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yellowdistress · 5 years

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Hey, lovely! Your beautiful fic about the Ironfamily in an airport was magnificent! The prompt was really angsty, and I was so sure you’d got that way when I read the top, but you took it and twisted it around so masterfully! I was wondering if you’d consider writing something for the prompt “dad, I can see the bone!” (I know this one is a bit angsty, too, but I’m excited to see whatever you can do with it!)

I still think this isn’t as angsty like, felt more funny to me but…I dunno, enjoy delirious Peter trying to put his bone back in his body XD

The stupid part: He wasn’t even spider-manning.

Not technically. Not in the suit anyway, but webshooters were involved. Which was sort of a no-no with his father considering he didn’t like the thought of Peter swinging around with his face exposed, just in case someone saw and recognized him. But Peter told himself it would be fine…he was only going to be going to the store very quickly to get more wrapping paper for his father’s Christmas present. It wasn’t that he was in a rush. Christmas was still a week away, but Peter was more so in a rush to get the thing wrapped just in case his father somehow stumbled across the hiding place he had picked out for his father’s gift.

The issue had been that December that year had been particularly rough in New York weather wise. Snow had been falling for what felt like forever, Peter could hardly remember the last time the sun had come out. And where snow accumulated, ice did as well, and they were drowning it. He didn’t know why he didn’t put the suit on. Maybe because he didn’t want to have to change out of it when he got to the store, but he had just slipped on his webshooters, had wrapped himself in a warm jacket, and had made his way from his bedroom window…Out into the streets.

All was going well. Truth be told, he had slipped a handful of times when making his way across town. Mostly because of where the ice had started to cling to the roofs across the city. Everything was white, and flakes clung to his eyelashes. It all formulated into the mess, his mess, and Peter didn’t even make it to the store when he messed up.

First: He was running. Then: Jumping to the building with the intent of soaring over the alleyway…Lastly: He was plummeting into said alleyway before a patch of ice caused his sneakers to slip un-apologetically and Peter went down, down, down…

Peter had fallen from high places before. He had broken bones before too. It wasn’t really anything new with him, but for some reason…he supposed it had been his split second decision to put his arm out and attempt to catch himself…he hit the ground rather harshly and there was a heavy snap that resonated throughout his body. Almost like being struck, and then disappearing entirely. The pain didn’t come, not for a few passing moments, but when it finally did hit him, it was like being dunked under ice cold water, not just the snow he had plowed into…

Nothing hurt…then everything.

It wasn’t even where he had begun to bleed, right above his wrist, it was shooting all the way up his shoulder and down his back…Like a systemic agony and Peter gasped, clothes being soaked through as the snow melted. Peter rolled over, the white was turning red and he looked where it was bleeding into his coat. He sat up, not slowly, it was as if being shocked and Peter unzipped his coat, ripping it off, before he finally got a look at the source of the sharp invasion…

And yeah…it wasn’t good.

One time, when Peter was in elementary school, a boy named Carter has fallen off the monkey bars and landed on his ankle wrong. There had been blood, and a bone sticking through and all the kids had screamed and the teachers worked for fifteen minutes trying to get everyone back in order and away from Carter. Peter hadn’t seen many other broken bones like that…he had seen them at odd angles, but Peter’s looked as if the bone had been shoved forward towards his wrist and it was protruding from the skin. Not particularly far, but far enough for it to be visible.

“Holy shit,” Peter snapped through gritted teeth, pulling the wound close to his chest as if cradling it would somehow help, “Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit.”

It was almost funny. In some twisted way, because it was always the times he wasn’t supposed to be doing something that he got hurt. Peter slowly rose to his knees, continuing to hold the assaulted limb near him. Momentarily his head spun, he felt nauseous, sick very deep in his stomach as he tried not to gag because of the pain radiating through every crevice of his body. He was struggling for air, trying to draw it inward, but it felt too difficult, and so he opted to force himself to his feet. He ignored the vertigo and hid the webshooters.

Walking it was.

He didn’t continue on to the store, but instead headed home. He pulled his sleeve down over the gash, but continued to hold it and no one really gave a curled up teenager much of a glance when he walked by with his head low and his mouth set in a thin line. Home. Just had to get home. If he could get home, he could be warm, and fix whatever was happening. Peter wasn’t sure how someone went about fixing their protruding bone, but he was going to have to figure it out. It wasn’t the first time he had broken his arm…he had done so once when he was about nine-years-old, but that had been different. The bone hadn’t stuck out…it hadn’t been a clean break. This was…bad.

Maybe he should have been less of a baby, since he was Spider-Man, but no. He was whining…and was worried, because he wasn’t supposed to be swinging without his mask, but he had, like a full blown dumbass. He was going to be grounded forever and ever and ever. It was going to be like the ferry incident all over again…An exaggeration, a source of panic from having to hide his wound from everyone walking down the street.

By the time he got back to the penthouse, the humor grew, the hysteria…because he had left there to get wrapping paper and had come back with a broken arm. Awesome. He took the elevator up, into the empty penthouse. His father wasn’t home yet, hadn’t arrived after the time it took Peter to get home. So he almost immediately locked himself in the bathroom. There was a moment of contemplation, of wondering how in the world he was going to handle the fact that his bone was protruding from his body. Slowly he rolled his sleeve up, sitting on the edge of the bathtub as he did so. The blood had slowed, but the bone was still there, making him feel the urge to vomit again.

