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soaringthroughthegalaxy · 5 months

Note

Hi!!! How’s it going?

I have a brain cleansing idea 😂

So Hunter is always alert and worried about everyone. How about the reader trying to sooth his worries late at night? Kissing his hands, stroking his hair. With him laying his head in the crook of your neck or trying to hear the steady rhythm of a heartbeat 😭😭. Whatever floats your boat.

Feel free to change things up to your liking (if you like my idea). It can be an established relationship or a friends to lovers thing, whatever you prefer,

Don’t forget to take breaks and to prioritise your health

♡

Hi anon! Thanks for the request. I loved this idea, so I ran with it and tweaked it ever so slightly. Thank you for the little reminder to take breaks - I've been a bit burned out with work, but writing this brought me joy 💕

For a while, I’ve wanted to do a HC’s piece on the Batch looking after reader who has chronic migraines (super self-indulgent), but giving Hunter the migraine worked in this story, so poor bby suffers a little. But it’s okay; he also gets cuddles and love 😂

A Moment of Stillness

Worrying and caring about his brothers all the time weighs heavy on Hunter. So, it’s a good job you’re there to worry and care about him.

Pairing: Hunter x f!reader

Word count: 2.6k

Warnings: fluff, sweetness, comfort, mutual pining, use of strong prescription medicine for migraine, very light scent kink/Hunter finds readers scent comforting, pet names, cuddles, confessions of love, friends to lovers, first kiss.

Another storm had rolled in, the crack of lightning throwing flashes of bright light across your room and the rumble of thunder creating white noise as you worked late into the evening. Several mission reports had already been completed and submitted, but there was still a small stack. That was the downside of sending the boys on back-to-back missions.

Twirling your stylus in one hand, your chin rested in the other, elbow perched on the edge of your desk as you stared off through the window, watching the rain lash against the transparasteel. When you had signed up to assist the GAR, you’d anticipated adventure and thrills, near-death experiences and seeing more of the galaxy. Instead, you had politics to play with Command, bad news to break to your boys when the next mission would see them needed on a skughole of a planet, and an endless supply of paperwork. But you were doing your bit – playing your part and keeping the wheels of the GAR turning. And, ultimately, that was what you’d wanted.

A light rap at your door captured your attention between the rumbles of thunder. Abandoning your desk, stylus discarded next to your datapad, you moved across the small room you’d been given in Tipoca City. It wasn’t much, but within these four walls, you could escape. The door slid open quietly, and a soft smile crossed your lips at the sight that greeted you.

“Hey, cyar’ika.” The smoky rasp of Hunter’s voice felt like a warm blanket on a winter’s day. Eight months, you’d been working with him and his brothers, feeding them missions, directing them to the nearest outposts for supplies, and cheating the system occasionally to get them any extras they needed. They were the closest thing you had to family out here, and the longer you spent with them, the more you grew attached to them – especially to Hunter.

As you moved aside to let Hunter in, the dark circles under his eyes looked worse than before, and every step he took was slower than usual, like the weight of the galaxy rested on his broad shoulders. It wasn’t uncommon for them to swing by when they were back on Kamino, usually to drag you to their barracks for a catch-up, but something about this visit felt different.

“Hey, H.” You answer gently, sliding effortlessly into the small nickname you’d adopted for him, the door shutting once he was inside. “It’s good to see you.”

With a weary sigh, Hunter lifted a hand and rubbed at his forehead. He was exhausted, still in pain from a few injuries he’d sustained at the start of their recent back-to-back missions, and the storm had been the final straw, frazzling his senses and dragging in a migraine. While he loved his brothers dearly, they’d started their usual rounds of bickering and chatter the moment they’d stepped foot in their barracks and, in need of peace, Hunter’s feet had guided him to you.

“Here…” You kept your voice low, pulling out the chair at your desk for Hunter to sit. As he lowered himself gingerly into the seat, you rooted around in the fresher for your medkit. As you turned back to the room, your heart ached. Hunter was propping his head up with one hand, not too dissimilar to the way you’d been earlier, but his eyes were closed, brows furrowed in pain. While you appreciated that his senses were a benefit out on the frontlines, you wanted to shoot whichever Kaminoan had decided having the ability to sense electromagnetic fields would be fantastic for someone whose home was on a stormy planet.

Quietly, you approached, pulling a small blue box from the medkit. Prying it open, you popped one of the pills from its packet. “Take this.” You murmured, waiting for Hunter’s eyes to open.

Hunter had heard your approach and slowly opened his eyes at your words. He had mixed feelings about the pill you offered up – one of your personal ones, prescribed for your own migraines. The side effects you experienced were intense; he’d witnessed it firsthand while looking after you a few times. He’d only used them once before, and the side effects, thanks to his mutations, were even worse. However, he knew that come morning, should he take the tablet, his migraine would be gone. He could regroup and refocus on the next mission.

It was worth the side effects for sweet relief.

Reaching out with one hand, he took the tablet from you, placing it onto his tongue. The medicinal tang as it fizzled made him grimace, a film coating his mouth as it dissolved. Before it kicked in, he’d have ten minutes to return to his barracks. Summoning his little energy, Hunter pushed himself up to stand, using your desk to keep his balance.

“You’re not going anywhere.” You insisted, a firmness to your voice that brokered no argument. “You won’t make it back there before collapsing from exhaustion. Take my bunk.” You gestured to the bed pressed up against the far wall. The standard issue linens had been replaced long ago with softer sheets. Extra pillows had been procured, and Lula sat nestled against them. Wrecker often handed her to you before they left, asking you to look after her until he returned. You weren’t sure if the gentle giant was doing it to try and comfort you – to reassure you they’d be back – or whether he did it because he didn’t want to risk her being misplaced. Either way, she kept you company. And the smile on Wrecker’s face whenever you returned her was brighter than Tatooine’s two suns.

“Don’t want to get in your way.” Hunter mumbled, wincing at the pounding in his head and the slight bout of nausea that rolled through him.

“I wasn’t asking, I was telling.” You double-down, taking matters into your own hands as you guided him the few steps across the room to your bed. Easing him down onto the edge of the mattress, you started to unfasten his armour. Working quickly, you unlatched each piece and set it down neatly beside your bed until he was left in nothing but his blacks. It bothered you a little that they were dirty, and he was about to get into your nice clean bed, having spent Maker knows how long wearing them, but you pushed that aside as you pulled back the sheets for him.

A tattooed hand wrapped around your wrist, and you paused in your actions, head tilting to look up into Hunter’s tired eyes. “I know you.” His voice was whisper soft, words blending a little as the medication started to kick in. You watched as he let go of you, hands slowly dragging the top half of his blacks off, depositing it onto the floor. His pants came next, kicked off haphazardly before he slumped into the bed and closed his eyes.

Most of the time, you saw the boys in their armour, sometimes just in their blacks, and on one occasion, you’d accidentally walked into their barracks just as Crosshair had been coming out of the fresher, copping a load of the man with just a towel around his waist. You’d been mortified, cheeks warming as you turned around quickly to offer privacy. He’d found it hilarious, smirk tugging at his lips as he’d made a risqué comment.

Now, you had a near-naked Hunter in your bed.

Mild panic laced through you, along with appreciation and a coil of heat. Hunter was a good-looking man who you cared for deeply, and you were a red-blooded woman. And those abs of his…

With a shake of your head, you composed yourself and lifted the sheets to cover him.

Hunter couldn’t help the slight hum of appreciation he let out as you placed the sheets over him. Your bed was much comfier than the thin mattresses he and his brothers had in their barracks, and the extra pillows felt like clouds. Not to mention, everything around him smelt like you - a soft, floral scent he’d grown to adore. Another noise slid past his lips as he felt your fingers in his hair, gently undoing the knot of his bandana. The fabric slipped away, and while he felt naked without it, he knew it would otherwise bother him while he slept.

Confident Hunter wouldn’t go anywhere, you laid his bandana on your nightstand. Turning to finish some more reports while he rested, the low rasp of his voice stopped you. “Stay with me?”

“I’m right here.” You countered gently, brows drawing downwards. You weren’t about to leave him in the room to fend for himself.

Reaching out blindly, Hunter patted the vacant spot in the bed. “You’re not.”

A soft laugh escaped you. “H…” You whispered, wanting nothing more than to comfort him but at the same time not wanting to make things weird.

“Please.” Hunter persisted.

You really couldn’t deny him anything, especially when he was unwell and vulnerable. “Alright.” You conceded, returning to the bed. Hand sliding under the sheets in the vacant spot, you found your sleep shirt. Turning your back, you quickly changed and slid into the bed. Reaching up to the panel in the wall, you adjusted the lights – turning them off entirely and plunging the room into darkness would force Hunter’s other senses to overcompensate, so instead, you settled on a dim glow.

As you settled beside Hunter, the room became a cocoon of warmth and soft shadows. The storm outside continued, but it was tranquil within the small confines of your room. Silence lingered for a moment, broken only by the rhythmic patter of rain on the window. Hunter moved slightly onto his side, trying to find a more comfortable position. He was restless, his breathing uneven, and you could tell that the pain and exhaustion were still sitting heavily with him. Without a word, you shifted closer to try and offer some comfort, and Hunter took the invitation.

Although his mind was starting to go blissfully foggy as the medication worked its magic, Hunter’s heart felt as if it were racing. For months, he’d played his cards close to his chest, quietly admiring you, enduring the teasing from his brothers whenever they noticed his gaze lingering on you, and yet now he was sharing a bed with you.

