#my chronic pain brings everything up

[milo-is-rambling]

I can’t even imagine living without anxiety. Like. How. What?

[weirdo-with-a-nametag]

I am so in pain this week.

[cocklessboy]

The biggest male privilege I have so far encountered is going to the doctor.

I lived as a woman for 35 years. I have a lifetime of chronic health issues including chronic pain, chronic fatigue, respiratory issues, and neurodivergence (autistic + ADHD). There's so much wrong with my body and brain that I have never dared to make a single list of it to show a doctor because I was so sure I would be sent directly to a psychologist specializing in hypochondria (sorry, "anxiety") without getting a single test done.

And I was right. Anytime I ever tried to bring up even one of my health issues, every doctor's initial reaction was, at best, to look at me with doubt. A raised eyebrow. A seemingly casual, offhand question about whether I'd ever been diagnosed with an anxiety disorder. Even female doctors!

We're not talking about super rare symptoms here either. Joint pain. Chronic joint pain since I was about 19 years old. Back pain. Trouble breathing. Allergy-like reactions to things that aren't typically allergens. Headaches. Brain fog. Severe insomnia. Sensitivity to cold and heat.

There's a lot more going on than that, but those were the things I thought I might be able to at least get some acknowledgement of. Some tests, at least. But 90% of the time I was told to go home, rest, take a few days off work, take some benzos (which they'd throw at me without hesitation), just chill out a bit, you'll be fine. Anxiety can cause all kinds of odd symptoms.

Anyone female-presenting reading this is surely nodding along. Yup, that's just how doctors are.

Except...

I started transitioning about 2.5 years ago. At this point I have a beard, male pattern baldness, a deep voice, and a flat chest. All of my doctors know that I'm trans because I still haven't managed to get all the paperwork legally changed, but when they look at me, even if they knew me as female at first, they see a man.

I knew men didn't face the same hurdles when it came to health care, but I had no idea it was this different.

The last time I saw my GP (a man, fairly young, 30s or so), I mentioned chronic pain, and he was concerned to see that it wasn't represented in my file. Previous doctors hadn't even bothered to write it down. He pushed his next appointment back to spend nearly an hour with me going through my entire body while I described every type of chronic pain I had, how long I'd had it, what causes I was aware of. He asked me if I had any theories as to why I had so much pain and looked at me with concerned expectation, hoping I might have a starting point for him. He immediately drew up referrals for pain specialists (a profession I didn't even know existed till that moment) and physical therapy. He said depending on how it goes, he may need to help me get on some degree of disability assistance from the government, since I obviously shouldn't be trying to work full-time under these circumstances.

Never a glimmer of doubt in his eye. Never did he so much as mention the word "anxiety".

There's also my psychiatrist. He diagnosed me with ADHD last year (meeting me as a man from the start, though he knew I was trans). He never doubted my symptoms or medical history. He also took my pain and sleep issues seriously from the start and has been trying to help me find medications to help both those things while I go through the long process of seeing other specialists. I've had bad reactions to almost everything I've tried, because that's what always happens. Sometimes it seems like I'm allergic to the whole world.

And then, just a few days ago, the most shocking thing happened. I'd been wondering for a while if I might have a mast cell condition like MCAS, having read a lot of informative posts by @thebibliosphere which sounded a little too relatable. Another friend suggested it might explain some of my problems, so I decided to mention it to the psychiatrist, fully prepared to laugh it off. Yeah, a friend thinks I might have it, I'm not convinced though.

His response? That's an interesting theory. It would be difficult to test for especially in this country, but that's no reason not to try treatments and see if they are helpful. He adjusted his medication recommendations immediately based on this suggestion. He's researching an elimination diet to diagnose my food sensitivities.

I casually mentioned MCAS, something routinely dismissed by doctors with female patients, and he instantly took the possibility seriously.

That's it. I've reached peak male privilege. There is nothing else that could happen that could be more insane than that.

I literally keep having to hold myself back from apologizing or hedging or trying to frame my theories as someone else's idea lest I be dismissed as a hypochondriac. I told the doctor I'd like to make a big list of every health issue I have, diagnosed and undiagnosed, every theory I've been given or come up with myself, and every medication I've tried and my reactions to it - something I've never done because I knew for a fact no doctor would take me seriously if they saw such a list all at once. He said it was a good idea and could be very helpful.

Female-presenting people are of course not going to be surprised by any of this, but in my experience, male-presenting people often are. When you've never had a doctor scoff at you, laugh at you, literally say "I won't consider that possibility until you've been cleared by a psychologist" for the most mundane of health problems, it might be hard to imagine just how demoralizing it is. How scary it becomes going to the doctor. How you can internalize the idea that you're just imagining things, making a big deal out of nothing.

Now that I'm visibly a man, all of my doctors are suddenly very concerned about the fact that I've been simply living like this for nearly four decades with no help. And I know how many women will have to go their whole lives never getting that help simply because of sexism in the medical field.

If you know a doctor, show them this story. Even if they are female. Even if they consider themselves leftists and feminists and allies. Ask them to really, truly, deep down, consider whether they really treat their male and female patients the same. Suggest that the next time they hear a valid complaint from a male patient, imagine they were a woman and consider whether you'd take it seriously. The next time they hear a frivolous-sounding complaint from a female patient, imagine they were a man and consider whether it would sound more credible.

It's hard to unlearn these biases. But it simply has to be done. I've lived both sides of this issue. And every doctor insists they treat their male and female patients the same. But some of the doctors astonished that I didn't get better care in the past are the same doctors who dismissed me before.

I'm glad I'm getting the care I need, even if it is several decades late. And I'm angry that it took so long. And I'm furious that most female-presenting people will never have this chance.

[stardust-maple]

Edit: look I didn't do a good job explaining what these were for the first time so I've got a second edit at the bottom of the page that explains things better.

-----------------

I made my own pain and fatigue scale charts. Because I'm so adept at overcoming my symptoms the normal pain scale doesn't really work for me. I adjusted my numbers so that I could change the number into something I could tell a doctor when they inevitably ask me to rate my pain.

[Image Description: Pain Scale Chart with rainbow gradient background for each row, starting at red and ending at blue.

Row 1: Mine Drs Pain Scale Description

Row 2: 10 X I am not leaving my bedroom or bathroom, someone needs to bring me food and I need something to dull the pain or the pain will cause tears.

Row 3: 9 X I am not leaving my bedroom and bathroom for anything other than food.

Row 4: 8 10 Speaking is difficult. It is no longer practical to do activities outside of the bathroom or bedroom, but they can be done with assistance.

Row 5: 7 9 Necessary care activities are sacrificed. Academic activities and social activities can no longer be tolerated.

Row 6: 6 8 My pain is tiring. Paying attention is difficult. All activities require pacing and extra effort.

Row 7: 5 7 My pain is so distracting it is making me tired. It is hard to think. Necessary care activities are no longer all doable.

Row 8: 4 6 My pain is so distracting it is making me tired. It is harder to think. Necessary care activities are starting to be limited.

Row 9: 3 5 I can continue to do most activities

Row 10: 2 4 My pain bothers me but I can ignore it most of the time

Row 11: 1 3 My pain bothers me, but I can ignore it most of the time.

Row 12: 0 2 I am aware of my pain only when I pay attention to it

Row 13: X 1 My pain is hardly noticeable

Row 14: X 0 I have no pain. END Image Description]

[Image Description:

Fatigue Scale Chart with rainbow gradient background for each row, starting at red and ending at blue.

Row 1: Mine Drs Fatigue Scale Description

Row 2: 10 X Can barely sit up, needs assistance to get out of bed. Holding conversations is impossible. Laying down for most of the day is necessary. It is difficult to eat. Focusing is strenuous.

Row 3: 9 X Able to walk and stand for short distances. Holding conversations is difficult. Laying down for most of the day is necessary. It is difficult to eat. Focusing is strenuous.

Row 4: 8 10 Able to walk and stand for short distances. Holding conversations is difficult. Sitting for long Periods of time is difficult. It is difficult to eat. Focusing is strenuous. Preparing a meal isn’t possible.

Row 5: 7 9 Holding conversations is difficult. Sitting or standing for long Periods of time is difficult. It is difficult to eat. Focusing is strenuous.

Row 6: 6 8 Sitting or standing for long Periods of time is difficult. It is difficult to eat. Focusing is difficult. Preparing a meal is difficult.

Row 7: 5 7 Standing or walking for long periods is difficult. It is difficult to eat. Focusing is difficult.

Row 8: 4 6 Standing or walking for long periods is difficult. Focusing is difficult.

Row 9: 3 5 Cooking for longer than 15 minutes is extremely challenging.

Row 10: 2 4 Not everything can be done in the day. Activities are slowed down. Difficult mental challenges are sacrificed.

Row 11: 1 3 Tiredness makes it difficult to enjoy fun activities.

Row 12: 0 2 Things take more effort than usual, but everything is still doable.

Row 13: X 1 Slightly tired but still able to carry on as normal

Row 14: X 0 Not tired at all

END Image Description.]

Feel free to use them yourself if you like them!

---------------

Edit p2:

So these charts I made them for showing people and using them to talk about my pain. The numbers are just sort of a reference point . The words are what's important. The fact that it is a relationship is what's significant.

I've got chronic pain and chronic fatigue. I'm never not in pain and I'm never not tired. These are based on the main pain and fatigue scales that I usually get shown at places that aren't specialized in treating pain or fatigue.

I use these when talking to my family, using the number that relates to the mine side. I use these with my non pain doctors who don't treat my pain or fatigue. I use the Drs number when talking to Drs. Anything that in those X spots is also 10. Drs don't like pain larger than 10 because they think you're faking it.

