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cherienymphe · 1 year

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The Less I Know The Better XIII (JJ Maybank x Reader x Rafe Cameron)

Warnings: mentions of NON-CON, manipulation, underage drinking, drug use, unhealthy relationship, eventual violence, one sided kiara x jj, non canon ages, pogue!reader

➥ banner by @vase-of-lilies | divider by @firefly-graphics

➥ series masterlist

summary: When you start dating Rafe Cameron, no one is more surprised than you when your best friend JJ takes it really well. However, no one is more surprised than JJ when he’s forced to see his once frumpy BFF in an entirely new light, suddenly terrified of losing what he never knew he had to the person he hates most.

When you woke up, the only thing you could focus on was the pounding in your head. This was the worst hangover you’d ever had in your life, and you made a mental note to start trying out better coping mechanisms. You stared at your ceiling for what felt like a long time, wracking your brain, and it was only when you shifted did you take note of…everything else.

You were naked, and while it wasn’t unusual for you to sleep like that sometimes, you knew that this wasn’t the case. Your neck throbbed, and your whole body ached. You would’ve written it off to the alcohol if it wasn’t for the very obvious wetness between your legs. You blinked, forcing yourself to sit up as you looked around. You had the faintest memory of calling Rafe last night, and you yelled for him. When you didn’t get a response, you frowned.

It wasn’t like him to just leave like that, but then you remembered how strict Ward was being these days.

You thought hard, bits and pieces coming back to you, certain that Rafe had been here. You wondered if he’d left a note or at least texted you. He never left without at least waking you up for a goodbye. You couldn’t get in the shower fast enough, desperate to wake yourself up and do something about this hangover. With every brush over your skin, there was no doubt in your mind that Rafe had been here, and the first thing you did when you got out was look for your phone.

You two were supposed to be broken up, and in a moment of drunken weakness, you had called him. You hadn’t planned to, but with everything going on between your dad and JJ, you just really needed him. When you finally found your phone in the living room where you’d left it, your frown deepened.

The last call you’d made to Rafe was the day before yesterday.

Your heart sank at that, and you furiously blinked, shaking your head. You kept scrolling through your call history, trying to somehow make it be what you remembered, but the evidence, or lack of, was staring you in the face. Your last texts were normal, nothing about asking him to come over, and your hand lowered. You were so confused, a sick feeling in your stomach as you finally decided to just call him.

Rafe answered on the second ring.

“Morning,” he drawled, and you gave a tense smile at the sound of his voice.

“Hey…um… I just felt like checking in on you,” you said.

You didn’t really know how to approach the subject of ‘I can’t remember if we had sex last night’.

“Checking in on me? I should be checking in on you,” he replied, and it sounded like he was eating. “You were really upset the other day about JJ, and with everything going on with your dad, best friend problems are the last thing you need.”

“Right,” you nervously chuckled. “The other…the other day? I didn’t talk to you last night?”

Somehow, you knew what Rafe was going to say before he said it, but it didn’t make you any less nauseous.

“Last night? Aside from you texting me about experimenting with some cocktail, no.”

You nodded at that, and you couldn’t stop your eyes from watering. You didn’t realize how badly you were shaking until the phone started hitting your ear, and when you blinked, a few tears spilled over. You could hear Rafe calling your name, and you somehow found the strength to tearfully tell him you had to go.

The phone dropped to the floor as soon as you hung up, and you pressed your hand to your chest, feeling like you couldn’t breathe.

The evidence was too much to ignore. You’d had sex with someone last night, and it wasn’t your boyfriend. The room felt like it was tilting, and you struggled to sit down on the couch. You felt so hot, too hot, and you let your head fall between your legs, trying to come up with any other explanation.

For the life of you, you couldn’t remember what you’d done last night. You were so sure that you had called Rafe. You had already been drunk then, but you thought you weren’t too far gone to not remember that. Clearly, that wasn’t the truth, and you started wracking your brain, trying to remember if you had gone somewhere…met some…guy… You would never, that wasn’t you, and yet…

You suddenly sat up, lips parting.

If you couldn’t even remember what you did last night, then you were obviously too far gone. You had to have been too drunk to even stand, and your head started to spin all over again. You shook it, in denial and determined to not make it true, but then your fingers grazed your neck, and you winced. You had seen the faint bruises in the mirror, woken up with the evidence between your legs, and it had meant nothing when you thought Rafe had been here.

But he hadn’t been.

You were so sure that you were going to be sick when a knock on the door startled you. You jumped, conflicted on whether or not you wanted it to be Rafe. On one hand, you just wanted him to hold you, right now, but on the other hand, you needed to get your mind right before you faced him. However, you knew there was no way Rafe had gotten to this side of the island that fast, but the last person you expected to see when you opened the door was JJ.

His smile fell at the sight of you, and you didn’t even care that you two were supposed to be fighting, right now.

“Y/N…”

The blond trailed off when your face crumbled, a sob caught in your throat as he rushed inside. He pulled you against him, wrapping his arms around you as you squeezed your eyes shut. Once you started, it was like you couldn’t stop, and JJ shushed you, rocking you as you cried into his shirt. No, you and Rafe weren’t technically together, but you didn’t want anyone else but him, it was unlike you to get drunk and sleep with some random guy.

Not to mention the implications that came with your lack of memory.

You didn’t want to say it.

You didn’t even want to think it.

“I think I’m going to be sick,” you choked out, and you knew you wouldn’t make it to your bathroom in time.

JJ followed you out the door as you vomited onto the grass, your nerves and unease so bad that it just kept coming. JJ’s hand made circular motions on your back, and when you were done, you leaned against your house. JJ knelt beside you, brushing your cheeks, and you couldn’t look at him. He seemed to want to give you a moment to calm down, and as you sat there, fighting to calm your breathing, you remembered that he was supposed to be mad at you.

“Why are you here?” you tearfully wondered, looking at him.

JJ’s lips parted, and you couldn’t place the look he was giving you, hand still on your face.

“I came to say sorry.”

You blinked, nodding.

“I was a dick,” he told you. “It doesn’t matter what the reasons were, but you’re already dealing with a lot, and…I was being selfish.”

As much as you wanted to hear that, it wasn’t enough to make you feel better. The tears just kept coming, and JJ softly shushed you.

“What’s wrong?” he wondered, continuing when you didn’t say anything. “Is it Rafe?”

You frantically shook your head, the mention of Rafe making you cry more. You could tell that you were scaring JJ, and he took your hand, sliding down beside you.

“I got really drunk last night,” you shakily said, sniffing. “…and…and I called Rafe. Or at least I thought I did.”

JJ sighed, shifting beside you, and you closed your eyes at the disappointment in that one sound.

“With my dad…and you, I really needed to see him-.”

“Y/N-.”

“…but I didn’t!”

You let out a choked sob, your head falling between your knees.

“I thought I called him, but apparently I didn’t,” you cried, and you could feel JJ’s eyes on you.

“Well, that’s a good thing then-.”

“No!”

You felt like you couldn’t breathe, and you hurried to stand, fidgeting and wrapping your arms around yourself. You avoided JJ’s gaze, lips trembling as you stared at your house. You didn’t know what he would think, would say, and you almost didn’t want to tell him, but you’d already started and considering how much of a mess you were, he knew that something was seriously wrong.

…and JJ was your best friend.

You didn’t keep secrets from one another, and even though that was something that had been tainted a bit by Rafe’s presence, you didn’t think you could keep this from him. You were the first one to know that his dad was putting his hands on him. He was the first person you went to when your brother had taken off.

You were almost positive that you’d been raped last night…and you couldn’t imagine keeping that from your best friend.

“I woke up this morning…alone…”

Your eyes finally met familiar blue ones, and JJ was standing now, a slight frown on his face. You swallowed, pressing your lips together.

“…but it was pretty obvious I didn’t go to bed alone.”

JJ’s frown deepened, and he neared you, reaching for you.

“I can’t…I can’t remember much of anything. I woke up and…”

“Are you sure?”

You nodded, fighting the urge to cry again and JJ pulled you closer.

“I don’t remember what I did last night. I clearly left, I clearly went somewhere, but I don’t remember,” you cried.

“Hey, hey,” he softly said, pulling you against him.

“I don’t remember who I c-came back with.”

You heard JJ huff, his arms tightening as you finally hugged him back.

“I barely even remember…” you trailed off, only have the faintest of memories of hands on you.

You pressed your fingers into his back, uncaring how rocky your friendship seemed to be lately. You were just happy not to deal with this alone, and as much as you wanted Rafe here, you didn’t know if you’d ever be able to tell him. He would flip this entire island upside down.

“JJ, you can’t tell anyone,” you whispered. “…maybe I’ll remember…maybe I won’t, but you can’t say anything.”

“I won’t,” JJ promised, pulling away and wiping your face.

You noted the way his jaw ticked, and you almost felt bad, knowing how much he cared about you.

“You don’t remember anything about him? Nothing?” he pressed, and you shrugged. “It’s okay…”

He rubbed your arms, and you almost wanted to kick yourself for getting so drunk. This wasn’t your fault, rationally you knew that, but you couldn’t help it. How could you let yourself get that drunk? Why would you leave? JJ’s words pulled you from your thoughts.

“…and you’re sure it wasn’t Rafe?”

You shook your head.

“I called him. The last time we talked was two days ago, and even though I thought I’d called him last night, my phone says otherwise.”

Your voice shook, and JJ made soothing sounds.

“Well, whoever he is, he knows where you live now,” JJ murmured, and your eyes widened at that.

“You don’t…” you trailed off, frowning to yourself. “I mean, he clearly got what he wanted, so…”

You took a step back, driving yourself crazy with the thought that this man now knew where you lived and the layout of your house. You were tempted to collapse all over again, and the thought of nights alone while your mom was at work or at the hospital with your dad made your head spin. You probably would have if it weren’t for JJ, and he pulled you closer.

“You want me to stay?”

It was like he read your mind, and you nodded, a tear skipping down your cheek.

“Please,” you whispered. “At least…at least until I can tell Rafe.”

JJ was silent at that, and your eyes met his.

“I-I should tell him…right…?”

“If you want to,” he eventually replied, and you frowned.

“He would want to know…and I don’t like to hide things from him, but…”

You pulled away, wrapping your arms around yourself.

Rafe would go crazy. He would never let you out of his sight, and considering your current relationship status was to help him, this would make that fly right out of the window. He wouldn’t care about what his dad said or what you had agreed on. He was always a bit clingy, always worried about you, but if you told him what happened, his behavior before would be shadowed in comparison.

JJ eased your worries for the time being.

“You’re dealing with a lot of shit already,” JJ told you, gently grabbing your arm. “The last thing you should be thinking about, right now is if you’re going to tell Rafe.”

You hesitantly nodded at that.

“You don’t need to decide that now…or ever,” he continued, pulling you along. “That’s not what’s important.”

You let him take you back inside, sitting down as he pushed you towards the couch. JJ’s silence was telling, uncharacteristic, and it was the only thing that told you how mad he really was. When he brought you a glass of water, you took it, struggling to keep it down. Your gaze met his blue one as he knelt before you, and he slowly exhaled through his nose, resting a hand on your knee.

“I feel like if we hadn’t been fighting then this-.”

“No,” you choked out. “JJ, this isn’t your fault. It’s not even really mine.”

You took another sip, staring into the glass as you held it in your lap.

“If I ever find out who did this to you, I’ll kill him myself.”

You knew that JJ meant every word.

“Hey.”

JJ’s voice was the first thing that greeted you when you woke up, and you groaned. He was leaning against the wall, legs bent with his gaze resting on you. This was probably the fourth night in a row that JJ had slept over, and it was reminiscent of how things were before you’d started dating Rafe. The medication you’d taken made your body feel weighed down, and as much as JJ had been against it, he couldn’t stop you from popping a few sleeping pills.

You were finding it so hard to sleep.

“Hey,” you quietly replied, sitting up.

“You know you can’t rely on those forever.”

JJ was right, but it didn’t mean you had to like it. The first night JJ stayed over, the first night after that night, sleep hadn’t found you, at all. Your mind kept plaguing you with thoughts of some strange man coming into your house and taking advantage of you. The only upside to this was that the thought of alcohol made you want to be sick, and you hadn’t gone near any in days.

“I know,” you told him. “I just… It’s amazing how my mind can torture me with what I can’t even remember.”

JJ scooted closer as you leaned against your headboard, and you sighed.