As you shifted towards him, laying on your back, he scooted in and closed the gap between you. Carefully, he slid an arm around your middle, fingers finding your waist as he pressed against you, burying his face into the crook of your neck. Nose pressed to your throat, he inhaled deeply, his overworked senses relaxing as he was surrounded by nothing but you – your scent, your heartbeat, the rise and fall of your torso with every breath you took.

Your hand found its way to his hair, fingers smoothing through the brown curls, nails dragging lightly over his scalp. The tension in his muscles gradually gave way to relaxation, and, in the darkness, the worries that had weighed on Hunter’s shoulders dissipated, replaced by the comforting warmth of your presence.

For a while, neither of you spoke, content in the quiet. Hunter’s breathing evened out, signalling that the pain and stress were finally loosening their grip on him. “Need anything?” You whispered, breaking the silence.

A low, almost content hum vibrated against your neck as Hunter nuzzled closer. “No, ’m good.” He admitted, the words muffled against your skin. “Thanks to you.”

A smile tugged at the corners of your lips. “Anytime, H.” As the storm outside began to calm down, you found yourself lost in thought again. The war raged on, and the future remained uncertain. “I worry about you.” You confessed, your fingers still moving through his hair. “The constant missions, the danger you face, the weight on your shoulders. It’s a lot.”

Hunter lifted his head slightly to meet your gaze in the dim light. His eyes, usually sharp and focused, were hazy and soft. “Worry about you too. But we’ve got each other.” Hunter’s words were slower than usual as he struggled to piece them together through the brain fog.

You could only nod in response as Hunter dipped his head back down, pressing his face back to where it had been before. “Smell good.” He mumbled, uncaring in the moment to censor himself.

You chuckled softly, the sound vibrating through your chest. “I don’t think I’ve ever received that compliment before. But thank you.” Amusement curled through your words.

“Appreciate you. Can rely on you.” Hunter continued, unable to stop the honest words from coming out, his voice a mere murmur against your skin. He shifted, his arm tightening around you. The medication was working in full force, but he fought against it a little longer. “Need to say something.” He whispered.

Tilting your head to look at him, the dim glow revealed the faint outline of his face as he pressed his nose to your pulse point. “What is it?” You asked, curiosity lacing your words.

Hunter didn’t want to make things awkward or weird, but at the same time, he didn’t want to keep hiding things from you. And now felt as good a time as any to come clean. “I care about you. A lot.”

Your heart skipped a beat, and that earlier warmth in your body grew hotter. Hunter’s admission hung in the air.

Hunter shifted again, focusing on your delicate scent and the slightly quickened thud of your heart. His fingers on your waist started to rub soft, clumsy circles. “Think I’m in love with you.” Nervousness rolled through him. “Didn’t plan on sayin’ it like this, but I can’t keep pretendin'.” Pushing the words out took monumental effort, but he wouldn’t let sleep pull him under until he’d said his piece.

The atmosphere in the room shifted, and a sense of rightness filtered through you. “You mean you didn't plan on saying it while heavily medicated?” You couldn’t help but tease, your voice soft but steady. Hunter’s low grunt of agreement, his warm breath fanning across your skin, drew a smile from you. “You should know you’re not alone in feeling that way.” You confessed quietly, figuring it only fair that you also laid your cards on the table.

Delight bloomed in Hunter’s chest, and he inhaled deeply, his grip on you tightening. “You mean...?”

“Yeah.” You confirmed as your hand moved, fingers trailing across the darkened half of his face.

Contentment washed over him, his earlier nervousness chased away by your words and soft actions. “Wanna kiss you.” He admitted.

You felt a smile play on your lips, matching the warmth in your chest. “That can be arranged.” You whispered, leaning in as you closed the small gap between you.

Hunter’s lips met yours in a soft, tender kiss. His hand slid from your waist, sweeping up your body to cup your face as he deepened the kiss, lips moving against yours with a gentle urgency. In that moment, nothing else mattered - no worries or fears, no past or future. There was only the two of you.

Hunter’s eyes met yours in the dim light as you both pulled away. “Get some rest.” You murmured, concerned by the fatigue you could see on his face. While it was sweet that he’d fought against it to share his feelings, he needed to rest. “We can figure everything out tomorrow.”

Hunter nodded, finally giving in to the tiredness as he settled against you. The pain that had etched lines on his face had begun to fade, his shoulders dropping as tension eased. With a sense of newfound comfort, he closed his eyes, safe and content with you, and allowed the soft rhythm of the rain and the steady beating of your heart to lull him into a much-needed sleep.

#Soarings Ask Box #the bad batch x you #the bad batch x reader #bad batch x you #bad batch x reader #tbb x you #tbb x reader #hunter x reader #hunter x you #sergeant hunter x reader #tbb hunter x you #tbb hunter x reader #the bad batch hunter x you #sergeant hunter #the bad batch #star wars the bad batch #star wars clone wars

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winterandwords · 7 months

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For the writers living with chronic illness and physical disability

I'm going to get into writing and posting this while my brain is still half asleep and before I change my mind because it feels too personal and I don't do that online. Please excuse any typos.

Comments on a recent post of mine about wanting to write but not being able to got me thinking. I'm chronically ill and physically disabled. I have been for most of my adult life (I'm 42 now). It's been progressing slowly throughout that time and more rapidly over the last few years. It is what it is.

I don't talk about it in detail on the internet because it's impossible for me (not saying other people can't do this) to accurately represent the full experience in a way I feel comfortable with while still engaging enjoyably with an interest-based community, which is what I'd rather be doing here.

Also, people get fucking weird about it. I have no patience for *pat on the head* "well done for existing" consolation-prize pity bullshit or inspirational cripple bullshit. Equally, I have no patience for being dragged into a who-has-it-worse competition that I'm never going to take part in because I don't see the world that way or a what-about-me-ism-fuelled derailment session.

This shit is complicated. I'm on Tumblr to write and to talk about writing. But if I'm also quietly dealing with all that other stuff alongside making up some guys (gender non-specific) in my head and putting them in situations, I know some of you are too.

And you know what? It's hard. I know it is. We live in an inaccessible world and so many parts of that world and so many people in it can be brutally hostile towards chronic illness and physical disability in ways that still shake me to my core when I encounter them. It no longer surprises me, but it still fucks me up on the regular.

But listen. YOU ARE CREATING. You're doing something huge and worthy and valuable and fucking difficult. You're carrying the weight of all that other shit and YOU ARE STILL CREATING. It might take you longer than you'd like and you might be doing it in ways that are far from ideal, but you are still doing it.

You might feel excluded from communities and events and conversations, not necessarily because anyone is intentionally excluding you, but because you have no option other than to do the sick-person version of things and it's impossible not to feel like you're on the outside looking in sometimes when that's your experience.

The point of all this is that I want you to know with my whole heart that YOU ARE SEEN. Your strength and your determination and your sadness and your rage and your pain and your more-able days and your rock-bottom days are all seen.

Your challenges and your messiness and your perfectionism and your complexity and your dichotomies and the unrealistic standards and demands you have internalised from existing in an ableist society are witnessed and felt, widely and deeply, and with a solidarity unshakable enough to hang bridges from.

I'm not going to tell you that you're good enough, because it should go without saying. I am going to tell you that you're not alone, because that does need to be said. You are so much more than a conditionally-acceptable exception and you deserve to reach and exist beyond the boundaries of the small boxes you get shoved into without your consent or permission. YOU ARE SO MUCH MORE.

Alright? Alright. Keep going 💜

In case this gains any sort of traction and people start replying to it or reblogging it, I want to make something very clear. I am also neurodivergent. That is not what this post is about. I also have lifelong experience of mental illness and trauma. That is not what this post is about. This post is about chronic illness and physical disability and it's for people who are living with those specific things, whether or not they're also living with the other things.

So, in the most loving way, if you have something to say that isn't about that, this isn't the place to say it. Thanks.

#the shit in my head #writeblr #disability #chronic illness #disabled writers

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witchthewriter · 9 months

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𝐍𝐢𝐧𝐚 𝐙𝐞𝐧𝐢𝐤 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐚 𝐠𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐡𝐚 𝐛𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐡𝐚𝐬 𝐜𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐜 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐥𝐮𝐝𝐞

⤷ platonic, gender neutral, ambiguous race, and any size reader. Requests are open, thank you for reading!

Warnings: swearing, mentions of abuse, talking about chronic pain

ᴹᵃˢᵗᵉʳˡᶤˢᵗ

𝑺𝑭𝑾🌿

・You had cursed whatever maker there was that you weren't born a Healer.

・And even though other grisha had tried to help you, they all said the same thing: it was untreatable. Not like a broken bone that could be mended, or a scar that could disappear

・It was a pain that was caused in childhood and left untreated for too long. Damn abusive parents, you cursed almost daily, as you pushed through the pain as soon as you woke

・Nina had searched far and wide for treatment

・She had been your best friend since your first year at the Little Palace. You weren't even in the same order, but something about her was magnetic. And she always knew how to make you laugh.

・You tried to keep your chronic illness as hidden as possible. But some days were just too difficult to navigate. Your bones ached, your back was sometimes so sore that you couldn't leave the bed.

・Even the Darkling himself came to see you when you missed a few classes.

・He brought all the physicians that the King would allow. And they all said the same thing.

"Too much damage from childhood. If they were brought to a healer then, they would be healed. But now ... we can only give small things to help."

・When you found that out, you cried for three days and never left your rooms.

・The best tonic that was created lulls you a bit but somehow takes away a lot of the pain. Not all of it. But you can carry on like everyone else for a while. The problem is running out of it.

・You always wanted to be like the other grisha - able to perform your duties without retched pain coursing through your body

・The Darkling doesn't send you on missions, that hurt you so badly but he had you trained in other parts of war, like how to shoot, but more importantly the mind games.

