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sommerregenjuniluft · 6 months ago

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@jegulus-microfic june 1st — pride — 1804words — nsfw! aka regulus purchases something and james is fortunate enough to unpack for @itmeanssungod & @veryinnovative

It’s been a while since Regulus started toying with the idea of trying out packing for himself.

He doesn’t have too much dysphoria during sex anymore—which he is grateful for—since he’s completely healed from top surgery and especially with partners he knows.

But lately Regulus has found out it feels really fucking good to just- keep the strap on afterwards. Just haphazardly yank on his boxer briefs once they’re done, purple tip peeking out over the top of the hem, and sex drunkenly stumble into the kitchen to get himself a gatorade from the fridge. Evan prefers water, which they keep in the room, and Barty prefers to crank open a window and smoke one.

It’s empowering in a way, he guesses. He’s still living with his brother and James is over more times than he is not. Just liking the company of a busy house full of people he reasons with a shrug every time the topic comes up. Missing the old days in a dorm.

Regulus is pretty sure there’s truth in that statement but he’s also not stupid and convincing himself he’s only imagining the looks James is sending his way has only worked for so long. It’s near ridiculous to think he’s been oblivious to it for so long.

But Regulus isn’t anymore because when he’d gone to get his gatorade James had, to spell it out politely, nearly died from choking on his pasta salad when he’d looked up from his phone and at Regulus.

So with the arrival of pride Regulus had saved up and treated himself with the purchase of a flaccid strap on. It matches his skin colour nearly perfectly, the head showing from under the foreskin. It’s got a nice feel to it, it’s proportionate to his body when Regulus looks at himself in the mirror and it’s comfortable where it’s hanging between his legs and resting in his underwear when he puts his clothes back on. It’s a little ridiculous but he knows it’s important so Regulus allows himself to tear up about it a little. About how bone deep good it makes him feel about himself.

He’s in grey joggers and a form fitting black T-shirt. Regulus turns to the side in front of the mirror, cups himself through the soft material of his pants. Barely audible he can hear James humming to himself in the kitchen. Regulus smirks.

“James,” Regulus greets as he enters the kitchen.

“Oh, hi, Reg,” James says, lifting from over the stove and taking out his airpods from where he was bobbing his head to the music playing on them.

Regulus plops himself on a free spot on the counter and picks up a bottle of sauce he doesn’t recognise to busy himself with reading the label. “What are you cooking?”

James hums and proceeds to explain to him where he found the recipe on social media and what health benefits it has and how good it’s going to taste.

Regulus half listens and half plots internally how he’s going to subtly make James aware of his newest possession.

“Can I do something to help?”

“Err,” James blinks for a moment, then he lets out a chuckle, “The Regulus Black offering to help in the kitchen on his own volition? How much money do you need?”

Regulus rolls his eyes and swats him in the chest. “I was very much being sincere, for your information. But I can go of course, if my presence is not needed,” he says and makes to stand up.

“No no,” James replies quickly, raising his palms in a pacifying manner. They’re closer now and Regulus can see where James’ brain has momentarily paused its task of persuading Regulus to stay in favour of simply staring at him. His curls, his eyes, his lips.

Regulus raises his eyebrows.

“You– ehm,” James starts, swallowing, “You caaaan– set the table?”

“Are you asking or telling?” Regulus inquires, taking another half step closer and delighting in the small intake of breath from James.

“Telling,” James answers. “Please.”

Regulus nods, biting back a smirk, and steps around James to get cutlers.

After he’s set those out he waits for James to go back to stirring the pasta that’s cooking on one of the back burners, right underneath the shelf with the plates.

Regulus comes up from behind and sets a hand on James’ hip. “Pardon,” he murmurs and then stretches up on his toes, pressing his crotch right into James’ backside.

It has its desired effect immediately.

James’ breath hitches and in the next second he’s making an aborted noise deep in his throat.

Regulus’ lips twitch upwards at the corners, “Something wrong?”

James shakes his head, his voice cracking on the m-mh he makes, not opening his mouth. His hand is completely still where he’s got the wooden spoon gripped.

Regulus hums, leans in impossibly closer, really rubbing himself into James’ ass. James lets out a wheeze. Regulus tilts his head, mouth right next to the other’s ear, “How many do we need?”

“Hm?” James’ voice is thin.

“How many do we need, James?” Regulus repeats, fingers over his hip tightening marginally.

“Ah- um, what? Sorry, I’m—”

“Plates, James,” Regulus tuts, grinding his hips forward slightly, “How many plates?”

“O-oh,” James seems to take a deep, steadying breath, “Five?”

Regulus hums and then with one last little thrust grabs the plates before lifting back down and extracting himself.

He can feel James’ eyes glued to him the whole while Regulus is setting them on the table, neatly next to the cutlery. It fills Regulus’ entire body with a warm feeling. Eventually he saunters back over, coming to a stop right next to James, who is currently indecently staring at Regulus’ crotch. If it was anyone else in any other situation Regulus would have already punched them in the nose but this is different. This is Regulus purposely instigating and James stepping right into the trap Regulus has carefully placed between the foliage.

“Something you wanna ask?” Regulus ducks his head, catching James’ gaze where it’s evidently trained on his lap.

He doesn’t quite manage to suppress his grin this time. James seems to notice that, sputtering at first before realisation dawns on his face.

“You– oh, you’re doing this on purpose, aren’t you?” James replies, eyes narrowed slightly, flush high on his cheekbones regardless.

“Doing what?” Regulus asks innocently. He sets his elbows on the counter behind him, jutting out his hips teasingly.

James groans obscenely and then proceeds to cage Regulus right in, settling two palms on either side of Regulus’ elbows.

“Regulus.” There’s a warning quality to the way James presses out his name.

“James,” Regulus purrs, angling his face to look up at the older man through his lashes.

James breathes out roughly through his nose, pupils dilating. “You’re packing, aren’t you?”

“I might be.”

“And you wanted me to know.”

Regulus makes a non-committal sound.

“God,” James curses, “You’re so infuriating. Do you know how hard it is to not—”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. James’ eyes are roving over his face for clues and Regulus guesses if James is taking the inch, Regulus might as well give him the mile. Or, rather, the rest of the inches.

“You wanna see it?”

James’ mouth opens soundlessly. It takes a moment before he answers. “It?”

“My cock,” Regulus explains, licking his lips. “It’s new.”

James moans quietly, “Yeah, Reg, I wanna see your cock, fuck.”

Regulus sets his hands against the muscle connecting James’ neck and shoulder, “Can you get on your knees for me?”

“Is the sky blue?” James retorts, eyes glazing over as he sinks down in front of Regulus without further prompting. When he looks back up at Regulus with big, Bambi brown eyes from behind his glasses he looks so sweet Regulus considers briefly if he might be in over his head. “Can I?” James asks, gently hiking his fingertips into the band of Regulus’ sweats.

Regulus nods and with that James pulls the clothing down.

There’s a little bit of nervous yet excited sweat breaking out on Regulus’ palms but before he has the opportunity to overthink, he already hears the groan punching out of James.

“Fuck, Reg,” James whispers. “Oh, Christ, you’re so gorgeous. Look at him.”

Regulus sucks in an unsteady inhale and twists his fingers into the unruly mess that is James’ hair, having to hold onto something suddenly.

“You like it?” Regulus rasps.

James answers with a slightly delirious laugh tumbling out of him. He shakes his head in awe, fingers digging into the soft muscle of Regulus’ thighs. “Reg, don’t slap me, I’m just being sincere when I say I wanna take you into my mouth so badly.”

Regulus dampens a moan into a sigh, “You can.”

James rips his gaze away from his cock, a starstruck look in his pretty, dark eyes when he gapes up at him. Regulus nods his reassurance.

“Oh fuck.”

Then James is sucking Regulus’ flaccid strap into his mouth. Working his tongue around it, hallowing his cheeks and really giving it his all. Like his goal is to get Regulus as hard as fast as humanly possible.

And Regulus knows it’s logically impossible but he swears he can feel James tonguing at him, getting terribly aroused by the image and feel of James giving him a fucking blowjob right there in the kitchen. A small noise slips out of Regulus and he accidentally tightens his grip in James’ hair. James responds beautifully, moaning around Regulus in his mouth and eyes fluttering like he’s getting off just as much on all of this as Regulus is. His lips stretch prettily around the silicone and Regulus thumbs softly at the stubble on James’ jaw.

There’s a moment where their eyes meet when James takes him all the way into the back of his throat, making the end of the strap push back against Regulus’ centre, where Regulus has the sudden realisation that he’s going to come if James keeps this up.

And that is decidedly the moment the front door opens, the laughter of their friends echoeing through the hallway.

James keens when Regulus pulls him off and quickly tugs the waistband of his sweatpants back up and pulls on James’ shirt until he stands as well. He looks like a kicked puppy as Regulus ushers him back to the stove, shoving the wooden spoon against his chest to stir the probably totally overcooked pasta. His mouth is twisted into a pout or maybe that’s just them being swollen from having Regulus in his mouth.

Fuck it.

He takes James’ jaw in a loose grip to get his attention again. “Finish this after dinner?”

James’ answer is a bright smile and a quick kiss he steals himself against Regulus’ wrist.