“If I was with Rafe or…if he at least knew, I’d probably sleep so much better at his house.”

You felt JJ tense beside you, and you looked down.

“He’s been calling, and I can’t ignore every one. Even when I do occasionally answer, I can’t stay on the phone with him for long and pretend like everything is okay.”

JJ didn’t reply, and you continued.

“He knows me,” you whispered. “…and I know he knows something is wrong…and if he asks, I don’t think I can lie to him.”

“What if you tell him and…he relapses?” JJ finally wondered, and you frowned at that, looking at him.

The blond shrugged.

“If I couldn’t help but blame myself, even just a little bit, what do you think Rafe is going to do?”

JJ had a point, and your frown deepened.

Rafe was so protective of you, even now, and he would definitely feel like he had a hand in this somehow.

“I know it’s not my fault, but I can’t help but think that if we weren’t fighting, you wouldn’t have been drinking so much or that you would’ve at least been with us instead of by yourself. Rafe’s mind is probably going to work the same way.”

Your gaze lingered on your sheets, thinking about how quick JJ was to offer to wash them for you. With your mom absent even more than usual, and your dad not here at all, you were so grateful for JJ’s presence. You didn’t think this was something you could deal with alone, and you thought it was funny. The problems you had with JJ seemed so pointless, now, awed that such a horrific event would be what forced your friendship back to what it used to be.

“Come to John B.’s tonight.”

You looked up at his suggestion, and JJ’s blue eyes were pleading.

“You’ve been hiding out for a while, even before…” he trailed off, and you bit your lip. “…and I think you’ll enjoy getting out of this house.”

He was right.

You hadn’t left your house in days, and it was no wonder you were being tormented by what had happened in this very room. Your room felt like your only safe space, but that same safe space had been compromised, putting you in the weirdest headspace. You didn’t answer right away, thinking on it for a while, but when you did finally agree, JJ’s small smile was contagious.

It was much later in the day when you made it to John B.’s, climbing off of JJ’s bike as Kie ran towards you. If they noticed your uncharacteristic silence, they didn’t comment on it, clearly just happy to have you around. You stuck to your soda and water while the rest of them drank, pulled from your thoughts when your phone vibrated.

You knew it was Rafe without even looking.

You debated on whether or not to answer it, wondering how long you could keep this going. Rafe was a confrontational kind of guy, and you knew it was only a matter of time before he decided to say fuck it and just come see you to talk face to face. Before you could make a decision though, a familiar hand covered your phone.

You looked up and your eyes connected with JJ’s, using your other hand to reach for the hot dog he offered you.

“You can call him back,” he told you.

He was right, but you still grimaced.

“I just know how worried he must be. He knows something is wrong, and I’m still processing it myself…let alone well enough to tell him and keep him from choking out every guy in town.”

“I told you,” JJ sighed, sitting beside you. “How he reacts isn’t what’s important. You had a shitty thing done to you, and you’re all that matters. Truthfully, you don’t ever have to tell him. You didn’t even have to tell me.”

He added that last part, and you looked at him.

“I’m glad I did,” you confessed. “At first, I didn’t want to, but I couldn’t really stop myself, and you and I…we don’t have secrets.”

Part of you felt like you weren’t completely processing what had happened, or maybe you were and it was just difficult because you didn’t remember anything. Maybe it would be different if you could remember what you’d done that night, remember his face…remember what he did. JJ’s hand on your back brought you out of your thoughts, and you sent him a grateful smile.

You stayed at John B.’s for as long as possible, which included falling asleep on his couch when it got too late. You and JJ weren’t the only ones who stayed over, and Kie was awake before he was.

“You want me to drive you home? I lost track of how many beers JJ had so I don’t see him waking up anytime soon,” she offered.

You chuckled at that, searching for your jacket as you took her up on her offer.

Kie seemed weirdly quiet too once you were in the vehicle, focusing on the road but glancing at you every now and then.

“Everything’s okay with you, right?”

That was such a loaded question, and you exhaled, looking towards the window.

“Yeah,” you lied. “I’m fine. It’s just my dad and Rafe, I guess.”

She hummed.

“I take it JJ apologized,” she commented, and you smiled.

“He did, yeah. I really hope it’s for the last time,” you added. “I knew that me and Rafe would be difficult for him, but I underestimated just how much.”

When you looked at Kie, she had a strange look on her face, pulling her lip between her teeth.

“You guys seem close again, so I hope so too…”

Her tone indicated that she had something else on her mind, and she spoke again as she neared your house.

“…and you and Rafe are broken up, now, so I just wondered…” she trailed off, sighing. “You and JJ just seem closer.”

You frowned at her, now, unsure if you were understanding what she was hinting at.

“Do you think me and…JJ…?”

The other girl shrugged, and you would’ve laughed if you didn’t realize how serious she was.

“Kie, you know he’s like a brother to me. Always has been, and if he had a sister, it would be me,” you chuckled. “I just feel like I can talk to him like I used to, that’s all. Besides, while Rafe and I aren’t technically together…this ‘breakup’ is nothing.”

You rolled your eyes at the thought.

Kie still looked like she had a lot on her mind, and you were sure she was going to say something else when you both focused on the sight of a familiar bike in your yard. Your heart skipped a beat, and you could feel Kie’s eyes on you. You knew it was only a matter of time before Rafe came to see you, but you were still unprepared for it.

“Do you want me to stay?”

You could hear the concern in her voice, and you were sourly reminded of the fact that JJ was not the only one who disapproved of your relationship. You shook your head, thanking her before hopping out. She only drove off when you opened your door, and you watched her do so before stepping inside.

Rafe was sitting on your couch, and you guessed that he got in through your faulty window.

“Hey.”

It was such a silly thing to say, and the look Rafe gave you only confirmed that.

“Where were you?” he questioned, and you dropped your purse beside him.

“I was at John B.’s.”

He looked good, you noted, and seeing him look so healthy and not so strung out warmed your heart.

“I’ve been here since last night,” he said, making your face fall. “I wanted to see you, and I didn’t know where you were, so I called and…”

He trailed off, both of you knowing how that went.

“I’ve had a lot on my mind, and I’m trying to process it-.”

“Then let me help,” he offered, standing now. “Something’s wrong.”

You swallowed, and Rafe neared you.

“….and it’s not just me and my bullshit or your dad or just JJ. I feel like something’s really wrong.”

You knew you, and just like you predicted, you couldn’t lie to Rafe, and so your answer was simple.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

Your voice was low, and Rafe frowned, face troubled as he struggled between wanting to force it out of you or respecting your wishes.

“I want to tell you,” you honestly told him. “…but you’ll get mad, and right now, this is about me, and I don’t have the energy to keep you from flying off the handle.”

Rafe deflated some at that, lips parting. Now, he looked more scared than anything, dark blond strands hanging into his eyes. He thought on your words for a bit, swiping his tongue between his lips and glancing away. You watched him take a deep breath.

“How mad?”

“Really mad,” you whispered.

He nodded at that, briefly closing his eyes before resting them on you again. He didn’t say anything, simply opening his arms, and tears kissed your eyes as you ran into them. The familiar smell of his cologne was comforting, and you twisted your fingers into his shirt. You thought about how helpful it was to have JJ at your side during this, and now you had Rafe again too, and you once again thought it was funny.

Would a horrific event really be what was needed to have things finally settle between you three?

As Rafe held you close, you hoped that at least something good could come from this.

#dark!jj maybank x reader #dark!jj maybank #rafe cameron x pogue!reader #rafe cameron x reader #jj maybank x pogue!reader #jj maybank x reader #obx #outer banks fanfiction #JJ maybank

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ykiwrite · 1 year

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kiss of death

desc: new years kiss and a death wish

words: ~1k

characters: wednesday x reader

*aged up characters

"Let's try on 3, yeah? One, two...three!"

The sound of fireworks being sent off flying hardened the loose grip you had on the cup in your hands.

Trying desperately to blink away the haziness out of your eyes, fearful you somehow missed the countdown until Bianca's voice reassured you.

"It's fine, not midnight yet. I promised i'd wake you up anyway."

Connecting the dots you realized you must have fallen asleep on her shoulder. Accompanied by a crackling fire that radiated warmth on this particularly cold, last day of December night, it's a no brainer why so.

By lying against the wooden bench in the Nevermore's green meadow, it granted the view of almost everyone's actions.

Some were drinking and eating while others were howling. Looking over to the side, some were ecstatic and others questioned how time passed by so quickly. Not much changed during the time you rested your eyes.

Seeing Enid being deeply infatuated with Ajax' storytelling made you wonder where did Wednesday disappear.

Next to you, Bianca muttered something under his breath before leaving the place you shared.

"Where are you going?"

"Your girlfriend has been staring at me for the past hour you've been sleeping." Pointing her head toward the place she was standing at. Eyes meeting hers, you found her with Yoko and most of the Nightshades occupying the drink booth. Odd.

"Besides i think it's safer for me to catch up with Kent over there. See you for like, less than an hour."

Watching her walk away left you alone with your thoughts for a minute at most. Wednesday was confidently marching over, prepared to steal a freed seat. It made you laugh knowing the whole time you slept on Bianca's shoulder her sanity was probably decaying from afar.

With your bodies bumping as she sat down, she handed you a bloody red liquid that filled the cup.

"What is this?" you questioned. Sniffing the liquid you could distinguish barely anything.

"It's specialty of Yoko's. We got it for free."

"Oh, so that's why you were with them."

"Yes, and she needed me for taxidermy tips."

You weren't going to ask further. Not that interested in the subject of dead animals.

Mirroring the two of you, Enid and Ajax didn't stop talking for one second. Except Enid who just got quieter, being focused on painting his nails black.

"I presume you got your well deserved rest." Studying her face, you could see the hint of envy. The idea of teasing her about it sounded perfect if it wasn't tossed aside by the view.

With your mouth hanging half open and ready to speak, you were rather hypnotized. Blame the still present drowsiness of sleep for this or whatever other reason unknown.

The fire she was staring at emphasized her entire complexion. Which was more than perfect. Of course, words do no justice compared to what you see in front of you. The game of shadows and orange light did wonders one doesn't witness every day.

"You're staring."

"Yeah...i am. Can i kiss you?"

Effort to pass by Wednesdays stubbornness did not work. Unamused she stated, "I'm afraid if you do i'm one step closer to transforming into my mother and father."

"That's not a bad thing."

"It is, they can't get enough of eachother it makes everyone nauseous."

"You just described us, word to word."

"No, that is just you."

Sinking deeper in the back with your figure using Wednesdays as support, together you watched and judged the New Years' preparations unfold. Nevermore was running around setting up the scene tirelessly.

"How much longer?"

"About fifteen minutes."

Ideal time for sentimentality to introduce itself. Remembering all of the memories this year so far made it difficult to not become emotional.

"Don't think about it too much. We're just one step closer to death, which is a relief." Said Wednesday, noticing a shift in you.

"I guess so. You know, when the day comes, i want us to share the sweet kiss of death side by side."

You trailed off, "If you accept the invitation."

As someone with no fears, your statement made Wednesday completely motionless. From her higher ground, she looked down upon you. Deciding it's not it, sliding lower to your level so she can meet you eye to eye.

Now she understood why you were staring from before.

"Gladly."

"Come on you two, less than five minutes- gosh, are you okay? What happened?" asked Enid when she saw your face that went through 7 life crises in a timespan of ten minutes.

"It's nothing. Your roommate picked the worst time to become the very image of her parents." You told her wiping away the remaining tears.

"Wednesday? I'm so sorry, i never knew she could be sappy. I can talk to her if you want?" Enid comforted you with an arm around your shoulders.

"No, no. I have to live through this. It's one time event."

Just like Enid was being led by Ajax's hand, you were by Wednesdays.

Choosing a spot to lean against a pillar that held Nevermore walls allowed you to see the final products that will go off in minutes.

"30 seconds guys!"

The crowd was still, waiting.

"10 seconds!"

The fireworks were being lit in advance. Doers running back just as fast as they come. Only numbers chanting could be heard.

You turned to look at Wednesday.

"3..."

"2..."

"1..."

With no steps needed to be taken, Wednesday took a leap and swiftly pulled you towards where lips met. It was too loud and too quiet. Too bright yet too dark.

Hands sneaked, holding the back of your neck that relocated to your face. Concept of it all left you clueless what to focus on.

The feeling was familiar, welcoming, safe like she carries you around in the palm of her hand with such fondness.