I made these after getting covid. It was about a year later and I still couldn't describe my pain in terms of the standard scale because I couldn't conceptualize pain properly because covid had completely broken my internal perception of pain intensity. Because I went from never having gone to 10/10 or ever being there for very long to about 2 weeks of what I could only describe as 13/10 pain. It was logarithmically higher than anything I my brain could process. And my brain didn't process it. I just sort of cried a lot, slowly.

If you are ever using a personalized pain scale or something you found online with a doctor you should show them what you're talking about. You need to make sure they understand you.

I posted this because I was having a hard time saying that while I was at a 3 in terms of abilities, I was in just as much pain as when I had been previously at a 5. I needed something that showed what I was talking about.

It feels very strange adding all these disclaimers so far after, but I've been thinking "it's too late" every time Ive realized someone might use it in a way that wouldn't help them. And then ignoring the problem for a while.

We've got 3k notes on this. People keep looking at it. The disclaimers are nessesary. I'm sorry they weren't there before.

I just remembered that I specifically made this because I needed to be able to point at a number and have my parents be able to know what that meant. They don't have training in the pain scale. They don't know what it means. But they do know what I mean now when I say I'm at a 6. They understand me.

The point is, this says that it's used for talking to doctors and it's really not. It's for my family mostly. And my PCP who keeps asking what pain I'm at and I just need to say a number that communicates the thing she wants to know (that's why the Drs thing is on there. That's the number she needs. She doesn't care. It's weird. She's weird.)

But it is mostly for my family. It's for describing how I'm doing.

Do not use this in emergencies!!! Do not use this with pain specialists without showing it to them!!!

[moonstruckme]

Thawing Out

collab with @ellecdc

part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5

cw: modern au, alcohol, brief talk of injuries/chronic pain

poly!wolfstar x fem!reader ♡ 1.4k words

“Oi! What’s this?” 

You sit up from your stretch with a sheepish look on your face, legs spread out on either side of you on Sirius’ rug. 

“You know there’s no practice during lounge time,” he scolds. 

You roll your eyes but come out of your split, standing to take the drink Sirius holds out for you. “I just felt a little tight.” 

“Probably because of how hard you’ve been working at not jumping.” He clinks his glass against yours, taking a hearty sip. 

You copy him, and your face scrunches. “Oh, my god.” You sound like you’re fighting a gag. “What’s in this?” 

“It’s sangria.” Sirius’ voice is a bit wounded. Which feels appropriate, because you’ve just reacted to his sangria like it’s petrol. 

“You mean there’s a whole bowl of it?” 

“That’s how it typically works.” He takes another sip, swishing it around his mouth a bit. It’s really not bad. “I make drinks, babe. Not juice.” 

“I’m going to have to revoke your drink making privileges again after this,” you sigh, folding one leg under you as you sit down on the couch. You take another sip, tentative and with narrowed eyes like you’re suspicious of the liquid in your glass, but this time you swallow without complaint. “Do you really think I’m working hard at not jumping?” 

Sirius grimaces. He should have known better than to think he could breeze by a comment like that. 

“Listen,” he says, “he’s not wrong about everything. I mean, about most things, definitely—” you give a little smile, the reward he was seeking “—but he’s got a point on this one. I can feel you tensing right before the jumps. Before a lot of things, actually. You’re holding yourself back.” 

You rub your lips together, a nervous tic of yours that torments Sirius like nothing else. He fights the urge to lick his own lips in response. 

“Do you remember what Peter said about my jumps?” you ask him. 

Sirius feels his mouth twist with a malice not meant for you. He tries to quell it. But fuck—why are you still thinking about that wanker? 

Peter Pettigrew was a mistake in trust Sirius never should have made. His judgment has always been wonky where James is concerned; Peter was James’ friend, so he was Sirius’ by default, but Sirius still should have known better than to bring him around you. 

Before, there would have been three of you here. Peter used to like to sit on the couch with Sirius, and you were more than happy to lounge around on the rug and stretch, no matter how many times Sirius told you to lay off yourself and relax for once. He was totally prepared to have to shoot you down if you suggested inviting Remus tonight, but despite how comfortable you seem to have become with your new coach over the last couple of weeks, you haven’t seemed inclined to bring your relationship outside the rink. Sirius is grateful. Now that it’s just the two of you, he intends to keep it that way. It had more than stung to learn that Peter sold the both of you out, but it was worse knowing that Sirius could have avoided it had he simply used the acumen he’d always prided himself on to sniff out the rat before it happened. 

Fuck, the sangria is already going to Sirius’ head; he has half a mind to go to the pillock’s apartment and burn it down. If Peter’s half as smart as he thinks he is, he’ll have already moved. 

“No,” Sirius says, already tired with this conversation. He takes another lengthy sip from his glass. “What did he say?”

You curl your feet a little closer to you, and—yep, if Peter’s ever stupid enough to come within Sirius’ sight again, he’s going to knock his fucking teeth out. “He told the other coach that I was one bad jump away from injuring myself into an early retirement.” 

From your weary tone, Sirius can guess that you’ve memorized it verbatim. 

“He didn’t know what the fuck he was talking about,” he tells you firmly. 

Your voice gets smaller. “He usually did.” 

Your defeat hits Sirius right in the center of his chest. It makes his wrath fizzle. He doesn’t like to think about Peter’s better qualities, but you’re not wrong. He wasn’t always a complete idiot when it came to coaching. 

You lean your head on the couch cushion, and Sirius mirrors you unthinkingly. 

“You think you’re going to get hurt.” His voice comes out even softer than he intends. It’s a question, and also not. 

You nod anyway. “I can’t stop thinking about it. I know I’m messing us up, but I don’t want to fall and then not be able to compete.” 

Sirius’ mind flashes to Remus, to his grimace when he stands from the bleachers, the limp he tries to hide. From your expression, you’re thinking about him too. 

“You’re not messing us up, love.” The endearment slips out too easily, Sirius’ throat all buttered up by sympathy and booze. “Only yourself. You’re falling more now than you did before, you do realize that?” 

Your expression creases slightly, which is answer enough. 

“Every time you tense up or hold yourself back,” he says, “you’re more at risk for a bad fall than you would be if you committed. I’ve seen you fall more in the last couple of weeks than I think I ever have. Whatever Pete—Peter—was talking about, you’re only as much at risk of getting hurt as everyone else that’s as good a skater as you are—I mean, you have the skill to protect yourself, you’re just not using it. You trying to play it safe is less safe than when you didn’t worry about it.” 

You sit with this for a minute, rubbing your lips together thoughtfully. Sirius notices that at some point, you’ve nearly drained your glass as well. 

“Oh,” you say simply. 

He can’t help the grin that splits his face. “Oh?” 

“I hadn’t quite thought about it like that.” You take another sip, eyes stuck in the middle distance. 

“You can just say I’m the wisest person you know. It’s all right.” 

Your gaze cuts to him. “Would you like that engraved on a trophy?”

Sirius feels his smile grow. “Sure, I’ll add it to my collection.” 

“Oh, you are insufferable,” you chuckle. “Don’t think it was your original idea, though, was it?” A grin spreads across your face, one Sirius doesn’t like very much. “In fact, I think you’ve just agreed with Remus. Quite heartily.” 

Sirius feels his mouth pucker in distaste. “That was incidental.” 

Your laughter is diabolical. He wonders whether you were quite so wicked before you met him; it’s impossible to say, now. 

“Should I skip practice tomorrow?” you ask gleefully. “That way you two can spend the entire time waxing poetic about how right the other is.” 

He levels you with a dead stare. “Don’t fool yourself, doll. You like me too much to condemn me to such a cruel fate.” 

“You’re so full of it.” You roll your eyes with a smile, swirling your glass. “He is sort of your type, isn’t he?” 

Sirius’ throat nearly hurts from the force of his scoff. “What—dull, stubborn, and pompous? Fuck off.”

You hum, your gaze playful. “But also quite fit, right?” 

Sirius narrows his eyes at you, but that only makes yours twinkle more. He feels it like tiny little firecrackers in his gut. Even though you’re only teasing, he can see where you’d get the idea. When Sirius dates boys, he tends to go for ones taller than him, with Remus’ same lissom frame and enigmatic allure. But with Remus, there is no enigma; he’s a tosser, clear as day. And truly, Sirius hasn’t found anybody as lovely as you in some time. 

“Sounds like you’re the one who fancies him,” he says, keeping his voice light. He makes his expression go impish and teasing. “We can both do better, don’t you think?” 

You roll your eyes, but your expression is inscrutable as you take another sip from your glass. Until you take another sip, that is. Then, your lip curls. “Ugh, we can certainly do better than this. Do you have something I could add to it?” 

“You want me to let you sully my creation,” Sirius deadpans. 

“I want you to let me make your monstrosity potable.”

“I’ll make you a deal,” he says. “I’ll let you, but then no more shop talk for the night.” 

You grin, sitting up. “I promise.” 

“There’s orange juice in the fridge.” 

[academiaipromise]

wait. is it me. actually being on track with my thesis timeline. could not be me (but it IS)

[joostsblog]

heyy i was wondering if you could write an angst to comfort joost fic where the reader is just like exhausted from everything and goes nonverbal bc theyre so tired and just frustrated and exhausted and joost gets worried when he hadnt heard from them in awhile so he goes to their house they break down in tears and he just comforts them?

Thanks for the request, I saw the opportunity to combine this request with another, I hope you don't mind! Here's the other request:

I hope the description of living with chronic pain is somewhat accurate 🫶🫶

cold tea ~ Joost Klein one shot

My masterlist here ✨💌

Pairing: Joost Klein x reader (with chronic pain)

Description: During a particular bad episode of chronic pain, Joost is worried about you and checks up on you as he hadn't heard from you in a while.