“Friday?” Peter called upward.

“Yes Peter?” The AI replied.

Peter bit his lip and sighed, “H…how do I…fix this?”

There was no response for a moment, and Peter guessed the AI was probably scanning him. A few beats went on, and Peter was just glad he was warm, because the stiffness from the cold had made it difficult to relax. Finally Friday answered, “It will need to be set. I suggest surgically, as the bone seems to have emerged from the skin.”

Well…no shit.

“Can I set it? Not surgically?”

Another pause.

“That’s not recommended,” Friday said, “You risk harming yourself further.”

Well, no…That couldn’t happen. Peter could fix it. If it wasn’t recommended, that meant there must have been a possible way of fixing it. Peter grabbed his wrist, before hovering his thumb over where the bones was sticking out…Maybe he could just…put it back in?

Oh God, I’m an idiot.

That was only confirmed when Peter went through with the motion. He heard Friday say something, but the sickening pain that twisted through his body shredded him alive, and the nausea intensified and Peter recognized the illness…recognized it as fainting and -

Peter’s eyes rolled into the back of his head, and he promptly passed out, falling backward into the bathtub.

…

“Peter?”

Peter’s eyes opened slowly and he groaned. He was still in the bathtub, squished side ways. Pain was filtering in, and the bone appeared to be visiting the outside world…still. It was his father’s voice speaking to him, but strange and Peter turned his head slightly, looking up at the ceiling because…it was coming from Friday…

“Friday?” Peter questioned blearily, “Why do you sound like Dad?”

“Because it is Dad,” His father snapped, and Peter didn’t know why he sounded so angry and why he felt so drunk. Maybe he was delirious…from trying to shove his bone back into his body. Or from fainting. Either way -

“Peter, why did Friday call me? Are you alright?”

Peter cringed at how loud his dad sounded and he hummed, swallowing bile down in his throat, feeling drunk…

“I’m good…I’m good…I’m great actually.”

“Try again,” The man ordered, “Friday says you’re hurt, what’s wrong?”

“Why’d you ask then, if you knew,” Peter slurred.

A sigh. Impatience. Peter recognized it vividly and he poked out his lower lip, the edges of his vision blurring, “What happened?”

Peter let out a slow breath, looking at his arm. It was still ugly, and gross looking and the haze became blurrier when he saw it, he felt like he was being dunked under water over and over again and Peter swallowed thickly. Should he lie? Well, Friday had already snitched…again. Always snitching. And Peter had knocked himself out…so clearly this was something he couldn’t really fix himself. He just wanted his dad there at that point…he didn’t care if he got grounded anymore. He wanted someone to get him out of the squished position in the tub and to wrap his arm and feed him pain meds -

“Dad,” Peter whispered, “I can see the bone.”

A shocked beat.

“What…?” His dad questioned. Peter sighed, not wanting to repeat himself, his head was pounding, he couldn’t think straight and then, “What the actual fuck does that mean?”

Peter groaned, trying to get out of the tub, but he couldn’t. Good thing was…losing consciousness meant the pain was dulled exquisitely. He shouted, frustrated when he couldn’t get up, “I can see the bone!”

“The bone of what!?”

His dad sounded shrill…And Peter answered hurriedly, knowing that voice too well, “My arm - just…my arm, Dad. I fell down. I’m sorry, I slipped on some ice and I might have…anyway, I’m stuck in the bathtub, I’m too - I’m too big.”

“Are you drunk?”

“No…” Peter sounded petulant, “I just…fainted. I might have hit my head.”

He could practically imagine his father pinching the bridge of his nose. Finally, after Peter thought he was never going to reply, his father ordered, “Stay where you are, I’ll be there soon.”

Before Peter could answer, his dad hung up. Peter slouched in his stuck position in the tub, legs hanging over the side…

“No…problem.”

#what we are au #biological father au

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trashylvania · 6 years

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Great i got my EKG results back from my latest ER visit, and apparently i’ve developed left ventricular hypertrophy, which means that the left portion of the heart muscles responsible for pumping my blood are thickening/enlarging because my heart is working rly hard to beat for some reason 😭 it causes the exact symptoms that keep sending my ass to the ER (significant chest pain w/ a weird distinctive squeezing sensation when the heart beats, dizziness, difficulty breathing, faintness, getting rly tired even when i ain’t doin shit) which, when it worsens, strongly resembles a heart attack, esp bc the blood flow to my left arm gets reduced and causes weakness.

apparently i’m getting closer and closer to a heart attack as this progresses… my risk for stroke (my genes rly favor strokes more than any other infarction) as well as my risk for wild & scary shit like cardiac arrest 😓😓😓

i have none of the conventional risk factors that cause this condition; my blood pressure only ranges between low to optimal, i’m young, i’m not overweight, i don’t have sleep apnea… the only things left are genetics or a mystery medical condition causing it. while i smoke, smoking, in this context, is discouraged bc it can contribute to high blood pressure (which i don’t have.) so that’s not actually impacting this, and if it were truly an urgent/serious problem, my docs would scream at me to quit. but at my age, the damage caused is minimal, and smoking is the least of my problems… it’s acknowledged that while quitting would be great in general, i would still be just as sick as i am now.

