#poor clavell is so tired

[ask-zerotrio]

//ooc

It’s a WIP comic for an ask but. Lol. It’s too funny to not share a small snippet of it imo

[r0-boat]

I’m in a soft mood, and I can’t stop thinking about bringing Hassel, Rika, and Larry a homemade lunch that that forgot before leaving👉👈 if that’s okay with you, just some extra cute stuff

Reader bringing homemade lunch

Pairings: Hassel, Rika, Larry

Hassel

Before he goes to work today he kisses you on the cheek; you are just cleaning the kitchen when you see his box lunch on the counter that he forgot to take with him, the school is quite a ways away, but you'd be damned if you'd let beloved go hungry, and not eating the food you carefully cooked and prepared for him.

His eyes light up the moment he sees you, Hassel is always happy to see you. but he has to ask, why did you come visit him at work today? You tell him that he's forgotten something and his eyes widen when you said his lunch on his desk.

Your poor husband is on the verge of tears because he's so lucky to have someone like you. You're so caring and thoughtful, part of him wants you to stay with him for lunch, but he knows that you might be busy with something else.

He says he missed you even though he's only been gone for a few hours, when he gives you a hug and a kiss. he asks if you need a ride home. but it was his students that got you to stay, asking you if they could draw your Pokemon partner; when the students begged Clavell, he relented. Hassel almost cried. He needed to thank his students later.

Rika

Work was really killing her today spinning on her chair with her pencil under her nose trying to ignore the grumbling in her stomach. She looked as happy as a puppy when she saw you. she asks What brings you here?

She is absolutely relieved when she sees you put the lunch down on her desk. " you're a life saver!" she explains, kissing you on the cheek. You chuckle, kissing her forehead when you turn to leave; she grabs your arm. Giving you puppy dog eyes as she begs you to stay. How could you ever say no?

Rika tries to feed you her own lunch "babe, say 'ah' !" when you protest, she pouts, " but you made it for me. You deserve to have a little taste.... unless you want my lips instead?" putting the piece of food down and wrapping her arms around your waist puckering her lips.

Geeta I had to send you home because you were distracting. Geeta was very kind thinking you for your kindness and asking if you would like a ride home. Rika's heartbroken.

Larry

He usually works right through his lunch breaks, it was you who started providing him lunch that he quit the habit. now your food is something he looks forward to everyday. is already too late when he realized he'd forgotten the lunch you made for him he was already at his office... Oh well he'll just stop by at the Eatery after work...

He was so focused on work he didn't notice you come behind him. You decided to let him work and slowly set it down next to him. by the time he notices you are already gone, but you left a cute note telling him to have a good lunch and you love him.

Larry couldn't help but smile, his heart fluttering in his chest... how he's so lucky to have somebody, he does not mess the days that he would eat alone or work without empty stomach.

After finishing, he calls you, informing you that he saw the note and thanks you again. Then asks if you want to go to the Treasure Eatery for a bit of a date after work as a thank you. You ask him why, and he says, " No particular reason, just felt appreciative of you; I want to treat you." You couldn't hide the smile in your voice. The Treasure Eatery workers absolutely adore you for caring for their tired businessman.

[patisserie-soapberry]

Well. That was a wonderfully confusing experience!

That Fuecoco's owner was borderline inconsolable! From what Miriam said, I guess she didn't grow up with Pokémon. No wonder the poor sweetie was really shaken up... I told her she should swing by the gym sometime, but who knows if she actually will!

As for the Slither Wing...

(IMAGE: The young Slither Wing is curled up on some sort of bed probably intended for dog Pokémon. It's tail has a cute little bandage on it. Katy's Ursaring is standing in the background, presumably keeping guard.)

I thought this would be more difficult, to be honest. But it turns out I do get to have my cake and eat it too! Clavell bssically BEGGED me to take the thing. I think his exact words were something like;

"PLEASE Katy, just TAKE it. I will PERSONALLY ask Geeta to allow you. PLEASE. I AM SO TIRED KATY. THERE'S SO MANY."

...I should make him a pie or something. Poor guy.

[rosie-in-paldea]

Um, okay, so a lot has happened already on my first day, and I haven't even arrived at campus!

The director of Uva Academy, Mr. Clavell, showed up to bring some last minute stuff for me as well as bring me three Pokemon to choose from (little Sprigatito was sniffing some flowers out of frame). I ended up going with Fuecoco, the fire croc Pokemon because he reminded me of my Krookodile back home! I named my new partner El Tren, which is the Paldean word for train. That was one of the first Paldean words I learned upon the insistence of my dad and uncle, lol!

