so I’m grateful you’re even spending time with me” that’s reflected in saki’s story and never challenged.

I’m too tired to articulate the complexity of her dynamic w tsukasa but it also frustrates me that it’s only touched upon that saki feels like she inconveniences him by being sick/she thinks him going out of his way for her is a burden. I love tsukasa and I’m obsessed w how much he cares about his sister but I also think saki deserves to be frustrated with how neurotic he is about an illness that isn’t his own.

So much abt being disabled (especially for those who are more affected than I am - I want to make that clear) is being told by society that you are a burden for needing accommodations/costing your family money/struggling with things able bodied people can do/etc. & saki very clearly feels a lot of that but it never gets challenged. Something that’s always stuck with me was seeing a tiktok where someone was like “actually I AM a burden bc I cost my parents money for antidepressants/adhd meds” which was so…. Buddy as someone on those meds and also 4/5 other drugs to manage the chronic illness I don’t want to hear shit from you abt being a burden. Imagine having panic attacks over career choices & fucking up your schooling permanently because you’re petrified of not having stable insurance to pay for the overpriced meds that keep you from being in agony and your friends/family don’t take it seriously because you look fine even though you can barely move without extreme pain and nobody in your life understands it or attempts to do so and you feel like the doctors don’t care because they give you meds & no diagnosis and you’re still in a pain that defies description. And your disability gets in the way of your passions and you can’t just muscle through it because doing so would fuck your body up even more. & then get back to me. Whatever. Doesn’t matter. Moving on.

I don’t know if the colopale writing team has anyone w a disability but I feel like saki’s chronic illness essentially being a thing of the past & she’s just like “I’m fine now” is shitty. Ig it fits with her character but also she’s a fictional character and the writers are capable of addressing this. and they’re not. I want to see saki being told that she’s allowed to be mad and she’s allowed to feel unwell and she’s allowed to not be inspiration porn and she’s allowed to have ugly feelings and address those & that she’s not a burden and it’s ok to rely on others when you’re struggling.