now i need to get another echo done, esp bc i haven’t gotten one since i was put on my meds. i’m getting closer to ironically developing the heart failure my meds were created to treat… at 26 years old. the catheterization procedure my heart doc wanted to do wouldn’t solve this issue, my meds are losing control over my arrhythmia now so my heart is starting to speed up again, and somehow my heart is still straining to beat/ causing my heart muscles to thicken to keep up despite the fact that my heart rate WAS controlled very well until recently. even still, my heart rate doesn’t go that far past 130bpm in crisis scenarios, and is only grazing tachy state these days at 100-110bpm. b4 meds, the heart monitor i wore for a week as i went about my day showed that my heart was consistently RAGING at 150-170bpm… that is a CRITICAL, DANGEROUS heart rate in a clinical situation and is considered an emergency. i was just walking around like that, albeit barely. i could hardly breathe back then or even minimally exert myself without risking collapse. i was stuck in bed unless stubbornness led me to fight my way thru going out to run errands or whatever with family. i couldn’t go out alone bc i couldn’t manage and it was too risky to try, but i still made it to doctor appointments.

these days, i’m returning to feeling like death again, just not as debilitated as b4 thx to my meds. like, i’m legit lucky to be here… my heart doc was in shock when he got my monitor results and called me in asap; he wanted to go thru with the procedure right away, but i’m scared that i have V-EDS (as opposed to the less-horrible current dx of H-EDS) bc my family history shows a definite possibility thx to my own research. i’ve slept hard on getting the test bc any hope i have of receiving p much any kind of lifesaving surgery i could ever need is extinguished… i have a distinctly high risk of bleeding out, bc V-EDS already carries a bleed-out risk even with going about my daily life. the catheterization procedure is largely safe and minimally invasive for most ppl, but if i have vascular EDS, the risk of threading a catheter thru my ARTERY is kinda like poking a sleeping giant; nicking an artery could result in an unprecedented level of bleeding, possibly enough to rly fuck me up. i hesitate to go as far as to say ‘it could kill me lmao’ bc i rly don’t want to think about that shit, but it’s not impossible. V-EDS is rare wild shit 👀

also, my sick ass is going for 5000 medical tests on Wednesday; i’m getting a shit ton of blood drawn to test for everything causing my other (non-cardiac) symptoms, bc my heart isn’t a sufficient insult to my health on its own. a distinctly frightening, actual, not exaggerated by my anxiety possibility is that i have lymphoma. seriously. my primary doc warned me about this, using the word 'lymphoma,’ and consulted with an oncologist contact asking when is soonest i can be tested, since i was given prednisone last Wednesday when i was rushed to the ER from radiology bc i had an allergic reaction to the MRI contrast dye (that i’d tolerated in the past, but i guess my body wanted to suddenly complicate shit for no reason.) i’m frequently referred to as 'really sick,’ but it doesn’t fully register; i’m like constantly maintaining some low-level dissociation from it despite being so immersed in it. i tell myself shit like 'rly sick ppl can’t go to class like i am’ even tho i’ve had no choice but to drop this semester (there goes that sweet shred of denial i was clinging to!) and i barely dragged myself thru last semester. like, i can go out to accompany family with running errands (it’s sometimes the most 'going out’ i can manage, provided i sit in the car most of the time, which has become a source of fun for me, idc how 'sad’ it might sound) or take myself out to the doctor. sometimes i can tidy up a bit and do some organizing, but that’s far and few in between. washing my face and hair is forced, and if it’s accomplished, it’s a 'good day.’ crafting is only possible occasionally, when my brain isn’t super foggy, but my heart is kinda holding me up from it altogether lately 😣

yesterday, after another refreshing blast of radiation from the x-ray i got in the ER, i felt amazing. i found new jams to listen to, had a nice shower/washed my hair and face, made coherent 'to-do’ lists, helped my husband pack for his flight 2day, made him a mixtape of like 90 (mostly new) songs i found so he’d have something to listen to on the plane, managed to eat a substantial meal, and even put nice lotion on (which was admittedly a struggle thx to my heart, so i was kinda lightheaded and breathless the whole time, but i smell nice so it was worth it 😎😎😎)

2day, on the other hand, is full of hideous fatigue again, lots of time in bed, pain back at full force, the fun of only being either extremely overheated or covering myself in literally 5 or more blankets, and the lowkey growing disappointment that i might not accomplish anything (no matter how minor) on my relatively modest 'to-do’ list… even tho i have the spirit and mental motivation to do it. if my heart won’t cooperate, it makes everything either an agonizing struggle or turns most of my attempts to do something more worthwhile/fulfilling into almost instant defeat. even tho i’m extremely stubborn and push myself well past my limits just to maintain even a minimally recognizable version of my normal life.