Then my new friend, Nemona, and I heard some weird Pokemon cry, and went to investigate it. I... I did fall off a cliff, but I swear I'm okay! No need to freak out! My Rotom phone saved me! Anyway, the Pokemon turned out to be this weird purple, metallic lizard Pokemon. It looked tired or maybe injured, so I offered it a sandwich to see if that might energize it a bit since I had no potions at the time. That luckily helped, then the Pokemon transformed! It floated from these jets in its legs, and its eyes glowed! It had me follow it into this cave filled with Houndours and a Houndoom, and it saved me from getting attacked by them! But that seemed to drain the poor mystery Pokemon cuz then it went back to its "slumpy" lizard form.

After that, Nemona, the Pokemon, and I met this guy named Arven at this lighthouse that Nemona wanted me to see. He's apparently the son of the region's professor which sounds super cool, but he seemed pretty upset when Nemona brought it up. Maybe he doesn't like having a famous parent? Anyway, I beat him in a battle and then he explained that Miraidon, the mystery Pokemon, had belonged to him, but he didn't want it anymore, so he gave me its PokeBall. I don't mind. Taking care of it will be my way of thanking it for saving me.

Well, Arven left, and Nemona and I went to the top of the lighthouse, where we could see so much of the region's landscape! Including the school! It was really cool, so now we're just heading to the school and catching some Pokemon. I just hope we're not late after everything that's happened!

There's our view from the top of the lighthouse, and me with Nemona!

[guzma-reader-hell]

Date Nite

Dis for my buddy @boxdfoxeninc . There’s no fucking excuse for this being so late, but I wanted it to be nice because she caught me a beautiful salandit shiny named opal and I owe her my life (and two more chappies of dis beautiful adventures of Lynnie and Guzma) I hope you enjoy this my friend, and that as it goes on that it makes up for the wait and for the effort you put into getting me my dream Pokémon ❤️

...

“It’s fine.”

Mantra of the night.

“It’s alright.”

“You good fam.”

“I gotchu.”

But deep down Guzma knows it ain’t alright. It ain’t even remotely close to fine, he ain’t good, and you barely got yourself.

Chasing dreams, making a fool of yourself, you’ve done it all. Just like him, and one of the many things that endeared him to you. Everything he tried to do to make trial captain was all for naught, and better than anyone he knew the state you were currently in. It was just the problem of your denial that prevented him from giving you the help you truly needed...

Date nights hadn’t been this tense, not since you visited before your last trip to Sinnoh. A bundle of nerves had come to see him at least a year ago, crying about how nervous she was to take on the Sinnoh league all over again, and oh my god what if I don’t make it, what if I fail, spouting all these different worries and anxieties pickled and stuffed up into one big fuckaroo of a thing you called life. Then when you left, unable to call or write because you wanted to commit fully, he agonized endlessly but trusted in his pride for you. Well... no news came. Everything had gone dark for a few minutes, and there were no new updates on the Sinnoh League champion. Guzma, well, he’d been living a life of debauchery after leaving his parent’s house and forming up his own ragtag group of criminals, and ironically there wasn’t anyone else he could think of that he wanted to share his accomplishments with but you. It was just that when you finally came home, and he managed to get you alone before anyone else, he found you oddly closed off to everyone, even the one criminal boss you trusted from the beginning.

This bullshit sucked. Plain and simple. But what could he say?

“It’s fine.” You insisted. “Order whatever you want babe. It’s all on me.”

“Ya sure?” Guzma finally settled on. “Don’t look alright Lynnie...”

“Naaah.”

You waved it off, like swatting imaginary cutieflies out of your face. The Ronin set he wanted to share was costly, for normal folks it meant half a month’s salary. For trainers, it was more money than you could expect to battle for on the islands without a VS Seeker.

“Told you, ‘s fine. I’ll buy this time.”

“Uh...”

“Yeah.” You insisted, “No trouble at all my dude. Besides, like you’re in a position to buy anything, with your broke ass.”

He shrinks back, not at your comment, but your laugh. It sounds too hollow. Too depraved of any sort of joy. It speaks the volumes of words that won’t come out of your mouth no matter how many times someone asks you how life treated you in a colder climate. There’s only one indication that your trip even existed (because let’s face it, all interactions have basically indicated it never happened). Your Pokémon, a grizzled Infernape that drapes its arms lazily around you every now and again, seems to bear the only souvenir of a scar, and it’s an old one at that... There’s no fanfare, no presents for anyone save for the scarf you’d gotten him.