Word Count: 0.7k

A/N: Again, I hope the both of you don't mind that I combined these requests💌 requests still open although I can't promise too many as I'll be on vacation the next two weeks ☀️ if you liked it, you can show your support by leaving a reblog 🫶

Warnings: not proofread

You were curled up in bed, cuddling your teddy bear, eyes tightly shut as you tried everything in you to forget about the pain throughout your body. This week had been a series of really bad days for your chronic pain, barely getting any sleep at night and not being able to turn up to work. Your body was so tired you knew the only thing it wanted to do right now was just to fall asleep but the pain within it made it impossible. On top of that, you felt guilty for ignoring your boyfriend Joost. There were dozens of worried unanswered texts from him on your phone accompanied by ignored phone calls. But for the past few days, the pain and the mental load that came along with it was so bad that you couldn't muster up much strength to text him back.

You had only started dating a few weeks ago which meant that Joost didn't know much about your issues with chronic pain. You were worried that Joost would think that you were purposefully ignoring him because you wanted to break things off him with - which couldn't be further from the truth. You were head over heels for the sweet boy. You wanted to spend every waking moment with him, curled up in his arms, laughing and giggling with him.

He's probably angry with me for not answering, you thought to yourself.

The shrill sound of the doorbell shattered through your head. You sighed as you knew you had to get up. You had ordered some takeout since you didn't feel like cooking but you knew you had to feed your body. With a wince, you slowly sat up straight and made your way to the door. Your heart might as well have briefly stopped beating as you saw Joost stand outside your door.

"(Y/N)?" Joost asked timidly, a concerned look on his face. "Is everything alright?"

You wanted to speak but couldn't bring your mouth to form any words. Too exhausted but also too embarrassed to speak. Instead, your throat just felt dry and you could feel tears welling up in your eyes.

"Oh, (Y/N)," Joost whispered with a frown as he saw your tears. "Do you- can I-," you could tell that Joost didn't quite know what to do. So you just opened the door wider indicating for him to come in. "Can I hug you?" Joost asked softly as he stepped into your flat and you nodded. Joost very softly wrapped his arms around your body, very careful not to hurt you in any way. "Is it the pain?" he asked and you nodded against his chest. "Let me take care of you," Joost whispered against your hair as he pressed a soft kiss against your head. He led you back to your bedroom and softly tucked you in under the covers. "Be right back."

A few minutes later he appeared again with a cup of tea which he placed on the nightstand and got in bed next to you. Joost opened his arms and you nodded and he scooted closer to you and wrapped his arms around you carefully. For the first time in days, you could feel your body slowly relaxing. Joost started humming a soft melody and you could feel the exhaustion taking over your body slowly lulling you to sleep.

~

When you awoke, your head rested on Joost's lap, his hand softly caressing your head. He was reading an article on his phone and your heart fluttered as you caught a glimpse of the title: How to support a loved one with chronic pain.

Joost could feel you shift so he set down his phone and checked on you.

"Oh, you're awake," he smiled. "Your food came," he updated you. "And your tea went cold."

"Ice tea," you mumbled with a weak smile and Joost's eyes went wide with joy at finally hearing your voice again. Your body still felt sore but you were thankful that you were able to get at least a little bit of sleep.

"You're hungry?" Joost asked and you nodded. "I'll be right back," he said and got up before leaning down to you again to press a gentle kiss on your forehead. You smiled.

Your worries about Joost not being understanding or not having patience were completely forgotten. Instead, you felt cared for and loved by him. You smiled at him as he entered the room with the Thai curry you had ordered.

"Thank you," you said, your voice still slightly straining. "I love you."

Joost smiled fondly at you before he pressed another kiss to your head.

"I love you too, liefde."

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Linkrot

For the rest of May, my bestselling solarpunk utopian novel THE LOST CAUSE (2023) is available as a $2.99, DRM-free ebook!

Here's an underrated cognitive virtue: "object permanence" – that is, remembering how you perceived something previously. As Riley Quinn often reminds us, the left is the ideology of object permanence – to be a leftist is to hate and mistrust the CIA even when they're tormenting Trump for a brief instant, or to remember that it was once possible for a working person to support their family with their wages:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/10/27/six-sells/#youre-holding-it-wrong

The thing is, object permanence is hard. Life comes at you quickly. It's very hard to remember facts, and the order in which those facts arrived – it's even harder to remember how you felt about those facts in the moment.

This is where blogging comes in – for me, at least. Back in 1997, Scott Edelman – editor of Science Fiction Age – asked me to take over the back page of the magazine by writing up ten links of interest for the nascent web. I wrote that column until the spring of 2000, then, in early 2001, Mark Frauenfelder asked me to guest-edit Boing Boing, whereupon the tempo of my web-logging went daily. I kept that up on Boing Boing for more than 19 years, writing about 54,000 posts. In February, 2020, I started Pluralistic.net, my solo project, a kind of blog/newsletter, and in the four-plus years since, I've written about 1,200 editions containing between one and twelve posts each.

This gigantic corpus of everything I ever considered to be noteworthy is immensely valuable to me. The act of taking notes in public is a powerful discipline: rather than jotting cryptic notes to myself in a commonplace book, I publish those notes for strangers. This imposes a rigor on the note-taking that makes those notes far more useful to me in years to come.

Better still: public note-taking is powerfully mnemonic. The things I've taken notes on form a kind of supersaturated solution of story ideas, essay ideas, speech ideas, and more, and periodically two or more of these fragments will glom together, nucleate, and a fully-formed work will crystallize out of the solution.

Then, the fact that all these fragments are also database entries – contained in the back-end of a WordPress installation that I can run complex queries on – comes into play, letting me swiftly and reliably confirm my memories of these long-gone phenomena. Inevitably, these queries turn up material that I've totally forgotten, and these make the result even richer, like adding homemade stock to a stew to bring out a rich and complicated flavor. Better still, many of these posts have been annotated by readers with supplemental materials or vigorous objections.

I call this all "The Memex Method" and it lets me write a lot (I wrote nine books during lockdown, as I used work to distract me from anxiety – something I stumbled into through a lifetime of chronic pain management):

https://pluralistic.net/2021/05/09/the-memex-method/

Back in 2013, I started a new daily Boing Boing feature: "This Day In Blogging History," wherein I would look at the archive of posts for that day one, five and ten years previously:

https://boingboing.net/2013/06/24/this-day-in-blogging-history.html

With Pluralistic, I turned this into a daily newsletter feature, now stretching back to twenty, fifteen, ten, five and one year ago. Here's today's:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/05/21/noway-back-machine/#retro

This is a tremendous adjunct to the Memex Method. It's a structured way to review everything I've ever thought about, in five-year increments, every single day. I liken this to working dough, where there's stuff at the edges getting dried out and crumbly, and so your fold it all back into the middle. All these old fragments naturally slip out of your thoughts and understanding, but you can revive their centrality by briefly paying attention to them for a few minutes every day.

This structured daily review is a wonderful way to maintain object permanence, reviewing your attitudes and beliefs over time. It's also a way to understand the long-forgotten origins of issues that are central to you today. Yesterday, I was reminded that I started thinking about automotive Right to Repair 15 years ago:

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2009/05/right-repair-law-pro

Given that we're still fighting over this, that's some important perspective, a reminder of the likely timescales involved in more recent issues where I feel like little progress is being made.

Remember when we all got pissed off because the mustache-twirling evil CEO of Warners, David Zaslav, was shredding highly anticipated TV shows and movies prior to their release to get a tax-credit? Turns out that we started getting angry about this stuff twenty years ago, when Michael Eisner did it to Michael Moore's "Fahrenheit 911":

https://www.nytimes.com/2004/05/05/us/disney-is-blocking-distribution-of-film-that-criticizes-bush.html

It's not just object permanence: this daily spelunk through my old records is also a way to continuously and methodically sound the web for linkrot: when old links go bad. Over the past five years, I've noticed a very sharp increase in linkrot, and even worse, in the odious practice of spammers taking over my dead friends' former blogs and turning them into AI spam-farms:

https://www.wired.com/story/confessions-of-an-ai-clickbait-kingpin/

The good people at the Pew Research Center have just released a careful, quantitative study of linkrot that confirms – and exceeds – my worst suspicions about the decay of the web:

https://www.pewresearch.org/data-labs/2024/05/17/when-online-content-disappears/

The headline finding from "When Online Content Disappears" is that 38% of the web of 2013 is gone today. Wikipedia references are especially hard-hit, with 23% of news links missing and 21% of government websites gone. The majority of Wikipedia entries have at least one broken link in their reference sections. Twitter is another industrial-scale oubliette: a fifth of English tweets disappear within a matter of months; for Turkish and Arabic tweets, it's 40%.

Thankfully, someone has plugged the web's memory-hole. Since 2001, the Internet Archive's Wayback Machine has allowed web users to see captures of web-pages, tracking their changes over time. I was at the Wayback Machine's launch party, and right away, I could see its value. Today, I make extensive use of Wayback Machine captures for my "This Day In History" posts, and when I find dead links on the web.