・And then people started to notice that you were different

・It was the Darkling himself that said you were special and unique, and that anyone who said a bad word against you would be held accountable.

・Nina takes you on little adventures and no matter where you are, she always has the tonic on her, in case of emergencies

・Sometimes you need to rely on a cane, and you can't walk long distances easily, but Nina couldn't care less. It makes you feel useless, but she constantly tells you how much worth you have

"Even if you weren't grisha, you have so much talent, and light and power. There is no one else like you. Please, keep going. Take it day by day."

・Whenever you're apart, she'll send you letters so you have something to look forward to. And she always brings back gifts from her journeys. You treasure each and every one of them.

・Even though you have chronic pain, and it affects your abilities - it actually doesn't mean you're useless. Not at all. In fact, even Zoya respects you. You knew how bullies worked and had no problem standing up to them.

・Everyone in the Little Palace makes sure you're okay. Because grisha look out for grisha.

・You spent a lot of time with Bagra, who told you riddles and stories. Prompting you to seek answers for yourself.

・She helped you think.

・You became a very sought out person for advice and wisdom. Especially when the war broke out. You were one of the most important people besides The Darkling and Alina as somehow you knew both of their secrets.

・You were too good at mind games.

#witchthewriter #witch the writer's headcanons #nina zenik #headcanons #nina zenik headcanons #nina zenik x platonic reader #nina zenik x reader #shadow and bone headcanons #shadow and bone x y/n #shadow and bone x reader #shadow and bone series #shadow and bone #grisha #grishaverse

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specialinterestshows · 5 months

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Heyyyyy

So im filling the void rn with smut. So could u maybe write really sweet smutty thing with Damian x Rhea x Reader. Where Daddy! Damian And Mommy! Rhea have kinky ass sex With sub!reader. Bonus points for anal and overstim

One sweet ‘n’ smutty coming right up!

The following is the first section of a Daddy!Damian Priest and Mommy!Rhea Ripley x transmasc!sub!reader fic I’m calling Que Llueva.

Warnings for this section: Pain (chronic leg injury), amputation mention, Mommy/Daddy kink, light choking, dirty talk

Que Llueva (Part 1 of 4): I Can’t Stand The Rain

“Cómo estás, lindo?”

The question was gentle and came from your partner Damian, a worried look on his face as he laid next to you in bed and watched you toss and turn every few seconds. Feeling your other partner shifting next to you in her sleep, you stayed still a bit longer this time and let out a small “fuck” as you winced before answering in a whisper, “It’s really bad today.”

You were referring to a chronic leg injury you had developed from a few different matches where you refused to tap out when you probably should have. The pain was always worse when the weather was bad and - judging by the sharp jolts that came in waves and the dark clouds rolling in just outside the window - you had woken up just before the start of a very rainy day.

“Lo siento, mi amor,” Damian whispered back, his deep voice a much more welcome rumble than the distant thunder outside. Gently holding one hand up against your face after you winced at another wave of stabbing pain, he asked “Como puedo ayudarte?”

“Mmm?” Rhea shifted next to you again, waking up groggily and rubbing her eyes, “S’the matter?”

“It’s the weather,” Damian explained, before checking with you, “Right?”

Groaning as you shifted again, you nodded before addressing Rhea, “Sorry for waking you.”

“Shhh, no apologizing,” she insisted, stretching a bit before putting an arm around you, holding you close, “Waking up to my pretty boys is never a bad thing.”

“Excuse you, I’m a pretty man,” Damian winked and wiggled his eyebrows at the two of you, making you smile for a second - before you were hit with another spike in your pain and let out an involuntary yelp.

“You sure we can’t do anything, guapo?” Damian asked, sharing a concerned look with Rhea.

“Aside from amputation?” you forced a laugh, but you were only half joking.

“You know,” Rhea said, sliding her hand up to your throat, “Mommy can think of something that might help.”

Feeling her fingers close around your throat made you hard almost immediately as you instinctively held your breath. It was a slight relief, having a part of your body that wasn’t your leg begging for attention.

“What do you say, lindo?” Damian asked, sharing a look with Rhea before slowly pulling the blanket away from your body, “Let us try to make you feel better?”

“Yes, please,” you begged, feeling your face heat up a bit, “Please Mommy, Daddy, I just want to feel good.”

“Pobrecito,” Damian muttered as he moved close, kissing you passionately while Rhea’s hand remained around your neck. You were used to hearing him say it in a mocking way most of the time, but, right now, there was genuine care in his voice. Chills went up your spine as Rhea gave your ass a gentle squeeze with her free hand, then trailed her sharp nails up your uninjured thigh and underneath your boxers - making some of your pain melt into desire.

“Turn him around and hand me the lube, would you?” Damian pulled away to ask Rhea.

She gave your throat a squeeze and dug her nails into your thigh a bit more before pulling away. Pushing you down onto your back, Rhea paused when you inhaled sharply and winced, letting you turn the rest of the way yourself.

“You’ll let Mommy and Daddy know what works best for your leg, won’t you, darling?” Rhea checked, furrowed brow relaxing when you nodded, “Good boy” - she pulled out the bottle of lube from the nightstand as you felt Damian undress behind you - “We’ll give you plenty of other sensations to focus on, don’t you worry.”

[end part one of four]

Part 2: https://www.tumblr.com/specialinterestshows/735830791361363968/que-llueva-part-2-let-it-pour

Tag List (thank you!)

@babybatlover , @domripley , @falloutboy-lover

#wwe fanfiction #the judgment day #rhea ripley #rhea ripley x reader #rhea ripley x damian priest #damian priest #damian priest x reader #the judgement day #mommy!rhea #daddy!damian #transmasc!reader #sub!reader #requests #specialinterestshows presents #que llueva

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nyaagolor · 1 year

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Very silly chart about the sv characters and weed

Protagonist: your mileage may vary but mine only befriended Koraidon because she was high as shit and thought it was a really big wingull

Nemona: She took those anti-drug PSAs to heart. Not only does she think marijuana will kill you and has never smoked before, but if she saw someone else smoking she would put out their joint and give them a stern lecture. She's still student council president at the end of the day and she will NOT tolerate la hierba diabla

Penny: Being a stoner transfemme catgirl furry is basically a prerequisite to being a cybersecurity expert at this point. This woman has DEFINITELY played Minecraft while high out of her mind

Arven: He is completely unfamiliar with weed outside this one weird brownie recipe he saw online once, but good lord he needs some. Get this man an edible immediately he needs a nap and a release from the cruelty of existence

Sada and Turo: Got the idea for the time machine while high, this is a hill I will die on

Jacq: He has enough cortisol in his bloodstream at this very moment to kill a small mammal, I think he needs something to chill him out. He's so air-headed that it probably won't affect his outward behaviors anyway

Miriam: Medical marijuana was getting popular so she got curious and tried it, telling absolutely no one. She hated the cotton-mouth feeling, so she hasn't touched it since, and says she's never tried it when people ask

Dendra: She's an athlete and they drug-test so she couldn't try it even if she wanted to (and trust me, she wants to)

Saguaro: He was never interested in it because it smells bad >n<. Try as he might to hide it, he's a bit sensitive and didn't want to be around something so stinky

Salvatore: He was in the poke-netherlands once on a study abroad trip and rolled the worst blunt of all time. He was so thoroughly humiliated that he didn't even end up smoking and was asked to leave. The memory still haunts him. He doesn't like to talk about it

Tyme: Smoked a few times when she was a teenager and hanging out with Ryme-- ironically in their youth, it was Tyme who was the rebel! She hasn't done it in a few decades though, it's not really her thing anymore

Raifort: She'll try anything once, but didn't like the feeling of being so sluggish and tired so she didn't do it again

Clavell: You know that video with Clavell as Dwight? "Clavell finding marijuana is more dangerous than most people smoking it"? Exactly that

Katy: Smells too bad for her to even think about trying it. Also she's petty and too many people asked her if she can bake weed brownies, so she avoids it on principle now

Brassius: He's a grass gym leader, what do you think. Also I hc he has a chronic illness so he takes it medically to help with the pain. His studio smells downright rancid

Iono: Got high on a since deleted stream. She ended up staring directly into the camera for like three hours and falling asleep drooling, which was so embarrassing that she erased all records of the stream from existence and swore never to touch it again

Kofu: This is a man who looks like he would make MEAN cannabutter. He just has the vibes

Ryme: Smokes sometimes at parties and other social events, but not all that frequently. Grandma's still got it, plus it helps calm her down before a seance

Tulip: Tried it once after being offered it at an afterparty, but didn't like how it made her feel. She likes to be at the top of her game At All Times and this was not the way to do it

Grusha: Takes it medically for his chronic pain, but that's about it. Wouldn't use it otherwise

Rika: Just look at her.

Larry: Tried it one (1) time and didn't like it. Prefers regular cigarettes

Poppy: She's four.

