Hii I just found your blog through one of your posts and I didn't know I missed chronically ill reader represantation like that!!
I was wonder if you maybe would be interested in writing a little thing with Peter Parker and a reader who has functional neurologic disorder? Maybe where it impacts readers walking due to weak and aching legs or something with trouble with eating?
If not no worries!! I'm going to read the rest now :)
Sending you this story and a kiss on the forehead anon 😘🧡
Fallin' For You
Peter Parker x chronically ill!reader
Summary: You can't help but fall for your boyfriend (due to an FND flare)
Warnings: chronic pain, forearm crutches, falling (reader), medical contact, masking symptoms, mention of doctors and medical gaslighting, gagging (not actually throwing up), mention of gastroparesis/eating issues, shame and guilt surround chronic illness, protective peter wanting to make everything better
Main Master list
Chronically ill!reader Masterlist
You sit on the couch, legs tucked up against your chest. Pain radiates through them, distracting you from the conversations occuring around you.
Everything is blurry, blobs colors shifting. One of you arms is wrapped around your abdomen, trying to push down the nauseous rolling in your stomach.
"Baby,"
A hand on your cheek snaps you out of your pain induced daze. You try to focus on Peter's worried face.
"Are you okay, luv?" He asks, rubbing his thumb gently on your cheek.
You realize the room has gone quiet. Tony, Natasha, Wanda, Steve, and Thor had been chatting in the living room, but now everyone is silent, looking at you with concern.
"Yeah," you respond breathily, forcing a smile, "Just zoned out,"
You lean into Peter, soaking up his warmth. He wraps his arms around you, brushes his lips against your ear.
"What's wrong?" He whispers.
"'m fine. Just tired," you lie.
Well, it's not a lie exactly. Tired is actually a weak word for what you are. Your limbs feel weighed down. Your legs are shaking fainting, and you know they'll buckle the second you put weight on them.
"I think I'm gonna go to bed early," you decide, pulling away from Peter's embrace.
"here, I'll walk you," Peter says, jumping up.
Show off you think, knowing how long it will take you to stand.
"That's okay, babe, stay and talk with your friends,"
You grab you navy forearm crutches and gingerly set your legs on the ground. Needles shoot though the bottoms of your feet as you lean forward, shifting weight on them. You take a deep breath, bracing yourself before pushing to your feet.
You wobble on your feet, struggling to find your balance for a moment. Peter grips your waist, steading you. Your face burns hot from the position change and the eyes of the other Avengers on you.
"I've got it. Just got a little dizzy," you choke out through the pain.
You start towards the hallway, biting the inside of your cheek. Your legs ache, feeling like Thor smashed them with his hammer. Your feet drag slightly, and every step is a shaky struggle.
But you push through, fighting to walk as "normally" and fast as you can with the eyes on our.
Your breaths come in ragged, shallow pants by the time you reach the hall. You shoulders relax the second you're outside of eyeshot from the living room.
You slow your pace, moving your crutches forward one at a time before dragging one leg forward. Your knees give out with every step, forcing you to put more and more weight on the crutches. Your muscles shake and twitch, fatiguing quickly.
It happens almost in slow motion. You reach the carpet halfway down the hall. You shift one crutch forward on it, but lean your weight onto it to move the other before it's fully stable.
The rug slides, the crutch bearing most of your weight going with it.
A strangled scream rips from your lips as you tip forward. Your knees slam against the floor, but something catches the back of your shirt, holding up your torso before you can fulling hit the ground.
Peter's arms are around you in a second. He's on the ground, pulling you into his lap- carefully moving your legs for you- and hugging you tightly.
You realize it was one of his webs that caught you. He gently pries your forearm crutches out of your hands, allowing them to clatter to the ground.
You hide your face in the crook of his neck, clinging to him with all your remaining strength.
The dam on the pain you were trying to supress breaks, and you start to cry in pain and embarrassment. Your knees feel like they were shattered, and your legs ache so bad, the press of Peter's jeans under you hurts.
