#i'm sicker every day

[milkyspine]

[arctic-reptile]

help girl i'm coping with my illness poorly

[ceoofcrimes]

one of the specific inconveniences that Haunts Me abt being riddled with complex illnesses is what seems like such a small thing: rarely being able to wear clothes. i spend all my time in pyjamas, and every morning i wear fresh clothes because i want to feel like a person and it's always pyjama shorts and an oversized shirt. that's the best i can do.

and i am GRATEFUL. im so grateful that most days i can dress myself despite the struggle, i am unbelievably grateful i have access to clean and cute pyjamas. that is NOT the standard.

when i was younger i couldnt shower everyday and i wore the same clothes for days on end due to illness and stuff and im more sick now but ive found ways to maintain myself so i shower every day, get changed every morning from my night pyjamas into fresh ones or even a big shirt and shorts, and it's fucking awesome that's huge compared to what i used to

i just wish i could make use of the pretty dresses i have in my cupboard

[goosita]

trying to work when you're sick as young!politician!snow's secretary would be hard, but not for the reason you might think

you've been sniffling since yesterday afternoon, but this morning when you woke up, you felt like you'd been hit by a train. every muscle in your body was sore, your throat hurt, your nose was running and you could tell you had at least a lowgrade fever. you glanced at your alarm clock next to your bed and groaned, seeing that you'd woken up just a little while before it was set to go off anyway.

you thought about calling in sick, but you've never done it before. were you supposed to call....coriolanus? directly? he was your only boss, you worked solely for him. but that thought made you feel even worse than your illness did. you knew that he had a busy day today full of meetings and work calls, and that you needed to be there to help organize his schedule. you couldn't stand the thought of disappointing him.

you sucked it up and took the hottest shower you could stand in efforts to clear your sinuses and stop the fever-induced chills wracking your body every few minutes. you knew coriolanus liked for you to look put-together in pretty dresses and heels, but today you just couldn't bring yourself to do it. you dressed in a loose blouse and pair of wide-leg trousers that felt comfortable enough, shoving your feet into flat shoes. good enough.

so now here you are, bundled in your sweater you keep at the office and trying hard to manifest that nobody will notice your red and raw nose or your watery eyes, least of all coriolanus. the wish goes ungranted, prayer unanswered as he strolls in and immediately stops and stares at you.

"what's wrong?" he asks.

"oh, um. just a little cold," you answer, voice nasally and much lower in pitch than normal. coriolanus frowns at you and shrugs his coat off, hanging it up and walking straight over to you to press the back of his hand to your forehead.

"you're burning up."

his lips turn down even further, not noticing the way you freeze at his sudden touch. coriolanus has been a lot more...touchy with you lately, but even still, this amount of concern is unexpected. his brows furrow at you, looking at you for a long moment. he carefully brushes your hair out of your face, looking over you and taking note of your outfit and general state. you can tell he notices that you've dressed much more comfortably than you usually would, and that your face is makeup-free and hair left at simply brushed through to undo any tangles.

"up," he tells you, gently lifting you out of your chair by your elbow.

"what?"

"let's get you home," he says gently, rubbing a warm and heavy hand up and down your back. "you're in no shape to be here today. i'll have my driver take you back to your apartment."

you look at him confused, unsure what to say. you're not sure if he's upset that you're sick or if he's more worried for your wellbeing, but it makes you anxious that he's acting so abrupt and unceremonious, almost as if you being sick is putting him on edge.

"coryo...?" you ask quietly. he freezes where he stands, having gone to grab your jacket off the coatrack. you watch as his entire demeanor softens.

"yes, miss y/n?"

you swallow hard, wincing at the pain it causes in your throat. "are...are you upset with me?"

coriolanus' eyebrows draw inward and upward at your question, quickly shaking his head.

"oh, no. no, of course not," he breathes, rushing over to help you slide into your coat. "i'm worried about you is all. i don't want you making yourself sicker by being here today, you're clearly very unwell. it's not your fault you're ill."

he carefully zips up your coat, grabbing his red scarf from the rack as well. before you can protest, he's draping it around your neck and tying it.

"for extra warmth," he explains. "it's freezing out there today."

the scarf is so soft where it's tucked beneath your chin, instantly adding more warmth where you need it. coriolanus gives you a tiny smile, lips closed but small dimple appearing at the corner of his mouth.

you're led to the car by him, his hand resting between your shoulder blades the entire time. coriolanus opens the car door for you to slide into the back seat, instructing his driver to take you home and make sure you get into your apartment safe and sound. his voice holds so much authority when he speaks to the driver, a deepness and sternness that's never present when he's addressing you.

by the time you reach your apartment and climb the steps up, there are several beautifully packaged boxes waiting for you at your door, as well as a single red, long-stemmed rose. you tilt your head and bring them inside, opening them one by one to find that coriolanus has had soup, bread, and medicine delivered to you. attached to the rose by a red satin ribbon is a note that simply reads:

"get well soon, darling"

[lazycats-stuff]

Could you do batman x son reader, where the reader struggles with an eating disorder. Maybe reader faints on a patrol or maybe he just trys to hide his Ed behaviors (like skipping meals, over exercising, purging, ect...) from the family, but one day the family just figures it out.

I completely understand if you don't feel comfortable writing this. You're writing is just really comforting to me so I thought I'd give it a shot. Have an awesome day. You're writing is amazing. Remember to take care of yourself first

Alright... I'm not uncomfortable, but I don't want anyone getting triggered by this or have someone relapse and fall back into the disorder. I had to be in the right mindset to write this so my apologies for the wait. Take care of yourselves everyone too.

Summary: (Y/N) is struggling with an eating disorder. The family figures it out.

Warnings: symptoms of eating disorder, EATING DISORDER, read with precaution and on your own risk!

(Y/N) has been struggling for a while now, but he made sure to hide it from his family. Nobody needed to know what he has been struggling with. (Y/N) went to the extreme lengths to make sure that his family didn't find out about his problem with food.

He knew that they would be all over him if they found out. He struggled with food for about a while now. He hated the way his body looked and he just wanted to have a perfect body.

It has started with over exercising. Even after everyone was done, (Y/N) would do it until he could barely walk back to his room. He did everyday and when just that didn't give the results that he needed, he started skipping meals. The skipped meals were normally dinners, saying that he was full from lunch.

He didn't do it often, he didn't want to raise any suspicions with his family. If he did anything that would raise suspicion, they would be all over him and they would probably bench him from the patrol. If that would to happen, then he wouldn't be happy.

If there was one thing holding him together, it would be patrol. The only thing.

He often found himself looking at the mirror, looking at his body. He noticed his hair and skin were dry beyond belief. He noticed that he got sicker more often, which didn't happen before. He always had strong immunity.

His teeth got sensitive and that was one of the reasons why he skipped meals sometimes. It has gotten to the point that he got dizzy whenever he stood up.

All of this was getting out of hand, but (Y/N) didn't see it. He has only one goal in mind and that is a perfect body. Something that doesn't exist. There is no such thing called a perfect body. There is no perfection either.

There is nothing in this world that is perfect. Nothing.

Other problem was the lack of concertation. He couldn't focus on anything for longer then 15 minutes before he just had to drop everything and just rest. It was difficult, considering that he is in a family full of detectives who solve cases daily.

Speaking of rest, he had problems too. Sure, being in a family that goes out every night to fight criminals and protect people of Gotham will mess up your schedule to a certain degree. But add an eating disorder to the mix and you have a recipe for disaster of a sleeping schedule.

Not to mention the control of his emotions. He found himself often having very extreme mood swings sometimes, but over time he learnt to control his emotions better. Somehow he managed to do it. But he didn't do certain things with his brothers and dad anymore.

He didn't have energy to do anything he used to do anymore. Only for patrol when adrenaline kicked in. Adrenaline is a hell of a drug when it came to patrol and some other things. But the fact is that adrenaline could only go so far.

Of course, there were close calls when it came to his family, but he managed to steer the attention away, keeping his disorder a secret for longer. If only (Y/N) knew what was going to happen soon.

Everything came to a head when all of them got back home from patrol. (Y/N) was freezing in his suit. Despite the suit being good at both heating and cooling, (Y/N) was shaking quietly. He could hear everyone talking, but he felt dizzy.

He blinked a few times before everything went black right before his eyes. Bruce has never turned around faster and Damian tried to catch him, but couldn't. Bruce ran over and quickly picked his son up, calling for Alfred to prepare the medical area.

Jason, Tim and Dick watched horrified from the side. As Bruce ran with him, he noted how light he was. Extremely lighter. Significantly. But that didn't matter now and Bruce didn't piece it together yet. Alfred watched as Bruce laid his grandson down.

Bruce had to step out to let Alfred do his thing. The boys were waiting patiently to hear what has happened to (Y/N).

" B, what's happening? " Jason asked and Bruce shook his head.

" I don't know. He just lost his consciousness out of nowhere. " Bruce explained to Jason and Damian just thought about certain things.

" Did anyone notice how often he worked out and for how long he did? " Damian asked and everyone got quiet for a moment. Dick nodded, snapping his fingers. " He does. He works out 2 hours after us too, just overworking himself. I thought it was stress. " Dick added to Damian's thought.

" And did anyone notice how often he skipped dinners? " Tim jumped in and Bruce had to think about it. He did skip dinners often.

" Or the fact that he doesn't do anything with us anymore? " Jason jumped in too and Bruce paled as he connected the dots.

" Also, his mood swings somethi- OH! " Dick said and Bruce sighed quietly.

" What are we thinking? "Jason asked and Bruce took a deep breath.

" I think that (Y/N) might have an eating disorder. " Bruce said quietly and everyone was shocked by it. But... it made sense.

" What do we do? " Tim asked and Bruce, probably for the first time in his life didn't know what to do.

" We tell him. We see how he reacts. And if he does have an eating disorder, then we are going to help him. One way or another. " Bruce declared and Dick quickly went to the Batcomputer to look into the symptoms quickly.

Just in case.

And to confirm their suspicions.

" How were we so stupid? " Jason asked and Bruce wondered the exact same thing. He did. He is his father, he is supposed to see when something is going on with his son. He is supposed to know it. If not know it, then sense it.