#hehe Unpack. get it? because regulus is #yeah anyway #jegulus #jegulus microfic #lune is back in the game i thinks #trans regulus #trans regulus black #sunseeker #starchaser #james potter #regulus black #jegulus fic #lune’s tiny fic #james potter x regulus black #regulus black x james potter

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steviewashere · 10 months ago

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In Sickness and Health

Rating: General CW: Discussions of Medical Issues, Referenced/Past Seizures Tags: Established Relationship, Married Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson, Future Fic, Older Steddie, Canon Divergent, Steve Harrington has Seizures, Eddie Munson is a Sweetheart, Steve Harrington is a Sweetheart, Breakdowns, Hurt/Comfort, Angst & Fluff, Eddie Munson Calls Steve Harrington Pet Names

For the @steddielovemonth prompt: "Love is giving them space when they need it."

💕—————💕

Eddie has learned to revel in quiet afternoons, even when he’s alone. The way the sunshine bathes the apartment’s living room carpet—his and Steve’s apartment. Their cat, Poncho, settled heavy and warm in his lap. A chilled glass of southern iced tea and a plate of crackers and sliced cheese. The television volume on low. Book open and set on the arm of the couch. It’s good, the quiet.

Yet, it breaks the moment the front door opens. He didn’t hear Steve stick his key in the lock. But he definitely hears his annoyed groans and huffs. The slam of the door, most likely shut with his hip. A muffled, “Damnit”, when he drops his keyring on the floor.

He peeks from the edge of the couch, eyes set and attentive at their front door. And Steve is there, wrestling with his puffer jacket, grumbling under his breath, kicking his legs and stepping on the backs of his sneakers—something he never does, he cares too much for those things. But here he is. One t-shirt stuck on a doorknob away from a breakdown.

Though, Eddie doesn’t chastise him for the way his emotions express. No matter how explosive they are. Steve just gets like this some days. Too angry to talk. Too begrudged to take care of his things.

What’s new, however, is Steve’s slightly splotchy, puffy face. Red and pink and white. The tears brimming in his eyes. Ever apparent even behind his glasses. A paper with professional scribbling on it—a doctor’s note. He had an appointment this morning. Made last night after an emergency room trip. A seizure is what put him there. Scared them both, Eddie too eager to make him take an appointment, to call in sick to work. He should’ve gone with, if this is how Steve’s coming home.

He plops Poncho on the couch, letting him stretch skywards and curl back into a little ball. Tea abandoned on the coffee table. And Eddie gently comes around the corner, hands hooked in front of himself, still dressed down in pajamas, eyes wide and expecting at Steve.

“St—“

Steve shakes his head. A hand held out in front of him. Jacket and shoes abandoned by the front door. And he sidesteps Eddie completely, barreling down the hallway, slamming the bedroom door behind him, and locking it.

Eddie lumbers after him, slowly, cautiously. Face to the wood of the door. And through it, what breaks his heart, he can hear Steve’s soft cries. He resigns himself to some time on the couch. Steve always needs his space after breakdowns like these.

Needed it after Max woke up in the hospital, half-blind, limbs mostly healed. Needed it after Eddie came out of surgery, pock-marked and head shaved, half a grimace on his face. Needed it when Robin moved out of state for college. After Dustin and Lucas and Mike and Will and Eleven and Max all graduated high school, when they went their separate ways across the country, when they called once or twice a month. When his dad died, the grief a heavy blanket on his shoulders, his chest lighter, his brain angry at being relieved.

Steve needed his space when Eddie brought home their cat (though he came out merely ten minutes later, an excited smile on his face, name on the tip of his tongue). Nightmares and dissociation episodes. At the grocery store, because he has to stick to a list, knowing that Eddie never does that. The first grey hair, which he then took in stride when Eddie called him a “Beautiful baby silver fox.”

Even after they moved to Massachusetts in 2008 and got married. His emotions were so strong, so palpable, so rapid—he just needed a moment to debrief, take a hot shower, and then cuddle into Eddie’s side on their honeymoon bed.

Point is, Eddie knows when Steve needs his space. Knows that he cherishes that time to himself, to break down in contemplative silence, to let himself digest new information or old information or just get himself restrung.

He wishes that Steve had been taught that it’s okay to breakdown in front of his loved ones. That it’s okay to ask for help and for comfort. But it doesn’t come easy. It makes him guilty. It makes him scattered like a headless chicken.

For the mean time, Eddie sets himself down on the couch, iced tea in his grip, volume turned up slightly on the television. Steve doesn’t like it when people hear him cry. Eddie doesn’t acknowledge it either, for the sake of saving Steve from another impending breakdown. He loves Steve with all his might, he just wishes things were slightly different. He’ll do this, ever reluctant he may be.

——— Around thirty minutes later, an average amount of time for Steve, the bedroom door creaks open. Eddie quickly turns down the TV and gently places his now empty glass on the coffee table.

Small, floating from the hallway, Steve calls out, “Eddie? Can you—“ He sniffles, voice still choked up. “Can you come in here, please?”

The sight that Eddie wanders in on breaks his heart a little further. Steve’s face is still a splotchy mess, his eyes downcast and teary, waterlines pink. His hair, grayer now, is askew. There’s a definite slump to his body, where it rests on the edge of the mattress. Hands intertwined between his legs, fingers locking and pulling one another, socked feet shuffling on the rug. He got out of his day clothes, now back in his pajamas from the night before—sleep shorts, grey t-shirt.

Eddie closes the bedroom door behind him. He scoots over and kneels down on the floor. Hesitantly, he sets his palms on Steve’s knees. He rubs the inner skin, warm and soft, with his thumbs. “Whatcha need from me, baby? Ask me to do anything, I’ll do it.”

Steve sighs, breath shuddering as it leaves him. His exhale ends on a little whimpered hiccup. Instead of answering, he grabs the paper he was holding earlier and passes it over. It’s edges are wrinkled, probably from being handled roughly, maybe even scrunched. And Eddie was right, it’s something from a doctor’s tablet. Signed off with a messy scrawl:

— Instructions for handling seizures. — What to do if a seizure lasts longer than five minutes. — Steps on how to start the process of getting a service animal. — Firm directions telling the patient to not drive. — Prescription for Tegretol CR 200mg

And the diagnosis in thick, blocky, bold black text:

Epilepsy

Eddie sighs through his nose. He swallows thickly and looks back up to Steve’s defeated face. He murmurs, “I should’ve gone with you. I’m sorry, love bug.”

Shrugging, Steve mutters, “Thought I was done with the after effects of the shit back in Hawkins. I’m so—Angry? Disappointed? I don’t know how to feel.”

The paper is set back on the mattress and Eddie pulls Steve into his chest. He rubs a hand down the length of his spine, the other squeezing around his waist. “You’re allowed to feel however you want. And it’s okay to take the time to figure that out, too. This is hard stuff, baby.” He sways them from side to side. Closing his eyes in relief as Steve’s arms wrap around his back. Something that, unfortunately, doesn’t happen enough when he’s in need of comfort. His hands grip tightly to the back of Eddie’s t-shirt. Eddie gently turns his head and kisses Steve’s cooling, still ruddy cheek. “We’ll start figuring this out. Like we always do. I’ll be right here for you, alright?”

Steve nods against his shoulder. Muffled into Eddie’s neck, he asks quietly, “Can I have some more space and alone time?” He shifts to slowly release Eddie. “Just for a little while. I promise I’ll hang out. I just needed to tell you, so that it’s not harder later.”

He pries them apart gently. Arms still encasing Steve, he holds soft eye contact. “You take all the time in the world. I won’t be offended, sweetheart.” He kisses Steve’s forehead now. When he sits back on his heels, Eddie brings up a hand and runs it through Steve’s hair, fingernails dully scratching at his scalp. His smile is lopsided, the youngest it’s been since the first confession. It comes easier now, “I love you, you know that? I love you so much.”

“I love you, too,” Steve murmurs, barely returning the smile, and yet it’s there. Eddie revels in that, too.

And when Eddie goes to exit the bedroom, door almost shut behind him, Steve calls out his name one more time. Looking back, Steve swamped in their comforter, glasses folded on the bedside table, wrapped up and warm, Eddie tilts his head in careful implore. He hums in question.

“Thank you for understanding,” Steve whispers.

“Thank you for telling me, I know it was hard. If you need anything, I’ll be in the living room, okay? I’ll keep the TV low, but tell me if it’s too loud.” Steve nods, shifting under the blanket further, fully supine on the mattress. He looks more relaxed. He looks a little easier. “Have a good nap, love bug. I’ll be here when you’re ready.”

#stranger things #steddie #fanfiction #steve harrington #eddie munson #steddielovemonth #day 6 #heed the tags #I promise it'll be okay

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noybusiness · 2 months ago

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Save Bugga!

People, please donate at least a little something if you see this; it's about saving a cat's health and life (as this condition will ultimately be fatal if it spreads) and it'll add up. Having lost my sweet Rumball recently to kidney disease, I hate the thought of anything serious happening to a cat when it can be prevented.

Below is the link and message from the creator of the GoFundMe. This is a housemate of a close friend of mine and my friend sees their cat every day, so I know for a fact this is for real.