The Wayback Machine went public in 2001, but Archive founder Brewster Kahle started scraping the web in 1996. Today's post graphic – a modified Yahoo homepage from October 17, 1996 – is the oldest Yahoo capture on the Wayback Machine:

https://web.archive.org/web/19960501000000*/yahoo.com

Remember that the next time someone tells you that we must stamp out web-scraping for one reason or another. There are plenty of ugly ways to use scraping (looking at you, Clearview AI) that we should ban, but scraping itself is very good:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/09/17/how-to-think-about-scraping/

And so is the Internet Archive, which makes the legal threats it faces today all the more frightening. Lawsuits brought by the Big Five publishers and Big Three labels will, if successful, snuff out the Internet Archive altogether, and with it, the Wayback Machine – the only record we have of our ephemeral internet:

https://blog.archive.org/2024/04/19/internet-archive-stands-firm-on-library-digital-rights-in-final-brief-of-hachette-v-internet-archive-lawsuit/

Libraries burn. The Internet Archive may seem like a sturdy and eternal repository for our collective object permanence about the internet, but it is very fragile, and could disappear like that.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/05/21/noway-back-machine/#pew-pew-pew

[cherry-pop-elf]

Chronic Tonic

Wolverine x Reader x Deadpool

Authors note: I’m taking advantage of all this hype to bring awareness to chronic pain, because we know this bitches have it. ((Written by someone who suffers from it

Warnings: Canon typical violence (so it’s gonna get gorey), disabilities, domestic fluff, pain, blood, gore, Logan and Wade loving each other in their own way, Blind Al being iconic and a worried mom, DogPool being a angel, and heavy talk about disabilities and disability awareness

“Honey, mind coming to help me with the dishes?” You would hear Al call for you. You swore you were the only person she treated you with that Black Mama Magic with. As if you could complain. Suppose having company helps soften you up.

You had recently properly moved into the apartment. A bit cramped now, but given how often Wade and Logan went off to do super hero work it didn’t really matter. You knew deep down Al was happy to have you move in. Even if she doesn’t show it. Same for Mary Puppins, who loved to show she loved your attention.

“Sure thing Miss Althea!” You called back, as you would return Mary to her little dog bed. She gave a whine of protest, only to hush up when you tucked her in with one of Wade’s hoodies. Smelled like her daddy’s, so she was contented to nap time.

“You don’t have to keep calling me Althea-“ She would laugh, as you would enter the kitchen. Quick to already start drying them off, or working on the plates Althea didn’t quick get clean enough. She had a dish washer, but being able to do normal things can be soothing. You knew she was a little worried about her boys. She had her ways of showing it.

“Well I wanna, so-“ That had her laugh at your smart off tone. Was like Wade was in the apartment still. Had her sigh, as you two held your routine perfectly. You often helped her, but in the ways that soothed her. Such as not immediately dropping everything whenever she called for you, or babied her when she was struggling with something. Actually treated her as what she was. A person, who needed different types of help. Simple as that.

“I don’t know if it’s the damn arthritis’s, or just that mama sense I got, but I feel it in my bones. That nerve ache that something bass gonna happen. Maybe we should get the towels out of the laundry-“ Althea would tell you, as you frowned. Wade and Logan were practically immortal. They had to be fine, right?

That’s when the stench of blood smacked you in the face.

It hit you long before they reached the door. Nearly dropped the bowl in your hand, as it just filled your lungs. That intense iron. Althea gave a ‘I knew it-!’ Huff, as she was already walking to grab the needed towels. While you yourself were wondering how she didn’t even so much twitch a nose at it. Maybe the cocaine finally wore it down.

“Get the door for them! And a mop!” Althea called to you, as you brought your shirt to cover your mouth. It was just a suffocating stench. Was like walking into a morgue, where all the war time soldiers came to rot. Wonder how bad it must be for Logan with his heighten sense. Then again, he’s probs used to it by now.

When you opened the door you nearly threw up. The smell was so bad, had you gagging. Now you understood why Althea always left febreez and a face mask next to the door. You strapped that shit on like it was a gun to your belt. You were gonna need it, especially with how banged up they were.

Wade wasn’t even in one piece. His upper torso was tossed over Logan’s shoulder, as he would drag the lower half by the ankle with him. The sight of dangling organs made you feel faint. The internal parts being on the outside was rather distracting from the fact Logan was literally missing half his face. Was like some terminator shit.

“We’re back~!” Wade would sing, as Logan would toss the broken bundle of body parts onto the couch. He himself just sat in an arm chair. That was sweet, you had to admit. Letting Wade have the couch. Least that’s what would cross your mind when you weren’t trying to keep from vomiting.

“Don’t go puking on me. I don’t need eyes to know they be fucked up. Come on, let Mama show you how it’s done. Come on-“ Al would grab your arm, as she would use the side of the couch to help find her way around. Logan tried to be sneaky, and used his foot to push the coffee table away for her. So she didn’t trip. You noticed that. That didn’t sneak by you.

“Yeah, this is why I hate Magicians. Like come on man. Not even a cool spell like Sectumsempra. Just a damn ax. Lame to the L TO THE A TO THE M E-!” Wade you whine, as Al would try and figure out what needed to be done today. As if she wanted to deal with baby legs again.

“Not your PotterHead bullshit again, you fucking nerd-“ Logan would complain, before DogPool would jump into his lap. With a rag in her mouth. Wanting to help him out. The gesture was appreciated, as he rewarded her a ruffle to her fluffy head.

“Alright, here’s how you put a body together. If I can do it you can do it. Not like you can fuck up. Just gotta get it good enough, and that damn healing factor does the rest. Don’t faint on me, baby.” Al would comfort you, before she would guide your hands to the torso.

Was quite the adventure, but it was going to be a needed skill after all. It’s important to make sure they heal up as fast as possible. You never know when you’ll be ambushed, or some other wild plot point that makes you stressed. Not to mention that being a throuple meant getting used to this.

With taking a breather at the butchered surgery, you would stand up to look at Logan. Most of his face had actually healed over already. Well, the muscle anyway. He may not have been as bad off as Wade but you wanted to make sure he was doing ok all the same.

“Don’t give me those doe eyes. I’ll be fine, kid. Nothing we can’t handle. We’re gonna be fine. You did your job. Go wash up. Don’t want to know what the hell you’ll catch.” He tried to act like this wasn’t something painful, but you knew. You knew he’s hurting badly. It’s just easier to pretend than to just make everyone uncomfortable.

You would give a little huff, but toon the advice. A shower was certainly needed. Was a well earned reward. Helped take a lot of pressure off of Al’s shoulders. She could focus on cleaning around the home now, since you did the hardest part. Now was just time to clean, and hopefully help the boys clean up to.

Looks like it wasn’t needed, as you returned. There to see that Logan had come to help clean Wade up on his own. Despite the aches, he was doing his best to help clean up Wade. Taking away all the ruined clothes, and using the cloth that DogPool gave him. Just making sure the stitch work was taken care of.

“Careful with the claws, peanut. Daddy’s sore.” Wade would laugh, but you could hear the dryness. A dryness of exhaustion. You may not understand what it’s like to be in pain twenty four seven but it’s not that hard to understand it’s taxing.

“There’s still a needle and thread here, bub. I’ll finish off your lips next.” He would warn him, but that tired tone was also shared. There wasn’t really that normal bite to it. It was like the two of them were on autopilot. That it was easier to let a routine speak over an isolating silence. It’s easier to pretend everything’s normal than to let the pain sink in. To be deep in your bones, make you spasm, and remind you that sometimes being alive isn’t the best gift humanity can have.

“Come on, you to buddy.” You would soon grab a damp cloth from the kitchen. You took your turn on the couch. Just gentle dabs at Logan’s cheek, in some kind of means to help Logan. You can’t take away the pain, but maybe showing you cared could help? That you’ll never be exhausted of them complaining. Being in pain twenty four seven would wear anyone down. It’s not fair to let them pretend it isn’t.

“Daw, kitties getting pampered.” Wade would lazily say. As if he was in so much pain it was triggering a high. Was that something possible? To reach a pain level you get a buzz and can’t really comprehend your surroundings? Yeah. Yeah you can.

“Ignore him. Wades being Wade.” Logan grumbled, but didn’t fight your attempts to help. Even if the cold cloth did nothing, the fact you were willing to try can be enough sometimes. Not everything can be cured. Doesn’t mean people can’t try and help dull it.

That seemed to be the last anyone said, for a while. Never thought the Merc With The Mouth would ever be quiet. Guess sometimes your body just can’t process things. That so much goes on all at once that your brain just can’t keep up. Sometimes you just gotta autopilot. To feel your body throb, beg, cry, spasm, ache, bones crack, muscles tear, brain buzz, nerves burn, just feel every fiber of your being set a blaze. Sometimes you just have to ride it out, until you can come back from autopilot.

You didn’t pressure them at all. You let them do their autopilot. Didn’t interrupt them at all. Just let them do what helped them best. You just made sure to help in your own way. Such as reducing their need to move more than they should. Grabbing them new clothes, washing their bodies by hand, getting them something to drink, just whatever they needed to got it. You were able bodied, and knew they already felt shit enough not being able to get up to do it themselves. You didn’t hold it over their heads. They had enough of a rough day.

“Thanks peanut.” Wade would smile at you, as you would plant a kiss to the top of his head. A gruff was given from Logan, his own means of thank you, so you kissed his head as well. He deserved to get affection all the same. Just because Wade was more open to his emotions didn’t mean Logan gets left out from the smooches.

“They ain’t gonna leave the couch for a while. I know that feeling-“ Al would say, as she had blankets for them. So you took them from her, and helped them get as comfortable as their aches allowed them to. So much ache that even Logan couldn’t complain at Wade’s overly touchy affection. He was just to damn tired.

“Better get used to this. Happens once a month I swear.” Al huffed, as you gave a sound of agreement. Given she wouldn’t be able to see you nod your head. Just hurt your heart to see it all, but that’s just how the cookie crumbles. Sometimes people are born with it, like Logan, some just get it from Mother Nature saying you had to be special like Wade. Couldn’t imagine the mental barrier they had. Then again, not like they had a choice.