The dad sense! Bruce looked at the medical area where Alfred was making sure that his son and his grandson is okay.

" I was so blind. " Bruce muttered to himself as he rubbed his face.

" No B. " Dick said from the Batcomputer. There was a solemn look on his face now, eyes directed towards the medical area. " We were all so blind. But we can't stay on it now. We need to look for the ways to help (Y/N) if he does have an eating disorder and I think he does. " Dick said and Damian rubbed the back of his neck.

He couldn't help it and Jason had to sit down for a moment. Tim was just quiet. Dick looked down at the floor and Bruce just wanted to hug his son, but beat himself up at the same time.

His son has been suffering and yet they all were blind. Everyone moved to Alfred who exited and everyone was buzzing with excitement and sheer curiosity for their brother and son.

" He is skinny beyond belief. I can see his bones protruding and I nearly started crying right then and there. Oh I have been so blind. " Alfred said and the boys quickly brought him into a group hug. Bruce hesitated before joining in.

" We are going to help him. " Bruce said both to everyone and to himself. It is a promise and an oath. And does Bruce intend to make sure he fulfills it. No matter what.

[gonzo-rella]

Headcanons: Charlie Dalton, Neil Perry and Todd Anderson Taking Care of Their Sick S/O

MASTERLIST | AO3 | KO-FI

Relationship(s): Charlie Dalton x sick!gn!reader (romantic), Neil Perry x sick!gn!reader , Todd Anderson x sick!gn!reader (romantic)

Warnings: The reader has a cold so... yeah. Also, since I'm sick myself, my brain isn't really working at it's normal level so apologies for any mistakes! (Let me know if I need to add any)

(A/N: Unfortunately I'm still sick (it's only been a few days). Fortunately, I'm still motivated to write headcanons to get me through this relatively mild illness (and I'm starting to feel better)! I've got a Todd one-shot draft that I started a year ago and never got around to finishing, so here's my first offering to the Dead Poets Society fandom. I'd love to write more for it, both reader-insert and not. I'm not sure if I'll end up writing any more sick fics (I've already written hcs for Yellowjackets and Abed Nadir and Annie Edison from Community) since I should be better soon, but if you're still interested check out my fandom list and requesting info and feel free to send an ask!)

CHARLIE

Charlie will jokingly tell you that you’re disgusting.

If you’re not amused by that, he’ll awkwardly but sincerely apologise, his mortification thinly veiled.

He isn’t entirely sure what the hell to do to make you less sick.

(He'll have to consult his more medically knowledgeable friends for advice)

He will ask you if you want him to kiss it all better.

(And he will not hesitate to kiss you when you give him the go ahead)

Suffice it to say, he does not care all that much about getting sick himself.

(A small part of him hopes that he does get sick so you'll have to take care of him)

He will spend so much time with you, you’d think you were dying.

He will also get you anything you ask for (even if it has no clear use in making you physically better- he just wants to make you happy).

If his earlier attempt at joking doesn't work, he'll still persist in cracking jokes and making you laugh to make you feel better.

(If your laughter causes you to break out into a coughing fit, though, he will feel awful).

NEIL

Neil knows exactly what to do.

He may not like his dad's dream of him becoming a doctor, but damn he has such a knack for looking after you.

He makes sure you’re drinking enough fluids and taking any medicine you need to take.

No matter how disgusting you might get, Neil is completely unfazed the whole time.

If anything, he'll find it funny and try to keep you in as high spirits as possible.

If he does mind getting sick, he certainly doesn't show it.

For example, he doesn't hesitate when kissing you on the cheek or forehead.

He loves you so much that it really won’t matter to him if you can- or do- get him sick.

He’ll regularly ask you if there’s anything that you want or need, and if you’re comfortable, and if you’re too hot or cold.

It’s evident that he cares about you getting better.

He’ll sit at your bedside and try to take your mind off of how you’re feeling.

But, he will insist that you need to rest up, so when you’re asleep or trying to fall asleep he’ll be as quiet as humanly possible to make sure he doesn’t wake you up.

If he does end up waking you, he’ll feel terrible about it.

He’s so loving and caring anyway, but especially when you’re sick.

TODD

This guy is fucking terrified.

He assumes that anything he does will only make you sicker.

A small part of him is convinced you will die under his care.

So, he begs Neil for advice, and Neil humours him so that Todd doesn’t drive himself nuts.

Todd will regularly ask you if you need something, and he’ll repeatedly offer you whatever Neil advised him about.

He’s also completely torn between his innate desire not to get himself sick, and his deep love and affection for you.

So, please don’t get upset with him if he recoils almost every time you cough and sneeze, because he does spend as much time as he possibly can at your bedside.

Speaking of which, Todd sits at your bedside like a loyal golden retriever.

He’ll hold your hand (internally panicking about your high temperature, of course) and place the occasional kiss on the back of it.

He’ll also read some of his poems, works in progress and completed, out to you, and he’ll make sure to pick plenty that are about you specifically.

Sure, he’s nervous, but you love his poetry and all he wants to do is reduce how terrible you feel.

[myreputatioooon]

As someone who adores in-universe justifications for every little game mechanic and anything you can do in a game, I'm just thinking about Elster during the equivalent loop of someone's first playthrough bothering to explore every nook and cranny and read every poster and item description

Reality is ill, sicker with each and every loop, rotting alive alongside the people, now literal shadows or shambling corpses of their former selves

And Elster is forgetting. It's been so long. The bodies in the Elevator grows ever higher

Things are changed, moved, added and removed

Elster becomes uncertain of what are the facts. Reads a poster to remind herself that yes, she should only get to hold 6 items a time. It's the rules. She can't run in hallways, only hasten her pace. She's looking for Alina Seo. She's looking for Alina Seo and she'll find her in the Mines

Where are the Gestalt workers?

And then she is plunged into the past before their agony and she's finally found Ariane Yeong. They dance. It's their anniversary. When did she forget this? Why did she?

Ariane doesn't remember her and she fears the day she ceases to remember Ariane as well

Falke—with each and every loop—becomes more and more certain that if she isn't Elster in mind and body, she is at least half of Ariane's lover

[theminecraftbee]

hermit horror week day 2: season 3 or season 4 or environment

(Letters in a box that was entrusted to Grumbot in another universe.)

Dear Mumbo:

He is killing me, and I am beginning to think he knows it, and doesn't care. It's far worse from when I thought he didn't know. I wanted to think of us as friends, you know.

With each passing day, I am growing weaker still. I know, I know, you argued it was my fault, but I don't think you understand. Even if I hadn't gone and played with the mushrooms, I think I'd still be dying. It's something Scar's doing to the land. I'm in the shopping district more than most people; I practically live here part-time, with how much I've been expanding the Barge. And even before the mycellium, I was getting sicker and sicker and sicker. Ever since he became mayor.

You used to agree with me, but I'm done arguing. I don't know what it's done to your head. I don't know what it's done to mine.

And he's killing me. With every bit of the network he poisons and rips out, he's killing me. I know he knows it, now. I know you won't believe me. I just wanted someone to know. I wanted someone to know he's destroying the thing I did to keep myself alive.

I really wish you'd become mayor. Maybe then we'd just be hanging out with Grumbot.

Grian, I switched sides. You know I switched sides. You know why. I don't know if you should be sending me letters like this. I could tell Scar. I could tell anyone. I could make you go home and rest and let someone actually check out the fact you say you're dying. They would make you go home. We'd be able to actually fix the shopping district, you'd be able to rest, and Scar would be able to focus on more important things. You are still friends, I'm sure, once we fix this.

Dear Mumbo:

You won't. You're still a good enough friend to keep my secrets at least. Thank you.

Grian, I don't think that's a good thing.

Dear Mumbo:

Maybe I just want someone to know. Maybe I want you to come back. Maybe I just want someone to understand what they're doing to me.

I thought you'd understand.

I thought maybe I'd want you to remember when I was gone.

Grian, Frankly at this point I'm not convinced you're not lying. Scar's a good mayor. He's done what he promised. It's not like either of us voted for me either; we both wanted the shopping district to be made prettier too. I don't understand why you're trying to make me come back like this. Please just come talk. We can fix this.

Dear Mumbo:

You know, maybe you're right. I do regret sending you this. Would you do me the favor and burn it?

(There is no reply.)

[makeitmingi]

The Cat and Dog Game [Chapter 25]

Genre: Romance, Fluff, Comedy

Pairing: Yunho x Reader (y/n)

Characters: Chef!Reader, RestaurantOwner!Yunho, MaitreD!Hongjoong, Waiter!Yeosang, Waiter!San, Waiter!Mingi, SousChef!Seonghwa, SousChef!Wooyoung, PrepChef!Jongho

Summary: Yunho's dream was to open and run his own restaurant. But he doesn't know anything when it comes to cooking. Until you came along and accepted the job, bringing with you a small crew. How will the black cat tame the energetic golden retriever?

Word count: 3.1K

It was cliche but you and Yunho decided to end the day on the ferris wheel. Both your fingers were still laced as you stood in line, it seemed to have become the new normal. Your other hand was wrapped around Yuyu.

"Watch your step." Yunho cautioned as you stepped into the cabin. The operator tipped his hat at the both of you with a smile and closed the door.

"Did you have fun today?" Yunho asked as you stared out into the night sky and the ground that was slowly becoming further away.

"Yeah..." You replied, an indication that you weren't 100% paying attention to what Yunho was asking.

"(y/n)?" Yunho called softly. You finally turned your head to look at him, your eyes meeting his. Although your face didn't show it, Yunho could see the swirling emotion in your eyes.

"I know we're taking things slow. But... you can tell me anything, okay? As much or as little as you want." He said, searching your eyes seriously.

"Okay." You chewed your bottom lip, turning your head to stare back out at the rest of the lit carnival.

"I used to love the carnival... My mom made sure to bring me every year and we would spend the whole day here as a family. When she got sick, we couldn't come but she promised me that we would come back. But then she just got sicker and sicker... So I never came back." You said, in a soft voice but Yunho heard you.