like, it’s shocking how much of an effect the radiation has on me, bc it’s the only variable that’s changed from usual; if i get out of the ER without radiation, i’m even more exhausted the next day, so it’s not i’m invigorated by the 'peace of mind’ that i *didn’t* have a heart attack bc i still have new & unresolved heart shit regardless which certainly doesn’t bring me any sense of peace lmao. when i got spine scans, i felt so good that i actually 4got to take my pain meds for like 2 days afterward. that’s fuckin amazing. after that tho i promptly returned to my usual exhausted, complaining, pained state of seemingly perpetual walking death in which i feel like i’m going to collapse if i do anything requiring even minor physical exertion. it’s kinda weird, and i haven’t found much of anything expanding on this phenomenon in any medical journals or forums that concern my known illnesses. i’m supposing if this could be due to either of the disease groups on the table for me: autoimmune diseases & cancers. lymphoma is making an unfortunately strong case, but would it improve with the small burst of radiation from an x-ray? if so, it seems like it could be pretty treatable in my case, esp if i’m dealing with aggressive & fast-growing lymphoma, which is actually considered to be very curable. it would be the first and only condition of mine that’s actually curable.

the others that remain a possibility are sarcoidosis, which would be systemic for me but still usually affects the lungs to some degree, which is visible on a chest x-ray, which i’ve been receiving… i’d imagine the ER docs would’ve caught it. then again, ER docs are primarily concerned w/ shit that’s acutely life-threatening and tend to avoid dealing with chronic issues. considering the incredible chaos on the floor that night, i could easily see how they’d set that kind of thing to the side for a specialist to deal with.

weirdly, right b4 the ER doc told me that he got my x-ray and that there was no pulmonary embolism like we’d already figured, i could’ve SWORN i’d heard the x-ray guy hand over my x-ray to the ER doc, who spent a while appreciating something unusual on it in hushed voices with sum1 who sounded like my nurse… i could’ve sworn i’d heard the word 'sarcoidosis’ (which is kinda hard to mis-hear) but he could’ve been talking about anybody there i guess. ER docs who find sarcoidosis in patients’ xrays will disregard it if it’s asymptomatic, which about half of the cases are i think. i was there for my heart, but since cardiac sarcoidosis is v rare and a mess for anybody other than a specialist, i could imagine that being put aside for my team to handle in a clinical setting. ER docs are hesitant to bring up stuff like that bc if it’s incorrect (or in the many sarcoidosis cases, it’s asymptomatic and harmless,) it could greatly and unnecessarily alarm an already frightened patient, which would be detrimental. since sarcoidosis is chronic and progresses slowly, it’s realistically not rly gonna worsen much in the time it takes to reach a specialist within a week or so; it can wait for a specialist to take the time required to examine the possibility of the disease and any treatments required. so idk, maybe it was about me; if so, i won the bet jokingly made between me & my primary doc on what bizarre diagnosis i have while we’re waiting for all this bloodwork shit to move the differential forward lmao. i guess we’ll see 😓

but i think that’s p much everything i’m dealing with rn, i’m numb to so much of it tbh but it helps to write it out and put everything into context, and it’s a small accomplishment for the day.

sry 4 the long posts lately lmao 😧 i’m gonna get back to netflix as usual (i’m watchin 'monkey life’ rn, it’s rly cute and thankfully keeping me occupied lmao) 🐒💖

thx 4 reading any part of this massive wall of text lmao 💖💛💚💙💜

#trash.txt #long-ass post #chronic illness stuff #the cardiac adventure continues #ehlers danlos syndrome #badheartsclub #heart problems #spoonie life #i'd like to add that i'm also rly thankful for everybody and all yr awesome input and advice!!!#y'all keep me goin too and that's been rly encouraging and helpful #even if i'm feelin too shitty to respond to everything i still read it all and it truly helps.. trust #but damn this post was way longer than i'd originally intended... it's like a chapter of a novel or some shit lmao

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sucaritra · 7 years

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Bāṛi - Chapter 8

Word Count: 1844

Warnings: language, anxiety, Negan

Summary: reader gets sick

A/N: not much happens in this chapter but i’m trying to slowly build up to the action. i’m also looking for a beta for this fic so let me know if you’re interested

Masterlist

“Got some new residents yesterday.”

“Oh yeah, I think I heard about that. Did you see them? What were they like?”

“Yeah, there's five of them and they're all fucking skeevy as fuck. I saw them in the canteen at dinner last night, huddled together, looking shifty. They give off such bad vibes.”

“Did you tell Negan?”

“I think that he got I wasn't entirely comfortable around them, but what can I say? ‘I don't like the way they look.’? That's not a very compelling argument.”

“True, but it would be good for him to know, maybe he’ll have extra eyes watching them?”

“Hmm, maybe.”

You were in the stairwell with Sherry, on the floor below the office which, incidentally, was the floor where Negan and his wives resided in. You'd struck up a surprising friendship with her since that first awkward meeting, usually just meeting in the stairwell where she came for a smoke and striking up conversation during your many journeys up and down the stairs. One thing that you liked about her was that she always shared her smokes with you, although on this particular occasion you had to politely decline the death stick.

It seems as though, for lack of a better term, freshers’ flu had caught up to you. You knew it was only a matter of time. Being around such a large number of people from all over the place in the Sanctuary after such a long time, as well as the poor state you arrived here in has resulted in a horribly sore throat and an even worse headache, so bad that what little light can get through the grimy windows has you squinting ever so slightly to try and protect your poor head. All in all, you were not happy to be out of bed.