(Oh, and I thought this goes without saying, but you don't need to tip GoFundMe itself when you donate, so please set the tip level to 0% and don't tip them anything if that would put you off from donating, just send the actual cat the money you want to send.)

"Hi friends!

Jaal [Bugga] was diagnosed with Stage III Peridontal Disease and requires surgery. With a grateful heart, I am humbly asking for help raising funds to help cover the cost of this upcoming procedure. I am just getting on my feet after years of my struggling with my own back to back surgeries, and my budget is very tight. Based on the preliminary examination, our vet predicts that he will need to have some teeth removed. The sooner Bug is able to have this procedure done, the more likely it is that the we can stop the disease from spreading so he may keep the majority of his teeth, and preserve his quality of life."

#cat #cats #animal #animals #pet #pets #real life #helpful

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allsadnshit · 3 months ago

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Hello Izzie, I hope you don’t mind me asking this, but do you have some tips and tricks how to reconnect with your body ? You seem like you got it mastered, understanding all of your urges, translating your body’s hidden messages correctly .. I’ve been disconnected for so many years and all of my “ knowledge “ of this seems to be just theoretical. How do I make a home in my own body ? What worked the most for you ?

Thank you :)

Huge admirer of your writing over here

definitely getting sober and working out! they have really changed my life and my relationship to my body. I think theres so many different reasons we get disconnected from our bodies and I honestly feel like a lot of modern society demands and promotes it so it's really important to be able to slow down and recognize what in life pushes that option the most. I think coping through substance is pretty obviously taking you out of your body and was a huge contributor to my own panic attacks and inability to have a healthy relationship to myself. I see a lot of people making excuses for stuff like smoking weed and calling it like "not a drug" or chill or whatever and maybe that was true back before it was government regulated - but even at that I really think letting those things become a habit will destroy any of the positive benefits it can have and once you have an addiction you can't really rewrite your relationship to it.

being sober helped me to recognize what overwhelmed me, what made me clench, or even things we don't think about like overeating when high and how much that will fuck up your digestion even if it's "healthy" food because too much of anything is hard on the body and once your gut is scrambled it will ruin your hormones, your moods, and your cognitive function! people hate to hear it but also complain about mystery chronic conditions and its def in there.

working out and not just doing it for the glamour but actually like building stamina and strength naturally without shitty pre work out protein shake bullshit will literally blow your mind and your relationship to your body! it blew mine! I never thought I'd be able to be physically active again after all my different chronic diagnosis and not a single doctor encouraged me to do anything except surgery or medication but it turns out the classics are a classic for a reason! moving your body is sacred and the quickest way to tune back into it! plus it will help your hormones get back into rhythm if they have been messed up by previous medication or bad health habits

sending u love <3 cherish your body!!!!

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hellbabyfromhell · 6 months ago

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Hai love u blog been long time follower hope u feeling better health wise wanted to ask u have any tips on things to keep u busy while recovering from surgery?

i cannot overstate this enough and i promise i mean it in a genuine way and not a mean one:

GET A HOBBY!

pick something up. for me, it was discovering morning musume through loving rhythm heaven/tsunku…. through surgery, i invested so much time in watching variety shows, listening to music, and even learning katakana and hiragana so i could read onscreen text — i swear, having some hobby you’re obsessed with is incredible distraction! it carried me through!

also, if this is your first surgery, here is my small piece of advice: healing can be rough depending on where the surgery is, how big etc. when i got my ribs done, the first side, i had a moment where i was in so much pain i thought “was it a mistake to get this surgery?” obviously it wasnt lol my ribs were DISLOCATED and shortly after that thought i started healing pretty good. and i was like how silly of me but when i got side 2 i had that same feeling lol. so just warning you you might have a day like that, but it passes and then youre healed and all better ❤️‍🩹

good luck w surgery dont forget to love something passionately!

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genderkoolaid · 4 months ago

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idk if you're the best person to ask but you always seem to have great resources for all kinds of shit so I'm just shooting my shot I guess

tw: healthcare stuff?

I just got invited for my first cervical screening, and I am 100% legitimately terrified. I do not want to go. I know I should, I know its in my best interest, I know I'll probably have to anyway before my hysto that I've been referred for, but I am just. so scared

maybe it's just immense dysphoria. maybe it's fear over the state of trans healthcare lately. but the last time I went to my local hospital for anything, I got ferried straight to the women's services and was repeatedly misgendered to the point I disassociated the whole time. this was pre top surgery, but I was still out and no one even tried to address me correctly

I seriously don't know if I'll be able to go and I'm wondering if you or your followers have got any resources or advice I could use. anything would be so appreciated

I completely get being terrified, especially if you are going back to a place where you've already experienced transphobic mistreatment.

First of all, know your rights as a patient. The AMA has a list here. You may also want to check out the medical guidelines on trans gynecological care, and this Scarleteen article which goes into detail on pelvic exams, what to expect and your options.

You have the option to do the swab yourself. I would suggest calling or emailing your hospital, explaining that you are uncomfortable with a pelvic exam and asking about self-collection.

This article goes over medical self-advocacy tips for queer people. I definitely recommend asking someone you trust to accompany you to the screening, and/or to see if your hospital has patient liaison to help you advocate for yourself. Having someone to back you up, especially when you yourself will be in a vulnerable position, is extremely helpful. If there are any LGBT organizations local to you, you may want to contact them and ask if they have any resources or support that might help you. You can use the LGBTQ+ Healthcare Directory to find affirming healthcare providers near you (in the US and Canada). You can also check out this short list of words and phrases to use in an appointment that help you assert yourself and get what you need from your medical provider.

Assuming you end up making an appointment, you should practice ways of staying calm (breathing, affirmations, stim toys, etc.) and go over phrases you can use to advocate for yourself beforehand. Be compassionate with yourself and let yourself feel how you feel- and don't be afraid to feel angry if you are mistreated. It isn't right and you don't deserve it. If you can, plan something nice to do after the appointment to reward yourself. You should also educate yourself on reproductive health and keep track of things like discharge, vaginal pain, pain while urinating, etc., especially if you don't end up getting a screening.

#m.#ask box

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nestofsalt · 3 months ago

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Rest in Peace Ava ~2013-2024

On Thursday, 8/22, Ava passed away. She had what the vet believes was a stroke, and they said the kindest thing was to put her to sleep. Ava came into my life unexpectedly 9 years ago in need of help. Her first owners had bought her for their kids and the kids had gotten bored of her long ago. They left her in the garage for the first 2 years of her life. She'd never had hay in her life, having eaten only Kaytee, she was overweight, and had one of the worst cases of ear mites the vet had seen.

She was aggressive at first, biting at anyone who reached into her cage. I'm sure this is something she quickly learned would keep prodding hands away from her in her old home, and the pain in her ears must have been pretty awful at first. The first few days we'd leave her cage door open, but she'd be too scared to explore. I remember when she finally took her first steps out of the cage, she never wanted to go back. She was frantic, running around for hours, flopping over for a few minutes, and going right back to running, jumping, and exploring. Ava'd likely never experienced a world beyond her cage and it was like she wanted to see it all before it was taken away from her again. In one infamous incident, she scaled a baby gate and broke the tip of a nail. Once she seemed to realize she was able to do this everyday, she calmed down, and there was no longer a frantic energy to her explorations.

After her ear mites were treated, she was introduced to our Dutch rabbit, Mordecai. The two hit it off instantly and were inseparable until Mordecai's death two years ago. We had once had a rabbit rescuer tell us Mordecai had terrible rabbit manners, and I think Ava was the same, and perhaps that's why the two of them worked so well.

Ava was fearless and feisty. She had a grunt that sounded like a deep growl and wasn't afraid to bat at you when she was pissed. She would run up and down the stairs, exploring the whole house without fear, much to the distress of Mordecai who was too scared to go down the stairs. He'd wait at the top of the stairs for her, until she returned or until one of us carried him down to join her.

Two years ago, Ava got really sick with an unknown infection. She had cysts in her face and lungs. A long course of antibiotic injections cleared the infection, but unfortunately the cyst in her face was behind her eye and was pushing on the eye and it had to be removed. At that point, she was about 9 and the surgery was her only option but risky. Ava went to the vet for her surgery, and that night, Mordecai took a sharp decline. It was like he had been holding out for her and once she was gone, he let go. Mordecai was rushed to the vet and it turned out he had cancer. There was nothing that could be done except keep him comfortable.

Ava recovered from her surgery, her illness, and losing Mordecai and we were lucky to have her in our lives for 2 more years. She was slowing down, she developed arthritis and had to eventually be put on Meloxicam for life, but was still as feisty as ever. She'd been doing really well these past few weeks, but unfortunately her age and health caught up with her.

Rest in Peace Ava and Mordecai, together again.

#personal #ava #bunnies #pet death

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ejzah · 7 months ago

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A/N: Here we come to the end of yet another story. Thanks once again for for your support and love for this story.

***

The Other Shoe, Epilogue

One Year Later

Deeks moved around the kitchen, dicing some onions, stirring a pan of chicken, grabbing a couple of cloves of onion. He’d gotten home from work 45 minutes ago, and started in on dinner, knowing Kensi would be back later than him.