"The carnival used to bring me such happiness, reminding me of all the good memories I had of my family. But at some point, it started to remind me of my mother's sickness." You confessed.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have suggested coming here..." Yunho said, rubbing the back of your hand with his thumb.

"No... don't be sorry. You wouldn't have known, Yunho. I don't blame you, it's all on me." You faced him again, tears swimming in your eyes.

"Don't cry." He reached up to wipe a stray tear off your cheek.

"I'm glad we came, you've rekindled a love of mine for the carnival, one that I thought died along with my mother a long time ago. You've rewritten the happy memory." You gulped.

"I hope to always give you happy memories." Yunho said, pulling you to his chest to hug you tightly

"I'm sorry..." You said against him.

"Listen, there's nothing for you to be sorry about." Yunho hugged you tighter. He didn't know that your mother was sick and died. Looking back, the way you spoke of her with such fondness, he should have picked up on it a lot quicker.

"Yunho, there's so much more I want to tell you... But I'm scared that I scare you away." You told him honestly. Yunho pulled away, holding your cheeks in his hands, thumbs still wiping your tears.

"I won't be scared, (y/n). Not of you and who you are. Take your time, there's no rush. You don't have to tell me everything now."

"Thank you, Yunho." You whispered.

"We have all the time in the world. Thank you for sharing that with me, I know it musn't have been easy... I'm sure your mother was a lovely person." He smiled softly.

"She was. And I know that if I introduced you, she would have loved you." You laughed.

"Why? Tell me more about her." Yunho encouraged, showing his earnest and genuine curiosity to learn about her.

"She's the reason I got into cooking and that I love food. Seeing how happy she was in the kitchen, it inspired me to be happy cooking and to make others happy with my food. She loved people who could eat, that's why she loved feeding Seonghwa. I know she would have loved to cook for you." You said.

"So you've been cooking with her since you were young?"

"I guess so. Things were different for me as a kid, it wasn't a normal childhood. Being close to her, cooking with her, gave me a sense of normalcy." You explained.

"That's nice, I can imagine little you in the kitchen, learning how to cook." He giggled.

"I could barely see over the counter top. Always needed my step stool everywhere so I pushed it to where I needed it." You chuckled.

"If you're such a good cook now, I can only imagine how amazing her food must have been." Yunho said with a big grin. You nodded in agreement.

"Until today, even though I've worked in so many restaurants, she is still the best cook I've ever met. While she didn't do all those fancy elements, she knew how to make the best dishes with the ingredients we had." You said fondly at the memory.

For the rest of the ride, Yunho tucked you under his arm. You briefly told him stories of your mother, how she was as a person up until her passing. He listened intently, not interrupting you once at all.

"Sorry, today was meant to be happy and I really wanted to end off on a happy note." You sighed, frustrated with yourself.

"There's nothing for you to apologise for. I'm grateful to have learnt more about your mother and you." He smiled.

"Come on." Yunho held you as you stepped off the ride. You were shy, your face puffy and red after crying so he let you hide your face in his jacket as you headed to the exit.

Looking back at the carnival just as you exited, a small smile formed on your face.

"I'll be back." Your words were barely audible as you closed your eyes. Taking a deep breath, you walked away with Yunho.

During the stroll back to the car, you were a bit more relaxed since it was dark and no one could see your face after you cried. But Yunho still held your hand, a silent assurance that he was there. You appreciated that, considering how shaky you felt and Yunho being there prevented you from breaking down.

"Are you hungry?" Yunho asked as you both sat in the car, he turned on the heat slightly so you wouldn't be too cold from the breeze of the beach at night. You nodded your head.

"Drive thru?" He suggested. You nodded again and he smiled excitedly, driving to the nearest fast food drive thru.

"Fried chicken burger for me, please. Change the mayo to spicy aioli and more pickles." You ordered.

"Curly fries?" Yunho confirmed. You gave a thumbs up. As Yunho pulled up to the drive thru window, he lowered his window and gave the order to the staff.

"Just hand the bags over to me as they come." You said when Yunho went to the food window.

"Good evening. Thank you." Yunho received the bags of food and the drink cups, handing them to you as he paid. Once that was done, he drove to the parking lot so you could both eat. You laid napkins over the console so the grease wouldn't get everywhere.

"This is yours." You dug through the bag and handed him his double cheeseburger. You put yours on your lap. Although, you were surprised to find another cheeseburger inside that wasn't your order.

"Whose is this?" You asked.

"In case I get hungry later..." Yunho said, clearing his throat in embarrassment. You laughed and put the burger back.

"Just give me the fries." He mumbled, putting the fries on the middle console, over the napkins, so you could share it. You unwrapped your chicken burger and began eating.

"Here. Have a bite." You held your buger out to him. Yunho stared at you for a second before taking a bite.

"The sauce is good. But you eat way too many pickles." Yunho laughed as he chewed.

"Hater." You scoffed, eating a fry.

"Hey! You were the one that taught me about how important it is to balance flavours in food, that whole flavour triangle thing." Yunho protested with a whine. You were surprised he remembered that, you had just mentioned it in passing during one of your ramblings as you were cooking.

"You remember that?" You asked.

"Yeah, of course. I remember a lot of things, especially the things that you say." He blinked as if it was the most obvious thing. You pursed your lips, looking away in embarrassment.

"Eat your sandwich." You mumbled. Yunho laughed, leaning over so he could tap your temple with her forehead.

"Yes, ma'am." He continued eating, a cheeky smile on his face. Doing this with Yunho, it was that normalcy you used to seek as a kid.

"So the others and I were discussing, we've been seeing other restaurants bring in customers by doing a theme night. But instead of outwardly themes, we were thinking food themes." You said.

"Food themes? Like pasta night?" Yunho tilted his head.

"Yeah. Pasta night, dessert night, that sort of thing. Or it can go by countries like Japanese night, Indian night." You nodded.

"That sounds interesting. It would make for good marketing. We should discuss it with the rest tomorrow after the morning shift. See what Yeosang and the others can come up with." He smiled. Yeosang and Mingi managed the restaurant's online accounts.

"But I hope doing that doesn't add on to the workload for you guys. You already have a lot to do considering how small the team is." Yunho quickly added.

"It won't, don't worry. Contrary, it might make things easier since we're centering around a theme." You assured.

After you both finished your food and cleared up, throwing the trash at a nearby trash bin, Yunho drove you home. Even if you didn't invite him into the house, he insisted on walking you to your door.

"Goodnight, (y/n). I'll see you tomorrow." Yunho wished. You nodded with a hum.

"Thank you for being patient with me." You squeezed his hand.

"There's no need to thank me, (y/n). Like I said, we have all the time in the world. There's no rush. I'd rather wait than make you feel pressured." He smiled softly as he looked down at you.

"You're too nice." You let out a small laugh.

"That's what you do for the person you like." He confessed. You looked up at him, meeting his eyes. Yunho suddenly leaned down, pressing a kiss to your forehead, wrapping his arms around you. His gesture made you close your eyes too, savouring his close proximity. You swore your heart almost jumped out of your chest.

"Goodnight, Yunho." You smiled when you pulled away. Yunho nodded, reaching out to pat Yuyu's head. He waited for you to enter the house before walking away.

Once again, Yunho told you that he liked you. There was no doubt that you liked him too. But your fears made you hesitate. It wasn't that you didn't trust him, your heart just wanted to protect itself.

"(y/n). You're back." You weren't expecting to see Seonghwa emerge from the hallway.

"Oh, you're still here. I thought you went home after I left." You said, removing your shoes and putting your bag aside.

"I did. But then I remembered that Yunho was bringing you to a carnival and came back to wait for you. Wanted to make sure you were okay." He said.

"I'm fine, Hwa. Don't worry." You smiled tiredly, knowing he was trying to approach the subject cautiously.

"I didn't tell him everything but since he already knew that she passed away, I told him more about my mother and my memories of the carnival. How she couldn't take me because she got sick and how it became a place I grew to hate. " You looked at him, slumping onto the couch.

"And?"

"Hwa, it's Yunho. Of course he was nice and understanding about it. Comforted me and asked me more about my mom so he could get to know her through my memories." You sighed.

"Mmm, Yunho would be nice about it. How about you? Did you feel better after telling him?" He sat beside you.

"I think so. It was scary, not that I don't trust him or anything. I don't know." You couldn't really form the words to explain what you felt.

"You're scared of being vulnerable around him. That starting to share yourself with him means you're showing everything of you." Seonghwa said. You nodded your head.

"It's okay." He sat up, wrapping his arms around you and cradling you against his chest like you were a fragile baby bird.

"And I feel bad that he's so patient with me, everything is happening on my terms and it makes me feel so selfish. He knows all the right words to say to make me feel better but I can't do the same with him. I have to force myself to ignore his wants." You buried your face in Seonghwa's chest.

"Hey, don't say that. I know and I'm sure Yunho knows too that you're trying your best. You're already doing so much, letting him into your space. Tonight was progress." Seonghwa stroked your head.

"He made me love a carnival again. Last time, all it did was remind me of my mom. Now, a carnival reminds me of the time I spent with him."

"That's great, sweetheart." He smiled.

"Oh by the way, this is Yuyu." You pulled away from hug, settling the golden retriever stuffed toy on your lap. Seonghwa raised an eyebrow, staring at you then the stuffed dog.

"Yuyu?"

"It reminds you of Yunho, no? That golden retriever like behaviour he has." You chuckled. Seonghwa laughed, nodding his head. He knew what you were referring to. Yunho's big energy and mannerisms were like a big, goofy dog.

"Seems like when I go out with him, I come back with a new animal." You noticed, remembering how you got Yunie, the manatee, from the aquarium on your first date.

"Maybe it's how he shows his affection. To have a memory from each date." He patted your head.

"Yeah, soon my bed isn't going to have enough space for you to sleep." You mocked, sticking your tongue out at him.

"I can just shove them to the floor." He shrugged.

"Don't you dare!" You gasped. You put your hands over Yuyu's floppy ears, as if he could hear, understand and comprehend Seonghwa's words. Seonghwa rolled his eyes at your childish actions.

"Alright, go to bed." Seonghwa patted your hip lovingly. You went to take a quick shower.