Overwhelming mix of everything happening besides your embrace made you pull away hesitantly. A smile escaping, closed eyes and foreheads bumping,

"Happy new year."

"It's gonna be a good year. I know it." Yoko said taking a sip of her drink while observing you from the side.

"Why so sure?"

"Look at them. Wednesday Addams shamelessly showing off PDA. We're not even half as bad as they are."

Divina nodded, "Yeah, you're right."

notes: as always, thank you so much for all the support! i wanted to close off this year with this one.

next one will most likely be about jenna because i can't stand her (i love her) and i hate writing about her (i'd give up anything for her)

#wednesday x reader #wednesday imagine #wednesday addams x reader #wednesday addams imagine

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tanith-rhea · 1 year

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Only Pretending #4

Ok, this time I'll tag everyone who ever asked! @the-bagel24, @regalbootie, @tundra1029, @thoroughly--confused, @lilsmeaux, @poorwritingandstalecoffee, @alder-saan Thank you so much, lovelies 💛 And of course, the person behind all of this @anti-bright-places 💛💛 This one was very fun to write, Morticia is the spice we needed to get a move on and realize our dumbass feelings (more or less)

Word count: 3k words

Of course Larissa had issues about pretending to date you. She didn’t like you; it was clear from how she treated you so professionally and never sought to know you before all this. If she didn’t outright dislike you, at least she didn’t care for your existence and wasn’t thrilled to spend her weekend with you by her side.

It all made sense. She could tolerate being physically close but dismissed kissing as soon as you suggested it, the best she could. You had drunk an entire bottle of wine the first time before getting close. With just a few fours of bourbon, she wasn’t nearly as welcoming to your advances. These were the thoughts plaguing your mind for hours after you left her office and hours after you woke up the next day. The day of your trip. She only indulged you when she was drunk, and what did that make of you? Taking advantage of her like that? If it weren’t so on the spot you would have sent her an e-mail pretending to be sick to get rid of going.

You spent the entire morning in your room and didn’t go out for lunch, not wanting to risk seeing her in the corridors or, even worse, in the staff’s kitchen. You could wait until three p.m. to eat.

You would leave at four, arrive before dinner and spend the night at the Addams’ Manor. You felt nauseous simply thinking about it. You would dine together, pretend to be a happy couple, and then go to your shared room and sleep in the same bed. All that against Larissa’s better wishes.

She chose Vlad because she was comfortable with him. On the other hand, you barely knew each, and she couldn’t mask her unwillingness even when it was only the two of you. The whole thing would probably go wrong before dessert.

At least then you wouldn’t have to deal with feeling this awful.

Before you knew it was only half an hour for you to part. You hadn’t eaten and rushed to take a shower and look presentable before going down to the entrance where she would be expecting you.

Larissa rented a 1960’s Phantom V and you thanked god for the small mercy of not having to travel four hours in the academy’s van.

When she saw you, you could feel her immediate hesitation like it was a material wall between you. Her posture was impeccable, her hair meticulously done and her make-up flawless; she looked like the picture of the perfect woman, including all the incommodiousness that brought.

“I can help with your bag.” She said calmly, taking the heavy thing you were carrying and easily putting it in the trunk. Everything seemed calculated; civility 101.

“Thank you.” You only managed to mumble before opening the passenger door and avoiding her altogether.

She didn’t try to chat, which you were grateful for. Starting the engine, she focused solely on driving and left you alone in your own world.

It was hell. You were hungry, tired, sad, and pretty much in love with Larissa Weems. While you looked outside the window, trying to ignore the tightness in your chest, the only thing you wanted was for her to hold you and kiss it better. When you were seconds away from asking her to pull over and call off the entire thing, she spoke.

“I cannot do this anymore.”

Oh, so you both wanted to stop.

“What can’t you do?” you asked, trying to facilitate it for her.

“I can’t force you to come with me when you’re so obviously distressed by it.” She stopped the car in a roadside grove and turned to look at you candidly. “If you want to go back, I’ll drive you. I can say I came alone again, it’s what I should have done in the first place.”

You were surprised and uncertain. She was denying her own feelings and making it sound like you were the one to not want this. She was being kind.

“I just wanted to help you…” you started, but she interrupted you.

“You see, I wanted that to be possible. But I cannot ask you as my employee to do something like that for me. It’s unprofessional, unethical and bordering on assault.” She was so agitated and had such a pained expression on her face that you felt almost guilty.

She left the car in a sudden move, leaning against the door after closing it. Probably can’t stand being near me, you thought, but she couldn’t run from the conversation, try as she might.

You left as well and walked around to her side, her face was covered by her hands, and she was taking deep breaths. She seemed so stressed, on the verge of crying or screaming. Maybe you weren’t the only one who couldn’t sleep thinking about the disaster of last night.

“I hoped you could do it as a friend.” She said behind her hands, her voice weak and muffled. She let them fall to look at you once again, her eyes were clear, the blue lighter than a morning sky, but she wasn’t crying. “But you clearly cannot,” she admitted as if it was true.

You didn’t know what to tell her at first, seeing her so distressed and, apparently, fully convinced that it was you the one rejecting her company.

“I would like to do it as your friend.” You whispered, walking closer to be in front of her.

A small line formed between her eyebrows as she shook her head looking puzzled.

“I would,” you continued, “I just didn’t think you saw me as one. I can barely believe I already consider you mine after so few meaningful talks.” The bittersweetness of the sentence left a bad taste in your mouth, but you yearned to say it again, in another context, another world, really.

She seemed deep in thought, surveying you with care before saying, “Do you mean any of that, truly? It won’t change anything in our professional relationship, I want you to understand that.”

“Why do you think I’m so scared of you treating me differently?” you snapped, more frustrated than angry, “I know you, Larissa. I know you’re professional and would never abuse your power or make me feel uncomfortable at my place of work! If anything, you are the only boss I’ve ever had whom I trust not to be like this.”

You were so sick and tired of her checking in on you, asking if it was truly all right. You said it from the beginning and didn’t understand why she was so hung up on it.

“You do?” her confusion only baffled you further.

“Of course, I do! Why would I agree to something crazy like this if I didn’t trust you?”

She nodded as if understanding your point. Honestly, it would be adorable if it weren’t so exasperating.

“Now can we resume our trip? I’m hungry and as soon as we arrive I can finally eat,” you confessed.

“I brought some sandwiches if you’d like,” Larissa said, and you could kiss her, “They’re in the back seat.”

“I’ve never loved you more, woman.” You said before quickly opening the door and getting the food from the container you didn’t notice before.

The principal seemed satisfied with that, less tense and actually smiling at you devouring the goods.

“If that’s your reaction to sandwiches I definitely cook for us when I need to soothe things over,” she mused and your chest hurt at the thought.

“That’s good for cute anecdotes if someone asks,” you smiled to mask the forlornness you felt, and eating the rest of your food suddenly turned into a difficult task.

When you were finished, you put away the container with the other sandwiches and plastered an actual smile on your face before looking back at her. You did feel better on a full stomach. Less tired and a lot less sad. She wanted to be friends and if that was all you got you were happy with it, at least she didn’t despise you.

“So, are we getting back on the road?” you chirped, and Larissa gave you an earnest smile.

“Only after you give me a hug to prove everything’s fine.”

You weren’t expecting it, but you would take whatever you got, so you went right to her arms. She held you tighter than anticipated, resting her chin atop your hair, and you felt tingly and content when you parted.

“Alright!” You went back to your side. “On we go, then.” You opened the door and slumped on your seat; it wouldn’t be so horrible as you thought.

The next three hours passed easily. Time flowed when you and Larissa started talking about work, the students, idle musings about Jericho and hot spots in Burlington that you never thought of going to. You learned each other’s taste in music, preferred weather, hobbies and general things a partner would know, but the funny thing was that you hadn’t planned to, it wasn’t for the sake of pretending; it was just conversation. You had to remind yourself time and time again that you weren’t on a road trip date or getting to know each other in any other capacity besides Larissa wanting to be friends with you.

Her interest in your PhD dissertation was exhilarating and she was very polite to not mention your ridiculous excitement and incessant babbling about it.

Overall, you didn’t see the pass of time, and suddenly you were entering the gardens of the Addams Family Mansion.

“How do you want to be when we leave the car?” you asked, looking at the imposing building and noting someone opening the door.

“What do you mean?” she was busy parking and adjusting whatever it was in the car buttons – not many on an old model like that one. You knew she was just trying to look busy.

“Do you want to hold hands? Maybe I can loop my arm in yours… hold your upper arm?”

“Oh…” for someone who had been so relaxed just a few moments before, she seemed a second away from restarting the engine and getting the fuck off.

You decided to be brave for a change, and clicking free of your seat belt, leaned over her to kiss her cheek. She was looking straight forward, so it was difficult to see her expression, but her shoulders did lose a bit. You put a hand over hers in the parking brake, gently squeezing until she took a long breath and nodded, appearing to have returned to the land of the living.

“Yes… I think the looped arm will do,” she said vacantly.

You left the car and a giant pale-grey man walked close to you – he was even taller than Larissa, around five or six inches so – and from behind him a dark sauntering figure emerged, Morticia Addams.

“Lurch, be a dear and take Larissa’s belongings to the second guest room,” she said in her smoky, forcedly charming voice. You didn’t want to be the bitter girlfriend, but you couldn’t help the pang of annoyance she instantly sparkled in you without doing so much as look at Larissa. “I didn’t know you were bringing someone,” it wasn’t a question, but her arched brow and higher tone at the end prompted a presentation.

“Pleasure to meet you,” you said with the world’s fakest smile on your lips, “I’m Y/n L/n, Wednesday’s chemistry professor and Larissa’s partner.” You reached a hand for her to take, and she only lightly touched your fingers out of forced politeness.

“I believe we met briefly at Nevermore,” she gave you a nauseatingly sweet smile while looking at you from top to bottom and back up.

You grabbed Larissa’s arm more from the need to have something to hold and ground yourself than to pretend at intimacy. You needed some sort of reassurance to keep you from jumping at the woman’s throat.

“Yes. Wednesday likes to pilfer some things from the lab every now and then,” you chuckle at the thought. You didn’t mind it as long as she wasn’t getting herself and others in danger, which sometimes was the case. She never took big quantities to be a real problem anyway. Larissa disagreed.

“I try to keep her under control, but you know how they are at this age,” she said, looking truly regretful, and you felt a bit of sympathy for her.

“Yes, I deal with about a hundred of them. I don’t mind it, don’t worry,” you smiled, and Larissa mumbled in, sounding peeved as you would expect.

“Doesn’t mean she can do it. One day she’ll create a hazard and it will be your responsibility, I won’t defend you to the board, do you hear me?” she was adorable when irritated; especially by silly things such as those.

You only scrunched your nose at her, trying to keep your smile at bay, before Morticia asked you to accompany her inside. Lurch had already vanished and the darkness was thickening at every passing moment.

You were shown to your room, where you both were to shower and prepare for dinner. Your things were on the bench at the end of the bed, both suitcases carefully piled not to fall.

“So,” Larissa walked into the room after Morticia closed the door, “What do you think?”

“Of what? Her? The mansion? Answers may vary severely.”

“Entertain me with your reasoning.” She arched a brow and sat on the bed, looking more relaxed than a few instants before and clearly amused.

“First, if we were together, I would have killed that woman already,” you began, and she laughed.

“Jealous, much?”

“You don’t understand! The way she looks at me and talks to you makes my skin tingle, not in the good way! Someone has to teach her good manners, you’re mine!” it slipped, it completely slipped, and you scrambled for something to say to fix it, “Supposedly, I mean!” you felt your cheeks already burning, “You know what I meant…” you descended, defeated. With any luck her mind didn’t even go there in the first place.

“And second, the mansion is creepy paradise. I love it. I mean who has on-suit bathrooms in their ‘second’ guest room? Are you kidding me?”

Larissa hummed, taking off her shoes and letting her hair loose, “Morticia did marry into a good life,” she mused.

She looked so beautiful like that, you couldn’t speak for a while. She was the picture of homely comfort, of domesticity. You felt so privileged to see her in anything other than her professional self. You had to acquire Vlad some AB Positive to thank him.

“Do you want to go first? I’d like to rest a bit before getting ready,” her voice was soft, and you were engulfed by the need to kiss her silly into the comfortable-looking bed she sat at. However, you only nodded stiffly and went to the bathroom, leaving her to lie down and decompress for a while, she would need it if Morticia planned a five-course dinner as she said.