Hassel: He ran away from home to be a musician he definitely had a stoner phase. Also he's besties / husbands with Brassius, so he's more than familiar with weed. I think because he's a schoolteacher and works with kids he doesn't do it much anymore though

Geeta: I'm honestly not sure how she fits into this, only that she's on the Nightmare Blunt Rotation of every Paldean

Giacomo: He can pretend all he likes but he's still a student council president at heart, he is mortified by the very concept of smoking weed. Someone offered him a joint at a rave and he lectured them for a half hour on the importance of caring for your body. He may look like a stoner but do not be fooled

Mela: Acts tough but she's kinda scared of the prospect of smoking weed. Don't tell anyone though

Atticus: He heard about this ancient Johtoian technique of ninja relaxation and tried to hotbox his room once. This resulted in an academy-wide fire scare because he set off every smoke alarm in his hall. The director was less than thrilled about this. Rumor has it the smell from Atticus' homemade herb and weed blend still sticks to the walls

Ortega: His opinion on weed is irrelevant because no one in their right mind is going to deal weed to a 14 year old nepo-baby in a pastel pink suit

Eri: Actually shockingly responsible and healthy at the end of the day-- illicit substances aren't part of her workout routine. Will probably give you a look of disapproval if she sees you smoking, but ultimately that's your business

#pokemon sv #mod vex #headcanons #this isn't that serious don't think too hard about it

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steviewashere · 5 months

Text

To Be Cast Away and Brought Back In

(also on ao3)

wc: 1,986, Steddie Tags: Post Season 4, Post Canon, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Minor Character Death, Minor Sick Character, Mentions of Chronic Illnesses, Established Steddie (For the rest of the tags, they're on ao3. No content warning.)

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Eddie Munson moved to Hawkins, Indiana at the age of ten. He was picked up by social services with a good portion of his belongings, carted into the back of an unsuspecting little black Cadillac, escorted to Forest Hills Trailer Park, and practically pushed into his Uncle Wayne's floundering arms. Wayne knew that he'd be getting a new roommate, but the softness after all the commotion didn't make Eddie's anxieties lessen any.

There was a point in time where he could accurately tell somebody that he was being taken care of at home by both of his parents. His dad would play catch in the front yard. Mama Munson would read illustrated books and prep his bubble baths. They were tight knit, for a while, they could expect one another to be there. As present as ever. With dinner on the table and a new funny story and a mountain of homework on Eddie's part.

But it wasn't made to last. Eddie didn't expect for it all to come crumbling down before he had the chance to even start junior high, but it happened anyway. Papa Munson, better known as Allen "Al" Munson to authorities, had been in and out of jail a good portion of young Eddie's life. Usually on several counts of theft. One time for grand theft auto. But he would come out of it, be put on parole, and eventually make his way back to their little home in the outskirts of Indianapolis.

What tore into Eddie, however, was his mother.

Eleanor Munson, or Nora as she liked to be called, had always been sick in one way or another. Whether it was physically—coughing fits that led to incessant gagging and sometimes what seemed like endless bouts of vomiting, or chronic nerve pain that forced her to lay still in bed for far too long, and more often than not, the migraines. And then there was of course some town cries of her being emotionally inept or mentally ill or a basket case on legs or a nervous, psychotic break. Whatever clever thing they could think of at the time, when it would later be "manic depression," but that wouldn't come until some years after Eddie had already relocated.

Most of Eddie's growing up was spent taking care of his mother. Bringing her ice packs, heat packs, the hot water bottle, warm towels. Some days he'd draw her a bath. Other days he'd just tiptoe with some painkillers, a glass of water, and a plate of plain toast—she'd send him off to play on his own. He had toys and books and art supplies, a small bicycle and a baseball, but he didn't want to do any of that. Not on his own. And since his dad was often out and causing mishap or landing himself behind bars, his growing up had been desolate and desperate and all too lonely.

He hates to acknowledge some of his true feelings now. The rise of pent up resentment. Simmering anger and that gnawing sadness. It attached to his ten year old heart and didn't want to let go.

Not even when he moved in with Uncle Wayne.

On the first night at the trailer, Eddie simply threw his bags to the linoleum floor by the front door, stomped over to the couch, and landed so that his face was digging into one of the seat cushions. He remembers muffling some screams, definitely a few wet sobs, even some disgusting snot rockets. Yet, and he finds himself appreciating it even now, Wayne just leet him do his thing. Let him cry and yell and choke for what seemed like an eternity.

And when he came back to his present body, sitting up with the effort of a brand new body builder loading on too many weights, Wayne simply brought him a cup of hot cocoa in the Garfield mug set aside just for troublesome nights like these. Though, the troubled nights ended up being near daily.

Could you blame Eddie? He was dumped off. It felt as if he was something being abandoned at a junkyard. Though, Wayne's trailer has always been too nice for that comparison.

Even later on that night, when Wayne had shown him to his bed and gave him a warm comforter and a full glass of ice water, Eddie had asked, "When do I get to go home and be with my mama?"

Wayne tucked him in. Huffed a hot puff of breath. And he whispered, "You ain't goin' back, Bubba. You're 'ere with me now."

Eddie's lip trembled, brown eyes growing wide and wet. "This is my home?" his little voice squeaked. "But—Mama...Mama is at home."

He watched as his uncle shook his head. Clicked his tongue against his teeth. And sat heavily next to Eddie's side. "Did those people not tell you why you're 'ere?" Eddie shook his head. "Bubba—" He sighed. "Bubba, you couldn't get your mama to wake up, right?" And Eddie nodded. "So you called me. And...I helped you get people to come check on her. They—" Wayne sniffled and wiped a hand down his face, dragging his features. "Your mama isn't at home anymore. She died, Ed."

"Died?" Eddie whispered, horrified. Wayne simply nodded.

He remembers getting a conversation a few months ago, something about his mom not doing too well. What to do, just in case. To call his Uncle Wayne.

"In case she dies," was one of the first things talked about. His dad had told him. He knows what it means. They had a dog at one point, he had died in an accident. A goldfish, too, that died from old age. Even the cat they took in from the street, she died from an illness.

"But—But what about Papa? How come I don't get to go with him?"

"Your daddy is in a lot of trouble, kiddo. Remember how he was always getting in trouble for things?" Wayne asked, once again, Eddie nodded. "He did something bad again and now he's doing a lot of time for it." Another weary sigh. "We'll talk about it some more, okay? I promise. Tonight, you just need to get some sleep."

Eddie shuffled further under the comforter. Before Wayne could get too far, Eddie called out, "Can you read my book to me, please?" He gestured to a battered up copy of The Hobbit on his bedside table.

"You're reading The Hobbit?"

"Mama used to read it to me; before she got super sick," Eddie whispered.

And that became their nightly tradition. Nice dinner, hot cocoa in the Garfield mug, warm shower, tucked into bed, and Wayne would read aloud The Hobbit. Until eventually it turned into them trading off chapters. Eddie would do the character voices and Wayne would compliment him.

Eddie's life truly began in the sanctuary of Wayne's trailer. Given items for Dungeons and Dragons, the rest of J.R.R. Tolkien's The Lord of the Rings, and more hot meals than he had ever had in his life.

Things were normal, they were fine.

Until Chrissy Cunningham died. Broken and bleeding. Until he ran. Patrick dead too, the same way. More running and hiding and being hunted down. Watching other people nearly lose their lives. Almost losing his own.

The days spent in the hospital, tied up by tubes and ports and constant streams of doctors. Calling him a miracle. His friends calling him a hero. Wayne going back to his habit of calling him Bubba.

And then, though there was the nightmares and the flashbacks and the other issues that arose from the ashes of the Upside Down, things became okay again.

Eddie fell in love with his high school crush, Steve Harrington. And Steve Harrington fell in love with someone unsuspected in Eddie. They shared a constant space. Holding each other through blood soaked nightmares. Getting high to a bearable level, not going far enough to push Steve into a corner.

What Eddie wasn't prepared to handle were the migraines. Not from him. Though, he definitely had days where his scars felt too tight or there was the phantom sensation of those things biting into his flesh. No, Steve had them.

As severe as Nora Munson did. Leaving Steve Harrington bedridden, nauseous, in pain that only worsened unless he could sleep it off. He was tired a good portion of the time. And when he wasn't, he was in pain.

In fact, it's one of those migraine attacks right now. It comes full force in the early hours of June 16th, 1986. Eddie hasn't been around for one before, but he knows immediately what to do. Grabs ice packs and a cold wet rag. Makes a plate of plain toast with butter. Fills a glass with ice water and the center of his palm with some extra strength painkillers.

Eddie makes quick work. Draping the rag on Steve's sweaty forehead. Gently setting the icepack at the back of his skull. Helping him take his medication, leaving the food and water on the bedside table.

Just as he tiptoes to leave the room, however, he hears from behind him in a hushed voice, "Where you going?" Granted, the syllables are slurred, a lot tired. He can realize that it must take Steve a great amount of effort to just speak out, even something so mundane. Eddie winces in solidarity.

"I'm giving you some space," Eddie whispers back.

"You don't ha-fta go," Steve whines. "Come lay with me," he offers, patting the empty space beside him.

Though it goes against all of what Eddie knows, he obliges anyway. He hesitantly climbs back into bed. Stiff on the mattress. Body barely covered by the blanket, just in case. Then, Steve scoots close and wraps himself along Eddie's side. And because he can't help himself, Eddie brings one of his hands to tickle over Steve's spine. The other traces the moles on his forearm.

"You can talk," Steve whispers. "I don't like the silence."

Eddie hums. Squeezes Steve's bicep before trailing back down to his forearm. "My mom used to get migraines. Knew how to take care of her," he murmurs. "She made me leave her alone. But...If that's what she wanted, then I did it. Even if I wanted her to play or read with me."

"I'll never make you go away," Steve breathes into the exposed skin of Eddie's neck. "Reminds me that there's somebody here that cares." Eddie hums again. "My parents didn't like taking care of me when I was sick, I was kind of a lot as a kid."

"Could never be too much for me." Eddie carefully leans down and presses a kiss to Steve's hairline. "I'll do anything you need. It's just hard for me to do sometimes, puts me back in that mindset, I guess."

"That's okay," Steve sighs.

They let silence lapse around them.