In the last year, a lot had changed. For one, he could walk down the beach, even run, without feeling like he’d collapse. He’d recovered from his transplant surgery better than could be expected. Although he had returned to most of his previous activities pre kidney failure, he had officially resigned as an investigator upon receiving his medical clearance.

Now, he supervised a team of NCIS lawyers and assisted with modifying agency procedures and guidelines as needed. Much like his job as liaison, he had a feeling that the position had been designed specifically for him. It was hardly what Deeks had expected for himself, but he found he enjoyed most of the work.

A timer on his phone beeped and he absentmindedly turned it off, grabbing the medication sorter off the counter, and popping the contents in his mouth along with a swallow of water. Humming a John Denver song under his breath, he continued cooking. He heard the front door open and close, and called out,

“I’m in the kitchen!”

Deeks looked over his shoulder as Kensi walked in, barefoot and in a tank top and jeans.

“Hey, welcome home, Lady Bird of my Heart.”

“Hey. Ooh, what’s for dinner?”

He grinned at her eagerness, nodding to the pan of peppers and onions. “Fajitas and semi-authentic rice. How was work today,?”

“Good. I taught a baby agent how to disassemble an incendiary device hidden inside a truck,” Kensi told him excitedly. Deeks turned around completely, his eyebrows high enough to touch his bangs.

“You what now?”

“It was a simulation,” she clarified quickly. Deeks visibly relaxed.

“Could have led with that, baby.” He left the stove to wrap his arms around her, and kissed her temple. Kensi tipped his chin down to kiss him more firmly on the mouth.

“Sorry. I just got excited,” she explained. “As much as I don’t miss the danger, I do miss the adrenaline rush that comes with fieldwork.”

That was another big change; shortly after Deeks settled into his new position, Kensi decided resign as well. Kilbride hadn’t been pleased to lose two of his team within months of each other, but ended up recommending Kensi for a supervisory position as well. She now trained incoming agents fresh out of FLETC to prepare them for their first real field experiences.

“I know you do,” Deeks said softly. He also knew his health crisis had played some part in her decision to step down. Thought Kensi insisted it was for many reasons.

“How about you? How was your day?” Kensi asked, reaching over his shoulder to sneak a piece of chicken.

“The new edits to the handbook were accepted. Finally got the definition and duties for an NCIS investigator clarifies more thoroughly.”

“That’s been bugging you for years! Congratulations.” Kensi kissed him again, as though he’d performed some impressive feat.

“I mean, it’s not nearly as exciting as yours,” he pointed out.

“Hey, don’t downplay your efforts. Because of you, future investigators won’t have to wonder about their scope of duty. Of course, it also means they won’t be able to use it to their benefit like you did.”

“True. It was fun to mess with you guys.”

“Yes, I know,” Kensi said dryly. She slid a hand up into his hair, leaning into him. He felt the gentle rounding of her stomach pressed against him, and he brushed his fingers over it.

“And how’s Baby Deeks-Blye today?” he asked.

“Happy and hungry.”

“Dinner will be ready in a few minutes.” He grinned again, squeezing Kensi against him. “Does baby want salsa tonight?”

“Definitely,” Kensi responded immediately. She slid out of his arms, heading for the cabinets. “I’ll set the table.”

Deeks watched her for a few moments, overwhelmed by the simple delight of it all. Last year, he thought he might die, and here he was healthy, happier than ever, a baby on the way.

Yeah, a lot had changed. He’d always be on medication, he had to watch his diet to a degree, and his days chasing bad guys were gone forever, but he found it didn’t matter as much as he thought it would.

In the end, he was just happy for a second chance.

***

A/N: Sorry for the slightly cheesy ending. Hope you enjoyed this final bit of lightness after all the dark and angst.

#ncis la fanfiction #marty deeks #kensi blye #densi #fluff #the other shoe #epilogue #ejzah fanfiction

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librarycards · 2 years ago

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hey there cav. this is sort of a fraught question but. how do I engage with psychiatry when I'm antipsych? I need treatment but I have so much distrust and I feel like it's all bullshit. I don't really have a support system and there's few peer support resources in my area. I can't do this myself but I cant trust this system. soooo... tips for finding therapists that don't suck & getting the most of it? really appreciate your blog and posts, thanks

thank you for entrusting this message to me, I appreciate it! I have answered questions like this a few times before (they're buried somewhere, if you can't find them in my "ask" tag, lmk and i'll try to dig them up!). it's definitely fraught inasmuch as we're never (as people who hate psych but need specific, urgent support that communities aren't by default set up to provide) going to get an answer that we 100% want, but also very not-fraught inasmuch as most of us agree that surviving in this sea of partiality is something we can do together, with love and nonjudgement.

so, for context: i was in therapy - first behaviorist OT as a toddler and elementary school child, and, beginning at 7, talk therapy - nonconsensually basically from the time I could remember until adulthood. i likely would never have tried it again, except for the small hiccup of needing letters for Transing Genders. so, this was when i first sought out "trans affirming care," as it were, and i didn't expect much. i went to my college's health center and got a list of possible providers, and ended up getting an excellent PCP, as well as a therapist who was a genuine cis accomplice: she wrote letters for Mad/psych disabled clients whose genders wouldn't typically qualify us for surgery/hormones in the eyes of the M/PsyIC. i did not share with her the things i "ought" to have shared, but she knew I had survived abusive therapy / forced institutionalization, and accepted that, and accepted my cynicism along with it. i was also first genuinely understanding foucault at this time, so rest assured i was quite a little shit (affectionate).

when she left to practice elsewhere, i went to a therapist at the same practice she recommended. she was fine, but not what i needed. by this time, I'd gotten the requisite procedures, so my therapy attendance wasn't required. i basically just ghosted this new therapist around the time covid hit.

when i came to grad school, i initially wasn't looking for therapy, though i had idly considered something for OCD, which I was (and am) managing in part through medication. after getting outright rejected for, essentially, being too crazy for normie OCD therapy, i directed my search specifically for Mad/abolitionist providers. i began by going through some of the archives of places like the National Queer and Trans Therapists of Color Network, and some people who have posted guest articles on Mad in America / The Fireweed Collective -- many are providers seeking to disrupt/abolish the system. That provided some leads, though no openings (there are very few of them, and they are, understandably, in high demand).

I then turned to my community connections: over the years, I've amassed a large number of Mad colleagues in various fields. Many are a half-step from radical/antipsych circles, so I asked them. This time, I asked specifically about a possible therapist who was interested in critiques of "eating disorders" as a category, who had an abolitionist, harm-reductionist, and anti-"health" approach to care, and who, accordingly, refused to cooperate with institutions of psychiatric confinement. I was directed to a list of people, of whom my current and beloved therapist / colleague / comrade was the first to respond.

my trajectory with her has been a steady building of trust through a shared ebbing and flowing of closeness, frustration, enlightenment, and curiosity. it has been close to a year and a half now, and we only began speaking frankly about more "dangerous"/"risky" topics a few months ago. early in our relationship, i did a great deal of boundary-testing, and reacted with anger and shutdown the first time she asked a question that proved risky/activating for me. my biggest recommendation when engaging with ANY provider is to ask them explicitly, repeatedly, and critically about their relationships with your own risk/harm level, their ongoing history wrt patient institutionalization / "referrals" to "higher levels of care". take note about the way they reference past patient situations, as well as their own past experience. take note of how they respond when you choose not to provide the information they seek.

also take note of what info they're willing to provide upfront, including at a consult: what methodologies do they work with, what was their training, how do they feel about said training? what are their politics? ask whoever recommended them to you, too. look at reviews. this is obvious -- what might not be is looking up their work on google scholar. who do they cite? what do they advocate, who do they associate themself with?

i think that it's also a good idea to ask them explicitly about their experience in other/"higher" levels of care - most therapists have done some kind of rotation during their education, often in a hospital, group home, halfway house, similar. if you have ever been institutionalized, you may have even spotted / been abused by some! observe how they discuss these experiences. take note.

if and when you've established this person as someone you want to continue working with, trust notwithstanding, think personally about what you are actually looking for. they will ask you about your goals, surely, but it's a good idea first to think about your own personal goals outside of the verbalized relationship between you two. do you need a confidante, and of what kind? what sort of accountability do you need, and what are you willing to try to figure that out? *what are you paying this person for that you feel others cannot or will not do*? what part of this person's expertise can be of use to you, and for how long?

i think one interesting approach to therapy is to regard the provider as a teacher - they're there to share knowledge with you, and you're free to accept or reject it. they have some kind of training/experience you don't have, and you seek them out because you think it may be of use in your own life, and perhaps even to redistribute that knowledge if and when you gain it. at the same time, you also have knowledge to share with them - not to be extracted, but to be incorporated in their own work and practice. the biggest insight on the practice of good therapy i've gleaned is that, ideally, you're both teaching and learning forever. this is true of all good relationships. there is an exchange of knowledge based on shared trust - values - priorities. once you are in a space where you know that this person shares your general relational orientation (aka, doesn't want to institutionalize, etc. you and people like you) it's possible to begin sharing knowledge in a way that benefits from this imposed structure. the benefit, imo, is that it's okay that you "monopolize" the convo and direct the knowledge-production toward your needs, because that's the service you're paying for!

i guess, to close, i'll return to the classic Mad Pride framing of us as "psych users/consumers." this isn't the perfect term, but i think it's enlightening, as we can and should be able to seek out services that work for us. just like i go to a person who knows wtf they're doing when, say, i need my nails done or my car fixed, so too do i go to an expert interlocutor when i am interested in developing my self-/relational knowledge and/or am seeking support in times of emotional tumult. this doesn't confer them a status as superior to me, just like someone isn't superior to someone else by being a nail tech or mechanic. it simply means that we are entering into a relationship where my needs and their expertise meet. seek a therapist who understands this, and understands themself as someone who can learn from you, too. this approach to therapy, and to care, mean that you can't just throw someone away or lock them up when they say things you don't like. it means that, even in those moments, there is something to be learned, and that the relationship will grow in that process of edification.

