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thefundisorderdiary · 5 months

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Show up to your pharmacy looking just like a zombie

“Trick or treat!”

You compliment my costume while stuffing pain meds in my basket

I groan my thanks to you and shuffle my way back into bed

#trick or treat #spoonie #Halloween #chronic Halloween #chronic life #disabled #fnd #chronic illness #disability #functional neurological disorder #actually disabled #funny #pain #pain meds #pharmacy

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gummybearstastelikesadness · 2 years

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So Fawcett city has that whole multiple era fashion and building things going on. That but for Amity park. Because of ghosts wearing literally what ever and the Drs.Fentons jump suits extremely “alternate” clothes have just become normalized and nobody really cares anymore as long as you are still wearing clothes.

Danny, as someone who spends way more time with ghosts and ghost clothing choices is so completely desensitized to Ghost Fashion ™ that he just straight up can’t tell human heroes, rouges, or civilians apart from each other.

Danny in Gotham: *after walking past multiple rouges in their full costumes* No officer I haven’t seen anyone dressed strangely. Oh, there’s an Arkham breakout? *Sees the Red Hood* yeah that’s just a regular guy who’s a bit spooky, like most of Amity. :p

In Central City: *Sees the Flash* well, that’s just some guy ™ that likes red

Metropolis: *multi supers ending up near Danny due to his concerning “vitals”* huh, there’s a lot of people wearing Superman related clothes here, must be a trend.

Not even Discowing can phase Danny

#danny phantom #dp #dp x dc #dc x dp #dp prompt #danny fenton #he knows what heroes look like but is so used to Amity being Amity he forgets that normal people don’t dress like them outside of Halloween #and that yes that flying person dressed as Superman is actually Superman #I’m pretty sure I sent this to someone as a prompt but I can’t remember (chronic memory loss my beloved <3)

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spookysalem13 · 2 months

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I'm really not looking forward to this 🫠 I'm sure all my alt and my chronic illness, especially POTS friends can understand why this is going to be unpleasant 🙃

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gay-jewish-bucky · 9 months

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IMPORTANT PSA

As we approach spooky season and you start seeing food coloured black, remember that foods with activated charcoal can be very dangerous if you take medications, because it reduces or completely counteracts the absorption of prescription drugs into your system, this is why it's commonly used in the medical field to counteract orally ingested poisons.

#autumn #fall #halloween #charcoal #activated charcoal #charcoal in food #disability #disabled #actually disabled #chronic illness #actually chronically ill #the post i saw about this was inaccessable

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adiduck · 7 months

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Chapters: 5/8 Fandom: Top Gun (Movies) Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Tom "Iceman" Kazansky/Pete "Maverick" Mitchell, Pete "Maverick" Mitchell & Pete "Maverick" Mitchell, Tom "Iceman" Kazansky & Tom "Iceman" Kazansky, Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw & Pete "Maverick" Mitchell, Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw & Tom "Iceman" Kazansky Characters: Tom "Iceman" Kazansky, Pete "Maverick" Mitchell, Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw, "Dagger" Training Detachment Aviators (Top Gun) Additional Tags: Time Travel, Complicated Interpersonal Relationships, Mentions of Cancer, Chronic Illness, Hospitals, Established Relationship, get-together, (yes both), Tom "Iceman" Kazansky Lives, Period-Typical Homophobia, Self-Discovery, Texting, Use and Abuse of Aviation Terms, Unrepentant Fawning over the F-14 Tomcat, Reconciliation Summary:

“How do we know the pre-selected one-seaters will be able to fly the mission?”

Cyclone and Warlock look at each other. “They have been selected, as you were, Captain, for their experience in similar missions. Their situation is… unique,” Warlock explains.

“They’re black ops?” Maverick asks. “Because otherwise I don’t know that there are any active naval aviators who can fly this.” Besides me, he doesn’t say. Again.

“Not anymore,” Cyclone allows. “Are you familiar with Operation Groundhog?”

(Or: The Navy has decided to solve its problems with Time Loop technology. Certain parties decide to solve a few other problems with it, too.)