Least DogPool was there to help. Having jumped up on the couch, and snuggling between them. Doing her little pat to the blanket, and curling up between her daddies. Doing her best to help them. Warmed your heart. You made sure she had a plushie while she was there. She wouldn’t leave their side easy after all.

“Not bad for your first run around. Didn’t say that bullshit of ‘wow you are so strong-‘ and that useless crap everyone says-“ Al would ramble to you, as she returned to the dishes. Back to her routine. Like nothing had even happened.

“I mean, why would I? It’s a given, and it’s not like it’s doing much.” You muttered, as you tried to do the routine as well. To try and wash, and clean, like nothing weird had happened. That wasn’t your normal, though. But you’ll learn to have that normal.

They deserved to feel normal.

[turtleblogatlast]

[ cw: scars / permanent injuries / chronic pain / ]

Leo’s shell gets some permanent cracks in it due to the Krang, and as a result his shell’s pattern is all messed up.

He makes a fuss about it in a lightheartedly vain way, but it’s clear that it bothers him, more than just the chronic pain that comes with it.

The one who breaks about the cracks isn’t Leo in the end, it’s Mikey.

It’s a night where Leo can’t sleep, insomnia and the remnants of a fit pulsing through his shell keeping him awake. When making the rounds to check up on everything, he sees Mikey, crouched over some old crayon drawings, drawings that were only salvaged by some miracle.

Mikey always loved matching with his “cool blue bro” growing up. Their shell designs were something they had in common, different from the spines/spikes that their other brothers had. It felt good to share that with Leo.

To Mikey, seeing that pattern tarnished felt a little too much like their home getting destroyed. Worse, even. The two of them are complementary colors, it hits harder when things disrupt that.

And Mikey admits this to Leo, on this day where emotion kept mounting up in him until he couldn’t help but break a little. It feels selfish to say, but it’s the truth. It’s a visual that’ll constantly haunt Mikey, knowing what the cracks represent, knowing how they lost something that was just theirs to share.

Drawing Mikey to him, a hand on Mikey’s intact shell pattern, Leo admits that that’s what kills him the most too. He can deal with the pain, he can deal with the appearance, but he can’t deal with no longer seeing himself in the crayon drawings they managed to salvage from their past. Drawings that highlight their shell patterns, because Mikey always had a lot of fun drawing those.

He always loved what they decided they represented.

———

“Like links of a chain!” Little Mikey had called them as he scribbled them down in oranges and blues.

“Of course it’s like chains!” Little Leo nodded, having never noticed that before, “It, like, shows how we’re- how we’re always connected!”

Little Mikey had gasped at that, stars in his eyes as he babbled endlessly about how that meant they’re the chains holding the family together, right?

“Raphie and Donnie don’t have chains on their shells, so we gotta step up to keep everyone together!” Little Mikey said as he drew big circles around his drawings of their family, overlapping circles of orange and blue around everyone.

“Yeah! And if anyone gets lost, we’ll bring them back!” Little Leo boasted with a laugh, “No one has to be alone, we’ll make sure of it!”

“We’ll make sure of it!” Little Mikey echoed with a happy giggle.

———

‘You sure made sure of it, Mikey.’ Leo thinks, continuing to run his hand comfortingly down Mikey’s shell.

Then a thought hits him.

“Well, we got something better than just shell patterns in common now!” Leo starts, waiting until Mikey looks up to continue, “We got portals, little brother!” He grins, “And y’know, I think you’ve done a great job keeping us all together, Miguel. Sorry you had to pick up my slack.”

Mikey looks two steps away from sobbing at that, but his smile is wide, “You just got lost, of course I had to bring you back.” He leans back, out of Leo’s hold, and looks his big brother in the eyes, “That’s what we said- Raphie and Donnie don’t have portals…”

“-So we gotta step up-“ Leo continues.

“-To keep everyone together!” The finish simultaneously, laughing a little at the juvenile words.

A wry smile crosses Leo’s face, “Again, sorry I’ve been dropping the ball there. Feels like I did a lot of the opposite instead.”

He yelps as Mikey swiftly smacks him on the head.

“Nuh uh uh, none of that!” Mikey puffs out his chest, “I’ll have no slander toward my fellow portal pal!”

“Alright, alright…”

It’s not a fix to anything, more of a new way of looking at a change. Bringing that change into their lives as something familiar.

The cracks in Leo’s shell remain, and the cracks in Mikey’s hands scar over, but their family stays together all the same.

They gotta make sure of it, after all!

[calp0sa]

Favorite Headcanons for airy?

i have like 10 million headcanons for him but i’ll list as many as i can from the top of my head

-hes autistic LIKE ME!!! and is specifically very autistic about music (like meee) i like to think he had a huge collection of vinyls cds cassettes etc and its all stuff from the 60s to the early 90s. no doubt he had a bunch of posters for his favorite bands and musicians too. and hes awesome on the guitar, great rhythm guitarist… its a shame he couldn’t make his talent a profession like he once dreamed of doing. oh well, at least the number 1 perk of trucking is that its peaceful and you dont really have to interact with many people! plus trucks have radios, and cd players, so airy would often bring along a few albums to listen to as he drove those long days and nights.

-hes also got a knack for aquatic creatures (LIKE ME) of course, being a literal fish monster himself (cool fact my airy design is like actually a fish monster he can breathe underwater and everything and his limbs are covered in fish scales) airy loves fish both as friends and food. hes particularly fond of freshwater fish, which makes sense considering the fact he grew up around the swamps of louisiana (yes im making him louisianan Like Me shaddap) hes also fond of those fucked up looking deep sea creatures, just so fascinating. i think airy liked to do a little fishing in his spare time. And hes awesome at cooking em but fair warning for those with a low spice tolerance… he loves spicy food btw (like meeeee)

-when airy was in the forest, he kept a log of his thoughts on the computer, in an attempt to hopefully give himself whatever clarity he could. the notes ranged from all brief, to desperate, to hopeless, to spiraling, to borderline dadaist poetry? to insanity, to denial, to whatever, really i think his mind was obviously all over the place on a daily basis. things must have been pretty loud for him, that cassette player was probably one of the only things keeping him together, before he numbed himself n all, which is around the time he ceased writing these notes as he saw no point in doing so.

-ok enough about him suffering we’ll get back to that later Airy’s favorite drink is ginger ale i mean look at that guy and tell me he doesnt fw ginger ale or dr pepper are you kidding me. he can have dr pepper as a little treat (too much soda is bad for anyone especially if youre an old feller like airy) speaking of little treats i like to think he has an insatiable sweet tooth LIKE MEEEE and his favorite treaaats are pumpkin pie, macarons and practically anything chocolate he loves chocolate (im like allergic to not projecting onto my favorite characters if you couldnt tell) maybe airy knows how to bake a little bit i mean he is an object show host after all

-this is oddly specific but airy is a chronic pain warrior #JUSTLIKEME so when he was in the forest he’d make like home made heating pads by wetting a glob of moss and putting it against his face while he had his flame on (he sometimes put it on a plank over a bonfire if he felt like it) this was a bit tricky when he broke his face but im sure he managed he always manages (kinda) (relatively speaking)

-well anyway we’re back to the forest and i just mentioned his broken face So you know how he disappeared for seven months after he did that lol well what if it was because the pain and shock from that incident evoked the long lost clarity he’d been so stubbornly avoiding in order to cling on to his meaningless, fallacious escapism which triggered him and sent him into a state of agonizing self consciousness, reminding him of his earthly death, how he used to be Someone, and how he essentially let himself rot into what is now an empty shell of who he once was. after so many years, the first reflection he saw of himself was seen in something broken; shards of glass, of which he couldn’t stand to look at… as there is nothing comparable to the pain of revelation, the burden of truth after having been so lost and festered into the stagnant waters that surround you. he felt he had no choice, he disposed of the shards into the nearby stream. those seven months were not just a matter of physically healing, but as a means to losing himself all over again.

-Aaaanyway i think airy had a cat at some point in his life i think we can all agree hes a cat person right!!! he had a tortoiseshell kitty named goose and he loved her very much. idk why he named her goose he probably just thought it was funny to name an animal after a different animal.

-OH YEAH lemme bring amelia into this listen i am such a huge fan of the theory of airy being related to amelia so i like to think hes her uncle!! when amelia was little she’d stay over at airy’s house while her parents were away and he’d teach her stuff like how to fish, how to ward off snakes, how to kayak, all that jazz cuz he was an awesome uncle. she was kinda like an actual daughter to him. and amelia was so fond of sunny weather as a child, one dayy at airy’s house she had to stay inside because it was too rainy, so she occupied herself by drawing a little picture of the way she wished earth was; always sunny, sky always blue, grass always green, huh! the way she drew that grass as individual little triangles is all too familiar is it not…

OK I HAVE SOMEWHERE 2 GO now i’ll probablt add more later But thank u so much for asking this i love love love infodumping about anything airy related i heart airy

[theotherbuckley]

Hi! Do you have any BuckTommy fic recs?

Yes I do!💜

Something, everything by rosetterer 25K

(Basically, they get together, go on dates, fall in love, get in accidents, renovate their home, get cats, and eventually, they get engaged. Buck gets everything he has ever wanted.)

Sweet child of mine by jamespearce911 @diazsdimples 3.4K

Buck and Tommy bring their daughter home from the hospital and enjoy their first few hours alone with a newborn baby.