#i...this was a Big Boy essay. prepare yourself #antipsychiatry #madness #ask #anonymous #world healing #also i have therapy friday if you want me to ask mine about her connections to ppl #most of which arein California but not exclusively

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idkleaf · 5 days ago

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some teeth brushing tips/facts that have helped me improve my teeth brushing habits:

it doesn't matter what time of day you brush your teeth! just aim to brush them twice a day!

start with a cheap waterpik if you can't get into flossing right away. it helps you get used to the feeling! (my waterpik is from five below)

you should care for your teeth in this order: floss, mouth wash, brush teeth, tongue scrape.

when brushing, make sure to gently brush your gums and the roof of your mouth :)

use a soft bristle tooth brush!

use apps to help you! for the longest time i used pokemon smile to help me get back into brushing my teeth.

alternatively, use a physical tracking method! after i had an intense dental surgery i knew i needed to take better care of my teeth. i decorated a giant poster and put rewards on the side of it, whenever i finished a row (or two!) i would choose a reward! every time i brushed my teeth i would put a smiley face sticker.

you don't have to stay stationary the whole time while brushing your teeth! i am constantly walking around the house while brushing.

i, personally, do not trust teeth whitening products.

use a physical timer!!!!! i found mine at primark for a dollar but i have also seen them at the dollar store/online! it helps me SO MUCH to physically see how much time i have left to brush my teeth!

the dentist TERRIFIES ME. i will admit, i am terrible at going and i know it's really expensive. but PLEASE prioritize going to the dentist if your teeth get really bad. your mouth health affects so much of your life.

lastly, the thing that helped me the MOST: i always pee before i go to bed. i started to say to myself, 'well if i'm already here, why don't i just brush my teeth?' it has helped me start a whole night routine simply because i am ALREADY in the bathroom.

#text #dental care #dental health #dental hygiene #tips #dental tips #i hope this can help someone out there #just wanted to share since after 24 years of my life i FINALLY have a consistent routine #self care #self help

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hellyeahsickaf · 11 months ago

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If you want to get mad about how fucking awful some doctors are, here you go

With my post about medical discrimination against addicts and disabled people gaining traction again I got a few people asking about how I'm doing after my kidney infection and what happened in the ER. I'm better, could've been much worse but when I was seen they gave me antibiotics before anything else- it was the one thing they did right

I knew I had a kidney infection, I told them that I had a UTI and checked off all of the boxes for a kidney infection which is potentially deadly and leads to sepsis in as little as 12-48 hours if untreated. Pro tip because I'm an idiot- always see a doctor for UTIs, you can't just self treat them even if it seems to be going away as was the case for me. That's how it reaches your kidneys. Whoops 🥴

I waited a few hours which is expected but I got progressively worse. I also reported my pain as an 8/10 (9 by the time I was seen), migraine, fever, chills, weakness, dizziness, fatigue, nausea, probably some other things. I was shaking, crying, curled up, truly some of the worst pain I've ever felt next to gallstones. Maybe others handle this kind of thing better. Or maybe most grown ass men they see in this condition either have serious injuries or are addicts putting on a show. In which case they'd still be truly suffering. It shouldn't matter if they're an addict if they're in the ER desperate for relief in that moment. But yeah, I was ignored for most of the night aside from being given antibiotics and Tylenol. I just reread my clinical notes from that night actually and got mad again lol

I saw the doctor for under 5 minutes that night. He asked why I was there and how I was doing. I told him how awful I felt and he didn't carry out any examinations, it was the first time I'd gone to the ER and wasn't even asked to wear a gown. Either way he was extremely neglectful. Had the nerve to report exams for ENT, eyes, cardio, abdominal, skin, etc that never happened. He didn't lay a finger on me. Reported answers to questions I was never asked like whether I've had past surgeries (he put no when I have). And at the end of his clinical notes he states the following:

"..While I considered a CT abdomen/pelvis, I do not currently feel it is necessary based on the patient's physical exam and clinical history and review of any labs that were ordered. Patient is otherwise well appearing; feel it is reasonable to discharge the patient home at this time with close outpatient follow up."

So he claims he considered a CT scan but based on the results of exams he never performed and clinical history he never asked for and the fact that I was "well appearing" (felt like I was dying), he felt it was "not necessary" to order a CT scan. Only at the end of my visit- 6 hours later was I given an effective painkiller. This negligence genuinely could have killed me and I didn't want it to happen to someone else so I reported him for malpractice. They carried out an investigation and concluded there was no wrongdoing on his part. The woman that was in charge of being in contact with me during the investigation was really nice and also pissed off on my behalf and rightfully so. Also some days after my visit I got a lab report indicating that the strain of infection I had was fairly uncommon and pretty fuckin dangerous with some strains being immune to antibiotics

Maybe I should have advocated for myself better but the condition I was in, I could hardly talk at all. I just hate that he just gets to keep practicing medicine and jeopardizing the health of his patients to make his job easier despite the fact that it could kill someone. It's fucked up how easy it is for doctors to get away with this shit really.

#ok to like #okay to reblog #medical ableism #medical malpractice #chronic pain #chronic illness #disability #chronic fаtiguе ѕуndrоmе #spoonie #me/cfs #ableism #fibromyalgia #actually disabled

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idolatrybarbie · 1 year ago

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the world tipped on its side

chapter three - bad miracle

series masterlist | read on ao3

pairing: francisco "frankie" morales x f!reader

word count: 6.4k

rating & summary: mature | you get a phone call. frankie leads you to pensacola beach, florida.

warnings: ANGST, discussions of health and disability, discussions of surgery, details of physical injury, (the briefest) mentions of suicidal ideation, grief/mourning, reader has a disability, reusing a bit of dialogue from a glee (yes) fic i wrote in high school.

notes: OKAY so i know i am like...really making you work for the porn here. sorry. take this gut-wrenching bullshit instead ??? also thank youuu gin for cheering me on in the DMs and for getting more eyes on my little fic, you are truly the bestest.

You don’t see Frankie for a few days, things operating as usual on set as the last week of June slips by. His number is in your phone now, but you don’t call. Sam goes back to Texas over the weekend and Mia returns to the top of your frequent calls list. After that evening with Frankie things feel different between you and your best friend. You want to ask her all the things she’s keeping from you—or more, all the things she might know you keep from her. White lies and omissions that have spiralled out of your control.

You didn’t realize that lying had become so easy, almost like second nature. How hard it is now to start being honest without the fragile, springy web coming apart and Mia seeing all of it. All of you.

That night, after driving back to set from 7-Eleven and saying your goodbyes to Frankie in the dark parking lot, you went home and stared at yourself for a while in the bathroom mirror. Maybe if you squinted hard enough, you could see what he was always observing within you. All you could see, half naked in front of the glass, were all the signs of medical interference on your body. The spindly scars all along the column of your neck and top of your spine, disappearing into the hair at the base of your skull that was slightly shorter than the rest. The permanent shadow of a line under your chest, a faint reminder of where the vested neck brace sat along your ribs.

You’re sitting in your car, scarfing down apple slices from the craft services table when your phone buzzes in your lap. The number isn’t listed in your contacts, but you recognize it immediately.

“Dr. Lopez,” you say as you answer the call.

“It’s just me honey.” Not Dr. Lopez but her sweet older receptionist, Dawn. “The good doctor wanted me to remind you about your appointment this week. July third at eleven o’clock. You can still make it I assume,” she says.

Shit. Your standing quarterly appointment that you’d already had to push back twice.

“Right, yeah. Should be fine.” You nod like she can see you now.

“Perfect. We’ll see you then. Have a good morning,” Dawn says.

“You too. Bye,” you say. Dawn hangs up first, surely eager to get to that next reminder phone call.

You’ve got shit to shoot that day, but an explanation and your pointed absence should be enough to get those scenes pushed back until after the holiday. Ashton will surely remark about bleeding money for half a day’s work, and you’re already rolling your eyes at the anticipated argument. Whatever, it doesn’t matter. Your health comes first, always.

Someone knocks at the window on the other side of your car. Mia waves at you, a stash of fruit bundled in her right arm as she uses her left to pull the door open.

“Hey,” she says with a huff, taking a seat next to you.

“Did you raid crafty?”

“Are you going to eat it?” she asks.

You answer by snatching the banana from the crook of her elbow, peeling it upside down before you take a bite.

“How are you holding up?” you ask.