It's nice, to stay in the room. To be there. Knowing that he's needed, especially. He was needed when he was a kid, there's no doubt about that. But it's different, somehow it's a different kind of necessity.

"Can you tell me a story, Eds?"

And so Eddie does one of the many things Wayne taught him. He builds an elaborate story from thin air. About pleasant things and badass knights and princesses with gorgeous dresses and hair. He weaves elaborate plot lines about the characters saving one another, being there for one another. If the inspiration comes from him and Steve, nobody has to know, but he feels as though Steve caught on.

He can hear Steve yawn at some point. When he glances down, catching Steve trying to keep his eyes open, he snorts. "You can go to sleep, baby. I'll be right here when you wake up next."

"Promise?"

"Promise, Stevie. There's no place I'd rather be."

#stranger things #fanfiction #steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #post season 4 #post canon #established relationship #sickfic #minor character death

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wyn-n-tonic · 1 year

Text

Your Slow Turning Pain

Pairing: Santiago Garcia x f!reader Word Count: 1.6k+ Warnings: Mental illness talk but never really fully defined. Like... the tiniest pinch of Daddy kink (used by Santiago, not reader). Author's Note: Anon, I love you and I'm over the moon that you came to me with your request and super super super grateful you came back to answer some questions and trust me with these parts of yourself to help me make this. I really hope that it lives up to what your expectations. I'm already thinking of a part two.

Masterlist

Ghostly.

Unseen, unheard.

Full of so much sadness and hurt but not enough to fuel the strength to actually move or be moved.

There’s a passivity to your presence, your contributions. Say something and the subject changes or it’s repeated louder by another down the line. No pats on the back for the work you’ve put in or how far you’ve come. Sometimes there are quiet nods of understanding; small, whispered conversations away from prying eyes who may see and silently judge. Because, God forbid, you may be contagious.

The only time that does change is on your bad days. The greasy hair; the wrinkled clothes; the less and less make up that adorns your features. It’s enough to be seen, to move.

The pain weighs so much more than the happiness.

Everybody turns to the flat voice and the tired eyes. Comment on it or ask about it; Why do you only ever focus on the negative? They ask why there is sadness and how, exactly, you can be. Drop their voices low and ask if everything’s okay at home.

“I don’t know, Santiago,” you breathe out, “sometimes I feel like I only matter when I’m falling apart.”

He’s shaking his head, back turned to you as he focuses on dinner for tonight. You trade off on good days and bad days, switching the duties based on energy levels determined by chronic pain and the chemistry of your brains.

Words come out of his mouth, ones that are meant to be comforting; validating; affirming. They fall flat and he knows it. He knows it because you’ve heard it all before. He knows it because he’s said it all, you’ve said it all. That doesn’t take away the hurt of it all in the moment. Because when you’re in it, you don’t see it for what it is—and you never will because you’re always in it.

“I hate that you care so much,” he bites out. “I know that it’s unfair for me to when I go through the same goddamn thing but”—he runs a hand down his heat flushed face as he turns from the stove—“I wish neither of us had to, I wish neither of us had these broken fucking brains.”

Some group therapy bullshit brought you together, a half assed performance that felt more like it was preparing you for a future of addiction than being a place of healing. In fact, the facilitator all but said he expected half the group to end up in Alcohol Anonymous or its counterpart for narcotics—or both. Your therapists had suggested it, which was usually what put new butts in those hard plastic sheets, but there was something about Santi that took you from the moment he sat directly across in that wide circle—always going around and growing but never going forward.

It took a few weeks, getting to know each other through the vague answers of general feelings you gave in response to the questions you were asked over and over until your turn ended and another’s began.

“You know it’s not just your fight right?” He asks, body draped over yours now that he’s closed the distance.

You never had to be weighted down with all of it to be seen, never had to be full of too much to move him or be moved by him. To Santiago, you never had to be anything but what you were from moment to moment. He weathered it all, he loved it all; he broke for and cared for with confidence that it wasn’t one-sided.

It took some getting used to, every part of your routine built around self-preservation and self-sufficiency. The first time he called himself daddy, said you could tell him anything and he’d take care of it, your whole brain short-circuited and all he was met with was a twisted face that made him think it was all over before it started.

Turns out, support groups weren’t supporting either of you—you just kept coming for one another.

“Come on,” he continues, the teasing heavy in his voice as he starts to press kiss after kiss into your cheeks; your lips; your neck. “Tell daddy what it really is today, let him make it all better.” Big hands slide up your bare upper arms, rough palms scratching like sandpaper against your skin. Sometimes you wonder how the lotion he so meticulously massages into you every night hasn’t taken away these calluses. Selfishly, you’re glad that it hasn’t.

“It doesn’t fucking matter in the long run, Santi,” you give up against his lips. “I’ll get bored and move on again, it’s not a big deal.”

He tells you it matters because it hurts you, it’s a big deal because it hurts you.

You’ve never exactly been a job hopper, just going with circumstance from one place to the next. But Santi came along like a true devil on your shoulder. Go where it benefits you and leave when it no longer does. He stopped that kind of speaking when you asked if that’s how he felt about you. Now he only encourages you to take care of yourself and he’ll follow where that thinking leads—fill the gap that it leaves.

“Why don’t you move on now, sweetheart? Huh?” He bends his knees between yours to keep eye contact, that big, brown gaze boring right into you. “Your savings is built up, you don’t even have to work ever again if you don’t want to.”

You don’t, that’s what he keeps saying. Keeps telling you that you’re wearing heart and your mask thin for nothing but your own pride. He says he’ll take care of you, he says it’s okay. He knows what’s holding you back though, he knows the fear you have over becoming reliant on somebody else when you’ve already put away so many reservations as it is.

“Tell daddy what it is, tell daddy what it is,” he says over and over again, your smile widening alongside his with every push of his lips into your skin. “There's something bothering you in that big, beautiful brain of yours. Let’s go. Tell me, tell me. Dinner’s simmering and I wanna get to dessert.”

God, he’s fucking annoying and you love him so much.

You got close so quickly, dinner after group turned into meeting together instead of group. Turns out the suggestion to join at all came from a worry of loneliness for the both of us. For him, he came home from bootlicking bullshit—as he calls it—a lot later than his friends; they’d already been on their healing journeys and they’d done so together. Santiago feared his bullshit would pull them back and so he sought out support elsewhere to leave their progress in tact.

For you, just having moved and trying to start all over, you had no support. Your therapist thought that would be the place to build it. She was right on some level. Moved in together not long after dating started.

It all just seemed to click.

“I don’t know, Tiago, baby, I-I”—your head shakes as you try to find the words—“remember how you said once that you feel like you’re a guest star in Benny’s and Will's and Frankie’s lives?”

He nods, lip bitten. “Is that how you feel?”

You tell him it’s more like being an extra than a guest star, just there for eight or twelve hours beneath the too bright lights trying to school your face to fit the tone of the scene. “Except… my face doesn’t cooperate because of the panic attacks or the nightmares having kept me up the night before and I know you try to fuck the bad moods out of me, baby, I love you, but you also know—“

“That's not how it works,” he finishes for you.

Finger tips trail across the top of your forehead, curving around your temple and down your cheek. “Let's make a plan, okay? Let’s take a sick day tomorrow, you and me, and we’ll stay in bed or I’ll drive you wherever you want to go, buy you all the sugary bullshit you want.”

“And if I want you to leave me alone?”

Laughter bubbles up out of him and fills you in a way that starts to push the other feelings out. “Then I’ll leave you alone, beautiful.”

To make his point, he moves away from you, pushes off the counter and away from you. The fact that he’s not wearing a shirt makes it worse as your fingers slip against his smooth upper arms in an attempt to grab him and pull him back.

Santiago Garcia has never made you feel unseen or unheard, taking the perfect care to understand the intricacies of how the things in your head work; how they learn and adapt and move the goal lines of your healing journey like some kind of mutated virus.

Truthfully, wholly and in every way he can, he sees the moments and strives to meet the points of connection you’re reaching for.

For a long time, you never let anybody see it. You never let anybody see any of it. That’s where all these feelings come from, this emptiness of a drained body. Because you spend hours covering it all up with make up and clothes and caffeine like a bad relationship except your abuser is yourself now—not the one who put the thoughts there in the first place.

It is exhausting to be two people, the one you are; the one you pretend to be. With Santiago, you only ever have to be the one.

Here. Now. Everyday and always before that.

You let him and he knew that was as good as you telling him you loved him.

#santiago garcia x you #santiago garcia x reader #santiago 'pope' garcia #oscar isaac #santiago 'pope' garcia x reader #santiago 'pope' garcia x you #triple frontier #triple frontier fanfiction #santiago garcia fanfiction #o writes #santiago garcia

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skylarsblue · 2 years

Text

Random Slasher Headcanons

Michael Myers

Michael cannot stand peanut butter. He likes the smell of peanuts & peanut butter, but, the consistency is something he won’t allow. It sticks to his hands & the roof of his mouth and it makes him genuinely angry. He doesn’t mind candy with chunks of peanuts, but no peanut butter. None. Keep it away from him.

THIS MAN IS A DRUMMER AT HIS HEART. Listen, if he wasn’t a stabby stabby murder man, he’d be a fucking drummer. It would be a fantastic way to get out his anger. Now, he’d certainly break his sticks constantly, but he’s a metal drummer. You can pry this from my cold, pale hands.

Michael can’t read. Not like he lacks the ability, but he cannot stand to sit down and read a book. Not only does it always make him tired, but most books have too small of text. Large paragraphs make his head hurt. Reading itself just feels like a boring hassle. He perceives visual and audible stuff a lot easier than reading it. This means he always ignores written instructions.