"I've got you, I've got you, I have you baby," Peter mumbles, his tone still rushed and adrenaline seeping through his words. into the top of your breath, "You're safe, I've got you babygirl,"
"I'm sorry," you sob, "I didn't mean to-"
"No, no, sweet girl, I'm sorry," Peter interrupts, "I should have pushed harder. I should have noticed,"
"You weren't supposed to notice," you sniffle, "I didn't want anyone to,"
"Oh luv," he sounds absolutely heartbroken, "How bad is it?"
"'s really bad today," you cry, "I can't- I don't- it's getting bad, Peter,"
"I've got you," Peter repeats, "We'll figure it out, baby,"
You loose track of how long he holds you like that. You crying, him just muttering comforting words into your ear.
"Let's get you to bed, angel," he whispers, effortlessly standing up with you in his arms.
Peter takes you to the bathroom first, setting you down on the toilet. He sets out while you go to the bathroom, keeping the door cracked.
He rushes back as soon as you're done. He takes a moment to check your legs for injuries from your fall. Your knees have started to bruise, but that's the only visible thing despite them feeling like open wounds.
He starts gently pulling your clothes out, lifting your arms and legs for you. You stifle a cry as he pulls your pants off, the fabric scrapping against your skin.
"I know, I know, I'm sorry," he mutters, pulling of his extra soft t shirts over your head.
That's the only thing he puts you in before picking you up again, carrying you into your shared room.
He sets you down on the bed as carefully as possible before crawling in with you. He settling in bed next to you, pulling the covers over you. Only the silk sheets touch your legs, which feel more like tingling than stabbing your nerves.
"Where's it hurt, baby?" Peter asks gently, cupping your face.
"My legs and my knees and my stomach," you whimper, "Everywhere,"
"Do you need heat or cold?"
"Heat," you respond quickly.
It sounds counterintuitive, with your pain feeling like hot flames. But cold or ice burn your skin hotter than even the pain.
Peter pulls your heating pad out, covering your aching knees with it. He turns it on, and you sign in relief as it starts to heat up. Your legs still ache intensivly, but the heat helps ease the sharpness of the pain in your knees.
"Baby," Peter starts hesitantly, "Have you eaten anything today?"
You bold upright, leaning over the side of the bed as you gag. You dry heave over the empty trashcan- left next to the bed for this every reason. Peter holds your hair/braid/locs away from your face, rubbing circles on your back.
"Sorry, sorry, sorry," he winces.
"I'm sorry," you whimper, "I can't, hurts too bad, I just can't,"
"I know baby," he sighs, pulling you into his arms as the nausea starts to ease, "I know. I just... You have to eat at some point. Just a little,"
"I can't, Peter," you sniffle, "I don't wanna throw up again, my throat is raw and my stomach hurts just thinking about it.
He's silent for a moment, but rubbing patterns on your back. You can hear his heartbeat under your ear with your head on his chest, it's steady pulse a comfort for you.
"I think you should go back to the doctor,"
"They're not gonna help me. They're just gonna say I'm faking it or exaggerating or just need to exercise more and just eat anyways,"
"no. I'm not gonna let them just ignore you," Peter starts, "We'll take you to Bruce. In the morning. Maybe there's some medicine you can take, or something-"
"Peter," you whisper, "I'm so tired,"
"I know baby. I know. I've got you know. I'm gonna protect you," he whispers.
You sign into his chest.
"You can't baby," you say gently.
He's silent for a moment.
"I hate that I can't protect you for this. From your own body," he admits, "I wish I could take all this from you,"
"I know. God, it's almost like you've got a hero complex," you joke weakly.
Peter's chuckle is strained.
"You can't fix it, but... I don't need you to fix me, just hold me," you says, tears burning your eyes.
"Always," he promises.
You lay in comfortable silence for a while before you break it.
"So. Is it too early to joke that I can't help but fall for you again?"
Functional neurologic disorder (FND) refers to a neurological condition caused by changes in how brain networks work, rather than changes in the structure of the brain itself, as seen in many other neurological disorders. Physical symptoms of FND are genuine but cannot be explained by changes in the brain structure. The exact cause of FND is unknown.