After suffering through another coughing fit, thanks to the smoke coming from Sherry, you quickly bid goodbye before making your way up to the office.

Things were slightly hectic at the Sanctuary. With summer gradually turning to fall, Negan wants to ensure the Sanctuary has resources to spare in case of emergencies and in case the weather doesn't allow anyone to get past the gates in the coming months. This means that Saviors are frequently going out on runs to bring back anything and everything they can find, making all the inventory lists that you have to go over seem ten miles long, and getting longer with each day. The mechanics were also working on making the trucks ready for all types of weather, while engineers worked on ensuring the generators would be able to provide heat to the building as well as all the electricity required to run it.

All in all, you were in for a very busy few months.

Negan would grimace every time you so much as sniffled, making your patience wear thin. You were not in the mood to deal with the immature side of the man today.

“The fuck is wrong with you?” Negan couldn't stop staring at you, the way you'd try to shield your eyes from the light coming from the huge windows behind him, and the painful sounding coughs wracking your little body, truth be told you were a sorry sight to behold.

“I think it’s like the apocalyptic version of freshers’ flu.”

“And what the fuckety fuck is that?!”

“You don't use that term in the US?! It’s the illnesses you get during the first few weeks of starting university. I think all the meeting new people, shitty food and lack of sleep causes it. Would've figured you'd use the term, or something similar, over here. Huh.”

“And here I was thinking all the newbies were a bunch of pussies.”

“Thanks.”

You really wished you were back in bed. The tennis ball sized pressure behind your eyes was doing nothing but hindering your ability to read the ledger on the table in front of you. It was making it harder than ever to read the scribble of points collected over the last week. You even tried bringing it closer to your face but that just made your migraine worse.

With an angry huff you dropped the pad onto the table, knowing you're pouting like a fucking child but far past caring at this point. Catching sight of Negan’s raised eyebrow, you vent your despair.

“I can't read it! It’s a pile of wank. I thought only doctors had bad writing?! How the fuck can anyone understand this mess?!” you had to stop before you became to overwhelmed. No one takes being ill well, but being ill during the apocalypse is a whole other battle. It reminds you of how you'd get through it before: the food your mum makes only when you’re ill; being cocooned in all your warmest blankets; your parents babying you. Now you just get a dirty look thrown your way whenever you cough too close to someone and only have a threadbare throw to keep you warm in the smelly sleeping area.

Negan couldn't help but smile at your mini ramble. It was fucking adorable.

“C’mere. Let me take a look.”

He’d turned in his seat so he was parallel to the desk, so you walked around it to hand him the ledger. You turned to walk back towards the front of the desk when you felt a thick arm snake around your waist and proceed to pull you down. Your cheeks burned as you found yourself seated on Negan’s lap, who acted as if nothing was out of the norm and turned his seat back to face the desk.

“Holy shit. Need to have a little chat with Frank because this shit is a fucking mess.”

You were stiff as a board as Negan casually rested his chin on your shoulder while reading through the illegible gibberish in front of him. You tried to keep down the coughs fighting their way out of you while surmising how easy it would have been to sue Negan for sexual harassment in a workplace before all of this. In the end, the coughs won, causing you to shoulder Negan in the throat. Having you on his lap probably wasn't as flirty as he hoped it would have been.

To your surprise, rather than being thrown as far from him as possible, you felt Negan rub his large hand up and down your back, lightly tapping to help you through your little coughing fit. This isn't as bad as you thought it would be. Huh.

“You're gonna get sick.” you hated how weak you sounded due to your sore throat but it couldn't be helped.

“Don't worry ‘bout me, baby. You just get yourself back to bed. You're no good in this state anyhow.” with one last light squeeze around your waist, Negan released his hold on you.

You made a weak case that you were fine and that there was too much work to do, but Negan saw right through you considering you were already making your way towards. You didn't even wait for his reply before you eagerly made your way out of his office, the sound of Negan’s laughter following behind you.

You knew you most likely caught Negan on a good day, and you probably wouldn't be getting another day off any time in the near future so you were going to take full advantage.

Once you were on the second floor, where the communal living area was, you heard someone call your name from the stairwell you had just exited. You turn just in time to see James barreling through the doors, blowing hair out of his face as he greeted you with a big grin.

You hadn't had a chance to talk to the man properly since that chat in the game room all those weeks ago, and the few times you did manage to catch sight of him, he only had time for a brief wave before he was out on the road again.

“James! And here I was thinking I always run out on you! I've hardly seen you the past couple of weeks.” you smile warmly at him to assure there are no hard feelings, but he still looks a little sheepish.

“I know, I feel like a jerk for being so absent. I'm not usually on this many runs, but Negan’s been putting me on the different teams that go out for some reason so I’ve barely been inside the Sanctuary for more than an hour these last two weeks combined. But, I'm back for a couple of days so we should hang out.” His dazzling smile was almost enough to weaken your knees.

“I’d like that,” you replied, unable to stop the smile trying to split your face in half, “Negan’s given me the day off so I’m going to sleep off this cold but if I’m feeling better we could meet up in the game room again later?”