The bathroom was almost half the size of your quarters at the academy, with a bathtub and separate shower space, double vanity and an enormous mirror with a black gothic frame. You were torn between feeling amazed and vexed at the blunt display of wealth, but the thrill of having it at your disposal overpowered all else.

After a long, hot shower, your muscles were singing praise to Morticia and all her descendants, blessing them for expensive supplies and relaxing steam.

Just before entering the bedroom, you remembered not taking any clothes with you. There were two tidily rolled robes between the sinks, so you wouldn’t leave completely bare, but the thought of wearing close to nothing in the same space as Larissa made your stomach turn. It would have to do.

You steeled yourself before opening the door, taking a deep breath and tightening the belt. When you entered the room, all the air you took escaped your lungs in a slow, fond realization: she fell asleep. Larissa had taken off her jacket and lay on her side across the bed, one hand close to her face and the other loose over her middle. She looked so peaceful. She must have been tired from driving; that and the bad sleep you probably caused her by making her think you wanted out of the plan. It was becoming more and more difficult not to kiss her, hug her, lie with her and smother her with love and care. You thought it was all just a passing fancy for your boss, but every second that passed made you question if that was all it really was.

Cleaning your throat, you busied yourself with opening your suitcase. “I’m done, Larissa… if you want to go now, you can” you tried to sound less strangled and only half-succeeded.

Her adorable “Hm?” right before fully waking made your heart clench.

“Right, yes, thank you.” She said absentmindedly before getting a change of clothes, like any normal person, and going to the bathroom.

While you were readying yourself, a knock came at the door. Larissa was still in the shower, so you prepared to ask whomever it was to wait.

“Mrs Addams. Hello,” it was Morticia, of course.

“I just wanted to pass and see if you’re comfortable. Is Larissa inside?” she tried to look over your shoulder into the room.

“She’s having a shower,” you felt suddenly protective and half closed the door so the only thing she could see was you.

She arched an eyebrow at your comment. “So you aren’t…” she smiled, looking off into the distance for a while as if her musings were much more interesting than finishing her sentence or you understanding what she meant.

“We aren’t what?” you snapped, not meaning to sound so annoyed.

She shifted her gaze at you instantly, looking surprised with your intromission. “Aren’t intimate enough to have it together.” She only smiled at that, smugly, and turned to go. “Oh, and dinner will be ready in half an hour, so tell her, you know, through the other side of the door, to hurry.” And then she was off.

Chapter Five

#larissa weems #larissa weems x reader #principal weems x reader #principal weems #wednesday netflix #female reader #teacher!reader #normie!reader #fluff #hurt/comfort #angst #humour?#fake/pretend relationship #larissa weems fanfiction

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wellplacedbanana · 5 months

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I’ve seen a few posts recently talking about how important it is for us to share our tips for dealing chronic illness with each other, and I’ve realized that as a freakishly avid community enthusiast, I’ve been falling down on the job. So, I present

Wellplacedbanana’s Ridiculously Long List of Tips for All Things Chronic Illness (Curated Over 8+ Years):

Infusion Centers

Headed to an infusion center to get that sweet sweet (expensive as hell) live-saving medication pumped directly into your veins? Here’s what I do.

Bring headphones or earplugs. Most infusion centers try to maintain a semblance of quiet for the patients, but it can get loud fast—beeping IVs, pulse ox monitors, loud families, codes. Some infusion centers do pods of multiple people and some do individual bays, so this can affect noise levels.

Drink lots of water before if you have to get an IV placed. Don’t worry too much about bringing a water bottle because they’ll give you one when you get there. (Of course, if you have something like POTS and need more intense hydration, bring the damn water bottle.) If you’re not hydrated and they can’t find a vein, they’ll call in the ultrasound tech, and they’ll bring the longest IV needle you’ve ever seen. It hurts. Drink water.

Bring a book or your Switch or something else to entertain you, but don’t expect to actually do it. I tried bringing papers to edit the first time because I was like “Oh it’s an hour and a half of uninterrupted free time. I can get so much done!” I was wrong. The nurses are constantly checking in for vitals, the unit can be loud, and I spent the whole time trying not to vomit everywhere. Different infusions will have different side affects. Knowing what yours might be will help you plan for what you want to bring. Knowing how long your infusion will be can also help. Most infusion centers have to keep you 20-45 minutes after your first dose of a new medication to make sure you don’t have an allergic reaction, so factor that into your time too.

If you’re in a pod with other patients who’re friendly and if you feel up to it, don’t be afraid to talk with them. Lots of them are lonely, bored, interested in other people, etc. I met an elderly Thai lady one time who had been there for three hours and would be there for another four AFTER I left. We talked about her husband and her kids, and she listened to me talk about punctuation as style in prose. It made me feel less alone in the medical system and helped distract me from the nausea.

Conversely, if you don’t want to interact with anyone, snap on those headphones and block everything out. The nurses will get your attention if they need you. Don’t worry about staying lucid. Your job is to get the infusion and do what’s best for you.

You can bring snacks if you want, but most units/centers will have something to munch on or can order you something from the cafeteria if you’re at a hospital. Also the medication and the smells in the unit always make me nauseous, so it’s kind of a waste for me to bother pulling together food before I leave. You can always eat before or plan to get something on the way back. Going through a drive thru to get something with protein is my go to.

If possible, schedule your next appointment while you’re there. I have to go every three months, so I schedule the next one while I’m there, and then I never have to make any fucking phone calls. Phone calls are the worst.

My last and most important tip: ask the nurses when you need something. Blankets, water, snacks, pain meds, the lights turned off. If they can’t do it, they’ll tell you. They’d rather have you ask and have to say no, then you be uncomfortable. Don’t suffer if there might be a solution.

Dealing with Shitty Doctors

There are shitty doctors everywhere, in every specialty and every hospital system. It sucks, and you can do your best to avoid them, but most chronically ill patients will have to put up with one at some point. Here are my suggestions:

If they’re refusing to acknowledge one of your symptoms is a problem (won’t order tests, won’t refer you out, won’t ask any questions), tell them it’s affect your Activities of Daily Living. ADLs are one of the ways doctors measure severity of symptoms and quality of life. ADLs are the absolutely essential things you need to do to be a functioning human: eat, shower, get dressed, brush your teeth. ADLs are a trigger word for most doctors. Physical therapists and occupational therapists were created specifically to help patients achieve their ADLs. If you’re having severe joint paint, say it’s affecting you’re ability to shower and dress in the morning. If you have intense fatigue, say you’re too tired all the time to cook food to eat or even brush your teeth before bed. Tell them your symptoms are affecting your quality of life and your ability to function daily. This won’t always work, but it’s a good starting place. (A side note: if you have have to submit an insurance appeal for something that was denied, citing ADLs as a reason to receive the treatment/medical equipment/doctors visit, will often spur them into action. Sometimes, it’ll just make them ask more questions, but questions are better than flat out denial. This was a very helpful tactic when I was trying to get my manual wheelchair approved. I told them I was unable to complete my ADLs and it was affecting my quality of life, and they eventually came around. It’s also important to remember that ADLs are only the most base tasks that you need to live. Driving, working, socializing—those aren’t included in ADLs, and insurance especially will laugh in your face if you try to say you need medical equipment for something like that.)

Lots of doctors, consciously or unconsciously, will judge how you’re actually feeling by your mood in an appointment. I had a pediatric neurologist who couldn’t be convinced that my pain was at an 8 because I would laugh with my mom in the waiting room. Eight months in, I started getting real quiet, not talking, crying when he talked, all that shit, and he was so fucking flummoxed. He was like “what changed?? Are you depressed??” And I had to remind him that I was thirteen with a severe shoulder inure that hurt every time I breathed. Doctors will judge you based on how you look and how you present. It’s horrible, but it’s true. Present to them in the way that represents what they’d expect to see for your symptoms.

Whatever you do, don’t say anything (or send any snappy messages) that might be considered aggressive until you are absolutely, 100% positive you will never ever have to see them again. I’ve had a few doctors that said ridiculously horrible things to me. It’s tempting to send them a message about how shitty they’ve been or how much they’ve hurt you, but it won’t help. Shitty doctors have fragile egos and they don’t like to be challenged. They won’t take this well, and they’ll mark you as attention seeking, emotional, mentally unstable—you name it. When your other doctors call to ask questions about symptoms, etc, they’ll start talking shit, and everything gets complicated. This might sound dramatic to anyone who hasn’t seen it happen, but honestly, the medical system abuses emotion and mental illness to discard patients that aren’t afraid to advocate for themselves, and this is one of the least immoral ways they do it.

Remember that you don’t owe your doctors anything (except basic human decency). If they ask you to do something and you can’t or don’t want to, don’t. My psychiatrist was really fixated on me getting a light box to cure my depression. I did Not want to do that, so I didn’t. Sometimes, your doctors won’t move on to further treatment or tests until you try it, but most of the time you can say, “that’s not something I’m able to do right now. Let’s explore further options,” and they’ll move on.

Remember that learning to advocate for yourself takes years of practice. Just do your best, and try not to blame yourself for the ways you get mistreated. Therapy is the best investment I’ve ever made for this. It’s helped me learn how to advocate and how to process medical trauma.

Medication

For gods sake, take the as needed medication when you have a migraine or if you’re nauseous. Don’t punish yourself.

This might seem like a no brainer, but if you’re traveling and you’re going to take your medication bottles with you, put them in a ziplock bag. They will definitely open in your suitcase, and you’ll have to pick Levothyroxine out of your socks.

If a medication gives you icky side effects, tell your doctor and ask if there’s something that doesn’t do that. For me personally, it’s hard to find medication that works at all, so I often get stuck with things that make me feel like shit. But it doesn’t hurt to ask. Sometimes new medications come out or they dig up old ones.

Some medications come in dissolvable tablets or suppositories. They’re not fun, but if you have trouble swallowing pills, this is a good way to go. Again, communicate with your doctor about these things. I know that there are Scopolamine patches for nausea too. I’ve never used them before, but it might be worth looking into if need easy nausea relief.

All Things Wheelchair

Man, wheelchairs suck, but they’re also amazing. If you find yourself using one, you’ll encounter a steep learning curve.

If you’re not super buff when you first start, it’ll seem impossible to go up even a slight incline. Your arms will get stronger the more you move around, but it might take time. I eventually bit the bullet and started doing personal training. I’m lucky that I can afford it, and I know it’s not an option for everyone, but if you can, find a trainer who won’t saying anything shitty and who’s willing to accommodate. I worked with a queer-owned gym to find someone I was comfortable with. We do upper body strength training, and it gives me a chance to move my body more often. I still can’t go up big hills, but I feel infinitely more mobile. Give yourself time to adjust to the new strain on your body, even if you don’t do training for it. You’ll be sore in the beginning. Ice and heat will be your friends after long days. If your wrists start hurting a lot, you’re not wheeling correctly, and you should ask your doctor for a referral to PT or OT. Oh and your hands will be fucked for the first few weeks. I bought special wheelchair gloves to try to combat this, but it just made it harder for me to maneuver. Now I only use the gloves if it’s cold, if I’m going down hills, or in the rain/snow. (But seriously, if you’re going down steep hills, use traction gloves.)

Learn to pop a wheelie as soon as possible. It’s such a helpful skill. If you get good enough, you’ll be able to get up over single steps and traverse shitty pavement.

If your wheelchair has a cushion, then it has a cushion cover. Wash it.

Time for the grossest part: cutting hair out of your caster wheels. I hate this. I hate it so much. It’s fucking disgusting, but you have to do it. It’ll fuck up your wheels and make it harder to maneuver. Also it’s just gross to have all that nasty hair hanging out by your feet. Get yourself a long pair of thin scissors and cut all that hair out every week or every two weeks. If you don’t have long hair or live with people who have long hair, then you might be able to wait longer. You should also sanitize your hand rims while you’re at it. Hand sanitizer or Clorox wipes are great for this.

You’ll notice that it’s fucking impossible to carry shopping baskets or suitcases if you use a manual chair. Some people try to balance them on their laps or wedge them onto their footplates, but it’s pretty precarious. I got these weird peg things that attach to the frame. You can place a basket or your bag on it and still keep your hands free. Here’s the link for the ones I got, but it depends on your make and model, so do some research and call some different companies before buying anything. Also, make sure to measure the distance between the two sides of your frame to make sure a basket will be able to balance on the two pegs. Your frame might be too wide for this. Mine is, but I bought a special basket to take to the store that’s wide enough to reach across.