While you showered, Seonghwa made you and himself tea to wind down for the night. He placed your cup on your nightstand so you could have it. As he was about to get into bed to wait for you, he saw the manatee and golden retriever laying on his side of the bed. He scoffed and pushed them to your side.

"Ah, that feels so much better." You said, stepping out of the shower as you rubbed a towel in your wet hair. Sitting down at your vanity, you did your skincare and dried your hair.

"So, I spoke to Yunho about doing food themed nights at the restaurant." You started.

"Oh, you did? What did he say?" He lifted his head in interest.

"He says it could be good to market to new customers. We'll discuss it tomorrow with Yeosang and the others since they're in charge of the marketing stuff." You informed.

"That's promising, at least he's open to it. We should start coming up with theme ideas to propose." Seonghwa replied.

"Yeah, either by food category or countries. It would be fun and challenging for us." You giggled.

"Glad you're excited, sweetheart." He chuckled. You hummed, knowing what Seonghwa meant. Usually, by now, you would have become 'bored' of where you were working at and begin to look for a new kitchen with a new concept.

"You know Yunho won't expect you to stay, no matter what your relationship is." Seonghwa reminded as you climbed into bed, keeping Yunie and Yuyu by your side.

"I know. I'm just not bored yet." You said, taking your mug in your hands and sipping the tea.

"Plus the environment is good. Not just for me but for all of you too. There's no reason to leave yet." You shrugged.

"Hwa?" You called out. He hummed in acknowledgement, still scrolling on his phone.

"I miss my mom." You said softly. Seonghwa looked at you, seeing you smile with tears in your eyes, trying your best to preventing them from falling. He put his phone aside and hugged you tightly.

"I know, sweetheart." He whispered.

"After so many years, it still hurts to think about her." You cried. Seonghwa hummed again, your mother's passing was just a wound that would never close. And this was one of the instances where he didn't know how to comfort you. Because he knew nothing he said would bring her back to you.

Yunho entered his home, putting his keys in the bowl and removing his jacket, throwing it over the back of his sofa. He scratched his head, letting out a long sigh.

"There's so much more I want to tell you... But I'm scared that I scare you away."

Your words played repeatedly in his head. Yunho wasn't scared of you but he felt scared for you and what you possibly could be dealing with on your own. Maybe that's why Seonghwa is so protective of you.

"What else is there?" He wanted to know your fears and protect you from them, to tell you that you can depend on him.

But he knew he couldn't push you, it might make you distance yourself even more.

'Hey, I'm home. Thanks again for today, I had a lot of fun. I'll see you tomorrow. Goodnight, sweet dreams. - Yunho'

After dropping you a text, he went to take a shower. He knew it was good progress, of you opening up to him and sharing with him about your late mother. You were slowly accepting Yunho into your world. He'll wait for as long as you need him to.

"You've rewritten the happy memory."

"Rewrite the memories..." Yunho said softly. Now he was more determined than ever to make sure all the memories he gives you are the good, happy ones. He'll rewrite as many memories as he can.

~

Series masterlist

[alchemicaladarna]

Pomme knows her dad is dead.

Even after her and Tallulah's conversation last night, where it seemed like she's just been in denial this whole time, I don't think she was in denial for this long.

qBad's death has been a slow buildup these past couple of months and Pomme and Dapper have definitely seen the memory loss and the coughing first hand. They've seen the infection and they've seen the radiation. They've seen how much sicker their dad is becoming every day, which is why Pomme made the medicine in the first place. She tried to help, but I think some part of her knew it wasn't enough.

This all culminated in Sweet Despair, when qBad was the worst he's ever been- constantly forgetting who Pomme was, coughing way more often and just being super exhausted and weak in general. I think Pomme knew her dad was going to die that day because I was rewatching the vod, and when qBad said he wanted to visit qMax, Pomme said:

"I don't think I can visit him today...it would imply that I will be dead too.

Pomme knew her dad was very close to death, but I think the cruelest part of that day was the fact that qBad kept implying there would be a tomorrow. "We'll go on adventures tomorrow!" "Remind me to tell you something tomorrow" "I will see you tomorrow".

But tomorrow never came.

And yet, Pomme still holds out hope that her dad will come back the next day because he, and now Tallulah have told her to never lose hope, and of course he's coming back- he has to, right? He's not dead...he just disappeared.

But if he's not dead then why is he missing in the first place? QBad would never leave his kids alone like this. If he's not dead, then why are the ghosties just casually following her and Dapper around when they've never been given this much freedom to roam around before? All the clues are adding up and it's just stewing into these sinking feelings of dread and despair because there is no tomorrow, there was never a tomorrow-

But her dad and Tallulah told her to not lose hope. And I'm afraid Pomme will just hold on to that sliver of hope unless there is clear evidence that says otherwise. Which is why finding qBad's body is so significant.

I know it seems cruel to hope for a child to find their father's decaying corpse, but it's a form of mercy, in my opinion. At least then, she's not left wondering about where her dad is, or what happened to him. At least then she can have closure and start to grieve instead of not knowing at all.

Pomme's denial comes from hope. And while it's good to have hope, it can also be bittersweet because it stops you from facing the truth. And sometimes confronting the truth is what you must do to find the courage to move on, grieve, and do the next right thing.

[tozettastone]

I'm not going to finish this either, but I do think there should be some more fun casefic for the Akatsuki so one day perhaps I'll write one:

---

"You're the best person for the job," Konan admitted. Her eyes were hooded beneath the shadow of her thick dark hair, and her usually serene face was troubled. "But temperamentally you're unsuitable. I wouldn't ask you if I had another option. If Sasori were still here..."

"Itachi?" Kakuzu prodded. It was true that a casino wasn't really the kind of environment in which Kakuzu thrived. He didn't enjoy gambling, partying, or networking.

Sasori wouldn't have been a perfect match, either. He lacked the patience for cover work. But he could count cards, and he had been very beautiful, and had enjoyed being on display.

But there was no use in wishing for the dead to come back.

"I tried. Itachi is sick."

"Still?" He had been getting sicker and sicker, lately. Kakuzu's eyes narrowed.

"Not still. Again." Was that better or worse? "It shouldn't be more than two weeks. The main problem I foresee is the attention."

"I'm not shy," Kakuzu said drily.

He took the mission request from her and examined it. It seemed fairly standard: show up, stay at the same table as Mizashi-san, and find out who he was meeting and why across the ten days of his proposed stay at the event. It was a closed and private event, with heavily vetted security and staff, so the path of least resistance was to buy in as a guest and player. Kakuzu could see that.

Konan sighed quietly. "It's not that. Every high roller in the room will have a companion. It's the fashion now."

"A prostitute?"

"An escort, yes." Konan was, as always, unflappable. "These men and women make good money that way. At the moment we plan to send you unattached, and in that case you should expect to attract a certain amount of... attention." She met his eyes head on. "You can't get frustrated and kill the sex workers."

Kakuzu would have been annoyed by this faithless assessment of his temper... had it been sent less accurate. It was hard to muster irritation when he knew Konan had seen him do that kind of thing at least four times.

"I could bring my own... escort," he said slowly.

There were people Kakuzu had managed to work well with, over his time in the Akatsuki. And they weren't as few and far between as it sounded, either: his habit of killing the people with whom he worked poorly had rather separated the wheat from the chaff, in an intra-organisation sense.

"I'm not temperamentally suited to this mission, either," Konan refuted flatly.

"No," he agreed.

"...Surely you don't want to take Hidan on a cover mission?" Konan's dark eyebrows rose. "To a private party at a casino?"

"Deidara," Kakuzu corrected. Itachi would have been his first pick, but if Itachi had been well enough to complete the mission, Kakuzu would never have even seen this scroll.

Konan blinked. "Deidara," she repeated.

"Yes. Deidara."

"Uh, yeah," came Deidara's voice from the vicinity of the doorway. He was covered in dust and had the defiant air about him that made Kakuzu suspect he'd blown up something important. It was clear in the pugnacious set of his jaw. "That's me?"

Konan turned towards him too. Her eyes lingered on the clay dried to his hem. Her lips thinned.

"Ah. Deidara," she sighed. "Come in. It seems you're right on time."

[am-i-the-asshole-official]

WIBTA for outing my SIL?

To make an extremely long story short: my SIL is taking advantage of my brother. They are already in debt and it's getting worse, she refuses to get a job. They've been married for a few years and she only had one job during thst time which she got fired from because she kept calling in. She does have a chronic illness, however I have personally witnessed her do things she knows she shouldn't do which makes her sicker (we both have the same illness, and for example we can't eat a certain thing, she warned me not to eat something because it had that thing, proceeded to eat it and get sick and then call into that job she had).

My brother is super stressed and it is actually hurting his health. My brother thinks my SIL is an angel. SIL now wants to go to college but doesn't want to take a loan out in her name, wants both of their names on it (according to my brother, what really wants to happen is pay for it without loans so there is "no debt". He doesn't even make enough to do that, they are barely getting by month to month)

I know their marriage is NOT open. Polyamory got brought up once, and they both adamantly said they weren't into it (I was open to the idea, I brought it up asking what they thought). She is "hanging out" with a friend during the day because my brother works every day. My brother doesn't have social media, and I happened to be recommended this "friend", and they posted a ton of pictures of my SIL and them with like hearts and shit

A few months after they got married, my SIL flat out told me she had always been a lesbian. I believe sexuality is a spectrum, so I didn't think anything of it, and she had told my brother she's dated women before. But now she flat out told me she hates men and aren't attracted to them (she also flirted with me)

WIBTA for telling my brother this info? I believe he thinks she is pan or bi, but I'd be outting her as a lesbian. I think I should because he's harming his health working for her, but she's cheating and doesn't even like men. However, it also isn't my marriage and I don't know what they've discussed behind closed doors.

I'm going to discuss her getting a job or us finding a supplemental source of income for my brother, but WIBTA for also telling him that she's a lesbian?

What are these acronyms?