What can Guzma say? You won’t talk to him about the things that plague your mind as the appetizers come out, bowls of miso soup and a plate of tempura that he devours but you can only pick at. Naturally, as expected, there is no conversation the whole of dinner even though he wants desperately to catch up. To have both of you brag about successes, cry about failures, anything save for this damned silence that will not end. But he can’t reach you, all he can do is reach the food, and it’s been a while since he’s eaten this good. So the only thing he can do at the moment is eat. The aforementioned Ronin Set is gone the minute it hits the table, and the sad piece that Guzma has spared you sits untouched, going lukewarm by the time the bill hits the table and you’re paying for everything on a card.

It’s the next sentence that worries him: “I’m not sure what’s on this one but let’s give it a try.”

Oh hell no. Not if you were just as broke ass as he was. Immediately he flags down the waiter, nearly tackling the poor man as Guzma tails after him on the pretense of taking a leak before you both return home. He stuffs a wad of cash into his hand unceremoniously, assuring him rather gruffly that if he brings back the receipt and card in one piece that he can keep the change. It’s not that hard to convince the waiter, especially when Guzma doesn’t pay attention to how much of his hidden stash he slaps into the other man’s hand before hightailing it back to the table, and considering the fact that the locals know him well in Malie, and will give this hardened criminal whatever in the hell he wants.

The waiter comes back and presents your card and receipt with a flourish. You take it nonchalantly, and Guzma thanks the gods that you simply take the card and stand up.

“Ready?” You ask, seemingly ready for the night to end. Infernape follows behind, equally disenchanted with everything that Sushi High Roller has to offer.

“I...”

He wants to make a scene, cause a dramatic altercation because, as one Ms. Clavel might say: Something is not right.

He suddenly find himself pushing the chair out behind him, the noise harsh as the legs scrape the flooring. Guzma has to book it after you, because you’re already out the door and walking into the brightly lit streets by the time he catches up. You look back briefly, shrugging when you see him panting, breathless with anger, and you’re about to tell him goodnight when the nuclear bomb decides it’s time to drop.

“<i>What the fuck is your damage?!</i>”

You’re caught off guard. The world stops spinning on its axis, holding breath from the moment the first word exploded from his mouth into the mushroom cloud that formed the rest of the sentence. The rest of Malie floats away on the wind, a blur of colored lights sprinkling magic droplets into the dark fades away until there is nothing. No city. No people. Just a void. A vacuum in space and time that Guzma has created with the halting bark of his voice and the pent up rage and aggression that cannot be matched by anyone but himself.

“You’re acting like a brat!” He screams, getting right in your face and his eyes blazing with something so fierce that even infernape cannot come to your rescue.

“You leave me for a year, ya don’t call or write to me, or even think to lemme know you’re still kicking... then ya come back and have the audacity to axe me out and take me to this tired date so you can avoid questions and treat me like imma fuckin’ stranger to ya! This is BULLSHIT! Why the hell you don’t tell me what’s going on with ya?! Come on Lynnie! Talk to me! TALK GODDAMN YOU!”

His words have knocked the breath out of you. It’s... quite a long time before anyone moves or says a word and he’s about to go for it again when you suddenly break down and begin sobbing, infernape trying to resuscitate you from your break down and nearly torching Guzma when he drops to his knees to come and get you up off the floor. You struggle briefly, once, twice, before pushing infernape away and collapsing in Guzma’s arms where your facade of holding it together reveals quite the contrary.

You closed off because you were broken. He doesn’t have to pry to get you to talk because in that brief instant that you’re clinging like an animal to him he knows. He knows you’re here for good. He knows that you tried your best at everything you’ve done and come back a failure because he’s gone through the exact same shit, taking a nine iron to the face to show for it. You don’t need to tell him that becoming the champion fell through, because the emotion you exude and the mantras of “I did my best” slipping out between the dry heaves and snot bubbles is so heartbreakingly familiar, so mind numbingly sad that it takes everything inside Guzma not to break down into a million pieces right there with you in the street. One thing he knows... and he knows it for certain... you are not going home tonight nor any of the other nights after. He will be go to hell if he lets you out of his sight and out of his life ever again.

[wiym]

MY BIRTH STORY

Trigger warning/s: Birth trauma and postnatal mood disorders

Less than a quarter of healthy, low risk, first time parents will have a normal birth in an Australian hospital. With the recent release of Birth Time: the documentary in Australia and New Zealand, I felt that revisiting my birth story was timely.

It’s a clichéd adage but it’s true: for me, the birth plan went well and truly out the window. In fact, it was never let into the building.