“I’ll be there. I wanted to- ” James didn't finish his sentence before he quickly dropped down on one knee with wide eyes, at the same time as you felt a heavy hand on your shoulder and a looming presence behind you.

Tilting your head back, you notice Negan standing behind you with Lucille draped over his shoulder, glaring down at James.

“I thought I told you to go to bed.” He wouldn't look at you, instead choosing to keep his eyes on James.

“I was just on my way there.”

“Well, go on then.”

You didn't know what Negan’s problem was, but you didn't want to find out. So, with a small, albeit slightly confused, smile at James, you made your way to your room. Turning your head back, you quickly turned it back again as you caught both James and Negan staring after you. You were too sick to even try and tackle whatever the fuck that was.

The living area was mostly empty at this time, with only those who had been on the night shift present, as well as a couple of guards up on the catwalks.

Wasting no time, you quickly make your way to your bed space, practically ripping your shoes off your feet in your hurry to get in bed. As you made to close the curtain surrounding your space, you notice one of the men that arrived yesterday, the one that wouldn't stop staring until Negan bonked him on the head with Lucille.

His bed was opposite yours, a few rows down, and he was sat on it and, yet again, staring. You suddenly felt cold all over as he smiled at you, looking more like a grimace, before you promptly shut the curtain in an attempt to get that image out of your head.

Getting into bed, you tried not to think about the creep sat just a few beds away, and found yourself recalling what Negan’s arms felt like around you not too long ago, and the warmth you felt from him as you slowly drifted off into a restless sleep.

tagging: @neganisking

#negan #negan x reader #negan x you #negan fanfiction #twd fanfiction #jdm #jeffrey dean morgan

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theladysmith · 7 years

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Reboot.

Hiya. Happy new year. It's 2017.

After a few years of trotting out my social media efforts out as a website presence, I’ve decided to rethink, revamp and relaunch my blog. 2016 was quite the year for me, so much so that I think I might need to write about it, and I’m just delusional enough to think that as my jewelry and design and life-as-a-human work evolves, people might want to learn a bit about my process and the life that insulates it.

So I suppose this post represents a relaunch (or a messy new launch) of my blog. I generally prefer to photo document life, and so spend a lot of time on Instagram, which in turn feeds my Tumblr, and for a long while I’ve felt that this is enough social media presence for me, that my images and captions speak enough about my art-life and my life-life. Until recently. Life-life this year has been challenging, and photo-captioning it doesn’t really allow for the deeper dive that I might want to allow myself every once and awhile. My desire to discuss what’s going down without the threat of caption limits grows daily. I can’t keep my expectations to myself anymore. I guess that’s where you come in: I’m asking for witness.

I had originally written a long, hand-wringingly dramatic post about how I lost my J-o-b several months ago. I was aiming to be concise, but emotions got the better of me and it just started to get whiny. I may post it eventually, but I dunno. I wrote and rewrote this post over the fall, and am now revisiting it 5 months and a New Years later and I realized that I've simmered down some. I feel like telling the story now for historical context, as the lay-off and its repercussions has completely changed my life for the better, and as result has fired up my art-life so much that I can no longer deny that my art-life is in fact my real and true life-life. I can no longer function as a human without working as an artist. That has been the biggest, hardest and most joyful lesson to come out of the shit-show that was 2016. (Full disclosure: I had secured legal representation after my lay-off due to several human rights violations that I experienced as an employee of Sotheby's International Realty Canada's Oakville office, but a change of situation has now freed me to talk about it. I offer this as a cautionary illustration of what a skilled, experienced and friendly employee can experience working for woefully ignorant and shockingly under-qualified management. You know, 'cause the world needs another tale like this...

I started a new job with the regional Sotheby’s International Realty office in August ’15, and I was crazy-excited to be working with a world-class marketing team and historically significant brand in a new (to me) field with a short walking commute. Walking to, but mostly from work soon became the best part of the job, as the management direction became abusive, the expectations were never communicated and the high-school-level office drama emerged just a few weeks after starting the job. At lunch with my brother in mid-September I casually mentioned that I wasn’t very happy with how things were going, but maybe it was just growing pains. By our trip to NYCC in early October, I was depressed each and every night (especially Sunday nights!) knowing that I would eventually have to go back to work, and was planning a pie-in-the-sky escape plan out of self-preservation. I also wasn’t feeling very well, but I figured it was my annual late-in-the-year energy slump and the Monday-Friday frustrations feeding stress-related illness . I told myself to hang on, that the job would improve. It did not improve. Let’s cut to the beginning of 2016, shall we?

After indescribable work stress, a suspicious lymph node infection, a total immune system crash, and 5 and a half months of unending illness (head colds! sinus infections! gastroenteritis! the flu! another cold!), I was diagnosed with papillary thyroid cancer in February, just a week before I turned 40.