IT’S ONLY BEEN TWO DAYS AND I DON’T CARE!!! IT’S HALLOWEEN! NANO STARTS TOMORROW!

I know I owe you all comment responses on the last chapter I am going to do that RIGHT NOW sorry sorry enjoy the new chapter~

Warning for a little internalized homophobia in this one. Mind the tags! <3

#both sides now #operation groundhog au #adi is a writer #icemav #tom iceman kazansky #pete maverick mitchell #chronic illness cw #cancer cw #hospitals cw #though no hospitals in this one #period-typical homophobia cw #top gun #Happy Halloween!

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existennialmemes · 8 months

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Going down to the forest to Release my Skeleton to roam free in the wild, so I can live out the rest of my days peacefully, as an

Amorphous Pile of Goo

#shitpost #halloween #halloween memes #skeleton #chronic illness memes #chronic pain memes #shitposting #i was not meant to have joints #this is for the best

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magicbats · 5 months

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hi guyssss i miss u all <3

back in october when i had covid it sucked my soul dry and i lost all energy for most hobbies and i havent even turned my pc on for a few months. im still not at 100% since having covid but thankfully i'm not experiencing anything debilitating, but honestly thats the main reason i disappeared again.

additionally, not having a usable desk has rly made me not able to play the sims consistently (or any game not on switch, which sucks so bad) so i just haven't even checked up on simblr for fomo reasons lmao.

im hoping to get back into it soon, maybe in the new year, and i hope u are all doing well this holiday season 🫶

#very grateful for my health these days because even though i deal with a lot of chronic health issues i know it could be a lot worse #i also just dont have the funds to revamp my setup which sucks but is like. how life goes when u have bigger priorities #like if we have some extra $ in the month im gonna wanna use it on stuff we Need not a new desk and chair which :/ but is just my situation #eliposting #nonsims #anywho i miss u guys<3 #im realizing my blog is still halloween themed and ive had an ask telling me my links are broken for months 💀

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brain-bumbler · 7 months

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I've been scrolling through your psychic Dion headcanon and I saw the chronic migraines idea and I just thought of the cutest fluff idea of Dion's polycule trying to take care of him before Morris realizes that his psyonics being on the fritz is connected to his migraines!

The sun is setting behind the tree line when Dion feels a tingling behind his eyes, like fingers pressing on his optic nerves.

Not now. Please, not now.

He's sitting on the roof of the brain-shaped building he's grown so familiar with over the summer, his feet dangling twenty feet over the Quarry's lake.

Gisu's pressed to his left side, her hand linked in his as they watch the sky turn gold. Morris is on his right, his chair resting on the ground for once so he can rest his arm on Dion's shoulder. It's the end of the day and he just wants to spend his precious free time relaxing with his partners.

It's the water. It's always the water. He should have known better than to get so close to so much water, but the weather is so nice, and he's been doing better. He doesn't even get dizzy looking down at the lake.

Gisu and Morris's chatter floats over his head. The words garble together, bleeding into long strings of nonsense. Sunbeams bouncing off the water grow brighter, trailing in long wispy lines as he moves his head. It almost looks pretty.

The hand on his shoulder shakes him. He hunches over, neck muscles tightening like stretched rubber bands. Oh god, it's starting and he can't stop it. The pressure in his head builds slowly, like air filling a balloon.

"Dion? Awoka eenu ehligh?"

It takes a second for him to register his name. "Mmmph. I'm fine," he says automatically. He turns to look at Morris, and catches the sun behind his head, burning directly into his retinas. Red, green, and yellow and lights flash behind his eyelids as he squeezes them shut.

"Dion, abuu habing norah?"

He tries to focus on Gisu's voice. Her tone is full of concern, even if the meaning is hard to puzzle out.

His skull feels too small, like his brain is swelling up with water, threatening to crack the bones and explode like a horror movie prop. He presses his palms to his temples as a dozen little invisible needles pinprick his skull.