It’s always tough for Mia in the days after Sam goes back home. That’s when she’s the one calling you at midnight, needing someone to talk to about nothing and everything. How much of a prick Ashton is, this new yoga routine she’s started that really unlocks one of her chakras, the guy with the sundial collection two doors down from you back in school.

“I’m doin’ alright,” she says. Mia slowly tears at a cutie mandarin, keeping the peel in her lap. “I think about the fact that we only have to do this for so much longer and feel a little bit better.”

“That’s good,” you say.

One thing about Mia is that she loves with her whole heart. Many of her past relationships ended because she wanted more, what her partners considered too much. She’d explained it once, tearful as she used the flat sheet of her twin bed to wipe at her eyes.

“I can’t just stop falling in love with someone. It turns into this free fall. I start to pour myself into this thing, like some sort of void. And it’ll never be full, but that’s okay because there’s supposed to be someone on the other end. Receiving all of that and returning it back to me.”

All you could do then, all you can still do now is nod silently. You have never felt that way about someone. Wasting away on love that will never be reciprocated sounds horrible and exhausting. Watching Mia lose herself in relationships to guys who meant zilch in comparison to the bright and shining star that she is taught you better. If she was decimated by a love like that, you would be absolutely destroyed.

“How’s your banana?”

“Starchy,” you say, mouth still full. You swallow. “Got that doctor’s appointment this week.”

“Oh? Is everything okay?” You hate that look in her eyes, oozing a concern so deep and immediate that it almost winds you.

“All fine. It’s just that quarterly thing. She wants to make sure I’m not dying,” you explain.

Mia hums, eyes on the citrus in her hand. She stops peeling, worry still intense all over. “You would tell me, right? If something was wrong?”

“Of course,” you say, a lie that rolls smoothly off your tongue. Internally you’re already kicking yourself. At the last specialist appointment, the doctor had taken x-rays of your skull, neck, and back. This was the appointment to discuss whatever they’d found with Dr. Lopez, and set out on the next steps in your care plan, if any at all. The fact that Dr. Lopez was so insistent about meeting each time you have had to reschedule tells you it isn’t nothing.

“I hope it goes well,” Mia says.

She pops a sliver of the fruit into her mouth. You adjust your seat back, laying diagonal to the gas pedal to rest your back. For a moment, the sun and silence drifts peacefully between you.

The furniture in the practice’s lobby is twenty years out of style; the fabric chairs all dark wood and fern green cushions as they form a double row in the middle of the carpeted room. Each piece of art that covers the wall space is dull and generic. A winter landscape here, mushy brown leaves there. It smells—like old people, like tiny sticky fingers, like ammonia.

When the nurse finally leads you to the last exam room on the left, your heart speeds up. This is where she butters you up, says all these sweet things before Dr. Lopez comes in and tells you that you’re going to be in a wheelchair in the next ten years. But all she does is watch you take a seat on the crinkly, sheer paper on the leather examination bed and ask if you need anything else.

“I’m fine,” you say. Then she’s gone.

You sit and wait for maybe five minutes, mind oscillating between the worst and the reality. Reality is, you’re here. Clearly this is about something, something the good doctor cannot tell you over the phone. Realistically, though, if you were going to die she would have told you by now.

When Dr. Lopez enters, your heart and mind pause simultaneously.

“Relax,” is the first thing she says, and you feel your tense muscles rest to unstrain themselves.

Why that worked, you’re unsure. Regardless, you say, “Thank you. Hi.”

“Hi,” Dr. Lopez returns. “I guess I don’t have to ask how you’ve been feeling.”

“Work’s been kind of getting to me lately,” you say. Not entirely a lie. Everything has been getting to you.

“How’s your limb function?”

“Fine. I haven’t had anything go numb on me in a couple of months.”

Dr. Lopez nods, taking a seat at the empty cushioned chair so that she’s at your level. “That’s good. Would you say you’re doing better?”

You have the urge to say maybe, to give her (and by extension, yourself) a little bit of hope amidst all of this. But you tell her the truth and say no. “That new mattress doesn’t really do anything. My neck is still stiff, and the nerve pain is almost constant.”

“You’re taking all of your medication?”

“And then some. I have an Advil delivery on auto-renewal,” you say.

“There’s an opportunity,” Dr. Lopez says.

“An opportunity,” you repeat.

“For you, for your spine. Surgery,” she continues.

“Okay,” you say slowly.

“I have to warn you that there are no guarantees, and the procedure is highly invasive. Moreso than your last.”

After your first and only surgery following the accident, you woke up feeling unlike yourself. Like someone had sliced you open and stolen a piece of your being while you were asleep on the table. Your skin didn’t feel like your own anymore. Your body was telling you something was still very wrong, as you would learn through the healing process. The pain stayed behind, even as the stitches closed and the skin at your neck mended itself into scars.

This was more invasive. Immediately, you are thoroughly uninterested, shaking your head.

“No. I can’t do that again,” you say.

She sighs. “I understand. They’ve performed the surgery a few times before to some highly successful results, which is why I brought it to your attention.” She’s shuffling through the manila file folder with all of your medical records now.

“Some,” you say.

“Pardon?”

“You said some. What about the others?”

Dr. Lopez purses her lips. She was probably hoping you wouldn’t ask. “Some other patients have seen little to no improvement to their condition or in their pain. And a small minority have experienced worsened pain and further limiting of their mobility.”

You could almost laugh. “And you want me to jump at this golden opportunity to disable myself more?” It’s rude, and you hate the way it comes out of your mouth as soon as you’ve said it.

Dr. Lopez eats the gut punch, shuffling on. “I know there’s a risk, but there’s always a risk. Without further surgery, your condition will worsen over time regardless. I thought this could be an opportunity. But if—”

“Can I think about it?” you ask. “I need to finish this project I’m working on before I can make any decisions. Could you give me the month?”

“Yes, I can do that,” Dr. Lopez says. She says your name, soft and low. The skin around her eyes crinkles, the only eyes involved in any of your medical experiences that has looked at you like another human being; like another soul. “You need to believe that things will get better or they never will. I understand that this…is not how you imagined your life going. But you have to hold space for something good within yourself. Miracles can occur.”

Now you really do laugh, a small snort out your nose as the right side of your mouth quirks up. “I’m not holding out any hope.”

Hope is a funny thing, though. It lingers, festering somewhere inside you in the hours that follow the appointment. If things go well, this could change your life. There’s that pesky word again—if. The surgery could change your life for the worse, too, bringing effects of the injury that are fifteen years away closer to fifteen months. Had this dilemma been posed to the old you, the better you, it would be a no-brainer. She was a risk-taker, fearless in her endeavours once she got a taste of what life could be like on the other side of chance. Now you hedge your bets. Take the jobs as they come, playing it safe with the projects you’re attached to.

You call Mia when you know production is at lunch, laying on your couch as you try and fail to bask in the peace granted to you by taking an emergency day.

“Hi,” you say as soon as the line picks up.

“Hey! How’d the appointment go?” she asks.

“Alright.” You shrug like she can see you. “Doc had some information for me, just thinking about it.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” Mia asks. The bustle of background noise disappears as you hear a door click on her end.

“I’d like to think about anything but,” you say. “What’s going on there?”

“Ashton losing his mind in real time. Before we broke for lunch I was sure he was about to start shouting at people.”

“Great,” you sigh. “Looking forward to it.”

“At least you’ve got the holiday,” Mia says. “This is like your mid-week weekend.”

Right. Independence Day. You already know Mia has plans; she and Sam have been driving to the small, unincorporated town of Juliette for the holiday ever since she followed you down south. Every summer, she asks you to join them, and each time you say no. This year she didn’t bother to ask.

“I’m sure there’s stuff going on in the city,” Mia offers, “or you could go to Florida, hop on some boat for the night. Or follow Frankie.” She laughs as she says it, but the mention of his name has you perking up.

“What?” you ask.

“He’s headed to Florida tonight. Got this air show tomorrow, down at—shit, where was it? Pensacola something. Pensacola Beach.”

“You spoke to him?”

“He stopped by early this morning. Looking for you actually, but Priscilla told him that you’d called out,” Mia says.

“So Florida, huh?” You sit up, pulling your laptop off the coffee table.

“I mean why not?” Mia muses. “Maybe it could be good for you.” Her voice morphs into something softer, less amiable and airy.

“Yeah, maybe,” you say. You wedge the phone between your ear and shoulder, typing at your keyboard.

“But listen, whatever you get up to, text me alright? Even if it’s nothing.” Mia knows you well enough to predict your usual Fourth of July activities: curling up in bed with earplugs and a good DVD, the blinds drawn over your window. “I’ll send you some photos of the fireworks from the river.”

“Sounds good,” you say, half-distracted.

Mia mumbles her goodbye and you hang up, focused on the information passing your screen with every few clicks. In just a couple of minutes, you’ve found the Pensacola Air Show’s website. The when and where details of the event cover the landing page. There's several others, links leading to a detailed history of the show and images from past events that you skip right over. At the bottom of the tab sits exactly what you are looking for, clicking the highlighted link that says Pilots. Organized alphabetically, you find Frankie halfway down the list. What had Mia said? Or follow Frankie… Puppy, meet postman.