Lots of people will offer to push you. Some won’t even offer; they’ll just grab on and take you in whatever direction. It’s insanely invasive and dehumanizing. Don’t be afraid to put on your breaks if someone does this. I can stand and take small steps, so sometime I just get up and stare at them. You can also buy covers for your handles that have spikes so people can’t grab them. I know some wheelchair users who like it when people offer to push them. That’s good too! Take the help if you want it. Just remember to prioritize your safety and comfort. I had a big debate with another disabled person about whether it was infantilizing for someone to offer to hold open the door for us. I’m firmly on the side that they can offer, and I can say no, and they can listen, and then we can both appreciate the moment of shared humanity between us. They did not agree. Disabled people fight and disagree all the time because we’re not all carbon copies of each other. That’s okay! Just be respectful.

Getting a customized manual wheelchair was one of the single most stressful things I had to deal with. Insurance doesn’t like to pay for them because it’s about 3-12k, depending on the specifications and add-ons. But it’s also been the most liberating thing I’ve done since getting my mobility stripped from me. I’m not sure how it works for everyone, but I got a referral from my doctor to a custom wheelchair company. From there, they took measurements, discussed needs, and showed me different models. It’s going to be really really difficult to know what you want the first time. There’s a lot of different brands and customizations, so do your research and talk in depth with whoever’s making your chair. Ultra lite rigid frames are my favorite because they’re usually only 15-40 pounds, and the wheels can come off to make it even lighter. However, rigid frames don’t fold together in the middle like classic manual wheelchairs that you might find at a hospital or get at a rental company. They can be difficult to fit in the backseat of a car or in some trunks, so make sure to measure any cars you ride in regularly. Some people prefer to have tilted wheels so they can turn easier. Some people don’t want anything to do with that. Depending on your mobility and the people in your life, you might choose not to add push handles to your chair. I added some to mine because I often get dizzy, and it’s helpful to have handles in case I need someone to push me out of the crosswalk or into the shade. People who are highly independent and extremely strong might not want push handles because they won’t need help up steep hills. I like my handles a lot; however, my chair back is shorter than a standard wheelchair because it helps increase range of motion when I’m wheeling, so my push handles are lower than normal, and anyone who wants to push me has to hunch a bit to reach. Again, do your research and talk to your rep before making final decisions. Some companies will let you test out the chairs they have on hand to see what you like. It’s important to work with a wheelchair company you really like because you’re literally putting you life in their hands. I’ve had better luck with smaller, locally-owned companies, but you can’t always get referrals there, and not every town has them. Here’s my tip to you: Numotion sucks ass. Avoid them. My branch of Numotion seems to be an outlier; I’ve had really good experiences with them. But most of the time, its impossible to get ahold of anyone, their hours are few and random, and their customer service reps are rude. But! After you’ve completed your order form—gotten measurements and found customizations—they’ll submit it to insurance. This is the tricky part. I went through four appeals, before I got mine approved. Luckily, I had insurance through my mom’s job, and after the last appeal, her company told the insurance that they had to pay for it. This won’t be the case with everyone. Be diligent with your appeals. Have your doctors write specific, clear letters about why you need it, including information about all the customizations and add-ons. It’s likely that they’ll only pay for the base chair, and you’ll have to pay out of pocket for any extra things. Another note: most insurance companies will only pay for a new chair once every five years (if they approve the first one at all), so be sure that the chair you pick out will work for you for at least the next five and a half years.

I had an advisor in college tell me something devastating once: there is no AAA for wheelchairs. I’d broken a caster wheel and gotten stuck on a university sidewalk in 102 degree heat, and she was telling me about her own experiences getting stranded after one of her tires popped. She’s right; if you’re wheelchair breaks, you’re stuck wherever you are without any backup. Carry your phone with you. Tell your friends or family where you’re going before you leave. Familiarize yourself with the wheelchair repairs shops in your area. Sometimes places like bike shops will be able to help you fix smaller things. I always carry an Allen wrench with me in case I need to take a part off. And don’t worry; you’ll find that if something does go wrong, people are far more willing to help than you’d expect. One of the sculpture professors in the art department found me that day and went back to his workshop to get all his tools. He brought me water and sat in the sun while he tried to fix my wheel, and when he couldn’t, he offered to drive me wherever I needed to go. This man was a tenured professor with a prestigious MFA, and he was running late for a party where he was supposed to be handing out awards. You’ll find lots of good people when things inevitably go to shit.

Going along with the last point, your wheelchair will break, and you will have to send it into the shop to get repairs. If you can, invest in a cheap manual chair that you can use in emergencies. If you live with other people, you can buy a transport chair for cheaper, but you’ll need someone around to push you because it won’t have hand rims.

If you’re new to wheelchair use, give yourself space to feel all the emotions. When I first started, I had been using an office chair(!) to get around. My mom would push me from my bed to the bathroom and then back to bed while we waited to get a rental. I was so relieved when I got my own chair that I pushed everything else down. It took months to allow myself to be sad about all the things I couldn’t do anymore and be angry about all the inaccessible infrastructure that America has. Don’t push it down. Talk to a therapist or find people in the community to discuss it with. (If I choose to talk about my frustrations with friends, I always start with “I need to vent right now, and I’m grateful you’re willing to listen to me, but I’m not looking for any solutions to this at the moment,” or “can you give me some suggestions to work around these things that are frustrating me?” This gives my friends insight into what I need, instead of making them guess. It keeps us both from getting frustrated, and I highly suggest it, especially if you or your friends have trouble navigating social situations/expectations.)

Hand Controls

Hand controls are great option for your car if you’re unable to use your feet to drive. I got mine about a year back, but it was tricky and really confusing at first.

First thing you need to know: you can’t get hand controls without a prescription from a specialist. Usually a certain type of occupational therapist. You can look up driving rehab OTs in your area, but there aren’t many of them, and lots of the time you’ll have to drive several hours to see one. There’s usually a long wait list as well. (And of course, a lot of them don’t take insurance.)

If you’re able to find someone who’s certified, they’ll do an intake appointment and assess your physical abilities and needs. Sometimes, they’ll do the assessment and decide you aren’t fit to use hand controls. This can be for a multitude of reasons, including impaired mental cognition and slow reaction time, issues with hand or arm mobility, or there might be a better way to adapt a car for you. Again, it varies greatly on the person, and I’m not an OT, so I don’t know all the ins and outs. If you pass the assessment, and they view you got to drive with hand controls, you’ll be required to do a certain amount of training where you practice using different equipment. Some OTs will know what you need to use right away, and others will have you try different things out to see what fits best. There’s a lot of types of hand controls and a lot of adaptations that can be done to a car, so it really depends on the person. My training was only about 15 hours (plus independent driving practice), but it’ll depend on whether this is your first time ever driving, if you’ve driven without hand controls before, and if you have any other medical issues that might make it hard for you to adapt. Once you’ve completed the training and received your certificate from the OT, they’ll write a prescription to send to a shop that does specialty car adaptation. Kind of like wheelchairs, the shop you go to is very important. Ask your OT if they have any favorites in the area. Insurance never covers this, and some shops will way overcharge you if you’re not careful. My hand controls were about 3k out of pocket, but it was definitely worth it. It would’ve been a lot more to add other adaptations like a lift or a ramp, but sometimes you can buy used accessible vans for cheaper than adding it to your own car. Something to know: you’re usually able to turn your hand controls on and off. So if your friend needs to borrow your car, or you need to let a mechanic test drive it, you can disable to hand controls and allow someone else to use the foot pedals as normal.

Overall, it’s a very long, very expensive process, so plan ahead and be prepared to wait and pay.

Navigating Raising a Kid with Chronic Illnesses

I don’t have any kids, but my mom was my sole caretaker growing up, and I can offer you some of her thoughts. You have to remember that no matter what age your kid is, chronic illness is an impossible thing for them to deal with, and yet they have to deal with it anyways. Sometimes, there’s no good way to comfort a child who’s in 10/10 pain, or who’s about to undergo a life-altering procedure. All you can do is your best. Communicate. Offer support. Give affection. Make your love unconditional. I was a very angry teenager. I was angry with my mom that she couldn’t fix it, and I was angry with my doctors for the way they treated me. There were days where I would yell and sob and refuse to take my meds, and there where days where I would stare at the wall and not respond to anything. It drove my mom up the wall. She’s used to fixing things, and this was one of those things she couldn’t even help. I know she stills holds a lot of guilt for this, but she shouldn’t. She did her best. You’re doing your best too. You can’t fix everything. That being said, here are her suggestions:

Therapy, therapy, therapy. They might hate it, but some day, they’ll thank you. Remember that not every therapist is right for every patient. If your kid wants to switch to a different therapist, let them. It’s better than them sitting and not speaking the whole session.

Lots of kids with developing rare undiagnosed diseases will go through this vicious cycle where they get a new symptom, get sent to a specialist, get dismissed, and then develop a new symptom and start the process all over again. It’s not easy. My mom was a fan of throwing Pity Parties. Every once in a while, when the grind of it all started making us feel hopeless, she’d take me to the store and say, “pick out snacks and drinks. We’re going to throw a pity party, gorge on sugar, watch Lord of the Rings, feel bad for ourselves, and tomorrow, we’ll dust ourselves off and try again.” It helped. It was good to know that sometimes you can let life feel unfair, and it was even better to know that the next day it would be easier to try again.

A lot of being chronically ill as a kid is getting decisions stripped from you and having unexpected negative experiences. My mom would try to do spontaneous things every once in a while to remind me that not all surprises are bad. Instead of driving straight home after school one Friday, she took me to Starbucks without saying anything. After an MRI, she stopped at an art fair and let me pick out a necklace. We would go to the library after I spent the day in the hospital. Sometimes, she’d call my aunts while I was at school to come over and play card games on the weekends. And she was really big on giving me choices in everything. She never made me agree to new (non-lifesaving) treatment. Ever. If she really wanted me to do it, we’d talk it over and come to an agreement that made us both happy. Sick kids are forced into adulthood early; they know how to make calculated, logical decisions when needed. Let them be a part of their own healthcare. (They should also be given the chance to make rash, stupid decisions that have no bearing on their health.)

Keep track of everything. Doctors, meds, ER visits, PT exercises, diets they’ve tried for GI issues, everything about the surgeries they’ve undergone. Some day, you’ll need it. Or your kid will grow up into a chronically ill adult, and they’ll need it.

Talk to their school counselor about getting a 504 or IEP. Even if they’re not struggling. I was a super academically minded kid; I didn’t struggle to understand new concepts or complete homework correctly. But eventually it became hard for me to attend class and finish assignments. Having an IEP saved me. 504s are a lot easier to get (a lot less paperwork, less testing, less pushback from admin), but they’re not legally binding. If you want something concrete and all-encompassing, go for the IEP. IEPs are also really helpful when trying to get accommodations in college. You can also start with a 504 and switch to an IEP later. While we’re on the subject of school: remember that education is important, but school is not the end all be all of your child’s life. What should matter the most to you is that they end up safe and happy. I didn’t graduate high school; I took a proficiency test my junior year and dropped out. It was the best choice I could’ve made at the time, but it was still tough for my mom. I ended up going to college, and now I have a pretty solid job, but every kid will be different. Their mental and physical health is the most important. School is a huge huge huge stressor. Don’t make it harder for them than it already is.

Dating

God dating sucks enough on its own, but adding in chronic illness and disability just makes it a shit show. I don’t have a lot to offer on this other than you shouldn’t settle for anyone who doesn’t respect you, treat you with love and compassion, and accept every part of you for what it is. People will say rude shit. They’ll be nasty, fetishizing, infantilizing, dismissive. Some won’t be able to put up with all the things that come along with being ill. I sound like a broken record, but find a good therapist who can help you voice your needs and expectations clearly. Remember that you never have to go on a date if you don’t want to. Participate as you see fit. Throw it all out if you want.

I don’t have enough time to go into my tips for intimacy/sex and disability, but I’ll give you the highlights.

Communicate. Make it very clear what you’re able to do, what you’re interested in doing, and what you don’t want.

There are lots of ways to have sex. If you’re both having fun, being safe, and engaging consensually, then you’re doing it right. Don’t let abled bodied people tell you the way it should be done. There are lots of accessibility friendly toys to invest in, too.