Warm hands hold his chin. They press against his jaw, coaxing him to unclench his teeth.

A hand pressed to his back, two more on his shoulders, pulling him to his feet. He wobbles, his legs tingling and half-asleep, but Morris and Gisu steady him.

They walk him back into the Motherlobe. Morris's levitation lifts Dion, supporting his weight as Gisu nudges him forward step by step.

He isn't sure how long it is they walk. Anyone they pass is sure to stare, but he can't tell with his eyes shut tight.

A door opens and closes behind him. A larger set of hands cup his head, fingers warm and rough. They rub delicately over his brows, the signal that it's safe to open his eyes.

The lights are off in the jr agents' dorm room, and it's getting darker as Gisu hurries to draw the blinds. Adam smiles down at Dion, cupping his cheeks.

"Apahhu nruv?"

Dion can't understand the words, but the tone of his boyfriend's soft British drawl brings his shoulders down from around his ears.

The dumpy couch in the dorms smells like Morris's cologne and Sam's woodland animal friends. He didn't used to like it, but now he relaxes into the familiar cushions, laying down and curling into a tiny ball. The dark helps. He can focus on breathing and not holding back vomit.

Gisu nudges him, and he lets her pick him up and deposit his head in her lap, careful not to jostle him. She pets his head as the others chat quietly.

He listens for as long as he can, holding on to the sound of their voices as his head splits down the middle. The pressure is the awful part. Something inside him banging on the inside of his head, trying to get out.

He might make a sound of pain— he can't hear himself if he does— because the talk around him stops. Gisu squeezes his arm as he wraps his hands around his head. The agony throbs with his heartbeat.

Someone else touches him. He tries to open his eyes, but the world is a swimming mess of color. Leaning into their hands, Dion lets them move him however they want.

They lightly touch his forehead, and he can feel cool breath on his face as his cheeks pinken. They're so close, and he doesn't need more blood rushing to his head from being flustered.

Then, miraculously, the pounding in his brain eases. Like air escaping from a leaky tire, the pressure in his head deflates. He gasps, nearly falling forward face-first.

When the touch pulls away, he whines, reaching back for them. His brain is still on fire, but it's more of a campfire and less of an incinerator. With relief so strong he can't keep himself up any longer.

The feeling is like cool water running over a blistering burn. It's enough that he can start to drift off. The only thing he can do is wait for the rest of the migraine to fade on its own, but now he can doze until it passes.

Gisu stares at the boy in her lap. His chest rises and falls steadily as he sleeps. Morris and Adam gape at Lizzie, kneeling in front of the couch, her hands hovering over Dion.

Lizzie's own shock is obvious. She closes her open mouth, one eyebrow quirked as she studies the boy in the center of them all.

"Lizzie… Did you…?"

"I thought a little ice would take the edge off. But then I felt his mind… there was so much energy, it's like a lightning storm in there. The static was gonna discharge eventually," she says, whispering.

"Psychic discharge. Hell, that means…" Adam kneels next to her and presses another kiss to Dion's forehead.

"Okay. Okay. I think we should talk about this when he's awake." Even with her mind racing on a superhighway of questions, Gisu can't help her own lips twitching up as she sees how calm Dion is. There will be a lot to talk about later, but for now it's enough that he's feeling better.

"Sounds good to me. Leave the serious stuff for later. I want to find some whipped cream and a feather." Morris rubs his hands together like a cartoon supervillain. He won't do anything, not when Dion is in pain, but the joke disperses some of their anxiety as Gisu whaps him on the hair.

Dion is psychic. It makes sense. The symptoms of psychic repression are weird, but the headaches and fatigue are classic. He's always been so firm and confident about it, and his family agreed that he never displayed any visible powers. But that's not a guarantee. People miss things, I should have considered the possibility….

Morris settles next to Lizzie on the couch while Adam slips under Dion's legs to sit in the middle. She puts the should haves away. For now, they'll keep each other company, watching anime without sound and texting each other memes until Dion wakes up.