Michael is not a good cook. We know this. HOWEVER. He can do sandwiches, boxed mac & cheese, and grilled cheese. And he makes a pretty damn good grilled cheese. Man loves his cheddar.

Jason Voorhees

Woodcarving! Jason does woodcarving. He gets bored out there, alone in the forest, no technology. Even if he has his rounds to do, he gets bored in leisure time. He’s gained a few hobbies but woodcarving is his favorite. He makes little sculptures for his mother. She seems to like the bird ones the best.

My man is super suited for the wild. He makes all his own traps! Even the bear traps he uses are tampered with, just so they hold people better. He’s really good at figuring out how to hide the traps as well. Jason is a hunter for sure.

Jason Voorhees is red-yellow colorblind. Why do I say this? Because I can, damnit. Does this affect anything? No, but it does mean he likes cooler tones a lot more. Which is why he dresses in blue, green, etc. frequently. Reds, oranges, and yellows tend to just look like dull greys & browns. Pamela also had this! It’s why her favorite color was baby blue.

Jason’s fear of water kind of fluctuates. It’s a PTSD thing. Some days, he can handle water fine. It’s not something he prefers but it doesn’t freak him out as much. At worst it makes him a bit uncomfortable. On other days though, he gets really scared by even the memories of being near water. It’s made worse by flashbacks or nightmares. It all depends on the day and recent events.

Brahms Heelshire

We all know Brahms is a whore for sugary sweet treats, but, on the other side of the coin? Mans cannot do spice. To any degree. He thinks too much pepper is spicy, and he will complain. So, if you like actual flavor in your food, I’m sorry. Either you’ll have to make him something separate or you’ll need to dial it back a lot.

Even in his childish moments, Brahms has a very wide & eccentric vocabulary. He’s dabbled in poetry & short stories before. He especially gets into the writing mood after reading a good book. Now, he’d rather die than show anyone what he’s written, but it’s actually pretty good. If he dabbled in it more he could probably pass as a well seasoned author. He gets a bit ramble-y sometimes, though.

Mans is an artist. You cannot tell me he hasn’t dabbled in water color, especially when his parents put him in the walls. I don’t think his parents would be too into the idea of him having a messy hobby. But, he’s a creative boy. Even if he prefers writing. Show him Bob Ross, he’ll be so relaxed.

Did someone say chronic back pain? He naturally bends down when roaming through the walls & he sits hunched over. Coming from a person who hunches over everything, back pain. Mans also has poppy joints. Like, every time he turns or moves something pops. Mostly his knees and back. His joints like doing a firecracker impression whenever he moves.

Bo Sinclair

I’ve mentioned this in his Fluff Alphabet, but I think Bo was taught to play the piano. Now that he’s older, the piano they own is all dusty in the attic, out of tune. When he was younger though, it was how he got out a lot of his emotions without actually bothering anyone. It was one of the few things he got praise for too. The fact he could make elegant melodies without needing notes on a sheet to guide him? Amazing! And no one notices the fact he was five seconds from a mental breakdown. …now he just, drinks a lot of beer and goes through at least three cigarettes a day.

Bo has very sensitive hearing. You’d think with all the music he blared as a teen or the shots from his shotgun would’ve harmed his eardrums, but no, oddly enough. Mister Sinclair can identify noises from like several yards away. It’s part of the reason hiding from him is so hard. He will hear you breathe.

At some point, since all three boys were put in foster care, Bo had to get a lot of teen jobs to work up as much money as possible. Not only to cover things he and his brother would need when they turned eighteen, but so he could also adopt Lester. Lester is, at least, 4+ years younger than Bo & Vincent. Bo knew that when he and Vincent were able to be independent, the state would still be in control of where Lester was. Bo may be an asshole, but he’ll never leave one of his brothers alone. So as soon as he turned eighteen, he insisted on being Lester’s legal guardian. Worked out, thankfully.

Some of y’all got it twisted thinking Vincent is the high maintenance brother. (I’m kidding, he is) Bo, though he’d never admit it, has an extensive self care routine. He hides it, of course. He doesn’t need people thinking he’s soft! Bo’s a bit vain, it’s how he counteracts a lot of his insecurities. He’s the pretty brother, it’s what he gets the most praise for, so he needs to stay the pretty brother. He doesn’t know what else he’d have otherwise.

Lester Sinclair

I know he has a dirty job, but I think it’d be absolutely hilarious if his home was actually pretty clean. Sure, it’d be decorated in animal skins & bones, but it’s not messy clutter. I think that him having the cleaner home in comparison to Bo & Vincent would be absolutely HILARIOUS.

I think he's actually a pretty decent cook. Lester makes godly fried chicken. He’s not necessarily a chef that’s good in all fields, but what he cooks he’s good at. These are things like omelets, fried chicken, gumbo, and cod fish. However, he has a bad habit of making everything spicy.

Despite appearing the most scrawny out of his brothers, he’s got a decent amount of strength. It just doesn’t show much on his body. He has a fast metabolism. It’s hard to put on muscle when you struggle to put on weight, especially when sometimes he forgets to eat, so he’s not doing well there either. Still, he can manage some heavy lifting fairly well. But what’s most surprising is his grip strength. He avoids handshakes because of it. Bo has told him about a million times that Lester could break someone’s fingers with his hands. Helps when he’s opening jars though.

Lester is a natural snuggler, because I said so. When he falls asleep he naturally hugs whatever is closest. Sometimes that’s a pillow, sometimes it’s Jonesy, and when he was younger it was Bo’s arm. Now, if he tries to sleep without something to hug, his arms will just be curled up to his chest all awkwardly. On top of that, if you put something near him when he’s asleep, he will eventually end up hugging it. Once he has it, it stays there until he wakes up.

Vincent Sinclair

Did someone say BACK PROBLEMS?! We all know the infamous “shrimp” pose done by millions of artist, and Vincent is no exception to this. He sits and hunches in the most awkward positions while working. Their back pops all the time. Bo hates it.

Vincent’s the doctor in Ambrose. While all three brothers have some first aid knowledge and a concept of human anatomy, Vincent is by far the most well versed. Anytime his brothers get hurt or sick beyond the point of where they can take care of themselves, they go to Vincent. He’s always ready to help them, even if he may be silently scolding them in his brain.

Vincent’s not the best cook whatsoever, but they manage a pretty decent breakfast. Lester is the best cook out of them all but they all have their specialties. Vincent’s is bacon, eggs, french toast, and pancakes. Anytime Vincent makes french toast, his brother’s come running. They’ll even fight over the last piece. Oh, he also makes great tea.

When they were younger, they had a caffeine addiction. Now he can’t handle it at all. It gives him the jitters and his heart goes all crazy. He also gets a bit sick. This is mostly the result of a bad experience. He drank three energy drinks in twenty minutes and his body did not handle it well, he got super sick. Now they won’t touch the stuff.

Thomas Hewitt

I think Thomas is capable of some speech, but it’s a bit of a struggle because, one, since he never spoke much his vocal chords just aren’t used to speaking. So they kind of hurt when he tries. And two, speech impediment trauma. (I used to have a struggle saying some words in school, for example, and those kids did not let me exist peacefully.)

Sometimes, if he is truly desperate enough for just a moment of quiet. A second where he’s not hearing the commotion of his home, he’ll go out to the little rickety barn they have. If someone, Hoyt, for example, comes out to call him out for being “lazy”, he can easily just act like he’s working. Then as soon as they leave he’ll go back to sitting in quiet. My man needs a break.

Mans loves pie. And I mean he loves pie. Adores it. His favorites are apple, blueberry, and mixed berries. But he’ll eat any kind of pie. Key-lime to pumpkin, he is a whore for pie.

Thomas is allergic to bees, so when they start coming around, he gets freaked out. It’s not like they got the stuff to care for him if he goes into shock from a bee sting. So, if a bee gets too close, this dude is sprinting. It’d be kinda funny to watch this giant running from a bee, but if it could literally kill me, I’d run too.

Bubba Sawyer

Snow White. Bubba is basically snow white. Animals absolutely love him. Everything from chickens, to cats, to bugs. They love him. Even if there was an animal that Bubba has never had experience with before, it’d love Bubba. Bears? Elk? Hawks? They love Bubba. Everyone loves Bubba.

Bubba knows how to square dance. He’s from Texas, they got the boots, they got the want to dance. I imagine they don’t get the chance much, because dancing alone isn’t very fun to him, but if he ever gets a partner to dance with? It’s waltzin’ time!

Something that they can’t do often, but adore doing, is baking. Bubba loves to bake! Their favorite thing to make is pie, muffins, & apple pie. It’s hard to get all the things to make these items, sugar being something he struggles the most to find, but it’s something he prides himself in. Even his brothers praise his baking skills.

Bubba owns dresses, but they can’t wear them very often. Nubbins is probably the most accepting of that part of fashion, even if he still pokes fun here & there. But Drayton & Chop-Top make the most fun of Bubba, to the point it hurts his feelings. But, if both Drayton & Chop-Top are gone, and ideally Nubbins, Bubba will do all his housework in one of his dresses. He likes the flowy ones, with light colors & floral patterns. They get a sense of euphoria from wearing it with an apron overtop. They get euphoric in some outfits with pants too, but dresses are special because they can’t wear them often.