[thefactsofthematter]

hello newsies tumblr! i’m back to post a scene i found in a random wip folder, from a fic that will probably never exist in full lol

please enjoy some sad canon era javid <3

-

"...and I know we don't pray the same way, you and I, but your folks said you might not mind it if I sat with you and did this. Only one God, ain't there, so I figures we can ask Him for all the help we can get, every which way. Ain’t no harm in extra prayers."

That's Jack's voice.

David is awake, sort of, but too tired to open his eyes. His body is itchy, but he's too tired to scratch himself. His throat burns, so he doesn't dare try and speak.

He just lays there.

"This was my Ma's." He's placing something in David's hand. A string of beads, it feels like. "I should take the time to sit and pray it more often. She carried it everywhere. Only thing I've got left of her, really."

He wraps the beads around David's palm.

"You start at the bottom, see," Jack continues, as if he knows David's listening, "and you say a prayer for every bead. And you gotta have an intention, right— mine for today is that I'm asking God to get you better, 'cause you're starting to scare everyone, Dave, what with how you just keep getting sicker and the fever won't break. We can't go losing you anytime soon, so you've gotta get yourself better as soon as you can."

He's very sick, David realizes. That's why he can't move.

He's a bit scared.

But it's hard to stay scared for long with Jack Kelly holding your hand, so he starts to feel calm again.

"In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti," Jack murmurs.

David hadn’t realized Jack knew Latin. Wonders where he learned it, since he would've left school before the grades they started teaching it. He only went to school until he was eight— he told David that.

"Credo in Deum, Patrem omnipotentem, Creatorem caeli et terrae..."

Jack continues on in words that David's tired brain can't make sense of, but it's rhythmic and soothing. There's a cadence to it like Jack doesn't actually know what he's saying, has just memorized the sounds, probably at church— it's like how David felt about some Hebrew prayers when he was little, just echoing back what he heard others speak.

From bead to bead, Jack mumbles quiet prayers, and David finds himself, somewhere in his fever-addled brain, feeling quite charmed and grateful that Jack would show him this private, vulnerable side of himself. His faith is deeply personal to him, David knows— it's there in the way he never puts on his arrogant show towards the nuns, the way he's quick to take his cap off even on the steps of the church, the way he scrubs the littlest newsies into their very best shape on Saturday nights and drags them to mass on Sunday mornings. David loves to watch him in those short moments before he eats his dinner each day, lips moving silently as he gives thanks.

It's a softer side of Jack Kelly that often stays well-hidden, but makes itself very endearing when it peeks through.

"I think I might be praying for a miracle," Jack sighs, after a long time of quiet whispering, counting along the beads. His voice is a bit shaky now. "But they happens, you know. They said so in the good book. I know it's the very same God lookin' after you and I, and I know He loves you and won't take you away from us here on Earth, not just yet. Ain't your time."

And he takes the beads from David's palm, replacing them with his own hand. He intertwines their fingers and squeezes.

David tries to squeeze back. It's weak, pitiful, but enough for Jack to gasp.

"I knew it," he whispers. "Oh, I knew it, I knew it, Dave. You're there, ain't you? You're listening."

And David wishes he could give him anything more, but he can feel sleep creeping up on him again, so he lets it come. Not much else he can do, but it's nice to hear some hope in Jack's voice.

[fredwkong]

hey man just found your blog, some great work coming out. I'm a bit burnt out, I was wondering if I could get a transformation? Im a fit 21 year old guy trying to get massive, I love long hair, huge muscles and awful B.O. but why don't you surprise me and transform me any way you see fit?

Well, if you’re gonna give me free rein to transform you, I’m gonna personally make you a real hottie, just for me.

At first, you think you’re just getting some really exceptional gains. Your muscles are bulking up at unprecedented speeds. Your posing sessions get longer and longer as your pumps get sicker every day. Somehow, it seems like your hair is growing out, too, so that you have to tie it back to see the incredible definition of your back muscles.

You notice the sweat, too. Just a little more at first, on leg day. Your shirt is soaked and smelly after you deadlift, so you take it off and continue shirtless. But by the end of the week, you’re winded and sweat-soaked after just walking down the street. All your shirts are getting covered in sweat stains, and no matter how much deodorant you use it just sluices off, leaving you musky and stinking.

But the next day, you simply can’t bring yourself to care. Your thick, musky Asian muscles are fucking hot, after all. Yeah, you’re pretty sure you’re a simpler guy than you were before you asked for my help, but that just means you’re less stressed. Can’t burn out if all you do all day is sweat, pose, and sniff your massive muscles and sweaty armpits.

What? Your dick? Oh, it’s a total monster, but don’t expect to use it much. You get off so much from your own smell that you cum all over your musky bod just from the stench, without even touching yourself.

Not to worry, you get your turn to use your powers, too. Now that I've transformed you, you can transform me however you like. I have this fantasy of being a carefree mass monster of a himbo, but I'm sure you know what's best. ;)

[miller-lookforthe-lite]

steps: part two

joel miller x f!reader

rating: M

words: 7k

tags/warnings: unplanned/(unwanted?) pregnancy, thoughts and discussion of abortion, UNSOUND MEDICAL PRACTICE/ADVICE, description of injury, canon-typical violence, hurt/comfort, not proofread i'm literally so sorry - please heed the warnings, as these may be triggering to some! MDNI

part one | read on ao3

There are no doctors in Kansas City. There’s nothing left of the QZ, in fact, besides a group of raging militants who have taken over and are hunting for the very two boys you happen upon. Henry and Sam don’t have much, but they have a relentless ambition, and Joel must see that as reason enough to go with them.

As you journey through the tunnels underneath the city, you get sicker. It’s clear to you now that this is not some nightmare you can wish away, not like one of your silent demons. This is real, and here, and now, and if you’re not pregnant, you’re dying. You’re not sure which would be worse.

Ellie finds out while she’s kicking a soccer ball with Sam, because Joel lowers his head to inquire to Henry about a pregnancy test and is a lot less fucking quiet than he ought to be.

Her head snaps towards them and you scowl at Joel, burning his entrails with your eyes, picturing his slow demise, then feeling even more sick at the prospect, taking it back, praying the Deity didn’t hear you think it so it won’t come true.

“What the fuck?” Ellie exclaims, her head whipping to you. “You —” Her head swings back to Joel almost cartoonishly. “And you? I thought — ew, gross, but holy shit — I thought Tess —”

“Ellie,” you warn quickly, trying to jump ahead of Joel’s ire, because that definitely also happened and you know he’ll never tell you why or why you happened after.

“Enough,” Joel snaps, and the room hangs still. Even Sam, though no one has bothered to bring him up to speed, can tell that the tension simmers low, and he abandons the soccer ball in favor of curling up by the far wall.

Joel turns back to Henry. “You know where I could find one or not?”

Henry shrugs. “All kinds of shit stashed in here, man. Take a look.”

Ellie’s gaze is burning into your skin, but when you turn to look at her, you only see a quiet understanding in her eyes, a Knowing too old to live in a body so young. She plops down in the seat next to you while Joel and Henry are off rummaging through the bins on the far side of the bunker, and her huff troubles a strand of her hair. You reach forward to tuck it out of her face. Her mouth is set into a grim line.

“Is that why you’ve been sick?” She murmurs, her voice betraying her fear.

Your heart clenches. You didn’t want her to have to feel the way that you were feeling. She shouldn’t have to shoulder it, shoulder you, but you don’t know how else to be with her but truthful. Her face so open, so honest, begs nothing less in return.

“Yeah,” you say, and she reaches out to grab your hand. You blink back sudden tears that choke your throat and crowd your lashes.

“It’ll get better then,” Ellie says, knee bouncing. “The sickness. I heard that it gets better after a while. And you won’t have to yack every time we think about cooking beans. So that’s a plus.”

You can’t help but smile, still feeling hot and slippery with shame, but hope shines through, minuscule and persistent. “I hope so,” you whisper.

—

When you leave the motel, Ellie’s the one to lead the charge. You follow her, leaving Joel gazing down at the graves he just dug. Henry and Sam are under those piles of dirt, and you can’t help but think that it’s some kind of curse that surrounds you, the same deadly spirit that befell Tess.

Ellie thinks it’s her fault, a strangled confession pulled out of her that she knew Sam had been bitten but tried to save him. You know that feeling, know the despair it leaves behind, but you’re not quite sure how to reach the place she’s gone to.

A plastic-wrapped stick sits in your pocket, has for days, but you’re too scared to do more than make sure it’s there, palming reassurance. Henry had slipped it to you before he died, not saying a word, but there was kindness in his gaze. There was a care you didn’t know people still had for other strangers. Your heart aches.

Along the road, it’s been hard to find food. Joel had shoved what he could from the bunker into his bag, but there wasn’t much in the way of nonperishables - the Kansas City militants had already taken care of that. He let you have the last of the crackers, but you can’t help the pangs of hunger that wrack through you late at night, curled up in a ball on the ground, your back to some tree or to him or to Ellie, one of them always wrapped around you, always watching. You can’t help the dread that follows either, that you swallow like the air that feeds you these days.

Joel feels it too. You know he does, but he’s better at hiding it. He’s acting strange lately — delicate — not something you’ve ever known him to be. He guards you when you’re sleeping, but can hardly look at you in the daylight. Where he’s started to let his eyes wrinkle at Ellie’s teasing jibes or stupid puns, he slams his lid shut when you deign to speak your piece. He offers you a hand to help you over a ridge, and always, always throws an arm in front of you when he thinks something sinister lies ahead, but then swiftly pulls away like the boil of your blood burns him too.

After six days have passed, you go behind a tree and pee on the stick. It’s not hard. All you fucking do is piss these days. What is hard is remembering the hands that touched the test before you - a dead man’s fingers before they pulled a trigger twice, him and another child. Is that the price you pay? One child’s life for another? What kind of sign is that — what kind of life is this? What kind of world to bring a baby into?

Two lines glare back at you. You muffle your sob into the heel of your hand.

—

Your teeth are clattering against each other, your violent shivering overtaking any autonomy you once had over your limbs.

You’ve set up camp underneath a rock overhang, and your breath comes out in puffs. Ellie’s pressed as close to you as she can get between the layers of your coats, the extra flannel that Joel had wrapped around her hanging loosely off her puffy-coated shoulders.