As weird as it might sound, don’t be afraid to take breaks. Keep water near by. If you have POTS, keep salt or electrolyte tablets on hand. If you have to stop to vomit or go to the bathroom, don’t let it shame you. Go at your own pace and take care of your body.

Misc

Having seizures on a college campus: Most universities have a policy that if you lose consciousness while on campus, they have to call an ambulance. You are not required to ride in the ambulance. You can decline, and the paramedics will make you sign a form before leaving. If you’re still actively having seizures, then they’ll take you anyways, but you probably won’t be in any shape to try to decline. If you’re having seizures regularly, tell your professors. It’ll freak them the fuck out, so warn them ahead of time. It makes the whole thing a lot less awkward when you collapse in the aisle during a lecture. Related to that: communicate with your professors about all your accommodations and emergency health needs. They really honestly appreciate it when you talk to them about this stuff. Even if they have a big class and don’t remember you, it’s good to send them an email and introduce yourself. Hopefully, you’ve also talked to your college’s Disability Resource Center. If not, go do that. Now. (There’s a whole lot of shit that I have to say about campus accessibility and disability resource centers, but I’m not gonna go into it right now.) Also, wear your medical alert bracelet. I know they suck, but it sucks more for someone to be digging through your pants pocket while you’re seizing to try to find your wallet. And keep your emergency contact info pinned up somewhere in your dorm. I used to put mine on the fridge and point it out to my roommates at the beginning of term. It can take a while for RAs to pull yours up, so it’s best to make sure it’s easily accessible.

Remember that you do not function like a normal person. There is no wrong way to solve one of your problems. If you need to put a stool in your bathroom to sit at while you brush your teeth, do it. I got an extra tall stool to sit at while I cook at the stove because my wheelchair is too short. (Cooking in a wheelchair is another thing I could talk about forever.) If you need to wear a sleep mask on the bus because the light makes your migraine worse, do it. People can look at you funny all they want. Like I said, I rolled around my house in an office chair while I waited for a rental wheelchair. What I’m trying to say is find things that work and implement them, even if they’re non traditional.

Here’s what I pack in my bag for an ER visit: headphones, phone charger, book, zofran, Naproxen, water bottle, wallet with cash, socks, and sleep mask to block out the waiting room lights. If I’m expecting to be admitted, then I’ll pack more, but I try to keep it light if it’s just triage and a visit with the ER doctor. Sometimes I’ll stuff a granola bar or some almonds in there too.

My biggest tip for surviving hospital stays is to get out of your room (if possible). Go on walks around the unit. Some hospitals have little courtyards patients can sit in. If you’re in peds, go visit the rec room, even if it’s awkward. Their activities are usually meant for the younger kids, but it can be fun to connect with other people your age, and you’ll thank yourself later when you’re stuck in bed at 3am. Also, tell your friends to come visit you. Not everyone will be able to, but most people are happy to come hang out for an hour or two. It’ll help; I promise.

Clean your room every few weeks. Dear god, clean your room. I have trouble with executive functioning and finding energy to do housekeeping type stuff, but I get more depressed when my room is gross. So clean your room. Especially if you have hypersomnia/sleep excessively.

Don’t force yourself to use a pill organizer. I know everyone says it makes it easier, but I get overwhelmed when I have to refill it, and then I just don’t end up taking my meds. If it doesn’t work for you, don’t do it. If it does, then do it!

Don’t buy the self help books your therapist recommends unless you’re actually interested in reading them. It’ll just sit on your shelf and make you feel guilty for not being good enough.

Mental illness is tightly bound to physical illness. Try to be an active listener in your body. Sometimes, when I’ve been feeling really nauseous, my PSTD symptoms will get triggered over nothing, and it’ll frustrate the fuck out of me because it seems like it’s happening over nothing. I try to track when my emotional state is worse to see if it’s correlated to my physical symptoms. This helps curb the frustration and guilt. Sometimes it makes me dissociate more. It’s a balancing act. Just do your best.

Hobbies are so so so important. Make sure to give yourself time to work on them! And there are a million ways to adapt the activities you love if you’re having trouble, so don’t afraid to do some research. I know they have crochet hook grips for people with arthritis or loose grips, and there are super intense magnifying glasses for people who like to cross stitch and are having trouble seeing the tiny ass holes. I have a color blind friend who sends us pictures of paint to see if it’s the shade he wants. Very occasionally, you’ll come to the conclusion that there’s a hobby you can’t adapt. Let yourself be sad. I can’t hike anymore and it sucks. I can’t go tide-pooling either, and its not like if I just work really hard I’ll be able to do it some day. Life is shit, and sometimes you have to let things go. Be angry, be sad, tell people to fuck off if they try to turn you into inspiration porn, but also remember that there are lots of other cool things out there to try.

Going along with the hobby thing: take the time to learn ASL if you’re having trouble with your hearing or if you often go nonverbal. One of my friends had to get hearing aids last year, and we offered to learn with them, but they were hesitant because it feels like a non necessity to them. Something selfish that would take up all our time. If you think it’ll help, you should grant yourself the time to learn. Capitalism makes us think that we shouldn’t engage in activities unless we gain money or power from them, but that mindset will kill you. Your life will be infinitely easier if you learn ASL online with your partner or friends or siblings.

Look up Spoon Theory. It’s not a helpful metaphor for everyone, but most people in the community talk about it, so it’s good to be familiar with it.

Don’t be afraid to go out and find community! Find support groups, look up wheelchair sports if you’re into getting sweaty, brave the awkwardness of starting conversations with other patients in the clinic. I’m wholly and completely of the idea that humans are innately good. There are lots of interesting chronically ill/disabled people who’re looking for connection. Insurance companies and other medical entities rely on us feeling isolated, alone, and uniformed to continue making money and hold power. It’s important that we share with and support each other.

I know a lot of this is basic stuff, but it’s helpful to have reminders, and if you’re new to the whole song and dance, then it’s nice to get a sneak peak. There are a million things I didn’t get to, but this was what was on the top of my brain.

Also, I’m not the collective voice of every chronically ill person in the world. My experiences are not yours and they’re not everyone else’s. What works for me, might not work for you. Be kind.

#thanks to @thenarrativefoil for reminding me that we need to share with each other!!#if you have any suggestions for dealing with gastroparesis please hmu #I’m still waiting for my gastric emptying scan but I’d like to try out some of y’all’s tips #hopefully some of this is helpful to someone #chronic illness #chronic pain #disability #seizures #nausea #wheelchair user #ptsd #mental health #hand controls #medical insurance companies suck #therapy #so much talk of therapy #spoonie #if this is helpful to anyone I’ll make another

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nanowrimo · 1 year

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50k is Overrated: NaNoWriMo from a Disabled Author's Perspective

While it’s great to reach 50,000 words, it should not be a measure of success! Being a successful writer can be different for everyone, especially if you’re disabled. NaNo participant Quinn Clark talks about their experiences participating in NaNo as a disabled writer and writing tips to keep in mind.

NaNoWriMo is the gold standard for adrenaline fueled productivity. Oh, the allure of telling all your friends you wrote 50,000 words in a month! No wonder we all get so excited each year.

But what happens when you have a disability which conflicts with the caffeine-bingeing, late-night-sprint lifestyle so associated with NaNo?

Here’s the secret: NaNoWriMo isn’t really about the 50k. It’s about progress — whatever that looks like to you. The path to 50k is just the most well-known version of NaNoWriMo: it’s less a hard-and-fast rule, and more a landmark to guide your writing journey.

I’m an author, and I’ve participated in NaNoWriMo every year for twelve years. I also have a disability called Complex Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (CPTSD). CPTSD affects me in a variety of ways: dissociation, panic attacks, and a medley of unpredictable physical symptoms which make my day-to-day life difficult to navigate. As is true for countless disabled and/or neurodivergent writers, no matter how much I want to do everything at once, some days my functioning is reduced and I need time for rest, support, and recovery.

So, what does my NaNoWriMo success rate look like? Well, I’ve ‘won’ NaNoWriMo (hit the 50k words within November) seven times out of those twelve attempts, with a cumulative word count of 446,760 words.

“Oh, that’s terrible!” some of you may cry. “How have you lost so many times?”

“Man, I wish I could write that much,” others might lament. “How have you done NaNo every year for so long?”

I’ve had both of these responses from different writers before, and that fact reveals something important. Your writing process is a unique and personal thing, and it won’t always be compatible with other people’s standards. Here’s a question:

Does the 1k someone writes for one NaNoWriMo matter less than the 50k they wrote for another?

Of course not. Everyday, we wake up to our social media feeds glutted with success stories and the pervasive idea that burnout is the path to success. This notion is incompatible with disability and neurodiversity, and is therefore inaccessible. While this style of breakneck working is great for meeting your short-term goals, it is awful for consistent, meaningful progress — and even more so for your well-being. Forcing yourself to write when you’re fatigued, nauseous, exhausted, dissociated and/or depressed is a sure-fire way to associate writing with punishment, rather than joy and weirdness and creativity. Yes, many of us enjoy writing when we’re feeling bad as a form of escapism — but foregoing self-care in the name of hitting arbitrary word targets is unhealthy, and is not in the spirit of NaNoWriMo. No matter how many words you make yourself write, if you are suffering to get them down, your writing will suffer alongside you.

…So how do we win?

Don’t worry — it’s not all doom and gloom. You deserve to take care of yourself, whether you’re writing or not. Here are some tips for making NaNoWriMo a disability-friendly experience:

1. Listen to your body and brain now, not later.

Many of us are guilty of this (I’m looking at you, fellow neurodivergent writers!): pushing past the need to eat, or drink, or use the bathroom because you ‘need’ to hit today’s target. Perhaps you’re deep in hyperfocus, or are feeling guilty for taking yesterday off because you couldn’t get out of bed. That’s okay — don’t beat yourself up! Remember to treat accountability for your needs the same way you treat accountability for your writing. Listen to what your brain and body are trying to tell you: NaNoWriMo, or any similar project, is not more important than your well-being. Take that nap, grab that snack, and spend the day bundled in bed if you need to. A burnt-out writer will just start to hate the writing process. I promise you start responding to your own needs, your desire to write will gradually return. After all, writers find it impossible to stay away from the craft!

2. Commiserate with others.

There is great power in sharing your experiences. For years I kept quiet about my mental health struggles, thinking that if people knew about my condition, I wouldn’t be seen as a ‘real’ writer. But something magical happened the first time I spoke to a friend about my disability affecting my writing: they felt able to open up too. Being honest about your bad days in a way which is comfortable for you is a magnificent vulnerability. You humanise yourself in the eyes of others, and in turn are humbled by the strength of your fellow writers. Regardless of diagnosis, label or background, the human desire to be understood and validated is incredibly valuable. You may find that talking helps make your writing journey a good bit lighter.

3. Allow yourself to fail.

‘Failure’is an acidic word to writers — but it doesn’t need to be. You are not a failure because you didn’t reach a goal. You are not a failure because you changed plans. You are not a failure because you are sick, or tired, or working on a different schedule. All those NaNos I did where I didn’t hit the 50k are still so important: one sentence, one word, one idea is still better than nothing at all. You don’t need to plot every missed deadline or ‘unproductive’ work day against a graph of your own self-worth. Be proud of your achievements, and look to the next challenge — whatever that may be.

Good luck to you all on your writing journeys! And the next time you start down that self-flagellating hate-spiral for needing a couple hours off, remember: You can’t pour from an empty cup, and you can’t write as an empty writer.