#rob zombie michael myers #michael myers #jason voorhees #brahms heelshire #bo sinclair #vincent sinclair #lester sinclair #bubba sawyer #thomas hewitt #slasher community #slashers #slasher fucker #slasher x reader #texas chainsaw massacre #house of wax #halloween #Friday the 13th #the boy 2016

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16-animated-rats-in-a-trenchcoat · 8 months

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Chuuya has Chronic Pain Headcannons

Disclaimer: I do not have chronic pain but I do have HSD (possibly h-eds but that's undiagnosed) which causes me an amount of daily pain, it's just not severe. I have no idea what it is like for people with severe chronic pain so please, correct me if something is inaccurate or harmful.

Chuuya started to have chronic pain after the second time he used corruption. At first, he didn't think the two were related, the pain was very mild and it was only really noticeable when he had been sitting too long or was in a really cold environment. But, after years of repeatedly destroying his body and almost dying, it caught up with him

He doesn't tell anyone but Dazai being Dazai notices very quickly and corners Chuuya into telling him what's going on.

Chuuya gives a very relaxed, downplayed answer but of course, that answer wasn't good enough for his partner.

He has a pretty rough time accepting that he's chronically ill and that he needs to rely on others sometimes.

He is not aware of his limits at all. He really struggles with the concept of 'taking a break' 'self care' and 'just stopping for once omg'. Eventually, he figures out that if he wants to not be in a constant flare he actually has to take care of himself

He drinks to cope. He already was a heavy drinker but this didn't help.

Very few people know about his pain, it is something that can be exploited by the enemy after all. But the people that do know (Kouyou, Akutagawa, Dazai) are generally pretty supportive and know what he wants and needs during a flare up. They also don't make a huge fuss which is deeply appreciated.

Under his black fancy gloves he wears compression gloves.

Typing is a bitch. His fingers and wrists are the first place he feels pain when he is about to enter a flare so it makes all those fine motor tasks difficult.

on the bright side, he can force his paperwork onto Dazai as revenge for making him do all his paperwork when he first joined the Mafia.

Akutagawa is a very unlikely friend when Chuuya is first accepting his chronic pain diagnosis. Aku has been through the whole rodeo with his lung disease so they bond over how isolating the experience can be. They both check in on each other whenever the other is struggling and know exactly what the other needs/wants.

It takes Chuuya a long time to learn how to take care of his body. He loves to refuse help because he doesn't want to be "weak". Eventually, he starts allowing himself to do small things like sitting in the shower or mentioning when he is in a lot of pain. It's a slow progression but progress nonetheless.

He picks up reading as a hobby on his bad pain days

He started a blog where he reviews movies, TV shows and books that he reads during flare ups called 'Chuuya Screams' because he uses speech to text to write most of his posts. He gets very frustrated with bad writing very easily.

Hi! I don't normally get a lot of notes so I'm hoping this won't be an issue but this is a reminder to everyone who may want to reblog. Please do not use the 'Chronic illness' 'chronic pain' or 'disability' tags or anything similar. Those tags are for disabled people to find each other, not for fan works. please be mindful. thank you!

#bsd #bungou stray dogs #bsd chuuya #chuuya headcanons #chuuya nakahara #bungou stray dogs chuuya #bsd headcanons #bungo stray dogs headcanons #disabled headcanon #chronic illness headcannon #writing helps me cope and process things especially when I make their problems bigger than mine so I can imagine and work through it #this is so incredibly self indulgent

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duskcecropia · 2 months

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Dawg I am BEYOND tired of seeing people romanticizing Bpd and people with Bpd. It is genuinely disturbing to me how normalized it is too. A quick scroll on TikTok and you will find people being like “When she’s literally obsessed with me 💕” or “POV: I have a girl with Bpd so she’s utterly in love with me and never leaves” or some other TikTok slideshow bullshit.

(I have made this partly factual, but a lot of it is very personal. please read at your own leisure.)

To me, it is utterly dehumanizing. As someone with Bpd, I wouldn't wish this on ANYONE. I struggle almost every damn day to control and regulate my emotions so I don't blow up at someone or breakdown over something I MADE UP to sabotage myself. I am not some fucking character who will do anything to have you or will kill just to be with you. I am a REAL PERSON with a VERY REAL AND MENATLY CRUSHING MENTAL ILLNESS. I am not some one-sided person with only one goal. I am just like literally everyone else on this goddamn planet!!!!! I just act and think differently!!!!!!! And honestly, do any of you people realize what you are asking? Do you REALLY know what you are getting into? Because it’s uneducated people like that who romanticize Bpd to the point where others think it’s “only obsession”.

And boy do I have a HORRIBLE surprise for you. Lets have a little psychology lesson, shall we?

According to NIMH (National Institute of Mental Health)*, "Borderline personality disorder is a mental illness that severely impacts a person’s ability to manage their emotions. This loss of emotional control can increase impulsivity, affect how a person feels about themselves, and negatively impact their relationships with others." (This is sectioned under "What is Borderline Personality Disorder?")

"People with borderline personality disorder may experience intense mood swings and feel uncertainty about how they see themselves. Their feelings for others can change quickly, and swing from extreme closeness to extreme dislike. These changing feelings can lead to unstable relationships and emotional pain.

People with borderline personality disorder also tend to view things in extremes, such as all good or all bad. Their interests and values can change quickly, and they may act impulsively or recklessly.

Other signs or symptoms may include:

Efforts to avoid real or perceived abandonment, such as plunging headfirst into relationships—or ending them just as quickly.

A pattern of intense and unstable relationships with family, friends, and loved ones.

A distorted and unstable self-image or sense of self.

Impulsive and often dangerous behaviors, such as spending sprees, unsafe sex, substance misuse, reckless driving, and binge eating. However, if these behaviors happen mostly during times of elevated mood or energy, they may be symptoms of a mood disorder and not borderline personality disorder.

Self-harming behavior, such as cutting.

Recurring thoughts of suicidal behaviors or threats.

Intense and highly variable moods, with episodes lasting from a few hours to a few days.

Chronic feelings of emptiness. Inappropriate, intense anger or problems controlling anger. Feelings of dissociation, such as feeling cut off from oneself, observing oneself from outside one’s body, or feelings of unreality."(This is sectioned under "What are the signs and symptoms of borderline personality disorder?")

I am no expert and I do not claim to be, but I know for a FACT that most if not majority of people who romanticize Bpd don't know ANYTHING about what actually goes on in someone with Bpd's head. From my experience, it is never quiet. In the back of my mind I have a small but convincing "voice" that tries it's hardest to make me crack. And by crack, I mean believe it's false and twisted words. For a hypothetical example, Say one of your friends goes a while without texting you. a rational mind would say "they're probably busy, or not going on their phone at the moment". Someone with Bpd would probably think this too at first, but their very unhelpful little voice in the back of their head would chime in. "But what if they're doing this on purpose? What is they think you're annoying? You are annoying. That's why they won't talk to you. You're being too much of an inconvenience so they've found other people to talk to." People with Bpd tend to become more irrational due to a false sense of distrust via these thoughts. it can be extremely devastating to one's mental health and make them feel insecure. it's not all sunshine and rainbows.

BUT!!!!!!! While this mental illness is absolutely terrible to deal with, there are ways to treat and cope with it. While it seems like hopeless and never-ending, there's always a way to make the best of it. You just have to discover what works best for you. ^^

In conclusion; Bpd is no joke, and it shouldn't be taken as such. I would go into more depth, but it is very late while I'm typing this and I need some sleep. Please do your research before making this heinous shit online, if anything it just shows idiocy, immaturity, and lack of understanding. Of course I know I cannot change other's opinions and there will always be people like this, but I can only hope this post sheds at least a little light on this topic. If you've made it this far, thank you for taking time to read this, and have a wonderful rest of your day/night.

*source: https://www.nimh.nih.gov/health/topics/borderline-personality-disorder#:~:text=Borderline%20personality%20disorder%20is%20a,impact%20their%20relationships%20with%20others.

#bpd #borderline personality disorder #rant #mentalheathawareness #mental heath issues #mental health #actually bpd

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fandom-go-round · 1 year

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Sorry if this is super tmi btw (I once had chest pain on my left side, anything that wasn't sitting still and breathing shallowlly was very painful and I went to the ER, i would not recommend it) I'd like some headcanons about a master with high blood pressure/heart issues with Fate/grand Orders Mori nagayoshi and caster Merlin, if you would be so kind dear author ♥️

I hope you feel better Anon, that doesn’t sound fun. Well wishes for you!

Warnings: Health Issues, Going to the Doctor, Long Term Health Affects, Heart Issues, Mentions of Chronic Issues/Pain, Illegally Looking through Medical Records (Merlin), Taking Medication

Mori Nagayoshi:

Mori isn’t going to notice anything unless you tell him yourself. As much as he cares about your safety, it’s from an external perspective. Sure, he notices if you trip or something like that but heart issues are outside his wheelhouse. Once you tell him, he’s a lot more conscious about how things can affect you and your heart.

He is, despite his best efforts, horrible at helping with your issues. Even when telling other people to leave you alone, Mori is yelling and adding more stress to the situation. He’s a lot quicker to calm down once he knows that your heart might not be able to take it. You’re not that fragile but don’t tell him that; better that he tries to restrain himself, even if it’s only a little.

Mori is great about getting people to give you space. If you’re having pain or need a minute he’s always there, being a physical barrier to anyone trying to get to you. It’s very helpful during field missions but he’ll do it back at Chaldea too. It’s wonderful to have a Berserker barrier between you and the world.

Mori loves intimidating people for you and he’s discovered a special love of making the doctors nervous. He knows that you don’t love going and makes it his mission that they all ‘behave’. What he means by this you don’t really know but doctors take you a lot more seriously than before and it’s nice. Part of you feels a little guilty but mostly bringing Mori ends a lot better than you would have feared.