When he does blink awake, Dion feels better than he ever has after an episode. His friends and partners are sleeping, flopped over him, limbs tangled together in such a mess he doesn't want to think about getting up.

Dion finds someone's hand and holds it tight, and he can almost feel his head clear even more. Love is funny like that.

#psychonauts 2 #psychonauts #dion aquato #chronic pain tw #headache tw #migraine tw #ask bumble #psychic dion #Sorry this took me so long! I just loved the question so much I wanted to write a little thing for it!!#is this whumptober technically? doesn't fit the theme of today #finally do a whumptober type piece on halloween lol #Dion you get psychic powers but instead of making you cool they just make you really sick : )))))#psychic powers present differently like neurodivergencies in the real world #so sometimes trying to find out if someone is psychic by comparing them to their siblings doesn't work #there's lots of ways to be psychic #Such a neat idea!#<3 <3 <3 <3 #poly relationship #dion/gisu/morris #dion/adam #implied dion/lizzie #dion/gisu/morris/lizzie/adam #?#Sam might be in there too its ambiguous #pair whoever you want together in this lol

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hauntedhearse · 25 days

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Headless Horseman Disney IG: kadieinwonderland ∞

#upload #me #myself #my face #disneyland #disney #california adventure #headless horseman #spooky #spooky season #halloween #chronic illness

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happi-tree · 7 months

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are we out (of the woods yet)

You look down.

Well, this explains the pain, you think, eyes darting over a body that you inhabit but do not recognize in the slightest, in colors that you can scarcely remember seeing.

Father is going to kill me. Then, Where am I?

Or: Henry Oak, and being destined for two worlds and when you've only ever walked in one.

ao3

Here’s my fic for day 3: werewolves. Like day 1, this is part of a supernatural au that @kaseyskat and @llumimoon masterminded alongside me, although this one takes place chronologically before day 1's. Hope you like it!

Life is good for you. Great, even! At least, that’s what Father wants you to believe.

Below your feet, the leaves crunch in shades of silver and gold, compounded into tiny bits that fly up around you as you sprint through the dense forest, and life is… as good as it can get, for the time being.

The sky is becoming clearer by the day, more and more pieces of azure heaven made visible by the ever-growing gaps in the canopy, carrying with it relief and distress in equal measure.

The sun lances to alight on pale golden fur, warming you through, unfettered by the leaves as you bound from shadow to shadow, light to light. At the same time, you feel the autumn’s chill on the breeze; though it is not yet cold enough for the grass to don their frost-coats at the gray-gold-blue dawn (scarcely ever is, these past few years), there is a weariness in your bones that belies the winter ahead, aching in joints that have not shifted right in quite some time.

It tugs at the back of your mind, the turn of the seasons, the shifting of moons, the shedding of leaves that regrow with the promise of spring. But there isn’t much you can do about it - not without it getting back to Father in some way or another (it always does, and you have long since learned that this corner of the wood has eyes beyond those of the white birches), and that is the last thing you want - so you growl under her breath, clench your jaw, and run harder, as if the ache is just a muscle you can stretch simply by outrunning it all.

You bank around the trunk of an old, gnarled dogwood and think of winter. They’ll need food stocked up at the Commune, soon.

(Commune, a name that Father has given your number, because Pack is too much too animalistic, too barbaric, too laughably simple for what you are. For your purpose. For your community.)

(You would personally like to tell Father where he can shove his community.)

(Well, most of it.)

The sun will be setting soon, you know, and as you bask in golden hour you dread the encroaching indigo-tinge of twilight that will bring you to Father’s side, ever the obedient daughter. There is not much you can do, though, except to attempt at grasping ephemeral joy in your hungry jowls, to crush the dead growth underfoot until you are expected back within the heart of Commune territory.

<Hen!> a familiar mind-voice calls out to you. <Hey, Hen, over here!>

Well. You suppose that maybe there is something else you can do.

The careless footfalls of your partner approach from behind, and you whirl around.