Quinn Clark is an award-winning author, poet and researcher from the North East of England. A fan of unfiction, folklore and etymology, Quinn weaves narratives of trauma with fantastical characters to provide an insight into the misunderstood experiences of disability.Quinn has a children's colouring book commissioned by Ladybird Books due for publication next year, and is working on their ACE-funded debut novel: the science fiction-fantasy romp Out of Your Depth, following an exhausted scientist who gains the ability to transform into an octopus. You can learn more about their work on their website (https://quinnclark.co.uk), or over on their Twitter (@adashofseaglass). They also have an essay in Kat Brown's upcoming Unbound publication, 'No One Talks About This Stuff'. Photo by Keren Fedida on Unsplash

#nanowrimo #writing #amwriting #writing advice #disability #neurodiversity #by nano guest #quinn clark #disabled writers

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pfhwrittes · 3 months

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riffing off the poll i reblogged re: your blorbos doing top surgery. so these are some vague headcannons on how the members of tf141 would look after a reader post top surgery.

pairings: gaz x reader, soap x reader, simon x reader (romantic), john price & reader (platonic).

warnings: gaz refers to reader as babe and calls the reader handsome.

note: i’ve written this reader to be a trans man but can be read as anyone who wants top surgery. also i am firmly in the camp that you DON’T have to have surgery to be considered transgender or to have your gender respected. fuck knows it’s a hard enough process here in the UK, i can’t imagine my healthcare being stuck behind what is essentially a paywall.

gaz would be a sweetheart. he’d get you drinks and painkillers. he’d move your cushions/pillows around as much as you wanted. he’d pretend not to see when you burst into tears over pain/relief/a weird sense of mourning and fear. he’d even help you to the bathroom and linger outside the door (unlocked, he’d insist on it being unlocked) in case you need help with anything. the man gets your favourite takeaway and doesn’t make a fuss when you only eat a little bit of it because you’re feeling a bit nauseous from the meds you’re on. checks on your drains and dressings and soothes you when you catch sight of the swelling. he reassures you with forehead and cheek kisses when you’re upset and reassures you with a gentle babe you’re so handsome and brave, i can’t wait for you to show off your chest when you’re feeling better.

price would handle it from a more professional perspective (i am not saying reader would be in the military but i am saying that the man deals with paperwork most of the time anyway so he’d handle it for your work). he’s already sent off copies of your medical note from the surgeon, he’s filled in the paperwork to get sick pay. less hands on than gaz (but that’s only because i can’t see price with a trans man in a romantic or sexual way) so he doesn’t overstep but as your friend he’ll bring you food if you ask and painkillers too. checks in with you and sends you book recommendations, music recommendations and the occasional meme (don’t try to tell me he wouldn’t send you memes. that man is a millennial he knows what a fucking meme is) when you’re well enough to complain about being bored.

simon would be kind of a dick about it. listen i don’t make the rules but he would. he’s supportive enough. he’d give you a ride back from the hospital and get you to wherever is the most comfortable but he’s a bit shit at looking after you (the man has no practice outside of emergency medical care). you’d have to text him to get you a drink or painkillers. healthy nutritious food? no. what flavour pot noodle do you want? never mind you’re getting a bombay bad boy because that’s all he’s got in the cupboard. emotionally he’s not great at expressing how he’s feeling about your recovery so he comes across as gruff but that’s mostly because he’s repressing a whole bunch of trauma and fear that things won’t go well. he won’t touch you apart from holding your hand when you ask because he’s worried he’ll mess up your stitches but still it comes across as a bit cold.

soap the darling man is just so fucking excited for you. it’s a bit much actually while you’re still recovering and yeah you end up snapping and it hurts his feelings a little but he’ll try to play it off as not a big deal. he’s just so happy for you (and for himself because he cannot wait to get his hands on you now that you’ll let him because your chest is the way you want it)! super affectionate, peppers you with kisses all over your face. he’s similar to gaz in that he’s all about making you as comfortable as possible and tries to preempt any requests you have (gets you bottles of water and can of irn-bru because that’s what he always wants when he’s feeling under the weather, grabs you as many snacks as you want). unlike gaz he’s enough of a freak to insist on being in the bathroom with you when you need to go, he says it’s to make sure you’re safe but he’s definitely using it as an excuse to touch you as much as possible until you’re fully healed up.

#cod fic #ftm!reader #binders and boyfriends #kyle garrick x reader #simon riley x reader #john mactavish x reader #john price and reader #kg #jp #jm #sr

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sasusakucoded · 7 months

Text

Sasuke entered the yard without a warning. The old lady was taken aback by his presence.

Old lady: *hysterical* Please! Take everything you need, dear sir! I won't fight!

Sasuke: I didn't mean to intrude.. Your gate was open so I came in. Please calm down.

Old Lady: Then what do you want?

Sasuke: I-I heard you're a midwife.. I just want to know some things..

Old Lady: ...

Sasuke: M-My wife is pregnant and she's vomiting often.

Old Lady: *laughs*

Sasuke: What's funny?

Old Lady: Sorry.. That's the last thing I thought you'd be.. A husband to a pregnant wife.

Sasuke: I don't understand.

Old Lady: You look too cool to be a doting husband.. Ah, nevermind. Don't mind me.. I was just happy to see a handsome lad like you.. Sorry if I panicked. I really thought you're some terrifying shinobi.

Sasuke: /thinks/ I am. This lady is annoying.

Old Lady: Come inside! I'll give you some tea and I'll answer all your questions!

---

Sasuke: Are you nauseous, Sakura?

Sakura: Yeah.. I feel like throwing up, Sasuke-kun.

Sasuke: *takes her hand and applies pressure to her wrist*

Sakura: Sasuke-kun? M-My headache is gone!

Sasuke: Really? It worked?

Sakura: Yeah! Thank you, Anata.

Sasuke: *nods*

Sakura: Ah, Anata.. How did you—

Sasuke: Stay still here, okay? I'll make you some ginger tea.. Ah, and while you're waiting, eat this. *hands her some crackers*

---

Sakura: *peeks into the kitchen* /thinks/ Since when did he learn these things?

Sasuke: *checks his notebook before putting the ginger into the pot*

Sakura: /thinks/ He's getting a bit stressed out.. But he's so cute.

Sasuke: *pours the mixture into a big cup*

Sakura: /thinks/ He gets more and more handsome when he does things like this..

Sasuke: Here, Sakura.. *stirs the tea while blowing it*

Sakura: Arigato, Anata. *smiles*

Sasuke: Better to drink it while it's hot.

Sakura: Okay! *blows and sips* /thinks/ WHAT THE HECK IS THIS TASTE YUCK!!!

Sasuke: Is it good?

Sakura: Yeah! /thinks/ He's looking.. I can't not drink it. Just finish it already, Sakura!! *empties the cup*

Sasuke: Good. I'll get you another cup. *stands up and leaves*

Sakura: /thinks/ I'm not sure which is worse.. That ginger tea or morning sickness..

Sasuke: Sakura, what do you want for lunch?

Sakura: I thought you're scouting the village nearby, Anata?

Sasuke: No.. Maybe some other time.

Sakura: *smiles* I want something sweet for lunch.. *realizes he hates sweets* I-If you also want it!

Sasuke: Yeah. I'll see what I can get from the store.

---

Sakura: *sees him reading the notebook*

Sasuke: Sakura, go to bed now. You have to sleep early from now on.

Sakura: Okay, sensei. *teases*

Sasuke: Hn.

Sakura: *laughs* Thank you, Anata..

Sasuke: Do you feel better now?

Sakura: Yeah. I still have an on-and-off headache but it's manageable.

Sasuke: You have a headache now?

Sakura: Yeah.. A bit..

Sasuke: *kisses her forehead and her temples*

Sakura: Anata? *blushes*

Sasuke: It should be gone in any minute now.

Sakura: *smiles* Of course..

---

Yesterday..

Old Lady: So, you're telling me it's the first time you'll take care of your wife?

Sasuke: Yeah. She's strong and independent. She didn't need to be taken care of.

Old Lady: You're not the showy type?

Sasuke: What do you mean?

Old Lady: Don't worry! I'll write it down for you, so you won't forget!

Aside from the real treatment and remedies for pregnant women who suffer from difficult pregnancy, the old lady also sneaked in some things for the man's wife:

Feed her. It's important that you do it. Don't let her do it herself, she'll get tired.

Always hug her. The baby can feel your hug too.

Kiss her head when she has a headache.

Massage her back lightly whenever possible. It helps to make the muscles less tense.

Bathe her. It's hard for her to reach some of her body parts.

Always be nice with her. She's emotional during pregnancy.

Don't leave her side. She can give birth at any moment.

Sasuke: Thanks. *gives her 100 Ryō*

Old Lady: No, no! You keep that. Just promise me you'll do all of that and that's enough payment.

Sasuke: Are you sure? I'll still do it even if you accept this.

Old Lady: I'm very sure.

Sasuke: Well then. Thanks. *leaves*

Old Lady: Ah, I hope I made his wife happy. *smiles*

#sasusaku #sasusaku headcanon #ss headcanon #uchihas #sscoded no 206

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thesiblingsoftheblackandwhite · 1 month

Text

[[VERY BRIEF SELF HARM (HAIR PULLING)]]

Wiggly. You're exhausted and starving. Your stomach really, really hurts. I know. And trust me when I say I want to help.

In order for T'noy to get the soup, he needed to leave the room. Once again, he tries to get his younger brother off of him. He knows he could just physically carry him and deposit him somewhere else instead of prying his hands away from his jacket, but he also knows extreme movement would upset both his already aching stomach and his legs. Out of either option, he would like the one that allowed less pain.

But you have to let go so I can do that.

Wiggog whines - actually whines - and somehow pulls himself closer. Thankfully, he's no longer sobbing. Tinky sighs and runs a hand through his hair again. Alright. Not like he hasn't spent hours on this sort of thing before. He inhales.

Wiggles~.

The slightly playful and soft tone gets his attention. Wiggly hiccups and pulls away some to glance up at Tinky. T'noy shifts so that they're at equal height.

Hey. There you are. How's my favorite little brother?

He doesn't get an answer, not expecting one. Wiggly's grip, now on his jacket sleeves, still doesn't loosen. Tinky's gaze doesn't slip as he slowly moves his hands down Wiggly's arms.

Really bad. I know. You want to go back to sleep?

...Mm-hm.

T'noy smiles at the verbal answer that is, in reality, more of a whimper.

OK. You'll be able to in a little bit. 10 more minutes. Just 10.

He finally holds Y'wrath's hands in his, successfully keeping them apart.

But you've got to eat something, too, Wiggles. I don't want you to get sick.

Wiggly blinks, looking down at his hands. He feels awful, and still nauseous. Eating would make him vomit. That counted as getting sick.

But - but...

His words get caught in his throat. He can't tell Tinky what he means. Frustrated with himself, Wiggly yanks his hands away and uses one to pull at his hair.

Hey-

Both his hands are grabbed again. His head stings with the amount of force the seconds-long pull had. It hurts, like everything else.

Don't - don't do that. Wh-

Karaxis takes a breath. He doesn't want to make this worse via blame. He's just as, if not more, tired.

What is it, huh? You have to get some food in your belly. I'm going to go do that. I know it hurts. I know you're in pain, so much pain.

He resists the urge to hug him again. That would nullify the point of this whole thing.

I need to leave the room to get some soup. Doesn't soup sound good?

Wiggog shakes his head slowly. It really doesn't. Tinky's demeanor slips for a second.

OK. You're right, it sounds fucking awful. But if I heat it up, it's going to be tasty. Promise.

He tries to pull his hands away.

The stuff I need to heat it up, and the tasty soup, is outside of the room. Alright? So if I could just...

He parts their hands and just as quickly stands and starts walking away. He knows it's a shitty move, but wants to get this over with. Wiggog Y'wrath panics and reaches for him.

NO! No, no, no, no, no-

In desperation, Wiggly also attempts to stand. He barely makes it halfway. His legs wobble and he falls to the floor with a thump. Now both legs sting and burn. Overwhelmed, tears fill his eyes again.

Shit!

Tinky is at his side again, helping him into a sitting position.

What the fuck were you thinking, just standing? You can't stand!

He's mostly yelling now. Wiggly shivers.

I don't - I-I-I-I didn't - didn't want you to - to leave!

He feels stupid. T'noy has to leave if Wiggog wants food. And he does want to eat, or at most stop hurting.

...Oh. Wiggly, I can't...I can't move you around too much right now.

His voice is back to comforting again.

Why n-not?

He knows why. He feels hot, and his legs burn. He doesn't want to move, but he's just lonely. Tinky sighs.

You're sick. And it's easier to bring the food in here.

An idea hits him. A solution, if you will.

But~ I do have someone else you can stay with while I'm gone. Even if it's only going to be for ten minutes.

#The Lords in Black #ask blog #rp blog #Wiggog Y'wrath #T'noy Karaxis #hatchetfield rp #Blog Event: Hatchetfield Citizens

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karuvapatta · 11 months

Text

Dear readers: I hope you have abandoned all hope of this thing fitting in anywhere within the canon timeline. And also of Jon getting a break anytime soon.

....I'm doing my best to wrap it up I swear ;-;

***

The night doesn’t get any more pleasant from there.