FND symptoms may include:
• Seizure-like episodes (non epileptic seizures)
• Short term or long term paralysis of limb (s)
• Movement problems
• Problems with cognitive function
• Dizziness
• Speech difficulties, such as sudden onset of stuttering or trouble speaking
• Problems with vision or hearing
• Pain (including chronic migraine)
• Extreme slowness and fatigue
• Numbness or inability to sense touch
• Dystonia
• Bowel and/or bladder dysfunction
• Gastrointestinal issues
FND is real. FND is valid. FND can be debilitating. FND patient deserve dignity, empathetic healthcare, and resources for quality of life and independence.
Resources/more info on FND
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Summary: Steve helps you slow down your morning when you wake up with increased joint instability and pain
Warnings: fluff, chronic pain, mention of joint dislocation, orthotic braces (knee and AFO braces), brief sexual innuendoes, mention of spanking, joking about illness/disability
A/N: this specific character has hEDS, POTS, mobility issues, and uses AFOS, knee braces, and mobility aids. But everyone with EDS is different and requires different tools.
Word count: 962
Ehlers Danlos Sydrome- a group of genetic, connective tissue disorders that cause the body's "glue" (collagen) to be faulty, leading to loose joints, stretchy skin, and fragile tissue throughout the body.
You wake with your whole body aching. Your muscles are sore and pain shoots through your joints as you roll over.
“Morning, darlin’,” Steve smiles, looking wide awake next to you.
How long has he been awake? Was he just watching you sleep?
“Morning,” you respond sleepily, snuggling into his arms.
Steve rubs firm, warm circles on the spot between your shoulder blades that feels like it was ripped apart in your sleep. How did he know?
“Okay, let’s go,” you groan, trying to sit up.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Steve laughs, pulling you back down in bed.
“Patrol, Steven!” You giggle.
“I switched with Bucky,”
“What? Why would you do that?”
“Love,” Steve starts gently, “You were tossin’ and turnin’ all night. I could hear your joints clickin’ and popping,”
“It’s fine,” you groan.
“We’re having a slow morning,” Steve says firmly.
“But-”
Steve interrupts you with his lips.
“Slow,” he mumbles against your lips, kissing you leisurely.
You melt into the kissing, allowing him to slowly explore your lips before pulling away.
Steve slowly sits you up, giving your body time to adjust before moving from behind you. He moves onto his knees at the side of the bed, gently pulling you so your aching legs hang off the bed.
You wince as he starts slowly stretching out one of your legs, holding the kneecap firmly in place as he does so to prevent dislocation.
“That hurt?” He asks.
“It’s sore,” you admit.
“You did too much walking yesterday,” he grumbles, moving to massaging the sore muscles.
“Less than half of what you did!” you huff. Steve looks at you with a wry look.
“Which of us is a super soldier and which of us has a connective tissue disease?”
“Slander!” You say with mock outrage, leaning back on your hands.
Steve moves onto the other leg, following the same steps of rotating between stretching and massaging.
He takes his time rolling your compression socks on before. He pulls out your orthotic knee braces, strapping them on for you before gently gripping your feet.
“How are your ankles today, sweetheart?” He asks.
You open your mouth to lie, but your face scrunches up as he slowly flexes your foot. Steve hums, picking up your AFOs and strapping them on.
“You’re no fun,” you whine as he zips your orthotic shoes on.
“Keeping your joints in place is very fun,” Steve chuckles, kissing your cheek, “Now, what kinda day is it? Crutches or walker? Or wheelchair?”
“Walker,”
“Don’t move,” Steve orders, getting up and moving into the bathroom.
Steve returns pushing your walker with a stack of clothes on the seat.
“Ummm, that’s actually for you, old man,” you joke.
“Hey, careful who you’re calling old!” Steve laughs.
“Yeah, I think it was actually your joints you heard popping all night. I hear it happens with old age,”
Steve presses you back on the bed, careful of your joints as he hovers over you.
“I’d spank you ass for that if you weren’t already hurting,” he purrs, voice dripping with amusement.
“Don’t threaten me with a good time,” you smirk.
“Oh, what am I gonna do with you?” Steve laughs as he sits you up.
Steve hands you the stack of clothes and watches as you tug off your sleep shirt and start dressing. His eyes are amused, slightly heated, but mostly observant.
“Hopefully something involving food,”
You pull the skirt on as much as you can sitting down. Steve leans down, slipping his hands under your ass before slowly standing you up. He uses his grip on your ass to support your weight as your head spins, your nails digging into his arms.