EST. READING TIME: 5 minutes

In my early twenties, I used to avoid making eye contact with the family planning section at the chemist. These days I have an emergency stash of tests in my bedside drawer. I’m not even late - my period tracker says it’s due today - but I have a nagging feeling that won’t go away.

I pee on the stick, and there’s only one line. Oh well. I shrug, insouciant, throw out the test and go about my day.

Until four in the afternoon, when I sit bolt upright on the couch and realise that I, generally a rule follower, hadn’t waited for that result. In fact, the box tells you to wait five minutes. So much for sitting on the couch with an egg timer.

 I dig through the bin and in my shaking hands is a positive pregnancy test (note: those trying to conceive affectionately refer to this as a BFP). I test again, and again. I can’t wait, I race in my car to Victoria Park where my boyfriend of two years is working, with three BFPs sitting in the cup holder.

And so begins the uncontrollable for the Type A control freak.

In a pandemic, there are already things I can’t control. I’m redeployed to a different unit at my work and can no longer take potential COVID patients.

I’m anxious, exhausted and most of all - experiencing morning sickness that will turn into hyperemesis. Then, I have to take extended time off work.

As I do with most things, I jump straight into the deep end of pregnancy world and obsessively research. I avoid the foods you’re meant to avoid, and I buy all of the pre-baby accoutrements. Birthing ball, new yoga mat (and maternity yoga pants to boot), and the books. Oh my god, the books.

I do the hypnobirthing classes and listen to birthing stories while hiking with my dogs.

Being pregnant is simultaneously my new persona and hobby. I honestly still wouldn’t change a thing now, in spite of what I know, because even through vomiting for 7, nearly 8, months; I love being pregnant with all my heart.

I neatly type up a birth plan, beautifully formatted and fonted. Natural, natural, natural. No episiotomy. No pain relief. Don’t even offer it to me - I’ll ask. No interventions unless necessary. Delayed cord clamping. Immediate skin to skin. Quiet, low lighting, music. To me, this was a covenant between myself and the computer. Absolute, resolute and set in stone.

By the third trimester my partner and I have the hospital bag meticulously packed, nursery ready, and the big waiting game to do. Eager for our little family to be complete.

At my 38 week appointment, our obstetrician informs us that baby isn’t showing any signs of coming any time soon. I take that as a challenge and research a litany of labour-inducing old wives’ tales.

PSA: none of these actually work. If you are healthy with no complications, your baby will come when ready. Don’t rush. Even when you feel as if you can’t possibly be pregnant for single millisecond more. Your baby isn’t term until 40 weeks.

But here’s the kicker; the impending threat of an induction and/or caesarean looms overhead. I’m told I am a small girl. He appears to be a big baby. His head isn’t engaged at all. And that the clock is ticking.

Now I wonder what might have happened had that idea never been put into my head. If I had been given the space to accept my birth as it would come. Real birth. Normalised.

The pitfalls don’t just lie with mainstream media. You are being sold something. The expensive classes will tell you that having a natural birth without medication is possible, if you buy our book. The private obstetrician will tell you that you need an induction, an epidural, a caesarean; pay us.

At 39 weeks, the Friday before Christmas, my baby is showing signs of coming. What follows is 9 days of latent, or prodromal, or pre, or (my least favourite term) false labour.

On the Monday we go into hospital. With contractions 3 minutes apart, we are told my cervix and uterus aren’t agreeing. Simply put: head isn’t engaging, cervix isn’t dilating. And that I’ll know it when I’m in real labour.

During the week that follows I try exercises from Spinning Babies to get some relief from the round the clock contractions, Jack gives me massages and on one night I even give a glass of red wine and a bubble bath a go.

Websites that want to sell me something tell me that it’s because I’m too stressed for the labour to progress. Try our tea. 

Why are we capitalising on something so sacred as birth?

 I walk with one foot on the curb and one foot on the path - and I do this for kilometres. Through King’s Park in 30-degree heat. Along the coast. Around the neighbourhood.

On Christmas Eve, I can’t sleep, speak or move through the contractions and we wait as long as possible. We camp on the fold out bed in the living room (those without air conditioning throughout improvise), the birthing playlist quietly crooning and candles burning. I do my breathing and mantras; relax, relax, relaaaaax. And the contractions stop as abruptly as they started, 20 hours later.

I cry. Low keening, animalistic sobbing. I don’t understand what is happening to me. I don’t feel confident in making the choice whether or not to go to the hospital anymore.