Jon spends several long hours in an Emergency Room, gets a CT scan to exclude cranial fracture, a blood test that tells him he’s slightly anaemic, a nurse worried that he’s underweight, comments about his blood pressure and resting heart rate being elevated, some less-than-subtle inquiries about domestic abuse once they see his scars, and a stern reminder to not mix alcohol with the sleeping pills he wheedled out of his GP.

(He wonders, now, if he influenced the GP into prescribing him the pills, or was he just annoying enough that she eventually caved in. He wonders how that power even works.)

They want to keep him in for observation, but after he signs a waiver that he’s aware of the risks and leaves of his own volition, they let him go with little fuss. The ER is busy enough as it is, and Jon is stubborn.

He does pause on his way out; the waiting room is full of mostly elderly people in bad physical shape, a few drunken brawlers, some victims of unfortunate accidents, and other assorted medical emergencies. The one person that stands out to him is a middle-aged woman, sitting unnaturally still in the corner, with wide-open, haunted eyes. She’s been marked by one of the Powers; he knows this. He feels her calling out to him, a promise of a feast for the Eye, brimming with fresh terror and terrible nightmares. It’d take very little to get her to talk—

Their eyes meet. Jon swallows, an involuntary reflex; he can feel the hunger in his stomach, this terrible need to extract a tribute to his patron. And it would nourish him in ways normal food doesn’t seem to anymore. It might even make him whole.

A nurse passes by with a clipboard, and asks the woman a number of questions. Jon flees the waiting room, hating himself every step of the way. He isn’t a fucking misery vampire, to prey on innocent unsuspecting people. He isn’t.

It’s long past daybreak when he finally makes it back to his apartment. He doesn’t even bother undressing, just swallows a pill, throws himself on the bed, and waits for the nightmares to begin.

***

He wakes up around noon with a mild headache and throbbing pain in his cheek. It’s raining outside; the steady beat of raindrops against the windowpane is actually quite soothing.

Jon showers, brushes his teeth, and contemplates breakfast, but the very thought of eating food makes him nauseous. He settles for a mug of herbal tea and watches the rain for a while, holding an ice-pack to his cheek and drumming an erratic melody on the table with his other hand. He wonders if he should make that phone call. He can almost hear Tim calling him insane, Sasha’s attempts at reasoning with him, his own name repeated in Martin’s worried voice. But he can also remember what it felt like to drag the truth out of Tim’s mouth; the mark of the Powers on that unfortunate woman. The Eye’s insistent presence.

He makes that phone call.

“Archivist.”

“Elias.”

There’s a beat of tense silence on both sides of the line. Jon curses himself for not writing down his questions beforehand.

“Sorry for calling on Saturday,” Jon says. “Are you busy?”

“No need to apologize,” Elias says smoothly. “I always have time for you, Jon.”

That is a blatant lie, but Jon lets it slide.

“I hope the gala went well,” Jon says.

“You call me on a Saturday to ask about an event you didn’t want to attend and that you bailed on halfway through?” Elias asks, thankfully more amused than upset.

“Oh! Yes, sorry about that. I, uh,” he contemplates lying, but is too worn out to come up with anything halfway believable. “I felt really awkward. After the. You know.”

“Yes, and maybe sometime next decade Simon Fairchild will stop reminding me of your dramatic escape,” Elias says. “All in all, it went about as well as I could have expected. Don’t worry about it too much.”

“Right,” Jon says, knowing damn well that he is going to worry.

“But this isn’t why you called.”

“No. It isn’t.”

There’s another long, awkward silence, while Jon struggles to formulate his thoughts.

“I think I can force people to answer my questions,” Jon says. “Is that normal?”

Elias has the audacity to laugh at him. The bastard.

“I was wondering when you were going to notice,” he says. “Compelling voice is a crucial ability to fulfil your role as the Archivist. How else could you extract statements from those unwilling to share them?”

He says this as if it was the most ordinary thing in the world.

“That’s—horrifying,” Jon says. “You do realize that it’s horrifying, right?” He takes in a shuddering breath. “Can I control it?”

“Yes. Of course. Now that you are aware of them, controlling your powers should become your next priority.”

“Stop giving me damn homework, Elias! I’m trying to ask for your help!”

The words are out his mouth before he can stop them, but he doesn’t think there’s anything supernatural about it. No; just pure desperation.

Elias sighs. “As lovely as it is to hear your voice, Archivist, I’d rather have this conversation in person. Are you available?”

“What—right now?” Jon asks. “Oh, wait. Is it because you cannot read my mind over the phone?”

“…maybe,” Elias says after a pause.

He files away the information for later. For now, he says, “Yes. I’m available.”

“Splendid. Where should I meet you?”

Jon considers the question. The Institute is the most obvious answer. It’s familiar and relatively safe, and both he and Elias have been known to spend their weekends at work, so it wouldn’t even be that strange. But the thought of always meeting Elias in a place where he holds all the power annoys him to no end. A restaurant, then? But, damn, he doesn’t want to have to dress up for the sort of place that might meet Elias’s standards. Besides, his head spins slightly every time he stands up; he suspects he might end up slipping on the wet pavement and cracking it open.

“I am actually not feeling very well,” he says. “Could you meet me at my place?” Suddenly aware of how it sounds, he hastens to add: “I don’t mean—I’m not trying to suggest anything inappropriate, so please do not read too much into it.”

“Of course. I’ll be there in an hour.”

“Great,” Jon sighs. “I’m assuming you know where I live.”

“I do.”

“Then I guess I’ll see you later,” Jon says.

***

Inviting Elias over might have been stupid, but isn’t much more questionable than any of his other decisions as of late. It’s the sort of baseline stupid Jon is becoming accustomed to.

He spends the time cleaning up and fretting over his clothing. Should he dress up? Which part of the dress code covers this particular situation? He feels like he shouldn’t be meeting his boss in an old band T-shirt and sweatpants, but another, more rational part of his brain points out that he shouldn’t be inviting his boss to his house at all. His outfit is the least concerning aspect of this situation. Intellectually he understands this, but he spends a good while selecting the right combination of sweatpants, shirt, and hoodie. He can’t imagine Elias would take him seriously if he were wearing pyjamas. If he deigns to take him seriously, that is.

His nervous fretting comes to an abrupt stop once the doorbell rings. Right. One hour.

He opens the door, and is greeted with the comical sight of Elias’s tailored suit and expensive coat looking distinctly out of place in the cluttered, dark, narrow corridor of his apartment. But then Elias’s eyes zero in on Jon’s face, and Jon feels suddenly self-conscious.

“Uh. Hi. Come on in. Can I get you something to drink?”

He leads the way to the living room, but doesn’t get very far before Elias stops him.

“Jon,” he says quietly.

Now he is in Jon’s space, looking down at him with an intense, scrutinizing expression in his steel-grey eyes. He smells faintly of rain and laundry detergent, but mostly that cologne he favours, which Jon remembers well from yesterday’s gala. His fingers are on Jon’s chin, gentle but insistent, turning his face up, towards the light; he brushes away the hair from Jon’s face. For a moment it seems inevitable that he will lean down and press his lips against Jon’s; why else would he touch him in this manner?

“What happened?” he asks.

His fingers skim feather-light over the bruise on Jon’s cheek. Jon winces; it’s swollen and tender, and no doubt does little to improve his appearance. He misses the ice-pack, but it was getting too warm so he had to place it back in the freezer for the time being.

“It’s nothing,” he says, a little breathy. He’s trying not to inhale too much of Elias’s scent, in case it makes him do something above-baseline stupid. “Just a bruise. It’ll fade.”

Elias’s lips are pressed thin, his brows knitted together. His eyes flare; for a moment, Jon could swear they changed colour into something deeper, vibrant, otherworldly; that they can suddenly see much, much further than Jon’s own face.

“Timothy Stoker did this to you?” Elias asks. His voice is pitched low, in cold fury; it sends a tremor through Jon’s body, an instinctive reaction to flee. But he can’t quite move, Elias’s hand and gaze pinning him in place, as gentle as they are insistent.

“We had a fight,” Jon says. “Stay out of it. It’s none of your business.”

Elias narrows his eyes.

“What happens to myArchivist very much is my business,” he says.

“I’m not your damn property,” Jon seethes. “And I can take care of myself.”

“You called me to ask for help,” Elias reminds him coldly.

“Not with this,” Jon says. “Leave Tim alone. Leave all of them alone.”

He’s trembling; his head spins. What a pathetic sight he makes right now, bargaining for his assistants’ lives with an empty hand. It’s a wonder Elias doesn’t laugh in his face.

“Jon,” Elias says. “They haven’t the right…” he cuts off, abruptly, and lets go of Jon’s chin.

The sudden absence of his touch is enough to have Jon swaying on his feet. He gasps, black spots dancing before his eyes; luckily the wall is not far behind his back, giving him something to lean on, his sweaty hands desperately scrambling at it for something to hold.

Elias looks down at him, startled. Jon gives a weak laugh in response.

“I told you,” he says. “I’m not feeling well.”

“Yes, I can see that,” Elias says. He steps away to where he set down his briefcase and retrieves a file from it. “Here. I brought you these.”

It’s the damn statements. Jon doesn’t even need to browse through its contents to know as much; the file calls out to him through no sense he can name. As Elias places it in Jon’s hands, Jon can almost hear the background static of the tape recorder, all other thoughts and concerns receding from his restless mind. He’s blank, achingly empty, and ready to receive this new account of the Powers, to absorb the fear and lose himself in it, to feel, to experience, to know—

“No,” he says. “Why—”

“It’ll help,” Elias says. So calm, so logical.

“I don’t want this,” Jon whispers. “I never wanted this. I can’t…”

The wall slips away, or maybe he slides down, limp and helpless. Elias catches him before he can hit the ground and steers him towards the couch; Jon doesn’t fight him. He couldn’t even if he wanted to.

“Jon,” Elias says, from somewhere far away. “You need this. You know you need this. What, exactly, are you hoping to gain by intentionally starving yourself?”

“This is wrong,” Jon says. His mouth is dry; his tongue feels like it was made of sandpaper. The buzzing in his head only gets louder.

“It is what it is,” Elias says. “You can be angry about it later, if you’d like.”

Jon shoves him away. He would have more luck with a brick wall; Elias catches his hands easily, encircling Jon’s wrists in a loose grip, his thumb running soothing patterns on the delicate inner skin of them.

“No,” Jon repeats, numbly.

He still can’t bring himself to let go of the statements. He is clutching them so tightly it’s a wonder they haven’t torn yet… but, no. The thought is absurd. In the heights of madness, Jon would never damage these. He might as well take a knife to his own flesh and slice it into ribbons.

“When was the last time you read one?”

“Not sure. A week. Maybe two,” Jon shakes his head. He’s been avoiding them, he hates what they turn him into. He hates the sick thrill of anticipation, he hates the words flowing out of his mouth, he hates the buzz of static on his tongue, he hates the Eye’s heavy gaze over his shoulder, all around him, within him. He hates the nightmares. He hates himself most of all.

“Oh, Jon,” Elias says softly. Like he understands, like he cares. He moves closer, sits right next to Jon and lets go of his hand to cradle the back of his head.

And it’s nice. It’s nice to sink into his embrace, regardless of how sure Jon is he’d be safer throwing himself into shark-infested waters. Elias is warm; his chest moves at a steady, comforting rhythm. His arms around Jon feel grounding, partially shielding him from the Eye’s constant presence.

“I don’t want this,” Jon repeats, over and over, like a broken record. He isn’t making any sense. He knows he isn’t.

He smooths the paper in his hands. Elias tucks a few loose strands of hair behind his ear, so that they won’t obscure his vision.

“You didn’t hurt these people, Jon,” he says quietly. “Whatever happened to them is already done. You cannot rewrite their stories. All you can do is archive them.”

“What for?” Jon asks. “Why?”

Elias considers him for a long moment, with an inscrutable expression on his face. On anyone else, Jon might be willing to classify it as remorse; but he knows better. He knows Elias too well, and yet not at all.

“For now? Because you need it,” Elias says. “For later – I’ll tell you when you’re ready.”

He needs it. That’s the simple truth of it. Right now, Jon can start reading, or he can die. It’s stupid, it’s absurd; and yet it’s true.

“Statement of…”

#jonelias #jonathan sims #elias bouchard #at least NOW i can use the jonelias tag with clear conscience #when will they end my torment and finally kiss

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