“Take your time,” he whispers in your ears, “I’m enjoying your ass in my hands,”
“Steve!” You laugh, moving to tug the skirt up over his hands.
“Yeah, I think I’ll just hold this all day. Make sure it doesn’t go anywhere,”
“You perv,”
“Your perv,” He corrects, slowly loosening his grip so more weight is eased onto your legs. You burrow your face into his neck, biting your lips as your knees shake under you weight.
“Let me know if you’re gonna pass out on me, darlin’,”
“Nah, I’ve got better things to do today. But I’ll let you know if I get bored later and wanna have a medical episode,”
You brace one hand on his shoulder, using the other to grab your walker. Steve takes a step back as you get your balance with the walker, taking slow steps with its support. Pain shoots through your shoulders as you rely on the walker for more support.
Steve walks carefully behind you as you walk to the kitchen. Wanda is sitting at the table, Natasha on the couch.
“You see this?” You call, “This old man is stalking me! He won’t leave me alone! He’s making me take care of myself,”
“Terrible, want me to beat him up?” Natasha asks.
“Always,” you smile.
“Hey!” Steve gasps, “I thought we were friends!"
“I don’t know, Steve, I think we’d all take you down for your girl,” Wanda responds jokingly.
“Told you,” you stick your tongue out at him. You grumble as Steve makes you sit down as he makes breakfast.
“Here you go, love,” Steve smiles, kissing the top of your head as he sets a plate and a small cup of meds down in front of you.
“Thank you,”
You swallow the meds down with a sip of water. The two of you stay mostly silent as you eat your breakfast, making small talk with Natasha and Wanda occasionally.
Your eyes keep straying back to Steve, fighting a smile. He’s so caring, so gentle with your body and your heart. So perfect.
Summary: a Crohn's flare hits you while Bucky is over for a date.
Warnings: GI issues, chronic pain, embarrassment regarding illness, mentions of phantom limb pain, behavior that could be interpreted as "overbearing" in a relationship
A/N: this one's pretty short! Not too many details, but I wanted it to be genuine representation.
Crohn's Disease: a chronic autoimmune condition where the immune system mistakenly attacks the digestive tract, causing long-lasting inflammation that can lead to pain, diarrhea, and malnutrition
Main Masterlist
Chronically ill/Disabled Reader Masterlist
You wouldn't have invited Bucky over if you knew your intestines would feel like they were being run through a meat grinder. The cramps started after lunch. Then the fatigue hit, making you feel like limbs were heavy. The pressure in your abdomen continued to grow as the cramps intensified, pain ripping through you.
By the time your realized you were going into a flare, it was too late. Bucky was laying next to you on the couch, one arm slung causally around you. You tried taking slow, deep breath, attempting to easy the pain in your middle.
Your hands are clamped in fists, toes curled in your toes, planting yourself in the spot. You know if you go to the bathroom, you won't be leaving for a long time. You feel yourself getting warmer as hot knives rip through your insides.
"You're really warm, doll," Bucky whispers, pushing your hair out of your face and kissing your forehead, "What's up?"
Bucky knows you have Crohn's disease, but you haven't been dating long enough for you to feel comfortable going into the intimate and borderline gory details of what your body can do to itself.
"Nothing," you answer quickly, "It's just hot in here,"
Creases appear between Bucky's eyebrows.
"No, it isn't," he responds gently.
"Well, n-not all of us ca-can regulate our body temp like a supersolider!" you stutter.
"Touche,"
The pressure in your stomach peaks, and you finally cave.
"I'll be back," you squeak, standing up and rushing to the bathroom.
A full hot flash hits you as you get to the bathroom, and you're stripping off your clothes. You grip your abdomen with one hand, the other on your forehead as cramp tear you aparth.
Between the hot flash and embarrassment, you're burning up. You can't believe your body is doing this to you. You've done everything right. Taken your meds, eaten right, stayed hydrated, gotten your infusions, everything. And still your body attacks itself and you.
You double over and tears well as a second round hits.
"Doll, are you okay in there?"
You bite your thumb, attempting to muffle you little pained noises.
"Y-yeah! I'm f-fine!" you call weakily.
"Open the door, baby," Bucky begs.