The picture used beside his blurb of professional experience is of a Frankie you’ve never seen before. He’s a little younger, clean-shaven in a pressed uniform, the American flag at his left shoulder. This must be his flight school portrait. He looks less weather-worn, all the weight of a life in the military yet to settle heavy over him.

In the following hour, you manage to book a room at some seedy motel in West Pensacola and pack a duffel bag with a day’s worth of clothes. You raid the kitchen, tossing bottles of water and a few granola bars in your bag for the road. Leaving at almost eleven o’clock, you set out for the very edge of Florida’s beaches.

The streets are quiet once again, the community of Cobb County asleep in their beds as you drive, stopping at an intersection. The security lights of the Kroger next to the road bathe you in a harsh white glow, lighting up the shadowy interior of the car. You look down at yourself, seated behind the wheel, ready to drive five hours and some change to go…watch planes circle between the sea and sky.

What are you doing? You aren’t quite sure at the moment. For once, the feeling is invigorating, not hapless.

It’s only when you start passing through Union City on the 403 that you begin to second guess your decision. You stop in East Newnan, the last “big” town for a little while, to use the bathroom. You buy a map and a gas station churro too, hunger getting the best of you; a stunning example of hypocrisy that you can never tell Frankie about. Something tells you he would never let it go.

The roads turn from the dry grey of asphalt to slick black, rain pooled onto the solid surface. A storm must’ve been through here recently, tall crops on either side of the highway swaying with residual winds.

Driving over the Chattahoochee River, you pull into the town of Opelika about twenty minutes later. You park away from the street lights in a Burger King parking lot, waiting for an oncoming bout of exhaustion to either pass or take you to sleep in the front seat. The radio buzzes softly from the car speakers, keeping the beat of your brain as your thoughts drift.

The question still remains: what are you doing, really? Are you so desperate for human connection that you’ll practically stalk the first person who piques your interest?

When you open your eyes again, the sky is light outside your windshield. Stores are still closed in the plaza around you. The car’s analog display tells you it’s barely seven o’clock in the morning.

Back on the road, you watch the world waking up through your windows. Montgomery, Hope Hull, and Letohatchee all pass by before you pull to the side of the road for a stretch. You take a bottle from your bag and chug water sitting on the hood of your car. You take your pills, looking up at the bright blue. Out here, far away from any city, the view is better than you could have imagined.

It’s another three and a half hours before you reach Pensacola, Florida. Eternal beachiness plagues the town, even in the suburbs away from the coast. The Western Inn slouches at the end of the street, sitting just off Mobile Highway with its rough, mint-tinted roof. Checking in at the front desk, a man certainly older than sliced bread hands you a set of jingling keys that unlock a room on the first floor.

The place is nothing special. The toilet is rusted, floors a weepy grey linoleum. The quilt that envelopes the bed is truly garish, dark red lilies and green palm fronds littering the expanse of the fabric. A sad room for your sad journey down to Florida, to see a man you hardly know do what he does best.

You never took a road trip before the accident. There are a lot of things that you never got to do, things that you’d be unable to now: hike across Europe, or drive a race car, or scale the side of the Empire State Building. A road trip seemed so out of the question—where would you go, what could you do—and yet here you are.

At noon, you take a rideshare to the beach. It’s a good thing, too—there’s barely a spot for the driver to idle and let you out of the car, never mind to park.

The sun beats down on you, hot and relentless, the air muggy with warmth. Still, the view of the water is beautiful. Beyond a crowding of luxury beach resorts, the water is as blue and clear as the sky. Waves rush up to the white sand every few moments, the foamy suds receding back into the ocean with its pull. When was the last time you went swimming? You should’ve brought a bathing suit.

Pensacola’s pier stretches out in front of you a thousand feet long. You stay on the shore, taking your shoes in your hands, balling your socks and stuffing them into the left one. The sand is soft on your skin. You dig your toes into its warmth, a small smile gracing your face. It has been so long since you’ve felt something like this.

An announcer farther down the water starts speaking into a microphone, her voice booming across the beach. She introduces the event, all business and no frills, before the sound of her speaking disappears again. The planes are off, moving in the sky before you have time to register what’s happening. Blue and yellow-striped navy planes—the Blue Angels, you remember from the website—jet into your field of view, puffy trails of white exhaust following them wherever they move. A half an hour passes, the blue jets trailing each other, flying upside down, and moving with the skill and synchronicity of an Olympic gymnastics team.

A fleet of five grey planes follow up the first performance, pulling stunts that moreso scare than amaze you. They fly in almost-circles, spinning around each other graciously in the sky before one parts from the group, dipping low. So low, you think the aircraft is about to skate along the water and fly into the Gulf of Mexico. The pilot pulls up just in time, shooting into the air at a thirty degree angle before circling back to join the identical planes.

That’s Frankie, it must be. In truth, you don’t know for sure, but you can feel it. The movements of the plane mimic that of his own, the casual sass of it all, like it’s no big deal. You imagine him in the cockpit, sweating but grinning under his helmet. Suddenly, you’re an expert in analysing the personal swagger of planes.

Another two hours passes in a blistering haze. Eventually, you put your shoes back on and take shelter in a gift shop, the sun too much for your body to handle. You buy lunch—a tall souvenir cup of freshly squeezed lemonade and a hot dog—before finding the only bench in shade left along the sandy strip. The sun eases up as more people filter away from this beach, either back to their cars or further along the sand towards Navarre.

You almost choke on the dregs of your pulpy lemonade when you spot him, Frankie, in line at one of the few other food trucks along the beach. Silently, you weigh your options. Going over and talking to him is fine, probably, but what if it isn’t? What if he thinks you’re a freak for showing up here, on this…public beach. Okay, maybe it’s fine. You can play this off as a funny coincidence.

You are up and walking over before you can think about it any longer, tapping him lightly on the shoulder. He turns, aviators protecting his eyes from the sun. Frankie says your name with an easy grin.

“Funny seeing you here,” he says.

“You too.” You shield your eyes from the sun.

He removes his sunglasses, hooking them in the collar of his t-shirt. “You down here for the show then?”

You hum. “Something like that.”

“Something like that,” he repeats, then nods.

When it’s Frankie’s turn to order, he steps up to the window and asks for waffle fries. “You want anything?”

“Oh no,” you say, shaking your head. “I just had a bite.”

“Gotcha.” He pays, then steps to the side of the line to wait for the food.

“Did you like it?” Frankie asks, cutting in on your thoughts.

“Sorry?”

“The show, d’you like it?” he asks again.

Right. The air show that you drove five hours to, rented a motel room for, bought a very overpriced rideshare to go see. That’s why you’re here.

“Yeah,” you say. “It was pretty cool. I kept half-expecting one of you to crash into the water.”

Frankie’s hand gets a gentle hold on your shoulder as he gives you a friendly pat. It burns at the skin exposed to his warm fingers. “That’s half the excitement,” he says.

When he’s handed a striped cardboard basket of waffle fries, Frankie absolutely douses them in both vinegar and orange seasoning salt. You try not to make a face. Clearly, you’re unsuccessful. The laugh you pull from his chest seems like it rips through him, up his throat and gloriously into the space between you.

Frankie starts to walk and you join him. He asks about the drive; you tell him you got here this morning, coming straight from Atlanta.

“I never realized how beautiful it is, away from everything,” you say.

“You don’t go camping often, I take it,” Frankie says.

You shake your head no, words clogging your throat like a knot once again.

“You should. I know this great spot, right up in Alabama too…” He ends his sentence there, blinking away whatever was supposed to follow it up.

“I wish. With work I barely have time to make dinner most nights.” Not untrue, but not the truth either. You could make time, somewhere in your calendar. Make use of the off-days between projects when all you do is rot against the mattress.

Frankie launches into a camping story from his childhood, when his dad drove them from Texas to Michigan in the dead of winter so they could both see some snow. The stay was tumultuous at best, your eyes widening as he tells you about how none of their gear worked properly.

“Really, I think the only thing that kept us alive for those couple o’ days was the campfire my pops kept up the whole time,” Frankie says.

The sun is setting slowly along the horizon now, the beach drawing a fresh crowd. The group is smaller than before, people awaiting the fireworks to begin popping off of luxury yachts in the distance.

“I have no idea how he did that, but I’m glad you didn’t freeze to death,” you say. “I would be royally screwed without a lighter or something.”

“You don’t know how to build a campfire?” Frankie asks.

“Nope.”

“Oh well, that’s gotta change.”

You two are back on the sand now, shoes in your hands as you walk along the grainy plains. He walks a little away from you, drifting to wherever a stray stick or smaller log lies on the ground. Once he’s collected a bundle of them, Frankie joins you again. He drops the wood to the sandy floor, sitting down in a deep hill of it. Then he’s scooping sand with his palms, leaving a hole in front of him. You sit down and join him, watching as he lays the varying sticks and driftwood into a nest of sorts.

Frankie takes one stick, running it between a deep wedge in one of the drier logs back and forth. After a few minutes of this, he sighs and pulls a lighter from his back pocket, lighting the stick before tossing it to the bed of wood.

“Had that worked, I would’ve been extremely impressed,” you say.

“Had that worked, I would have expected some sort of prize,” he says.