<Goose,> You sigh, half-exasperated, half-fond. <What in the moon’s name are you doing over here?>

<Could ask you the same question, Hen Ry’,> he chuffs, trotting over to brush against your flank.

<Plus, you always head over to this part of the outskirts when you’re all moody,> he notes, gesturing with his muzzle at your surroundings.

The cliff-wall before you is a massive, towering thing, all craggy rock and silvery moss. You could spend hours following the striations in the stone, nosing at the peaks and valleys, following them to the edge of Father’s influence. You have spent hours doing just that, following the winding currents within the rock, stripes of light and dark that squirm organically like the veins of some giant, petrified creature.

The trees thin out, here, and you glance sidelong at Goose.

<I’m not “all moody”,> You argue rather pointlessly, staring at the ribbons of light-dark in the stone before you.

<Please, babe, you’re always moody. I can smell it from miles away.>

Goose Sy’ is a gangly, wiry thing, with dark fur that looks lit from within in the dappled sunlight. He hunches lazily now, but there is strength and power and quickness beneath his pelt.

<What’s on your mind?> He asks, and you let him touch his nose to your cheek, an affectionate gesture that is a rarer and rarer treasure, these days. <Is the old man on your ass again?>

<When isn’t he?> You respond simply, growling a bit as you kick up more debris.

You sigh. <He keeps asking if I’ve thought about a mate,> you confess, and you scent his agitation and the slightest bit of worry as he turns his golden eyes on yours.

<He’s not, like, suspicious or anything?> Goose asks.

<Moons, no, thank goodness,> You respond, seeing him untense before you. <Could you imagine?>

Goose says, his laughter resounding in your brain. <I’d love to see the look on his face when he realizes his perfect paragon pup has been fraternizing with a mangy commoner. You know, before he kills me.>

You nuzzle against his side, let his scent wash over you. You’ll have to roll around in muck and mire for quite awhile to erase it, but as you bury your face into his ruff, you think it’s worth it.

There’s an ache in your heart that matches the ache in your unshifted bones, and you often wonder which came first.

<Killing is against his own rules, and my Father surely wouldn’t debase himself to such levels. It is beneath our glorious, enlightened kind,> You sniff mockingly.

He bumps his side to yours, snorting.

Father… has been getting very insistent about settling you down. Perhaps a part of you always knew that pups were the only things he judged you as being good enough for, but your stomach turns at the very principle. You feel trapped, miserable here in his territory, heir to his kingdom of oak and earth. To bring more of yourself into the world, to force them to endure as you have…

You scent a chill on the breeze, and it ruffles your fur, causing a shiver to run down your spine. The ache intensifies, and you can practically feel the creaking of your bones beneath the sinew.

You hear yourself whine before you can stop it, and Goose presses closer to your side.

<Have you thought about Changing?> He asks, mind-voice lowered to the slightest of whispers.

You balk. <Are you insane? Father would actually kill me. Just because you can get away with it doesn’t mean I could just - >

Goose says, trying on a soothing tone like an ill-fitting coat. <It’s just that - > he snarls, low and angry, and you flinch.

<Sorry,> He cuts himself off. <But you’re hurting, and it’s his fault. Him and his stupid fucking rules.>

It’s not the sun against your fur that makes you feel warmed through, now.

Goose tells you.

You reply, instead of the me, too that lies just below your speech-thoughts.

<A little,> He answers. <Well, a lot, at the beginning. But then, the pain goes away a little, I guess. Shrinks. You could try it, you know. I’d take care of you.>

Your heart says something different, as it always has. You ponder for the briefest moment the concept of running away from it all, of a full-moon sunrise where you awaken in a body that is still yours but also not, side by side with him. You imagine the shift-ache unfurling into a new shape before shrinking dormant below your reformed skin.

You wonder if he would drag you to the treeline outside the nearest town, dress you in human things until you could masquerade among them. If he would teach you how to walk on two legs.

You wonder what he would look like. Instead of brushing against your side, you wonder if he would hold your hand.

Wondering is a pointless thing, though, Father says, and running is cowardice.