You’re in Nebraska, as far as you can tell, wide open plains stretching as far as you can see, the foothills offering little respite from the biting prairie wind, but you take what you can get under the boulder’s meager shelter.

Joel hasn’t stopped moving since you decided to set up here; he’s tearing up jerky pieces, distributing them to you and Ellie and only pushing one between his lips when you glare, he’s coiling some rope, he’s pushing a tarp under some stones to provide some cover from the ceaseless wind. You wish you could bring yourself to get up and help, but you don’t know how much help you’d be, not with the illness still permeating your veins, your trembling uncontrollable.

When Ellie figures out that she can’t fix it no matter how she lends her heat to you, she speaks up where you couldn’t.

“We need a fire,” she wheezes to Joel, eyes flicking to you even though she tries to hide it.

He sniffs, doesn’t look up from his tarp-maneuvering. “It’d blow out,” he says, raising his voice to be heard over the wind.

Your desperation pushes you to chime in. “We could at least try. Under the tarp, or maybe the rock would shield it enough —”

“It won’t,” Joel snaps, and he still won’t look at you. He clearly intended to stymie your words, but now that you’ve started, you can’t stop.

You get up from your spot next to Ellie and wrap her firmly in the blanket from your pack. You stumble on shaky legs over to where Joel continues to fiddle, continues to fuss. “Let me just fucking try, Joel, we’re freezing, we can’t—”

You reach for the flint that you know is in the bag he holds. Your gloved hand brushes his, layers of cloth and unspoken and Too Spoken between you, and still he pulls away like he’s been burned. You freeze, watching him quickly shift to a different task, turning his collar further up against the wind.

“Fine,” he mutters.

You don’t know why it hurts so much to curl up next to the fire that night.

—

When you stop to make camp a few nights later, you decide you’ve had enough of this, this awkwardness and separation that your revelation had caused you. After Ellie’s been asleep for an hour, her soft breaths quiet in the dark, you push Joel behind a tree before he can protest, grab his face with your hands and pull his mouth to yours before he can remember that you haven’t spoken, haven’t talked about it, have only worried in silence. He grunts, the sound vibrating pleasantly against you, before pulling back, only a little, the slightest breath of distance. His eyes are locked on yours, so close that you can’t see straight, can only see brown brown brown, can only drown in it.

“I don’t…” he says softly, one hand on your wrist and the grabbing for your waist, turning you, pushing your back into the rough bark, but so gently, so gently it prickles and scrapes and wounds.

“Why not?” You say like you haven’t noticed how he’s been treating you differently, like he doesn’t know what to say to you, like you aren’t the same person you’ve always been before all of this. Like you aren’t praying praying praying that he won’t make you beg.

(He doesn’t.)

—

It’s dusk when you stumble upon a still-smoking pile of ash, the crisp wind spiraling it up to the conifer fronds above, dancing its warning like a specter. It makes Joel stop in his tracks. His shoulders, ever broad and imposing, are tense.

He spins on his heel and almost knocks right into Ellie, who trails mindlessly behind him.

“Dude!” She protests.

“We’re goin’,” he hisses under his breath, grabbing onto the handle of her backpack to drag her along with him.

You have to pick up your pace to keep stride with him, bounding through the trees. “Joel—”

“Don’t,” he snaps, releasing Ellie’s bag. She remains next to him without issue or question. “We gotta circle back to the road. Ain’t safe if there’s more people out here.”

“The road?” Your skin is warm, your breath coming short, but you keep your voice quiet as his, startled to stir the crunching leaves beneath your tired boots. “Joel, we got off the road ‘cause there were people —”

“I know why we got off the road.” His countenance is fierce, his resolve steely, but he still won’t look at you.

“It’s safer with the cover,” you insist behind him, a furious ire bubbling in the back of your throat. “Here we can — we can —” You’re gasping for air now, and Ellie notices, her steps faltering. She tugs on Joel’s jacket, wordlessly. You have to stop and brace your palm on the rough bark of the oak that shelters you, your vision narrowing to a tunnel of blurred, black edges and brown sodden ground.

You don’t know how he got there, but he appears in front of you, one hand gripping your bicep and the other pulling your own hand to his heart.

“Breathe,” he commands softly, and you try, you really do, but you know he sees the truth of it.

You’re fading, ability dulling quicker than an overused knife, and you can feel the panic crest in your mind, the sting of liability pricking at your consciousness.

“Sorry,” you struggle to say. He just takes an enormous breath, the cavern of his lungs expanding and exhaling underneath your hand. You follow the mountain of it, the in and the out and up and down, and it makes it a little easier to see again.

You drag your eyes up to meet his, shame and exhaustion omnipresent parents in your expression. He looks blown wide open, sad, maybe worried, but mostly so, so certain.

His grip on you tightens. “Let’s stay in the woods,” he whispers his acquiescence. You feel no kind of victory. You want him to argue with you, not the dark circles printed onto the skin under your eyes. That can’t be all you are now.

Joel tenses suddenly, eyes flicking from you up to the edge of the tree line. You think he’s about to grab you and Ellie and run when you hear a muffled shriek from behind him, his broad form blocking your sight. He whips around to reveal two women, one with golden-red hair and one with a knife to Ellie’s throat. Ellie struggles and swears and writhes. You freeze.

The golden-red-haired woman has a revolver pointed at the two of you. You can’t see Joel’s face, but you know that he’s furious. You almost hope it’s with you, hope it’s because you caused him to turn his back, to lose his focus. You want him to feel the way you feel.

“Quit it,” hisses the taller woman that has a hold on Ellie, like she’s speaking to an incessant fly rather than a young girl at her mercy.

“Let her go,” Joel says lowly, calmly. There’s no questioning a tone like that. “Then you and I can talk like adults.”

“We don’t want trouble,” the golden-red-haired woman responds smoothly, her fist around the revolver begging argument. “Just hungry. Just lookin’ for food.”

You don’t even think about whether you should, whether Joel has a plan. You keep your eyes on Ellie as she continues to squirm. She’s afraid, but maybe not as much as she should be. Her confidence in you crushes you. You dart forward to Joel’s bag, unzip it from where it rests on his back. You pull out the measly offerings - two more pieces of jerky wrapped in flaking paper. An old health bar. Some roasted acorns you had made that taste like bitter ash. You throw the food at their feet. Joel doesn’t stop you.

The woman holding Ellie narrows her eyes. “That’s it?”

“That’s it,” you plead. “You can check.”

You shoulder off your own, lighter pack and toss it to them. Joel glares at you, his fingers clearly itching towards his own gun tucked in the back of his pants, but you glare right back. Not with Ellie’s throat under a blade, you try to tell him with your fear.

The golden-red-haired woman bends down slowly to rummage through your bag, revolver still pointed your way. Joel shifts his weight while the woman looks down and she cocks the gun without even looking up, clicking her tongue in admonishment. Once she deems your supplies as paltry as you had claimed, she stands up, kicking the bag over, and slipping your meager offerings into her pockets. “Fine. Elaine, let her go.”

Elaine’s eyes flash like she’s considering an argument, and you try to calculate the distance from your hand to Joel’s gun, from the bullet to the spot between Elaine’s eyes, and the speed her lithe wrist would need to flick the knife across Ellie’s life.

Your action is decided for you when Elaine relents, shoving Ellie out of her grasp and forward to the forest floor. You’re there to catch her in your arms, her gangly limbs knocking painfully against yours, her furious demeanor tempered by your trembling.

You pull her back with you towards Joel, scrambling on the ground, and look up to see he’s drawn his gun. “Get movin’, then.” He bares his teeth at them.

Elaine moves to back away, but the other woman hesitates. Elaine nudges her shoulder with her own and hisses. “Madison.”

Madison looks between you and Joel as he helps you and Ellie up like she’s trying to decide something. Ellie seethes with derision and you have to clutch her to keep her from springing back towards her captors, this time on the attack. She only settles when she realizes she can’t lash out without hurting you, her fury still spitting but her face turning into your collarbone, probably more for your sake than her own. You rest your palm on her head. Joel’s got his free arm wrapped around you, too, sandwiching you and Ellie tight to his side.

Madison seems to decide and opens her mouth. “You know the way to Jackson?”

Elaine halts her retreat, brows furrowed and eyes clenched.

Joel holds his gun steady. “Get out of here.”

Madison continues to speak like she didn’t hear him. “Settlement out in Wyoming. My brother was headed there with an old army buddy. Heard they take people —”

She cuts off at the click of Joel’s safety. His finger rests on the trigger. He doesn’t say another word, just bores into her with eyes of molten lead.

Madison nods, and before you can blink, she and Elaine are gone. You’d almost believed you’d dreamed them up if your stomach didn’t turn at the thought of your reserves, now depleted.

Joel doesn’t let either of you move for a good ten minutes, his gun still raised and his arm still around you both. Ellie’s breathing has evened out and she turns her head up to look at you. You run a hand through her ponytail. “Okay?” You whisper. She nods, lips in a hard line.

You let her burrow herself back into you and look up at Joel. His thoughts race too fast to hide from his expression, and when he finally lowers the gun, he steps forward to grab your pack and swing it over his own shoulder.

His jaw grinds itself to dust as he stares at the ground, and it occurs to you what he might be agonizing over.

“Army buddy in Wyoming? Joel—” Your breath catches before you can really ask him. He looks up at you with hardened eyes and nods.

You let out a shuddering exhale, still rocking, rocking Ellie in your hold. The word rolls acidic off your tongue. “Jackson.”

—

It’s Jackson you’re headed for when the first shots ring out. You’re following the faded lines of a dusty map, hoping for the best. It’s brought you to a small town, several wooden buildings lining what must have once been a comfortable main road.

It’s not even that your guard is down, either — Joel had been antsier than ever after the run in with the women, especially since Ellie’s life had been on the line. She grumbles against his insistence, but you think she’s secretly appreciative of this mangled care, this devotion that no one before has extended to her.