They tell you the hospital is the safest place to birth and in the same breath tell you to avoid the hospital unless you’re damn near crowning.

I’m new to this. It’s my first time. I feel scared, unsupported and alone. I’m in so much pain.

I just want to meet my baby.

 Barely two days later, I shake Jack awake. I’ve got a Miss Clavel feeling. Something is not right. Instinctively I know that after nine days of exhausting labour that doesn’t seem to be going anywhere, I will be too tired to push.

I call the hospital and ask if I can come in.

Have you just had enough? A voice asks on the other end.

So I don’t take the Panadol or the shower or the bath. We roll into the birthing unit and I’m put on the monitor. Like the High Striker at a fairground, I get the sense that the rolling peaks on the screen need to reach acceptable heights before I’m taken seriously.

The midwife is watching for decelerations, which don’t happen, but also doesn’t see any accelerations. My baby is tired, and I don’t blame him.

And then I am asked the question.

What do you want to get out of being in hospital today? Do you want to have your baby?

I nod, because yes. So comes the new plan. Break my waters and start the syntocin drip tomorrow. Temazepam and Panadeine Forte tonight. So quickly everything I imagined for my birth is going out the window, but I’m desperate.

The next morning we waddle into the birthing suites to start my induction bright and early. I feel robbed of the moment my waters break as it is cracked with something that looks like a crochet hook on a glove. With a gush and then a steady trickle, all the amniotic fluid keeping my baby safe and sound floods out. My obstetrician tells me it’s meconium stained, the paediatric RN in me fleetingly panics. But it is all systems go. I race from active labour to transition. I can only focus on the contractions.

I want my mum.

I’m offered the epidural I’d refused the day prior again but I shake my head. Not in the birth plan. Gas and air only, please. I end up screaming into the Entonox mouthpiece every 2 minutes and throw up all over myself before I allow myself the grace of an epidural. Which only works for about fifteen minutes before I’m once again writhing and screaming, one leg ice numb but the rest of me on fire. Intense pressure between my legs, the urge to push. But it’s only been a couple hours.

My mum arrives in the hospital. On the birth plan, she was meant to be waiting outside. She stands near me now, in the birthing suite.

I’m making noises I am not proud of and inform my midwife of my need to push. Oh, it’s too soon? Pardon me. Before the midwife’s assessment I steel myself to be told I am nowhere near, after a week of disappointment and being nowhere near.

Oh. You’re having a baby.

I ask if we need to wait for the doctor when she tells me she’s calling my obstetrician.

No, she laughs. You don’t have to wait.

With my knees to my chest, I’m told to stop pushing and so I stop. Afterwards, my partner tells me that our son was getting distressed despite my best efforts to get him out and the obstetrician was pulling back on the cord that was tight around his neck. And my poor tired baby’s heart rate drops dangerously. I’m given a deadline to push him out, but I can’t and I’m given the episiotomy I had expressly verboten on my birth plan. He is vacuum assisted out. He is safe.

I’m handed a small, beanlike baby covered in blood and vernix. I kiss him and end up with blood on my face. He doesn’t cry.

He’s taken off my chest and it feels like the longest pause before he lets out the best scream I’ve ever heard.

My mum looks at me. He’s beautiful, she mouths. Is he okay? He’s okay.

My partner cuts the cord. No delayed cord clamping, breathing is more important. Oliver is soon enough placed back onto my chest.

And he is beautiful.

What starts days later as the baby blues progresses into postnatal depression and anxiety. It took me a long time to accept what happened was birth trauma. That my birth story is ridiculously common, even amongst my group of friends, and that’s not due to our failure as the birthing parent. I can’t tell you how long I felt I only had myself to blame for having false expectations. And how much value I put into my ability to birth the “right” way as a direct translation of my ability to mother. How I felt that my son’s birth complications were my fault (it wasn’t). Too many Australian birthing parents are made to feel this way.

So I write this birth story once more, and I let go of what happened for my own sake. I didn’t fail. My son is beautiful, and worth every second of the agony it took to get him here.

A previous version of this post was published on my friend’s blog Mummy Neutral as ‘Type A and the Uncontrollable Pre-Labour’ in January 2021.

Please check her blog out as she posts some really raw and beautiful insights into pregnancy, birth and motherhood.

If you’re feeling distressed about anything discussed or about your own birth experience, please click the life ring symbol at the top of my blog for some helpful links. Call Lifeline on 13 11 14 if you need immediate assistance.

Birth Time: the documentary is showing in select cinemas now. You can visit the website to find out more and if you have birthed in Australia in the last 5 years, you can complete a survey about your experience.