This is what it feels like by ipretendtobesane @usereddie 1.3K

Buck blushes. Always has. Gets flustered easily, ducks his head with a giddy, boyish grin at any compliment. It’s poetic, really, that he’s a firefighter because he flushes bright, fire engine red every time.

Still, though. He’s not sure he’s ever blushed as much as he does with Tommy.

(Fragile) handle with care by rogerzsteven 3.1K @rogerzsteven

Buck gets hurt on a call, Tommy looks after him.

Come and save me from it by devirnis @devirnis 6K

It happens so quickly. One second Evan is grinning exhaustedly at him, and the next thing Tommy knows, Evan’s eyes go wide as what little colour he has left drains from his face. Tommy makes an aborted move towards him, but Evan shoves his chair back from the island and bolts for the bathroom.

BTHB: appendicitis

Hold me on my bad day by disasterbuckdiaz @bidisasterevankinard 1.2K

Tommy had a bad day, has an awful morning he starts as blanket burrito, but his boyfriend’s cuddles make it better

Pancakes, kisses, and a little bit of TLC by theotherlucifer @theotherbuckley (shameless plug) 4.5K

(or Buck wakes up with a chronic pain flare-up the morning after, and Tommy takes care of him)

Explicit fics:

Hot damn! But no holy man by jay (tofupofu) @dadbodbuck 3.5K

It’s not often that Buck gets the opportunity to feel small. And, sure, he likes the aspects of smallness that he’s been given so far—the being held, the big hands on his waist, the way Tommy covers almost all of Buck when he tops—but he wants more. He wants to feel small in other ways.

But he’s not sure how to ask.

Evan, elated and euphoric by brewrosemilk @gayhoediaz 16.5K

For a moment, that’s all that seems to echo inside of Buck’s head, more than ever before; you have a man on top of you, you are kissing a man; you’re touching a man, and he’s touching you, and you like it.

Buck likes it - not just being with Tommy, being with a man - that part is obvious, but he… likes that he likes it. He loves that he likes it. Truthfully, he doesn’t think that he has ever felt more at home in his own body than he does in this very moment.

Teach me how to dance with you by goodboybuck @prettyboybuckley 8.9K

OR: Buck explores the wonders of gay sex (slowly, with a really patient, sweet Tommy guiding the way and while having a lot of fun)

Okay this was WAY longer than I thought. There’s totally more good fics out there but this list is getting long…. Maybe I’ll make another (feel free to RB with your own recs!!)

[luveline]

love you so much. your writing has been a light in my life for the last months. it's cute and lovely and just everything i need in my life. <3 i have chronic back pain and it's been bad the last couple of weeks. this keeps me inside and secluded most of the time and it eats me alive sometimes, moreso mentally than physically. the thought of having to deal with this the rest of my life is very overwhelming at times. could you maybe write something about aaron taking care of reader with chronic pain, maybe she's mad or sad or even pushes him away but he won't go and he loves her anyway. i feel like a guy like that would be all in no matter what. don't we all look for that kind of love? anyway, lovely to meet you and i hope you have a wonderful day/week/month/year/life. you deserve it *kiss* *flies away embarrassed* *love ya still and always*

thank you for requesting, I hope you get some relief soon my love ♡ —aaron draws you out of your bed and your bad mood. fem!reader

"Honey, let's get up." 

It irritates you to hear Aaron phrasing it that way. Let's, like he's wasted the morning in bed with you. In reality, he's spent the last few hours working through a thousand and one chores in the kitchen while you rammed your head under a pillow. He's been up.

You try very hard to keep your annoyance to yourself. He's encouraging, not cruel. "I don't want to," you say. 

Aaron's footsteps have the floorboards creaking softly. The pillow is lifted from your head gently, and an even nicer expression waits for you when you turn your sweaty head. You've been sleeping on your stomach in an unsuccessful attempt to stave the pain away. 

"Hello, beautiful." 

He says it to get you smiling. It's not unlike him to compliment you, but he usually does it in subtler ways. You look great tonight, or, That's an amazing colour on you, honey. This saccharine greeting makes you huff a laugh, but the huff hurts you worse, a slice of pain from somewhere in your shoulder down to the small of your back. 

"Oh, fuck," you sigh. Quiet, dragging, your voice shudders with pain.

Aaron's brows pinch together. "I'm gonna help you up, yes?" 

"I can't get up." 

"I don't want to patronise you, but you know staying in bed too long only makes it worse. I'm going to help you up and we'll take a short walk. A lap around the house, that's all." 

You shake your head, emotion burning behind your eyes. "No, I really don't want to." 

Aaron sits down carefully by your hip, a big hand needling between the bed and your stomach. It feels nice to be held like that. The other perches on your hip, close to the epicentre of your pain. That's not so nice. 

"Can I turn you over?" 

You sigh unhappily. "Yeah. Okay." 

All his care, Aaron turns you on your back. He doesn't give you time to think before he helps you into a sitting position, humming empathetically at your pained hissing, "I know, I know. I'm sorry, I just don't want it to get worse."

"It's worse now," you panic, hot tears collecting in the corners of your eyes as you squeeze them tightly closed. 

"I know… You're doing well." 

"I'm not doing well! It really hurts, Aaron, it– it's really hurting, it won't stop," you say, trying not to move too much as you talk. You're breathless with pain, that shattering of discomfort glowing like glass shards somewhere under the skin. 

"You're doing well, honey, I don't know what else to tell you. This is doing well, considering. I don't wanna force you up but I won't watch you get worse." 

"Then don't watch," you mutter, bringing a hand up to your eyes.

"Do you think I have a choice?" he asks, no cruelty or derision as he rubs your thigh. "I couldn't walk away from you if I wanted to, and I don't want to. So don't let's argue, honey." His voice drops to a crooning murmur. "Don't be mean to me. I love you." 

"Aaron…" You put the back of your hand to your forehead. You love him, you don't mean to be grumpy, and you know for a fact that he doesn't hold it against you —if there's one man who could say 'I won't walk away' and have you believe it, no question, it's him. "I'm not being mean." 

"No? You don't think so?" he asks, leaning in a touch.

You offer him a kiss. Mean women don't give affection to their boyfriends. Pleased, Aaron kisses you softly with his hand creeping up toward your hip, cautious with his hands. He hasn't ever been rough with you. 

"'Don't let's argue,'" you quote as his kiss moves to the corner of your mouth. "That's so old-fashioned." 

Eyes closed, heads craned together, the air between you is warm. You almost forget the twinging pain wrapping around your coccyx. Almost. 

"I am old-fashioned," he says simply. Having noticed that you're in pain, Aaron pulls back from you and stands up, offering his hands. "Come on, let's take a lap and I'll forget all about your being mean to me. I'll even make you lunch." 

His sentence might incite enthusiasm, but you still struggle to stand, and while you're reassured he'll stay with you, he can't erase the pain with nice words. "Will you hold an ice pack on me?" you ask. 

"Of course I will." 

"Thank you… I love you, sorry I didn't say it back. I was in a mood, I think." 

Aaron smiles at your on-the-nose joking. "I love you, too. Let's ask Jack to come and walk with you." 

"I thought you were walking with me?" you ask, knowing from his smile alone that he's about to make a joke bordering on pert.  

"Jack's more your speed, honey." 

[lukesvangelista]

𝐢’𝐥𝐥 𝐚𝐥𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮ᵐʳ⁷³

*gif by @makarhughes

in which matt’s helped y/n through her chronic illness for years, but one night, it all becomes too much.

warnings; chronic illness (lupus), hospitals + hospitalization, worried matt rempe

When you were 14, you sat in the sterile doctor's office, your hands trembling slightly as you waited for test results. You had been feeling off for months—fatigue, joint pain, strange rashes—and you knew something was wrong, but hearing the words "You have lupus" felt like the ground was pulled from beneath you. Your chest tightened as the doctor explained the diagnosis, your mind racing with questions you didn’t know how to ask. All you could think about was how this would affect your life, your schooling, and the people you loved. You felt numb, unable to process it all at once.

When you were 19, you had met Matt during an off-season charity event. You were volunteering at an animal shelter, and hadn’t expected much from the night, just another hockey fundraiser with a few familiar, but many unfamiliar faces. But when you were introduced to Matt, something clicked. He was easygoing, with a quiet charm that drew you in right away. You guys spent the evening talking, first about hockey, then about everything else. By the end of the night, you were laughing like old friends. You hadn't thought much of it at first, but as time went on, your paths kept crossing, and it became clear that meeting Matt wasn’t just a coincidence—it was the start of something that changed your life.

Telling Matt about your chronic illness had been one of the hardest things you ever did. You remembered the night clearly, sitting across from him with your hands clenched tightly in your lap. Your heart pounded as you struggled to find the right words, terrified of how he might react, “I have lupus.” you finally said, your voice barely above a whisper. You couldn’t bring yourself to look at him, afraid of seeing pity or disappointment in his eyes. But instead of pulling away, Matt gently reached for your hand, his quiet reassurance easing some of the weight you’d been carrying alone for so long.

Ever since then, he’d been the absolute sweetest boyfriend — always taking care of you when things got rough, and always reassuring you about your strength and resilience. It had even gotten to the point where Matt had offered to take games and practices off, but you always told him no. Despite his reluctance, he always listened to you.

While you had been feeling okay over the past couple of weeks, today was one of those days.

It had been one of those mornings where you knew, as soon as you opened your eyes, that it was going to be a rough day. Your body ached in ways that made it hard to move, and a low fever had settled in overnight, leaving you feeling drained. You groaned softly, rolling over and catching a glimpse of yourself in the mirror— the familiar butterfly-shaped rash had returned, bright across your cheeks.