They still get the jump on you, though, because they’re trying to get the jump on someone else. You glean somewhere during the shootout that it’s two opposing groups, both vying for the others’ resources. One had been holed up in the last building in town, the last one Joel had to clear before giving the signal. The other had been over the hill, peering down, waiting for their moment to ambush. They had thought Joel, ransacking and searching, was their target. It probably hadn’t mattered that he wasn’t.

You hear the shots before you know any of this, before you see anything that happens, so you follow protocol and grab Ellie and duck down behind a crumbling outpost, pushing her head under your cover. You peek over to see a torrent of people flooding out of that last building, the one Joel had been headed towards. Their guns are pointed away from you, up towards the peek where the last shot echoed from. Their shouts are incoherent, and your eyes search frantically for Joel. There’s no sign of him by the building, but there is a blooming red scar on the ground where he had been standing.

You feel a hand on your shoulder and spin around, knife raised high. It’s Ellie who stops you, grabbing around your middle, and swearing under her breath when she sees who’s startled you.

Joel’s managed to sneak around the back of the houses towards you, clutching his arm to his chest. Blood pours from between his fingers. His jaw is set as solidly as stone, and he jerks his head back towards the foothill you came from. He wants you to sneak back unseen, you’re sure, but you can’t focus on anything but the red viscous that flows from him, the life force, the cellular beat, and you feel it in you, too, you have that same blood growing in you, in your body, in your stomach, eating you alive to keep itself growing —

You reach your hand towards him, and he jerks back. All you can see is your hand, frozen in the air. He and Ellie must exchange words, something, but you don’t hear, the pounding of your eardrums too raucous, the rushing of your own tremulous blood overwhelming. He turns and crouches in on himself, hunched in pain or stealth, you don’t know. He runs on sure and quiet feet back towards the trees. Ellie only goes when you start behind him, like she’s not sure you can be trusted to follow.

—

You make it about half a mile up the side of the mountain before Joel’s using the trees to keep himself upright, the heft of him only supported by the roots at your feet. It’s Ellie who ends up stopping him and sitting him down, back against a bristled trunk. You waste no time falling to your knees beside him, whipping off your pack. Your hands shake as you riffle through it for the tweezers, for bandages, for anything that might help him. If only he still carried around oxy.

You pull out a small glass bottle of amber, stomach-churning liquid. Joel finds it in himself to shoot a judgmental glance your way, before his eyes are rolling back in pain. He keeps his arm clutched to his side.

“What?” You hiss. “It’s not like I can drink it anymore, of course I still have some.”

You flip the cap off as quickly as you can and pry his good arm away from the wound. It’s still bleeding profusely, an ugly, obscured fissure in the perfect planet of his skin. He makes a high sound in the back of his throat when you pour the moonshine over the wound, but his lips stay pressed tight together. When you’ve got it as clean as you can manage, you grab the tweezers. You can see the metal still buried in his flesh plain as day. You’ll have to get it out.

“Can I help?” Ellie flutters anxiously at your side, her hands lifting and retracting with directionless adrenaline.

You nod towards your bag. “Grab the bandages, then cut them into three strips for me.”

She doesn’t waste any time, and you turn back to Joel.

His skin is sallow, and sweat crusts his brow. You reach up to wipe some away with your thumb and his eyes flutter. “I’m gonna take it out.”

He nods, breathing heavily, expression unreadable. “I know.”

You search his eyes for any kind of direction, anything that would help him that he’s too reticent to admit. When you find nothing but grim determination, you grab the strap of your pack and offer it up to his mouth. He understands, and takes it gingerly between his teeth.

Your hands won’t stop shaking as you level the tweezers with the hole in his arm, so you balance your forearm across his chest. His great, heaving breaths push you up and down. You place the two tapered points of the tweezers as best you can on either side of the bullet, having to dig through some flesh. Joel keens under you. “I’m sorry,” you mutter, over and over, a mantra that pulls you forward into the next several minutes. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

It takes several attempts, and probably a whole lot more damaged surface area than appropriate knowledge would have allowed, but you’re able to finally wiggle the bullet out of its warm home. The silver pelts to the ground and bits of Joel’s muscle, along with a whole torrent of blood, flow from the pulsing circle. Ellie’s there with the bandages and you throw your whole body weight into pressing them against his arm. His eyes roll into the back of his head, you think he might be shrieking through the fabric at his teeth. “Just have to stop the bleeding,” you tell Ellie, or Joel, or maybe the wind. “It’s okay. It’ll stop. I’m sorry.”

Eventually, it does, or at least it slows. You remove the soiled, rust-colored fabric from Joel’s arm and wrap it up with the remaining bandages, but not before pouring more of the alcohol on it. He sobs, eyes squeezed shut, and Ellie clutches on to his uninjured shoulder, her eyes wild with fear.

“No sepsis, Ellie, that’s why,” you pant, breaking off another portion of the bandages with your teeth to secure it. His breathing calms when he seems to notice Ellie pressed up against him, her trembling fingers pulling the fabric from his mouth and pressing her face to his chest. His good hand holds her to him, clinging with a strength you’re relieved to see remains.

You go to wipe your filthy hands on the grass when you notice a spare bit of Joel’s gore on your thumb. You crawl as far away from Joel and Ellie as you can manage before spilling everything in you onto the bushes. You dry heave long after your stomach is empty.

—

You lie awake several nights later. Your back throbs against the unforgiving forest floor, your blanket wrapped around the top of you instead of padding the ground. Ellie snores softly on your right side, the tender puff of her breath singing through the frosty air. You wish you didn’t begrudge her the rest, a better person wouldn’t, but no matter how tired you get you can never seem to quiet the racing of your mind when the sun goes down.

You turn onto your side to see Joel lying next to you, flat on his back, eyes wide open towards the night sky above. He looks almost comical, bundled up to his throat and arm crossed across himself in an awkward approximation of healing. He spares you a brief glance, raising an eyebrow but saying nothing before he turns his gaze back to the branches that bow above you. He’s keeping watch best he can, but his injured arm is still in a sling, which means he can’t wield the rifle properly. He’s to wake you or Ellie if anything happens. You all know you’ll probably wake in the morning curled together like a three-pod cocoon, the greater threat to your person the chill of the wilderness.

You see your breath crystalize in front of you, even in the dull silver light of the moon, but you can’t see most of his face. He turns it from you, shrouded in shadow, like he does the rest of himself. You never know what he feels, never know where you stand. He had said he didn’t blame you, but it’s hard to believe him when he clearly harbors some kind of sorrow.

You don’t know if its the faux anonymity of the dark that gives you the courage or the delirium that your baby secretes into your bloodstream, but you almost feel inspired to ask him. Instead, you open your mouth and stick your whole entire foot into its waiting orifice.

“What did you think about abortions? Before the outbreak?”

The harsh of your whispering disturbs the tranquil blanket of night. He doesn’t move, doesn’t answer. His eyes don’t even shift to indicate he’s thinking about it.

“Because,” you rush to cover your clumsy footsteps, “you were from Texas. Everyone always said — I mean, I’m sure there were people everywhere that—”

“I don’t know.” He saves you from yourself, his cool, clean baritone soothing your spiked and frayed nerves. The baby pounds its fists against your insides braying like it had heard the word you uttered. You feel sick.

“Oh. Sorry.”

“No,” Joel continues, turning his head to look at you. “I mean, I don’t know because I don’t think I paid enough attention to that kind of thing. Sarah’s mom never even — considered — so I didn’t — ” His voice catches in his throat and he looks away.

You knew about Sarah, but not from him. Tess had whispered to you one putrid Boston night about his past, about Texas, about a daughter that hadn’t made it, which she only knew about from Tommy, but you’d never heard him say her name. You feel the scorching lick of shame about your heart, not having even considered what your current state would mean to him. One child, stripped away so cruelly from him, and here you were implying you’d thought about doing the same to another, but then again — maybe that’s what he’d want. To nip it in the bud, to end the pain before it could start.

You take a shuddering, bracing breath, but your voice still comes out meeker than you wish it would. “My sister told me about it. She said there was a place you could go in the QZ, some woman in the Fireflies. I don’t know how,” you admit, “but I kind of wish I did.”

“No,” he snaps, and you shrivel. “It never works out, especially not now. It would just kill you.”

You acquiesce. It makes sense. It seems too good to be true, a relic of medicinally sound days-gone-by.

“Sorry,” you say again, at a loss for anything more.

“Will you quit?” He huffs, and he surprises you, reaching out his good hand to latch onto yours. “Enough apologizin’.”

You can’t stop yourself from pulling his gloved palm even closer to you, into your chest, curling around it like you’re supposed to want to curl around this thing inside you, this parasite that eats away at you, this child you’ll evict from its warm, safe home, whether you want to or not.

He notices your reticence, turns on his side to face you, to coax your bile out of you.

“I feel sorry, though,” you whisper, blinking furiously, finding it hard to look right at him. “I don’t want it. I think I hate it, and I ought to feel sorry for that, right? That’s so awful, Joel. I’m so awful. But I’m so — I can’t —”

You shudder, and it’s like turning off. The tears you felt like crying halt their rise to the surface, and your breath slows. The blade of the hurt dulls, pricking instead of slicing, fading. It’s hard to hear him when he responds, hard to feel the gruff hand he lifts to cradle the back of your head. It only comes back into focus when he insists.

“Hey, listen to me.” He shakes you a bit, and with Herculean effort, you lift your heavy eyes to meet his. His expression is intense, pinched, and so, so beautiful.

“You’re not wrong, you’re not bad. I know this is hard. I know,” he shakes you again when your eyes start to glaze.

“Joel,” you breathe.

“Listen,” he says, fingertips pushing into the firm of your scalp, and you notice faintly that he’s abandoned his sling, that he’s pushed his pain aside to reach for you. “You’re doing better than you think you are. I see it, I see you fightin’. You’re not failing, darlin’. Not on my watch.”

You feel yourself nodding, not knowing where the internal command came from. “I know, Joel.” How do you tell him? How can he not understand that you trust him, just not yourself and your rotten, black heart?

He exhales harshly, searching your eyes for doubt, for something other than this flatness you feel settling over you. He gives in when he can’t find it, but his hand keeps rubbing your head, and you lean into it, relishing in the prick of his calluses. “Okay,” he says, then closes his mouth, opens it, shuts it again. His indecision pulls you back to the forest, back into the body you now share with another.