To illustrate the degree of shit to which the job had gone, I offer this story: I spent my 40th birthday sick as a dog, yet in a compulsary meeting at work where I was scheduled to make a 1/2 hour presentation with next-to-no voice, which was interrupted by the perfunctory cake and happy birthday song delivered with the energy of a funeral dirge. I finished my presentation to discover that they had eaten the entire cake without leaving me a slice while I was talking! Totally defeated, I spent the evening nested on the couch in my pjs with a head cold so terrible that I was unable to taste the lovely chocolate cake that Mike had gotten for me. I was miserable, scared and angry, and I didn't know what to do. I can't ever remember feeling more hopeless. I wish that was the only horrible story I could tell of this recent job, but there are about 3 dozen more, most far more depressing, including the one where MY BOSS INFORMED MY COWORKERS OF MY DIAGNOSIS BY EMAIL WITHOUT MY PERMISSION. But let’s not go there right now...

By the end of March, I was finally “healthy” (in that I was no longer actively sick with something, except for cancer), and I was feeling a little more optimistic because the multiple doctor's appointments, nasal endoscopies, CT scan and biopsies had determined that the cancer was isolated just to my thyroid. I had a great new family doctor and surgeon who had managed to answer most of my many questions and my surgery had been set for early May. The daily personal bullying at work had even simmered down a bit, but this was just temporary because of yet another massive drama regarding another coworker, so my issues were briefly off the radar. Emphasis on briefly.

I had been working with an amazing therapist (and friend) out of Ottawa via Skype for a few weeks while I navigated my treatment options, and with her support I made the decision to move to working 4 days a week for awhile, to give myself a bit more time to schedule doctor and therapy appointments. The 4 day work week, while definitely no shorter in terms of hours, felt like one of the most adult and freeing decisions I had ever made in my professional life. I was starting to feel very well prepared and almost excited for my surgery. My health was improving (as was my outlook) and it felt good.

My total thyroidectomy was on May 5. O5/05 - I felt like the numbers were auspicious, and I guess they were. The surgery, while a little longer than expect, went perfectly. When I woke up in recovery, high as a kite on morphine, I knew a moment (albeit drug-induced) of pure gratitude and love for everyone and everything. I had never experienced that before - it was lovely. Memorable. I still think of it daily. Propped up with a massive bandage on my throat, I squawked a little 'hello' to myself and beamed that the surgery hadn't taken my voice (there is a small chance of permanent change or loss of voice with all thyroid surgery, as the vocal cords run through the thyroid.)

I had some trouble with my blood calcium levels that kept me in the hospital a little longer than the overnight that I had expected, but by 8 pm the next day I was home, happy and relatively comfortable. I healed like a champ. Work benevolently (can't roll my eyes hard enough here) gave me my 4 remaining sick days to recover, and I worked from home the following week because my voice had still barely recovered and my incision line was periodically sore. I even managed to get to the Ottawa Comic Con a week after my surgery so that I could visit Mike and our friends who were exhibiting. After my stitches were removed (which was the creepiest physical sensation I've ever experienced) I spent a few days recovering at my family home. All of this time felt like such a gift.

My return to work was tough. My voice was weak and would give out mid-sentence, which was weirdly exhausting, and my energy levels were a little all over the place because my body was still getting used to the new Synthroid thyroid medication that I was now on for life. I felt overall that I was doing pretty well, but work quickly reminded me they thought otherwise. The prevailing attitude was "wow, your illness was such an inconvenience" or "actually, we got along just fine without you." I had started a job search during the dark days of deep winter, but after my diagnosis I just let it drop. I started to reconsider. But I I felt like I had really survived something, so the trials and dramas of work should've seemed like nothing in comparison, right? As spring continued, the job environment worsened. The brokerage manager (henceforth to be referred to as Terrible Manager/Person, as she really was both a terrible manager and a terrible person) continued to throw me under the bus, cc-ing emails where she blasted me for non-issues to the entire national management team, wasting everyone's time. I went far and beyond my job description on a few special projects, but my efforts weren't even recognized with a simple thanks. The few actual design-oriented projects that came across my desk were promptly taken away from me and weakly completed by the Toronto office, which was frustrating because my position had been advertised as a graphic designer position but had flattened into a straight coordinator position, leaving me increasingly upset with my decision to leave my former job (which hadn't been the best, but at least they had respected my skills and input.) The professional criticism was unending, and totally unnerving - was I going crazy? Was I actually terrible at this job? You know, the same kind of job I'd been doing for 10+ years, with glowing reviews from former employers? I felt completely lost...however, when the criticism started to involve how I looked and what I wore ("hey, did you know you can lose 10 lbs just by cutting out bread for a week?" "Wow I like your blouse, oh wait, you got it at WalMart? And you wear it here!?" "I heard of a medical trial on the radio for people with skin issues and I thought of you immediately..." THOSE WERE ALL SAID TO ME WITHIN A WEEK'S TIME), I realized there was no fixing this shit show, no matter how long I stayed or how hard I tried. (Honestly, apart from a shitheaded misogynist manager once telling me "you know, you'd be a lot prettier if you smiled more!", I have never, ever been subjected to as much criticism regarding how I looked as I was at Sotheby's. I was always dressed office appropriate with professional hair and makeup and boring shoes, but nary a week went past without someone making some kind of comment about my skin, my weight, my illness, my clothes, the frequency with which I wore some things, or my boring shoes. And it's worth mentioning that it was almost always women making these statements...