"B-buck, you should leave,"
"I'm not going anywhere. What is it, babe? I'm here for you," he calls through the door.
"Bucky, I'm having a flare, and I'm not gonna be able to come out for.a long time, so you should just go home,"
Bucky is silently for a moment, and you think for a moment that he's left.
"Open the door, doll," Bucky says gently.
"This is mortifying,"
"No, it's not. Open the door,"
"Bucky, you don't understand, I can't. I can't get up," you flush.
"Okay, baby, that's okay. I'm coming in,"
You grab a towel and drap it over you lap just as the door flies open.
"Did you just break my door down?" you ask, still doubled over, trying to hold in your bowels.
"What can I do, luv?" Bucky asks, "Let me help,"
"Bucky, I- you- you can't be in here!"
"Why, babygirl?" he asks gently, leaning against the doorframe.
Tears slip down your cheeks.
"It's so embarrassing," you cry, "And it's gross and smells and-"
"Babygirl," he interrupts gently, "Do you know what I do?"
"W-what?" you sniffle.
"My job. Do you know what my job is?"
"Yo-you fight bad guys," you respond, voice squeaking as another wave hits you.
"I kill people," he corrects, "It's not pretty. Blood, guts, dead bodies. And before that, I was in the military. There's no plumbing in trenches, luv. You never forget that smell. I don't want to belittle your pain, but it smells like daisies and rainbows in comparison.
"You are not gross. You don't have to be embarrassed about what your body does to you, doll,"
"You're crazy," you laugh, still crying.
"I'm not some little boy who can't handle the realities of your body. What can I do, baby?" he asks.
You think for a moment.
"My flare bag. Next to my bed. It's yellow and white,"
Your last mini flare had consisted of excruciating cramps, pain, and nauseous, but at least no lower GI symtoms, so you could stay in a fetal position in bed. Your body offers you no such luxury this time.
"Be right back,"
You hear Bucky clomping around your apartment as your body continues to tear itself apart. You tie your hair up in a messy bun. It's not cute, but it keep it off your neck.
Bucky returns with the bag and a fan. He hands you your bag, and as he digs through it, he sets up the fan. You sign in relief as cool air blows on your sweat slicked skin. You find your little pill divider, popping your Budesonide and a pain killer. You peal the backing off of an adhering heat pack, sticking it to your abdomen.
"Does that help?" Bucky asks.
"It should, a little to get me through at least,"
You look up an watch in shock as Bucky Barnes plops down on your bathroom floor, not too far from where you are on the toliet.
"What are you doing?"
"Well, doll, unless you really and truly need me to leave, I'm not going anywhere," Bucky says like it's obvious, leaning back against the sink.
And he does just that. Bucky sits with you for the rest of the evening, sometimes telling you stories from his childhood and time in the army, sometimes sitting in silence, sometimes stroking your hand as you grip his. It's disgustingly intimate in a way you didn't know you needed while in such pain.
Bucky helps you to bed in the small bursts your body allowed before rushing back to the bathroom. He turns the fan on during hot flashes, then wraps your body in soft towels during the following cold flash.
When it finally seems to be over, Bucky runs a bath for you, and helps you in. You're practically limp with fatigue and lingering cramps as he gently cleans your sweat slicked body.
You usually don't have the energy to bathe after a flare, typically lucky if you can even make it to bed. But Bucky takes care of everything, even carrying you to bed after.
He tucks you into bed, not too tight so you can jump up if needed. He turns on the heating pad next to your bed, arranging it on your stomach before crawling in bed next to you. He makes you take tiny sips of water, insisting it'll be worse tomorrow if you're dehydrated.
"Thank you for taking care of me. You really didn't need to stay," you mumble into his chest.
"Doll, this is part of a committed relationship. We take care of each other. You patch me up after missions, and I help you through flares. You never have to hide your pain from me, just like I never hide mine from you,"
You think back to the days where Bukcy's shoulders are tighter, face creased, answer short and gruff around other. But as soon as you get home or a moment alone, how you always tells you if his phantom pain is bothering him. You never compared the two, thinking of his pain as more "normal" or "less embarrassing".
You hate that you care just terrible stigmas and beliefs about your GI issues, but developing an autoimmune like Crohn's in a public high school doesn't leave you with the best experiences regarding it.