“What?” You venture, and his eyes alight, enthused to have found you in there.

“You ever been to Texas?” He says quickly, and he doesn’t blurt things, but maybe he did just then.

A startled laugh escapes your lips. The world shifts into focus, and the world is just his eyes, boring into yours. “Probably not. I don’t think we travelled much before the outbreak. Boston’s all I remember, besides a few summers in Maine.”

He lets out a low whistle, eyes flicking over to Ellie to make sure his sound hasn’t bothered her. She remains still, burrowed in the confines of her dreams. “Pretty different from Texas, then,” he says, and you laugh again, realer this time, easier.

“Colder,” you agree, “Even in the summer. We always had to bundle up next to the coast, even in July.”

“Nice though?” He prods into your memory with an iron poke, trying to keep you awake, keep you alive. Guide you ashore. The granite slopes wade into your mind, crashing waves and evergreen needles, a creaking Cape and damp, mossy mornings.

“Yeah,” you agree. “Really nice. Pretty quiet. Not many people, mostly just the deer and the gulls.”

His eyes flash, some emotion you can’t name, but it feels like it fits in the still blanket of space between you. “Maybe it wouldn’t have been such a bad place for a baby.”

You think of a child, toddling through the sand, tossing rocks into the water at your ankles. You think of a quiet life in a cove town, small but big enough for the three of you. You think of scribbled drawings on an antique fridge, of fatherly pride and big hands sweeping up a little girl, throwing her over his shoulder. Her lovely laugh peeling through the dunes.

You can’t help but smile. “Maybe you could have built us a cabin or something.”

He grins then, a real, full smile lighting up the planes of his face. You want to reach out and stamp it into your skin, hold this moment, suspend it in simplicity. “Big order for that. Think the invoice would be pretty intense. You plannin’ on compensating the vendors properly?”

You snort, curling his still-captured hand under your chin. “What, the baby’s not enough? Plus, your memory’s shot. Rural real estate isn’t anywhere near expensive as those city slickers liked to run you for.”

“I guess a nine month gestation is payment enough,” he says, and you feign to smack him, beaming.

“Three beds, three baths,” you continue. “One for us, one for the baby, one for visitors.”

He sucks in through his teeth. “Steeper and steeper, these costs. And it’s oceanfront, too?”

“Balsam fir,” you babble, the picture forming so seamlessly in your mind. “So it always smells clean. High ceilings — and a skylight! So we can still see the stars.”

Joel’s nodding, eyes shining. “Okay, okay, you’re right. Whatever you want. I owe ‘ya that much.”

Your heart skips a beat. You feel a giant spark smolder in your chest, so you tuck yourself into Joel’s side to share it with him. He carefully folds you into himself, stretching around the subtle curve of your abdomen that’s recently manifested.

Something unnamable pulses through you, through the bump, over to him. Before you drift off, you convince yourself you might have seen it in his eyes, too.

—

One stormy night in Boston, you’re helping Tess pack a couple of bags. The thunder cracks and you shiver, mind wandering to Katie, to where she might be sleeping that night, if she’s wet, if she’s cold. Tess hasn’t said much to you, her mind on her next move, her next haul; she’s particularly preoccupied with Joel’s absence, you think, but you don’t say anything. When her grim determination sets the precedent, there’s no getting around it. You wouldn’t want to pry, anyways.

She’s the one to finally break the silence. “He say anything to you before he left?”

You had been here at their place earlier in the day, while Joel was packing up to leave. He hadn’t said a word, had just brushed by you on his way out, your shoulder buzzing from the brief contact.

You shake your head. “No, I don’t even know where he was going.”

Tess hums, eyes flitting from the door to the radio against the wall. “Well, whatever. We can’t wait around all night. You hungry?”

Your stomach gurgles in response, carving deeper into the hollow pit of your abdomen. “Yeah,” you say, like there was ever any other answer.

Tess heats up the green beans with ham you had brought that day from your shift at the pantry. The corner of the can is dented, which is why no one cared that it had gone missing, but Katie had started rejecting the dented ones recently, saying botulism was a silent killer the Fireflies couldn’t afford to barter with. Your palms sweat. You’ve eaten so many like that, it’s probably fine. But what if this was the time it wasn’t? What if Tess ingests your poison and you’re the thing that kills her, after all she’s been through?

She doesn’t seem to care, dumping portions into two bowls and leaving the rest in the beat up tin pot on the stove. You both slurp in silence, letting the wash of sodium rush over your gums. You should have thought to add pepper, but getting up again feels too much like an inconvenience, and maybe a slight on Tess’s preparation.

You’re both jolted from complacency when Joel bangs through the front door, throwing it shut behind him and shouldering into the nearby bathroom before either of you can stand up.

“Joel?” Tess calls warily.

A moment of silence, then he responds. “Just a minute.” His voice is strained, slightly raspier than usual.

Tess immediately knows something is wrong, and you know because of the look on her face. “Fuck,” she mutters, and pitches towards the cabinets underneath the sink. She tosses you a couple of rags. “Will you go hand these to him, or get him to sit the fuck down? Where’s the disinfectant?” She starts muttering under her breath while she rummages around and you stand there uselessly, rags flowing limp between your fingers.

“Will you relax?” huffs Joel, emerging from the bathroom and moving stiffly to the kitchen table. You can’t help but gape at his complexion marred with bruising, the ugly discoloration above his eyebrow and around his jaw swelling to a reddened burst. Blood drips down his nose, around the contour of his rugged angel lips, then down onto the rotten floorboards underfoot. He sits, unable to hide a wince and a grunt, or maybe not trying. You’re still frozen.

Tess whirls by you, slipping the rags from your hands and settling next to Joel with a bottle in her hand. She wets one of the rags, then starts to dab at his face. He halfheartedly bats her hand away for a second, until she glares, then relents and lets her clean his face.

“You wanna explain yourself?” She murmurs lowly after a minute. Her voice spurs you into action. You want to help, want to stitch him together with your own sinew, dull his pain with a drug from your veins, but you don’t think he’ll take kindly to it. Tess has clearly done this before; even if she hadn’t, she’s comfortable, certain of where she stands with him. You can’t step into the space she takes up.

“Not really,” he mutters, a childish impatience squirming through him. You feel his own restlessness in your own feet; useless, you can’t just stand here. You turn to the stove, grabbing another bowl from the cabinet and doling him a portion of the sad green beans and ham. You grab the pepper, flaking a kick into his food that you’re sure he’s said he prefers, and turn to quickly set it down in front of him. Tess is done, grabs the rags to toss in the sink.

Joel seems confused. “We’re outta green beans.”

You grin at him, the flesh on your face feeling tight and out of place. “Good thing you’ve got a supplier.” You don’t say that you had stashed him a can extra even above your smuggling quota. You don’t mention it because you know he likes them better than any of the other shitty cans because they remind him of home, because they’re made down south, somewhere, because he can’t know that you know that about him, that you study him like he’s something worth knowing about. You can’t wear your love so openly like that, but you think he might see it leaking out of your porous heart anyways, because there’s a stern gratitude in his nod, in the bite he lifts to his mouth. Tess knows too, and squeezes your shoulder as she walks you out later.

“Thank you,” she says, “for doing that for him. He’ll never say it, but he’s grateful. I’m grateful. You’re a good kid.” Your heart beats faster. You can’t remember the last time someone said something like this, told you you were good, saw the care you hemorrhaged, and gave it back to you. You nod and head back to your own empty place, counting down the hours until you can see him again, until you feel like there might be a reason you’re here.

[normal-with-adhd-is-a-joke]

I'm allowed to "give up" on treatment

I got sick with COVID in January of 2020 when I was 19 years old. Instead of getting better I gradually got worse and by April I was nearly bedbound with CFS/ME. I have been unable to work this whole time and was only able to return to college (part time) in 2022.

I've been in a physical health crisis since the onset of my illness. Even with resting pretty much all the time I was getting sicker and sicker. It was a race to find a treatment that worked before I got bad enough that I needed help that my parents couldn't provide. It was a race to get well enough to get out of my parents' house so that I didn't have to deal with the abuse between them and directed at me. It was a race to convince SSI that I was really disabled so I could get the money I needed to live on my own.

After I sorted out my last big health crisis I made the decision to stop seeking treatment for a time. I would try treatments or cures if they were offered to me, but they're not being offered right now because they don't exist. I don't know for how long, or what level of efficacy a treatment would need to have to convince me to give it a try, but for now I'm limiting doctor's visits to mental health stuff, checkups, vaccines, and treatment for any new or acute symptoms. I got SSI, I'm on two meds that are working to reduce my symptoms, I have a better powerchair now, and I'm living in accessible housing. My race is over.

My parents, especially my mom, were upset with this decision. They don't or can't grasp that my condition is not treatable despite me saying it all the time. My mom especially also doesn't understand that doctor's appointments aren't neutral for me, that they're usually negative and difficult. When I was constantly going to the doctor I was dealing with people who didn't understand my limits, who didn't understand ME/CFS, and were "willing to learn" at best. It was exhausting. None of the doctors I saw could provide me with more than they could find from an internet search, except for the specific CFS specialist who prescribed my current medications. Most doctors didn't even know the difference between chronic fatigue as a symptom and chronic fatigue syndrome and would just run diagnostics on me trying to find the "cause" of my CF even after I told them what it was. Every time I left an appointment I was depressed, hopeless, and angry. I was in a mental health crisis for days or weeks following each appointment because the doctor would show pity or even horror about how disabled I was and then not offer anything that would help me.

I debated whether I was even going to talk about this or if I was just going to stop. There's such a stigma around accepting your condition and moving on, especially if you're reliant on others or the government for care. But I want to say that regardless of what people around you are saying it's fine to be tired of doctors. It's fine to want a break or to want to stop altogether. People who have never dealt with chronic issues have a difficult time grasping how exhausting constant medical care can be, especially when you continue to be the same level of sick throughout the entire ordeal. You don't have to continue wearing yourself out to please people who don't understand what you're going through.