“I’ve got a solid high five or a pat on the back as consolation?”

Frankie raises his palm towards you, and you slap it eagerly. “That’ll suffice. I’m feeling consoled.”

“It’s too humid out here anyway. Luck is not on our side tonight,” you sigh.

“I don’t know. I feel it,” he says. You give him a curious look. “Lucky to do what I love, lucky to be here. Lucky you’re here.”

“I don’t know if luck has anything to do with it,” you say. You and Frankie have already had this conversation.

“Do you feel unlucky?” he asks.

“That’s a loaded question.”

“It’s just a question,” Frankie says. “But I know you’re squirrely about answering those.”

The sky is dark and the sun is gone, almost like it was never there. Fireworks start up behind you, beside you, in front of you. God bless America.

You mull over your usual two options. Deflecting—I’m honestly not that interesting. Or derisive—Not everyone can have a postcard perfect life.

You choose the outlier, a third option. The truth.

"You believe in a bad miracle?" you ask, your voice so quiet that the sound is almost swallowed by the fireworks. Almost.

"What do you mean, a bad miracle?" Frankie asks.

"Like, something unbelievable. Astonishing, you know? But maybe it's not good. Maybe it'd been better if it didn't happen at all."

"I guess," he says. "Why? Had any of those lately?"

You laugh, the sound small and stifled. "You know about the pills," you say—not a question, but a statement. Everyone knows about the pills. They're always on you, almost a part of you, chattering at your waist with every step.

"Yeah," Frankie admits. "Never asked. I didn't want to pry."

A long moment of silence draws on between you. It's your turn to speak, but you can't. What are you supposed to say? You've never told this story to anyone. Mia was there when it happened, and then she was at the hospital, explaining it all. After that, any doctor that you came across simply read your chart. No need for explanations.

"I had an accident," is where you start. "Two years ago. This shoot was weird. Underwater shit in Kaua'i. We were out along these rocks, away from all those beautiful beaches. I was supposed to dive, and like, swim down to the bottom.” Your voice cracks, popping like a candle wick. When did your face become wet with tears?

"So I dove, but no one signaled that there was a wave coming. The stunt coordinator was just entirely off his ass. I got flipped around right under the surface and the uh, the force from the wave knocked me—"

You can't remember everything now, couldn't remember when you woke up in a Hawaiian hospital either. You remember the searing pain after the surgery, the sensation that haunts you now, settled to a dull ebb with time and medication.

"I'm sorry," Frankie says.

"Not your fault. And anyway, I should be happy. Right? That's what the doctors said. That it was a fucking miracle I wasn't paralyzed, or something to that extent. And they’re right. It's a privilege that I'm not pissing myself all the time, that I can even sit here and bitch about it but..." you trail off. "It's kind of dark," is all you say.

"It's fine," Frankie says.

"Sometimes I wonder if it would've been better if I just hadn't made it. Like, this—this life? It’s my bad miracle." Nothing. Crickets. "Morbid, right?"

After a while, Frankie shakes his head. "No. I mean, yeah, but—" He half-shrugs. "My friend, Santiago? The asshole. He's kind of in a similar situation."

"Oh?" you question.

"They offered him another surgery, to fix the issue. He told me he asked if they were sure the procedure would kill him if anything went wrong this time," Frankie says. "So I guess that's his. Bad miracle, I mean."

There's something in his eyes, shiny and unobstructed for but a moment. A glint that makes you want to ask him, what's yours?

When Frankie looks away, he's seemingly snapping you from an overly open stupor as well. The weight of your words settles over you, a small look of horror flickering across your face before you reign it in against the dark.

You shift away from his body in the sand. You've just shoveled a small landfill of your bullshit onto this man, your coworker, and you can't take it back. You can see the words floating like the specks in your office. Bad miracle, hospital, paralyzed. You wish you could grab them from where they move between the two of you and shove them back into your mouth, down your throat where they would effectively die.

Frankie gives you a curious hum, eyebrows quirked as he looks at you under the brief, exploding lights in the sky.

"I should not have said all that. That was so unprofessional. I—"

He says your name, staring at you again. "It's fine. You're fine. We're not at work."

After a while, the waves lapping at the sand, you say, "This doesn't mean you get to pity me or anything."

"Pity you?" Frankie asks. "Wouldn't dream of it."

"Good," you say. "When people find out, or even just after the accident, it's like living a gravy train of apologies and expectations. Other people's sorrow."

"I mean, I get it. You can be sorry it happened," Frankie says.

"I guess. I don’t really understand.” Then, “Condolences feel like empty bombs of other people’s grief passed off to the grieving for defusal. What's anyone supposed to do with that?"

Frankie's looking out at the water, the fire and the sand forgotten now. "Commiserate," he says. "Better to suffer together than suffer alone. On the surface that sounds stupid, but when you're in it, you want someone to do it with you."

You can't help but disagree. This thing, it happened to you. You have to live with the outcome, sure, but why should everyone else? How does that make the thing better?

"I don't know if that's true," you say.

"For you," he says. "And really, I’d say that’s not even the truth either."

The fire crackles in front of both of you, lighting the wick of indignation in your throat.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I mean that I've been trying to get to know you for weeks, and I think I was closer when you thought I was a carpenter here to fix the studio upholstery," Frankie says. The camp flickers and reflects in his eyes.

Suddenly, you wish you could implore that you don't like him, put the blame on that wicked crutch of an excuse. Unfortunately there's too much logical evidence against that; that first lunch interaction, the bar, here and now at the beach. Plus all the time you took considering it. Considering him. When did Frankie Morales start to take up so much space in your head?

So all you say is, “I’m sorry,” because there’s not much left but that. Your tears are dry on your face. Frankie’s hand finds yours in the sand, not holding it, but landing nearby. You don’t look at him, and you know his eyes are on you. Red, white, and blue flames light the sky.

The fire dies slowly, your signal to get moving again. If you leave now, you can catch a couple hours of sleep before the non-stop drive back to Atlanta.

You’re about to call a ride when Frankie says, “Let me drive you.”

“It’s fine, really,” you say. You’re split into two halves: the part of you that wants to run away from him, and the part that wants to pull yourself even closer.

“How long ‘til the car gets here?” he asks.

You look at your phone, reading the time estimate. “Twenty minutes.”

That’s all the confirmation that Frankie needs, nodding towards the parking lot as he puts his shoes back on. “Come on. My truck is over this way.”

Getting in is a bit of a struggle, Frankie mindful of the way your body twists as you try to get into the passenger seat by yourself. He ends up getting in on the driver’s side, leaning out of the opposite door to help you up, giving you an odd sense of deja vu.

Up here, you feel so far away from the road and the rest of the world. Sandy concrete turns to solid asphalt, the yellow lines blurring together as the truck drives by. You tell him the address of the motel, watching as he types it into his phone’s GPS at a red light.

Oh god. Oh god. Frankie Morales is taking you home right now. This cannot be happening. The truck is driving at sixty miles an hour. In another twenty seconds you are going to Charlie’s Angels roll out the door, that—

“I’m glad you came,” Frankie says.

“Huh?”

“I was kind of hoping you would. Come down, see the show.” All of his soul-delving seriousness is gone now, Frankie’s demeanor changed as he slides back into the casual banter you two share.

“That’s why you told Mia,” you say.

“Guilty as charged.”

“So that was the plan then? Get me down to Florida, build me a fire, I spill my guts?”

“Not exactly. But friendships formed from fire usually last the longest. Even if that fire is some pit on the beach,” Frankie says.

“I see,” you nod. Friendship. Friendship, friendship, friendship. That’s what this is.

The truck pulls into the dimly lit parking lot of the Western much sooner than you’d like. He walks you to the door, a true gentleman. You can’t figure out how to say goodbye, lingering just past the doorway and the open air.

“Well,” Frankie says. “Happy Fourth of July.”

“Happy Fourth, Francisco,” you return, intoning his full name to put up some sort of barrier. To scold yourself, a reminder of what your relationship to this man really is.

He rolls his eyes with a smile and a huff. “It’s just Frankie.” That should be it, the end of the interaction. Frankie still doesn’t move and neither do you.

This is taking too long, too much time passing for a farewell. You’re being obvious now, watching him watch you half in the dark. You shouldn’t have driven down here. You shouldn’t have gone to the air show. Those things can’t change now, but this can.

But then he takes a deep breath and starts to turn away from you. Your hand flies out and grabs his shoulder, because hell. There’s a lot of things you shouldn’t do. You kiss him, rough and slow, granting Frankie an out if he wants it. When he deepens the kiss, opening his mouth, it’s clear that he doesn’t.

Frankie moves his hands to your ribs, pushing his palms over your body to wrap behind you. You’re pulling him closer by his broad shoulders, noses squishing together a bit. He pulls away for a breath with that flash in his eyes you keep finding. The golden fireworks that sparkle and pop in the distance must be paid actors.

“Do you want to come inside?” you ask, voice strained. Extremely unprofessional, decidedly unplatonic.

“Yes,” Frankie says.

Who fucking cares about those things anyway?

tags: @wannab-urs / @anoverwhelmingdin / @iamskyereads <3

#frankie morales #frankie morales fanfiction #triple frontier #pedrostories #fic: the world tipped on its side

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