We went to HeroesCon in Charlotte in mid June and had the best time (as usual) and I came back to work high on art and our amazing friends, only to be deflated and sluggish 2 days later, looking forward to the next long weekend, con or event. Something at work had changed too, I could feel it. I was left out of or uninvited to trainings and dealings with the rest of the national marketing team. My long-promised raise that had been due in November (per my contract, but withheld by Terrible Manager/Person who never felt inclined to complete my 6 month review) suddenly arrived unceremoniously by email. I was told that a new agent was taking my office and I would need to move the contents of my office to a barren corner of an unused board room where a new office was going to be built for me by mid-July. That plan got fast-tracked, suddenly I was given 2 day's notice that my office space was moving, and it was literally taken down around me as I tried to finish up work before I was due to leave for a long weekend in Montreal at the end of the first week of July. My long-developed filing system was destroyed, my organization systems were hastily thrown into boxes, all of it was moved to the empty board/storage room. I was incredulous as I left work for my long weekend - what a mess that was going to be to come back to.

While I was away, there was the usual monthly general office meeting for all the Oakville and Niagara on the Lake agents, Terrible Manager/Person and office staff. Terrible Manager/Person and 2 agents (who I had rarely worked with but who had always been terrible to me when I had to work with them) spent considerable time during the meeting slandering me to the rest of the group (which I heard about the day I was laid off.) One agent who had exhibited an absolute hate-on for me from day one (and who was tight friends with Terrible Manager/Person) apparently stood up and declared "why should my business suffer because someone is sick!?" It's worth noting she had only come to me twice in the space of 6 months for actual help, and I kept her advertising initiatives on track when she had dropped the ball...anyway... The day I returned back to work from our Montreal weekend, I was knee-deep in sorting out an issue between an agent who was away in Eastern Europe on vacation, the agent who was looking after her affairs in the meantime, and the printer who had dropped the ball on their job. I had it sorted out, and had emailed both the agent and my manager that everything was copacetic, but because of a 6+ hour time difference between here and Croatia, and the fact that Terrible Manager/Person was rarely timely in checking her emails or reading email threads, she bitched me out to the national team once again. That was is, I lost it. That afternoon, I confronted her about it, explaining that every time she cc'd the team about some issue she had with me or my work instead of speaking directly with me, she cost everyone time, especially me, and seeing as how I was constantly over-my-head busy, I was done with that kind of unprofessional bullshit. Her face went blank, and she said ok, and walked out of my office.

I was laid off the next morning. They called it corporate restructuring, as they always do, and told me that the Toronto team was taking over the Oakville and NOTL office marketing needs. They reposted my exact job description (the same one that I had applied to the year before) the next morning - there it was sitting in my inbox at 7 am. I still find it utterly hilarious that they didn't think I'd see that...but considering the very first thing that Terrible Manager/Person asked me to do when I came on board was "to change everyone's emails so that they could somehow look like they were written in cursive handwriting font on a parchment paper background, because it's just so much nicer and elegant", I'm not fucking surprised...(for real, that was the first request that I received as a Graphic Designer/Marketing Coordinator for Sotheby's International Realty Canada. Elegant indeed. I should've run right then and there...)

So, five months later! Where's my head at? I'M SO HAPPY I DON'T WORK FOR THE RICH AND ENTITLED ANYMORE! SO HAPPY I DON'T WORK FOR A TERRIBLE MANAGER/PERSON ANYMORE! SO ABSOLUTELY SURE THAT I AM DONE WITH CORPORATE CULTURE FOR MAYBE EVERRRRRR... All caps screaming aside, I'm at a bit of a loss to describe how life changing last year was. I feel like the creative girl that I was when I was in college, full of ideas, making art on the daily and feeling happy, hopefully and resourceful. The messy breakup feels that the lay-off brought are dissolving - I can't help but note that I don't really have any lingering friendships from that job; I've had them from every job I ever had, but this one was different. I am really aware that people were only friends with me when they needed something. Human nature I guess...or real estate agent nature. Who knows(/cares)? I don't know what the next year is going to look like, but right now it looks like planning, making, organizing, selling and promoting. I may have to take a part time job eventually, I may not, I may find lots more freelance (was doing ok with it in the remainder of 2016), I may not. I truly have no idea. But considering that everything that I held as concrete and permanent this time last year has completely changed and I'm thriving in spite or because of, I'm feeling pretty ok about it all. I wish you a very happy new year. I am very happy to be here to do so.

(If you're working a job that involves you feeling terrible about yourself and your abilities on a daily/weekly basis, if you have to deal with a Terrible Manager/Coworker/Person with no one to back you up, if your job was promised as one thing but has backslid into something undesired, or worse, health-threatening, please make every effort to free yourself. I know how it feels to be locked in, desperate, scared and seemingly without options. You can at least talk to someone, be heard, and vent your frustrations, and through that you can find a path and resources to find something better. I am happy to lend an ear and/or shoulder to anyone who needs to decompress from their workplace tension, and more importantly, brainstorm ways to get out of an abusive job. It is absolutely not worth your health or peace of mind - it is time spent that none of us will ever get back.)

#new year #job #work #layoff #cancer #thyroid #thyca #recovery #art #terrible bosses #life lessons #reboot

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