"You're right. I'm sorry," you whisper.
"it's okay baby," Bucky soothes, kissing the top of you head, "I know it's hard,"
"I love you,"
"I love you too, doll,"
Crohn's&Colitis Foundation
A/N: If you or a loved one are struggling to a gastro related condition/disease, know that you are not alone. Your illness is valid and not something that has to be hidden. There are help and resources. You are not alone
Summary: Steve Roger's girlfriend has endometriosis and gets her period
Warnings: chronic pain, reader has endometriosis which causes extremely painful periods, reader gets her period, throwing up, crying, little suggestive but not really (Y/N thinks Steve is gonna do something sexual for a second, but he doesn't)
The sound of Y/N’s crying greets Steve as soon as he opens the door. He drops his back and dashing up the stairs, pushing the bedroom door open.
“Baby, what’s wrong? What happened?” Steve asks.
Y/N is laying on the bed, on top of a pillow with one heating pad on her stomach and another on her back. Her legs are tucked under her; calves flush with her thighs.A small trash can sits next to her head.
“I-It hurts so bad,” Y/N sobs, pressing her face into the pillow, “Feels l-like I’m dying,”
Dread fills Steve, but he realizes what happened. He gently lowers himself on the bed next to her, pulling Y/N’s hair out of her face and tying it up.
“Did you get your period, honey?” he asks gently.
Y/N nods weakly, jolting as pain shoots through her.
“I’m so sorry, baby, I know it hurts. Did you take your meds already?”
Y/N nods again, sniffling.
Steve places a hand on y/n’s shoulder blades, causing her to flinch before melting into his touch. He rubs light circles in place.
“What can I get for you?”
“I…I don't feel so good,” Y/N whimpers before lunging forward, barely grabbing the trash can before she throws up into it.
“Oh baby,” Steve murmurs, “It’s okay, I’m here, just get it all out,”
Steve wipes the tears from her cheeks as Y/N heaves into the trash can. Her face is sticky and hot
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Y/N chokes out between heaves.
“It’s okay, princess, there’s nothing to apologize for. I got you,” he soothes.
When Y/N finally finishes emptying the contacts of her stomach into the trash can, she collapses back against the pillows. Sharp pain shoots through her lower stomach, back, legs, and ribcage. She sniffles, shifting to try and ease the pain.
“I’m so sorry you aren’t feeling, well, baby. What can I get for you? I’m here,”
“Ca-can you get me a cold w-w-wash cloth?” Y/N stutters.
“Of course, honey. I’ll be right back,” Steve voices, rubbing her back for more time before standing up. He grabs the trash can, “I’ll clean this up. Just holler or bang on the wall if you need me,”
Y/N nods into the pillow. Steve hurries into the bathroom, emptying the trash can into the toilet and cleaning it out. He grabs 2 small towels and wets them with cool water, wringing them out.
“Steve?” he hears Y/N whimpers.
“I’m coming, baby!”
Steve hurries back into the bedroom, setting the trash can back down next to her head.
“I’m right here,” he soothes, using one of the towels to wipe her sweat-slicked face and lips clean. He takes the other one and presses it to her forehead. Y/N lets out a sigh of relief at the cool sensation. She reaches and grabs Steve’s hand, lacing their fingers together and squeezing tightly.
Y/N jolts forward again, whimpering into the pillow. Steve continues rubbing gently circles on her back.
“Can I try something, baby? See if it helps you feel better?” Steve voices.
“Uh huh,” Y/N nods softly, looking over at him.
Her eyes are swollen and pink from crying, and slightly glazed over. Steve pulls his shirt off and her eyes go wide.
“No no no no, not that, no that’s the worst thing we could do right now, no-” Y/N cries.
“Shhh, shh, it’s okay, baby, I’m not gonna do anything! It’s okay, darling, take a deep breath,” Steve soothes, gently slipping her hands under her arms and shifting her up.
Y/N starts to protest, but Steve quickly pushes the pillows from under her and takes their places. He eases her down over her so her heating pad is sandwiched between them and her knees are on either side of him. She lets out a content sound and sinks into him, wrapping her arms around his neck.
Steve strokes Y/N’s hair with one hand, using the other to rub up and down her back.