Matt wasn’t in bed next to you. You cursed to yourself as you realized the time, noting that he was at morning practice. You groaned, tears welling up in your eyes at the pain you were in. You tried to fight through it and get out of bed, but the pain was too much. You felt helpless. With the strength you did have, you reached out to grab your phone off of the nightstand next to you, sending a quick text to Matt.

one of those days. will you be home soon?

You waited anxiously for Matt’s reply, but didn’t have to wait long.

leaving the arena now. be home soon, my love.

On the other end of the phone, Matt could sense something was wrong. Even when you were dealing with a flare up, you were as independent as could be. You hated asking for help, because it made you feel like you were a burden. The fact that you texted him was a miracle in itself.

When he got home, he set his gear down in the garage and made his way up the stairs to your room as quickly as he could. Within minutes, he was sitting beside you on the bed, concern etched on his face. “How are you feeling?” he asked gently, brushing a hand across your forehead to check for a fever. You were burning up.

“Better now that you’re here,” you joked, cracking a small smile, but Matt could see right through it. He smiled at you sadly, climbing into bed next to you. He could see the exhaustion in your eyes. Whenever you went through a flare up, you felt as though you could sleep for days on end.

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” he rolled his eyes, settling down under the blankets as you gently placed your head on his shoulder, “close your eyes, love, and just rest. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

So you did.

Matt stayed close all day, making sure you stayed hydrated when you woke up, adjusting the pillows when you needed more comfort, and even gently applying cool compresses to your face when the heat of your fever became unbearable. Every time you tried to apologize or downplay your discomfort, he stopped you with a quiet, reassuring smile, “I’ve got you,” he’d say, his voice calm and steady.

By the time bedtime came around, you were still achy, but the fever had gone down a little, and the rash had begun to fade. Matt had barely left your side, keeping the TV on low and talking to you softly, filling the silence with easy conversation to distract you from the pain. As the two of you lay in bed that night, Matt’s arm draped protectively over you, and you felt a deep sense of comfort. You hated feeling weak, but with Matt, it never felt like you had to fight alone.

As you fluttered off to sleep, Matt pressed a soft kiss to your forehead. He loved it when you slept — you were so extremely beautiful, and he knew that sleeping took the pain away for a brief moment of time. At the same time, however, he couldn’t help but worry. It had been a long time since he’d seen a flare up this bad, but you had gotten through it. That gave him just enough solace to fall asleep next to you after hours of worrying as you slept, his arm still draped gently over your body.

Within minutes of his eyes closing, Matt stirred in his sleep, feeling you shift beside him. He was exhausted, having stayed by your side all day, but he’d never leave you when you were having such a rough time with your illness. He had only just fallen asleep when he felt a light tug on his arm.

“Matt…” your voice was faint, barely a whisper in the dark room, but there was an unmistakable tremor in it that shot adrenaline through him.

He blinked his eyes open and sat up quickly, heart already pounding. “Hey, what’s wrong?” he asked, trying to keep his voice steady, even though dread immediately settled in his chest.

You looked at him, your face pale and clammy, beads of sweat dotting your forehead. You swallowed hard, struggling to speak. “I… I don’t feel right. It’s never been this bad before. I think… I think I should go to the hospital.”

Matt’s stomach dropped. The words hit him like a punch, and suddenly, he was wide awake, fear gnawing at him. He kept his face calm, though—he had to. If you saw how scared he was, it would only make you panic.

“Okay,” he said gently, his voice even though his mind was racing. “Let’s get you there. Can you sit up?”

You nodded weakly, but as you tried to move, you winced in pain, and Matt immediately reached over, helping you. His hands were steady, though inside, his chest felt like it was caving in. You were never the type to admit that you needed help, and hearing you say that you wanted to go to the hospital made his heart twist in his chest.

Once you were sitting up, Matt quickly grabbed a sweatshirt for you, carefully sliding it over your shoulders before easing your legs over the side of the bed. “I’ve got you,” he murmured, his hands never leaving you as he helped you stand.

Every second felt like it stretched on forever. In his mind, he was already imagining the worst—what if something was really wrong? What if you were in more pain than you let on? But outwardly, he stayed calm, focusing on the next step. He needed to get you to the hospital, and everything else could wait.

Once the two of you were in the car, Matt kept glancing over at you, his hand gripping the wheel tighter than necessary. “You’re doing great,” he said softly, hoping the words would bring you some comfort, though the knot in his stomach tightened every time you shifted uncomfortably in her seat.

“It hurts,” you cried out, your voice shaky as you gripped your stomach and leaned forward to rest your head on the dashboard. Matt flinched at the pain in your voice, tears gathering in his eyes, but he couldn’t let them spill.

“I know, baby, I know. We’re almost there, just hold on.”

The drive felt like it took forever, every red light adding another layer to Matt’s mounting anxiety. But he didn’t rush. The last thing you needed was a reckless driver on top of everything else.

When you finally arrived at the hospital, Matt helped you out of the car, wrapping his arm securely around your waist as you guys made your way inside. The bright lights and sterile smell of the hospital hit him hard, but he kept his focus on you, his heart aching at how much pain you seemed to be in.

As Matt checked in, you leaned heavily against him, your head resting on his shoulder. You hadn’t said much since the car ride, and Matt’s worry spiked even higher.

The nurse took both of you to a room, and once you were settled on the hospital bed, Matt pulled a chair close, refusing to leave your side. The doctors came in, asking you questions. Although you were obviously in tremendous pain, the doctors wouldn’t let up and get you help. But all Matt could do was watch, his hands clenched together in his lap, his mind screaming for answers.

When the doctors left to run tests, Matt finally let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. He took your hand, squeezing it gently. “You’re gonna be okay, alright? They’ll figure out what’s going on.”

You gave him a small, tired nod, your eyes glassy from pain and exhaustion. “Thanks for staying calm,” you whispered, your voice weak but filled with gratitude.

Matt forced a smile, leaning down to kiss your forehead. “Anything for you.” But inside, his heart was racing, every second dragging on painfully as he waited for some kind of news. He kept stroking your hand, praying silently that everything would be okay, all while forcing his expression to stay calm.

For your sake, he would hold it together. But the second you were out of this hospital, he’d let all his fear and worry flood out—just not yet. Not until you were okay.

Within minutes, you had passed out from exhaustion. The doctors moved quickly around you. Matt stood by your side, holding your hand, his thumb brushing over your knuckles in an attempt to soothe both you and himself. Although you were asleep, he could feel the tension in your grip, the way you were holding on to him like he was your anchor in a storm.

“I’m right here,” he whispered softly, leaning closer to you. “You’re going to be okay. I’m not going anywhere.”

But even as he said it, the fear gnawed at him. What if you weren’t okay? What if this time was worse than before?

The doctors were speaking in low tones, their words just out of reach, and Matt’s stomach churned as he tried to make sense of it all. He wanted to demand answers, to make them tell him what was going on, but he couldn’t leave you. He needed to stay with you, to keep you calm, even as his own fear threatened to overwhelm him.

After what felt like an eternity, the doctor approached, her expression serious but not alarming. Matt held his breath.

“We’re going to admit Y/N for observation,” the doctor explained. “Her symptoms are concerning, but we’re taking all the necessary steps to stabilize her. We’ll get her comfortable and monitor her closely.”

Matt nodded, swallowing hard. “Is she going to be okay?”

The doctor offered a small, reassuring smile. “We’re doing everything we can. She’s in good hands, Mr. Rempe.”

Matt thanked her, but his focus was already back on you. You were still holding his hand, your grip weak but steady, your eyes still closed as they wheeled you toward a permanent room. His chest tightened again, but he forced himself to stay composed, even though he was falling apart inside.

Once you were in the room, Matt sat down beside your bed, his hand still clutching yours. The room was quiet, the beeping of machines the only sound breaking the silence. Your breathing had calmed slightly, but you looked so pale, so fragile, that it nearly broke him.

He leaned forward, resting his forehead on your joined hands, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’m here. You’re going to get through this, okay? You’re stronger than this. I know you are.”

And even though he was terrified, even though the fear still clawed at him, Matt knew he’d stay with you through it all. No matter how scared he was, no matter how hard it got, he wouldn’t leave your side.

You were everything to him, and he’d do whatever it took to make sure you were okay. Even if that meant staying up all night, fighting sleep when his eyes would flutter shut. The clock struck 1:00, 2:00, 3:00, 4:00, 5:00, and so on, but the boy refused to sleep, his tired eyes glancing over to you in concern more times than he could count. Time moved slowly, but that didn’t matter to Matt.

The next morning, around 9:00, sunlight filtered through the thin curtains of the hospital room, casting a soft glow across the bed. You blinked awake slowly, the familiar beeping of machines and the sterile hospital scent filling your senses. As you adjusted to the light, your eyes immediately found Matt.

He was still in the same chair beside your bed, his posture tense but upright. His hand was still holding yours, his grip firm even though he looked utterly exhausted. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, and it was clear he hadn’t slept at all. His face was slightly scruffy, and his hair was messy from running his hands through it all night, but his gaze was focused entirely on you, concern etched deeply into his features.

“Matt?” your voice came out raspy, your throat dry from a night of fitful sleep. You gave his hand a gentle squeeze, trying to pull his attention back from wherever his thoughts had drifted.

His eyes snapped to yours, relief flooding his expression as soon as he saw you were awake. He immediately leaned forward, his tired features softening. “Hey,” he whispered, his voice thick with fatigue. “You’re awake.”

You nodded slowly, your body still heavy with exhaustion, but you could already feel the difference. You felt better—weak, but a little better, “You stayed up all night?” you asked softly, your heart aching at the sight of him so worn out, knowing he had been up watching over you.