Merlin (Caster):

Merlin knows the first time that meets you that something is going on. He is, at the end of the day, a healer and it’s not hard to notice things. He always plays off his concern but he does check in on you more than he did before. Merlin claims that he’s better with a sword than healing but don’t listen to him.

He may sneak a look at your medical records. It’s totally not illegal because the concept of hospitals is gone. There’s no world right now you know. He does it to make sure he can support you and it’s coming from a good place, even if it’s not ethical. If you end up telling him yourself, he’ll pretend he didn’t know specifics and the truth will never come out.

Merlin is wonderful in dealing with chronic pain. If he notices that you’re uncomfortable or in pain, a small healing spell is thrown your way. He uses his magic to support you and if you complain he waves you off. He’s a great mage Master, a few stray healing spells isn’t going to wear him out. No worries.

He thinks that it’s important you manage your health in terms of getting better. If you have to take medication, he’ll remind you and then see what happens. He’s not cruel if you forget (he always has extras) but he’s a bit of a mom about it. Merlin doesn’t love traditional doctors but if they’ve given you something, for sure he’s going to make you take it.

#fate imagine #fate grand order imagine #mori nagayoshi #mori x reader #merlin x reader #merlin imagine #mori imagines #fgo merlin #fgo mori #fate imagines #fate grand order #merlin

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fruitcoops · 2 years

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Hey eve :) I just found out the athletic trainers at my grad school aren’t going to clear me to play hockey for the team because of my chronic health condition :/ if you’re up to it, would you consider a lil angsty Loops before he joined the team bc he misses hockey ?

Ps ur writing is dragging my heart and soul thru a PhD program 💜

Fic O'Ween Day 9: Masquerade. Character credit goes to @lumosinlove <3

(I'm so sorry to hear about hockey, love. You've got this. I believe in you.)

It was hard to look at them, sometimes. The jerseys, the swagger, even their fucking flows—the stupid, silly things that shouldn’t bother him but they did. Even Sirius, who…well, Remus wouldn’t go so far as to say he could do no wrong, but he had his moments. When hockey slang would roll off his tongue so easily that it made Remus’ stomach clench, or when his voice would take on that particular up-and-down cadence of a well-placed chirp.

It was everything he could have been. Had been. Never would be again.

Remus worried the plastic edge of the page between his fingertips before flipping it. It had been seven years, eight in the fall. He should be over it by now. He loved his job, he loved his friends, he loved his boyfriend so much he didn’t know what to do with it all. It would come bubbling up and pouring out in kisses or dinner or a hug that made his heart feel like it would burst, and Sirius would laugh, and squeeze him just as tight.

He was lucky, so lucky, and still so goddamn sad when he saw his reflection next to his friends. Remus Lupin, NHL prospect, felt like a fever dream. Remus Lupin, too little to take a hit, was not a look he had missed in the years since everything fell apart. The muscle didn’t matter. It was the way he held himself, the shine in his eyes. Bulking up was just a series of chemical reactions but there was nothing that could bring that dream back to what it used to be.

He needed to be okay with it, or he would lose everything he had scraped together into a handful of vital happiness. Once upon a time, Remus would have done anything to rewind the clock. It felt good to have something to lose, now.

So every morning, he got up. He made coffee and took a shower, changed into his uniform, caught the subway like a half-million other commuters. He greeted Moody and chatted with Talkie for as long as he could manage. The repetition had numbed him just right when he started working for the Lions. No room for dwelling on the past when it was tucked in a neat little box.

“Loops.”

A new name, too. Blue Gatorade and fist bumps coming off the ice. Remus attended the world’s most painful masquerade party every day and didn’t regret a second of it. He made that mask—he owned it, it was his and only his. ‘Loops’ was gentle and warm and comforting. Loops didn’t cry himself to sleep because some sweaty jock asked if he knew what a ‘Michigan’ looked like. Loops smiled. Chirped him. Moved on.

Remus carved out a nook for himself and refused to acknowledge the part of him that remained on that locker room floor, seven years old and still fresh when he poked it.

He figured Sirius understood, in a sense. There was power in the knowing. A piece of Sirius would always be in a dark, gaunt house and so he got it in a way few others rarely did—in a way Remus rarely let others see. It would be enough for them both until they were ready to say more.

“Je t’aime,” Sirius would whisper in the dark like he thought Remus wouldn’t hear. He’d say it loud, too, but that particular crack of heartbreak was not something for loud voices. He’d say, “you’re so good to me” and “how could I deserve you?”, often with a smile but always with a little too much truth underneath. It was a dance they did; he never wanted it to end.

An eternity ago, he would have given anything to step foot on the ice for just five more minutes. Now, in his office with a new roster in-hand and a small picture of him and Sirius framed near the corner edge, he would give anything to keep exactly what he had built.

(Mostly.)

(Sort of.)

(Some dreams never really died.)

#remus lupin #sirius black #thomas walker #alastor moody #sweater weather #lumosinlove #my fic #fanfic #fic o'ween 2022 #noot fest #masquerade #angsty loops #remus go to therapy don't make me ask again

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writingseaslugs · 10 months

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I'm alive...kinda?

So it's been a while huh? Since the end of March actually, since I last posted anything. Which sucks because it was literally right after I was super excited to do a collab with a friend, as well as my plans for getting content out! So what happened you may ask (and I'm referring to the lovely people who are in my inbox asking and being concerned, I'm so sorry for worrying ya). Well, let me tell you!

Health.

Sucks.

So here's a quick TW because I'm going to go into detail about everything that's happened since the last time I was here under the cut. This includes both issues with eating (involuntary), as well as surgical stuff. There will also be a TL;DR at the end of this post.

So as I've mentioned previously (I think) I have chronic nausea. I'm almost always feeling sick after I eat therefore I don't really...eat much. Especially not when I'm working because I can't afford to be sick and have to go home (my job requires me to be on my feet, interacting with clients all day and I woke 9-hour shifts). So because I'm unable to get enough nutrients (normally I won't even eat until I get home from work, and if I do it's protein drinks and pudding during my work day), I'm pretty...weak most of the time.

Let me tell you, eating is so important to function like a human. If you don't you are tired, your muscles hurt, and there are so many other horrible things that go into it that I won't go into detail about.

My biggest problem with not being able to eat enough is fatigue. I am always tired and in a brain fog that writing is impossible. If I can even get the energy to open up my laptop and bring it to my bed, it's typically dashed the moment I open a Word document and can barely type.

I had maybe a solid good week or two a month back right after I went on vacation to see a friend (probably because I was able to eat regularly-ish due to not having to worry about being sick at work) however, like always, it was quickly squashed with reality and I went back to brain fog central, but I feel like it was worse this time.

I only had the energy to talk with three of my closest friends, and occasionally I'd have the brain capacity and energy to play games with one of them, but that's about it. I can't tell you how many times I had to cancel my weekly call with one of my friends from being too tired or putting off playing a game with my other because I just didn't have the energy to cross my room and pick up my controller. It was bad.

Most of my days off have been in bed, sleeping, and trying to eat. So it hasn't been great.

However, two weeks ago something happened. I had stomach pain. Which granted, I have had before. Not the normal nausea but physical pain that if you pressed on my stomach it hurt. I was even walking with a limb by the end of the day. It doesn't happen often but I'm stubborn and don't like going to the hospitals so I had always chalked it up to a "self-correcting problem". For years. Whenever this happened it would go away within a few hours (nine hours max).

So when I woke up the NEXT day and it was still hurting, something was a bit wrong. I called out of work because there was no way I would've been able to stand and made a small deal with myself that if it wasn't gone by the next morning I would...go to the doctor. I know, crazy that I was gonna wait to be in pain for nearly three days but I hate hospitals and I didn't have health insurance with my new job.

Well, this wasn't good enough for my mom and she convinced me to go. The only way she did that was she seemed concerned. Now I'm dramatic. Very, very dramatic. And also a bit of a hypochondriac so I always feel like when I'm sick or in pain I'm simply being dramatic and that it's not actually serious even though my anxiety is telling me I might literally be dying (the number of times I have almost passed out by standing up and brushed it off, or laid in bed and suddenly my heart rate was going off like I sprinted a mile and decided I was probably fine is impeccable).

So I go to the emergency room and they ran some tests and what would you know! It's my appendix. And it wanted to break up with me...how admirable. And apparently, it was way worse than doctors initially thought because I happen to have an abnormally high pain tolerance so when asked on a scale of 1 - 10 what my pain was I said a 3. Apparently, with how bad off it was, I should've been at a 10+ but oh well.

The surgery that they predicted would be no longer than half an hour ended up being an entire hour, and I got four incisions when they said I'd only have three.

So I've been recovering for the past two weeks and should hopefully be back at work on Thursday. Decided to make this post because for once I've been able to eat decent meals for a few days in a row since I haven't been at work, and my brain is actually working for a while. I'm hoping maybe it'll continue so I can start writing again (Writing Twisted Wonderland content is a huge comfort of mine) but who knows.

Maybe my chronic nausea will be solved and I'll be nice and healthy and be able to eat regularly. I can dream. However since I have had a lot of people in my inbox asking me where I've been and if I'm doing already, and how I've essentially ghosted several friends in the fandom since I just don't have the energy to message many people, I figured I should give you the explanation as to what happened.

I'm going to try to get a little bit of writing done today, maybe bust out a few requests. I'm a bit stressed out since one of my good friends is currently on their way to the hospital because she's also a sick bean like me, but also I know damn well she'd enjoy seeing some Twisted Writing so imma do it.

Thank you for listening to my ramblings! I love you all!

TL;DR - I got really sick and couldn't write and then my appendix said bye.

#slug speaks 💛

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