Staying feels even moreso, but you know nothing else.

<Well, if you change your mind and wanna stick it to the old mutt, you know where to find me,> Goose’s voice echoes softly between your pointed ears, breaking you from your thoughts.

<Thank you,> You respond, trying to wrangle your mind-voice into something that sounds less morose and forlorn. You fail, judging by the way Goose presses his muzzle against yours.

You wish you could go, just pick up and leave, but there are things that keep you. Mother, for one, though she grows more and more distant by the day, ever colder, like the Autumn she is named for, as Father sinks his claws into you both, bleeding you of your heart and your strength and your freedoms until nothing is left but exhaustion and ache and apathy.

Mother belonged to another Pack, once, you know, even though she has never spoken of it. A real Pack, in name and in function. She has known what it feels like to move between forms, between worlds, transient like the phases of the moon.

You would’ve liked a life like hers, a name like hers, one that feels equal parts human and beast.

Instead, you were named in Commune tradition. The first moons of your life you went nameless, in order for your parents (your Father, mostly) to judge what name would best suit you.

You think of Father’s name: Bear, a towering, massive presence compressed into lupine form that looms over you even when he is not there. Strong, masculine, predatory.

Goose was named this way, too, and the name suits him well - your partner is flighty, a free spirit, but brash and loud and quick to bite and clamor at whatever displeases him.

Even your childhood tormentor, Horse, suits his name. Proud and haughty and ornery and loud in his own right, skittish beneath Father and Mother’s glares.

You do not have to wonder why Father chose Hen for yourself. You are a livestock, a thing to be kept in a wooden cage, with clipped wings incapable of flight, legs unsuited for traveling too far from his reach. Your children and your children’s children will feed the gaping maw of your captor, and there is nothing you can do about it.

Your name chafes at you, scratches at you like brambles upon your hide. Meek and feminine and prey-animal and all the things you are but wish not to be.

<Sun’ll be down soon,> Goose’s mind-voice resounds in your brain, and you startle, cocking your head to dislodge your useless spiraling.

You look around, noting the yellowish light stretching the tree-shadows longer and longer across the ground.

<You’re right,> You agree.

<Lost you for a minute, there,> He says.

Goose doesn’t press for answers, but the flicking of his ears gives away his concern.

<Just thinking,> You respond, glancing at the deepening blues on the horizon.

<You were thinking pretty loudly,> Goose remarks with a light press against your side. <You gotta get back, yeah?>

<Wish I didn’t have to,> You grumble, already turning to the depths of Commune territory, pawing forward even as you think it.

<Offer’s always open,> Goose replies. <Full moon’s only a week away.>

The pain within you seems to increase at the reminder.

Goose exclaims as your paths begin to diverge - his, to his home on the far reaches, yours, to whatever Father has awaiting you tonight. <Thanks. See you soon?>

<Soon,> You agree, and hope you can make good on that promise.

“Hello?”

The first thing you register as you awaken is that your body hurts.

Bone-deep, marrow-deep, cell-deep, all over. It feels like your limbs have scrambled themselves, ground themselves to dust, and then attempted to piece themselves back together from the rubble. It is as if every muscle fiber within you has been stretched past breaking point, as if every nerve ending fell prey to one thousand claws, one thousand fangs.

Your very soul yowls in pain, and it is only because your teeth feel so wrong and foreign in your own jaw, because your vocal cords scrubbed raw, that you do not vocalize it beyond a shaking rasp.

The second thing you register is a presence right in front of you.

You open your eyes, and the third thing you register is dazzling, dizzying, scintillating color.

Your hands (hands?) scrabble at the rough earth in a vain attempt to ground yourself as you look around half-dazed and hurting, and the soft, uncalloused flesh of your palms smarts and stings against jagged bits of debris.

You look down.

Well, this explains the pain, you think, eyes darting over a body that you inhabit but do not recognize in the slightest, in colors that you can scarcely remember seeing.

Father is going to kill me. Then, Where am I?