Matt gave you a tired smile, but his eyes were filled with love and relief. “Yeah,” he admitted, his voice gentle, “I didn’t want to sleep in case you needed me.”

You frowned, your heart swelling with love for him, but also a hint of guilt creeping in. “Matt, you didn’t have to do that. You need rest too.”

He shook his head quickly, his thumb brushing gently over the back of your hand. “I’m fine. I wanted to be here. The only thing that matters is you.”

The emotion in his voice made your chest tighten, and you felt tears prick your eyes as you looked at him. You knew he was tired, that he had been running on pure adrenaline and fear since the two of you had arrived at the hospital, but there he was, still sitting by your side, refusing to leave.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” you whispered, your voice breaking slightly.

Matt leaned forward, his free hand brushing a stray tear from your cheek. “You won’t ever have to find out,” he said softly, his voice filled with quiet conviction. “I’m not going anywhere, Y/N. I’m always going to be here for you. No matter how hard things get.”

Your throat tightened, and you couldn’t stop the tears that welled up in your eyes. “I hate that you’re worrying so much,” you whispered. “I hate that you have to deal with this because of me.”

Matt’s expression softened, and he shifted in his chair, leaning in closer to you. “You’re not a burden, Y/N. Not even close. I’d do this a thousand times over if it meant being here for you. You’re everything to me.”

The sincerity in his words made your heart swell, and you couldn’t hold back the tears anymore. You let them fall silently, grateful for his unwavering support, his love that never faltered even when things got tough. You squeezed his hand tightly, wanting him to know how much he meant to you, how much his presence had kept you grounded through everything.

“I love you,” you whispered, your voice barely audible, but the words filled with all the emotion you couldn’t fully express.

Matt’s face softened even more, and he leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. “I love you too,” he murmured, his lips lingering against your skin for a moment before he pulled back to meet your eyes. “More than anything.”

You stayed like that for a while, the room filled with a quiet peace as you held onto each other. You could feel the weight of everything—your illness, the hospital, the fear—start to lift, replaced by the warmth and comfort of Matt’s love. He had been your rock through it all, never wavering, never leaving your side.

“You should rest now,” you whispered softly, your hand still holding onto his. “You’ve done so much for me. Let me take care of you for a little bit.”

Matt chuckled softly, the sound warm and soothing despite his exhaustion. “Maybe in a little while,” he said with a tired smile. “But right now, I just want to be with you.”

You smiled up at him, your heart full. “You’re the best,” you whispered, your voice filled with affection.

Matt gave you a soft smile, his eyes filled with nothing but love. “Yeah,” he said quietly, brushing a thumb gently over her knuckles, “I know.”

You chuckled softly, an eye roll quickly following. But as the morning light filled the room, the two of you stayed there, wrapped in the quiet comfort of each other’s presence, knowing that together, you could face whatever came next.

That was until you checked the time, however. You groaned, and Matt’s head shot up, his brows furrowing as he looked over at you to figure out what was wrong, “Matthew Rempe! What happened to morning practice?”

And that was the first time he had left your side.

[andhumanslovedstories]

hey here's another question that I've been thinking about for about a week with no particular breakthrough. I'm so much on the healthcare side that all my advice is on that side. Dude, I read academic articles for this and didn't come up with anything particularly useful. That's why I'm answering this publicly, so other people hopefully add something useful. (Also I know you said you're not looking for opioids. I'm gonna talk about opioids anyway they certainly affect perceptions of chronic pain. In your case, try making clear early on that you don't want opioids.)

I'll say some things that I've noticed from my work to maybe provide some insight into healthcare's side of the exchange. I'm not saying this is the way things should be, I'm giving advice based on how I see things are. I wish I could say this wasn't the case, but when there's a pain medication standoff, the two ways I've seen it work out best for a patient are:

A third party advocates for the patient. (like family, nurse, social worker, different specialist, patient advocate, etc)

Change in caregiver.

I don't like those as the top answers, but that's what I've seen and it's consistent with a lot of the accounts I encountered. There is also a third way that the pain medication standoff can quickly end in a patient's favor:

3. New evidence (new symptom, imaging, vital signs, lab test, etc) forces a reexamination of how we're thinking about the patient.

This is also the "oh shit they seem worse" method, but it can also be "we have gained new information that re-contextualizes the information we already knew." This is like hey the xray came back, your whole bone is dust, or hey your blood pressure is now significantly higher, or hey oops your appendix exploded.

In all three cases, something new happens to change the dynamic. This works for healthcare providers operating in good faith because someone comes in fresh and/or the new dynamic causes the healthcare team to do a new assessment and cost/benefit analysis with this updated information. This works for healthcare providers operating in bad faith because they are either removed from the situation or put in a position where giving pain medication is less onerous than not giving pain medication. I genuinely, genuinely believe far more healthcare employees are operating in good faith rather than bad faith, although the end results can look the same from the patient side. This means I think that far more people are swayed by additional information that makes pain management have more benefit and less cost.

I don't know how actionable any of this is from the patient side unfortunately. I don't love being like "my advice? wait till shift change, see if you can shake it up." Bring someone to the emergency department with you if you have someone available, preferably someone prepared to make a fuss on your behalf. If you don't have a third person, see if you can get one. Hospitals can have patient advocate as a job. If they aren't available, is there someone on your healthcare team that seems most sympathetic? Try asking them if they have any advice. They might be able to give you some, they might advocate for you. Be careful about badmouthing staff to other staff and avoid compliments to one member of the team that relies on insulting another member. You don't know the relationships at play, and it's sort of like how you shouldn't trash talk your old job when interviewing for a new job. You may be completely right in everything you're saying, but being like "my boss was a crazy asshole who refused to recognize my work," doesn't come off as objective. It can undercut your credibility and introduce hostility into the conversation where it is not productive.

I'd also be prepared to talk about what you already tried to relieve the pain. Again, with you I'd mention upfront that you don't want opioids because they don't work for you. Then say what you have already tried at home before you came in (tylenol, ibpurofen, heating, ice, exercises, stretching, shower, other meds, etc) and the effect of both the pain (can't sleep, makes you nauseated, had to call off sick from work, aren't able to be a caregiver to someone, etc) and your already attempted interventions (no significant pain control, symptoms got worse, called PCP, they said emergency was the next step, etc). If your condition is chronic, compare it on the pain scale and the functionality scale to your baseline. (i.e. "I'm always at least a 3 out of ten on the pain scale, but it doesn't usually leave me bedbound." "Normally Symptom improves after Intervention At Home, but that didn't work this time.") Something that can make providers hesitant is if opioids, benzos, or other powerful drugs are the first and only thing a patient says will help and they're unwilling to try anything else, so sometimes demonstrating flexibility with your pain plan can signal "I'm not here for oxy to sell, I'm here because I want my symptoms to stop (and, if relevant, figure out what is causing them)."

Also if you can and feel safe doing so, consider providing feedback to the hospital. Nothing changes without something documented.

[sunflowersandsapphires]

Hi! Can I have a peony with Matt where he is with a reader with chronic illness, perhaps fibromyalgia? 🫶🏻 I imagine he could sense her flare ups. Thank you!

a/n: As a fellow chronic pain girly, this was very cathartic to write. I tried to keep the painful areas generalized, I hope that’s ok!! Thank you for requesting, my dear! I hope this brings you some comfort!

A soft whimper ripped Matt from slumber, immediately raising his metaphorical hackles. Blinking the lingering sleep away, Matt surveyed the space for any threatening noises or unusual movements. The two of you were still alone, his arms loosely draped around you in the same way he'd passed out after patrol. In his hold, you grimaced, curling in on yourself with a whine.

If he hadn't expected this, the sharp tang of your distress would have been his first clue. But that acrid taste had been lingering all week—like static in the air before a storm. A warning of what was to come.

It wasn’t unusual for you to react this way as the seasons changed, your body adapting to the difference in temperature and humidity with the grace of a newborn moose on an ice rink. The myriad of pain receptors in your brain reacting to invisible stimuli, telling your brain that you needed to flee when the conditions were inescapable. You couldn’t protect yourself from the climate. But your nerve endings never got the memo.

Another mewl of agony drew him impossibly closer to you, as if he could shield you from the battle raging within. 

“I’m here, angel. Right here.” Hesitating mere millimeters from engulfing you in an embrace, Matt whispered as soothingly as he could, terrified of exacerbating your aches with touch. 

“Hurts, Matty. H-hurts so bad.” You cried softly, snatching a fistful of his shirt to tug him flush against you. Your forehead landed against his shoulder, your shallow breaths puffing over his collar.

“Then we’ll stay here today. We’ll stay here until it’s better.” He promised, cradling the back of your head with one hand. 

You drifted in and out of sleep for the majority of the day, eyes fluttering as you woke whenever a new jolt of discomfort shuddered through your body. Matt refused to leave your side, readily supporting you against his chest and eagerly shifting whenever the position failed to suit your needs. He rubbed circles into your sore back, tucking a heating pad against you in the hopes it would relieve some of the tension coiled in your muscles. When his powerful hearing sensed the first growls of hunger in your stomach, he ordered you soup and bread, supplying you after with painkillers and plenty of water. 

As the sunlight faded from his bedroom, you felt the tell-tale squeeze in your throat. Stifling a wave of tears, you pressed a kiss to his jaw. 

“What was that for, love?” He asked, his chin tipping down as he returned the peck.

“For everything.” You murmured, sniffling as he swiped a runaway tear away with his thumb. “Thank you for everything.”

“My pleasure, angel.” He hummed, adjusting the blanket until it properly covered your shoulders.