You don’t recognize this part of the woods - the scents of the Commune are all but nonexistent, and the area around you is well-trod, devoid of grass, human odors lingering and overlapping.

A human hiking trail?

You blink rapidly, taking in the fuzzy dawn light and its myriad of hues.

Mother had taught you about colors, once, when you were a very young pup and the world was still bright with more than shades of yellow and cerulean and she was not yet as poisoned by oppressive bear-weight of cynicism.

She had told you their names, even, though you struggle to remember them.

You test them out, now, forming their mouth-shapes with a slow clacking of newly-blunted teeth.

Green, the color of moss and grasses and foliage at the height of solstice.

Orange and her deeper sister red, the colors of the fallen leaves underfoot, the colors of the sky as evening starts its slow descent toward dusk.

The coveralls that the human woman before you wears are purple, you think, a flower-color, a dusk-color, a dawn-color. A spring-color, a beginning-color.

“H-ello,” you attempt, your voice creaking and throat constricting at the novelty of speaking aloud.

“Hello, again,” the woman responds, slowly and frowning, but… not unkindly, you think.

You inhale, and her scent is tinged with something sparkling and warm and cold all at once. Magic-smell, you realize. There is worry there, as well - not for her own safety, but for yours.

There is not even the tracest amount of falsehood to her - her demeanor, her expression (though, that, admittedly, is mostly guesswork), her scent.

It’s a novel concept.

You cannot remember that last time anyone had had honest intentions with you (apart from Mother and maybe Goose), let alone went as far to show genuine concern over you.

It takes you aback, strikes you nearly as harshly as… whatever it was that has left you feeling so crippled.

“My name is Mercedes,” the woman says, gently, softly, as if speaking to a wounded prey animal.

The comparison is… not without merit.

“What can I call you?” She asks.

Smart, this woman is. Or incredibly stupid. To lend her own name like that knowing full well the risks is either an intense show of trust and compassion, or…

There is a glint in her eye, you notice, and the magic-scent sharpens.

Well… best to repay a kindness with a kindness.

“Hen,” you croak, trying to get the shape of your name to form on your clumsy, human tongue. “Ry’Oak.”

“Well, Henry,” the woman (Mercedes!) says, and you splutter at the way that she slurs the first two syllables together rather than the last.

“Are you okay?”

Moons above, no, you are not.

Your body hurts like it never has before, and your eyes sear with a kaleidoscope of hues you haven’t seen since you were a young pup, and the way this witch has butchered your name might be the most beautiful thing you’ve ever heard.

Henry, you mouth to yourself, running it together. It sounds rather plain, achingly human. Father would hate it.

You quite like it.

“I think… I will be,” you tell Mercedes.

“Good,” she says, extending a hand. “Now, let’s get you cleaned up.”

#this au has LAYERS i tell you. layers!!!#anyway. shoutout to nyx for the idea of barry having a cult of fucked-up werewolves that believe that their wolf forms are superior #surely. henry will not have several complexes as a result of this. and chronic pain #but hey! mercedes!!! it's not all bad :)#ANYWAY. thank y'all for being so nicies on the last one. hope this one makes sense!#dndads #fic #happi scribbles #dndads halloween week 2023 #bat and wolf #also. i know this one is ANOTHER 2nd person pov but i swear it's the last one. probably. it just flows better this way. trust 😌#okay i THINK. this is all the tagging i need to do

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pasteloddity · 2 years

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Kinda late, but this OC is named Glurg. It’s inspired by my feelings living with chronic illness, autoimmune disorder, and neurodivergency, among other things. Definitely gonna be posting more than one of these, just figured I’d get one out before I got too too behind.

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alloweenhallthetime · 1 year

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Just because it’s medicine doesn’t mean you can’t Halloween-ify it! Thankful for things like these rso drops to help get me through the day. A Halloween cheers to you Pumpkins!

#halloween #autumn #october #alloweenhallthetime #personal halloween #jarritos #jackolantern #rso #medical maryjane #chronic illness #chronic migraine #chronic pain #fibromyalgia

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