#past seizure cw

[fletcherwilbury]

@whumptober Day 9: Alt Prompt 6: Playing Cards

Warning for Past hospital setting, past seizure, past injury, verbal abuse, weapons

[moonstruckme]

hello hello lovely! so the other day i donated blood for the first time and i felt perfectly fine the whole time but then like ten minutes after i threw up with like no warning?? (im fine now turns out i hadnt eaten enough during the day!!) but anyway i was wondering if you might please do a similar scenario with emt!marauders? doesnt have to be exact of course 💗 love you!

Oh I'm sorry that happened to you babe!! Thank you for requesting <3

cw: mention of past blood draw, nausea, lightheadedness

emt!marauders x fem!reader ♡ 798 words

You’re bent over so that your head is almost resting on your knees when a pair of shoes comes into your periphery. It seems they’ve sent someone to make sure you’re not going to pass out. 

You force yourself to sit up, every muscle in your body feeling strange and overwrought, and oh. It’s three someones. You’d worry your vision was tripling if they didn’t look each very distinct, save for their black EMT uniforms. 

The owner of the shoes you’d seen sits in the chair beside you, all brown eyes and kind, gentle features. “Hi,” he says, “I’m Remus. Are you the one who had trouble with the blood draw?” 

You sigh. “Yeah.” Give him a small smile you hope looks reassuring. “I’m fine, though. It passed quickly. I’m just waiting for the go-ahead to go home.” 

“You got sick?” A second paramedic asks you as he sits down on your other side. This one has glasses and thick, curly hair that falls just above his eyes. The third, with sleeves rolled up to display arms full of inky tattoos, leans against the wall across the hall from you. 

You’re not entirely sure which one of them to look at, but you decide upon the boy who’d asked the question. “Yeah?” 

His lips tilt with a sympathetic sort of smile. “Probably best not to be walking or driving anywhere while you’re feeling ill, love. Do you feel up to some crackers?” 

You take the package of saltines he offers you. Notice for the first time how badly your hands are shaking as you try to tear it open. He notices, too. 

“Here, I’ve got that.” He takes it back from you, ripping it open with one easy motion. As he holds it out for you, he says, “I’m James, that’s Sirius.” The tattooed paramedic shoots you a wink. 

“Nice to meet you,” you mumble. “Look, I’m really okay. They didn’t need to send three of you to check up on me.” 

Sirius laughs. “Don’t worry, babe, no one’s worried you’re going to have a seizure. We’re just a package deal.” 

“The staff is all busy with the blood drive,” offers Remus when you still look perplexed, “and we’re between calls. We just thought we’d sit with you on our break, if that’s alright.” 

“Oh.” You swallow a bite of cracker. “Yeah, okay. Thank you.” 

He gives you a soft smile. “How do you feel?” 

“I’m okay.” 

“You’re shaking down to your kneecaps,” Sirius says dryly.

“The nurse said you looked like you were going to faint after you got sick,” James tries in a lighter tone. “Do you still feel that way?” 

He keeps his eyes on yours, warm and gentle, as you chew the inside of your lip. “I don’t think so,” you say. “Just a bit weird, I guess.” 

“Weird how?” Sirius presses. 

You shrink some under his gaze, and Remus says sternly, “Sirius.” 

“You’re scaring her.” James’ hand lands on your thigh almost absentmindedly as he gives the other boy a faux glare. “Go get some juice. Begone.” 

Sirius huffs a laugh, pushing off from the wall. “Pricks,” he says as he goes. 

James turns back to you, smile turned up to full wattage. “Don’t mind him. What were you saying about how you feel weird?” 

“Just…mostly fine.” It’s impossible not to grow shy under the attention of the prettiest guys you think you’ve ever seen. Remus nods for you to continue. “A little bit nauseous, I guess, and shaky. Just…weird.” 

James makes a sympathetic sound, rubbing your thigh. The way you go shock still at the touch appears not to catch his notice. “Yeah, sounds like lightheadedness to me. S’alright, though, we’ll get you fixed up in a minute here.” 

Sirius saunters back in with a cup of orange juice. “Look,” he says as he hands it to you, “I even got her a straw to prove I’m not mean. See?” 

“I didn’t think you were being mean,” you say quietly.

Sirius grins. “No.” He chucks you gently under the chin. You shrink even further into your seat. You swear these boys are only making your trembling worse. “You never said a bad thing, gorgeous. It’s just these two, they love to tyrannize me.” 

“You could stand to be tyrannized from time to time,” says Remus. 

“Yeah,” James agrees heartily. “Keeps you from tyrannizing everyone else so much.” 

Their easy bantering brings a smile to your lips. Remus smiles back at you, nodding to your orange juice. “Take small sips of that,” he says. “Don’t drink too fast and stop if you start to feel sick again.” 

“Attagirl,” James encourages when you raise the straw to your lips obediently, rubbing your thigh again. 

They’re lucky the orange juice doesn’t come out your nose.

[ellesthots]

Fateful Beginnings

XLI. “guilty as sin?”

parts: previous / next

plot: left reeling from an abrupt interruption, you and Bruce fight a losing battle against rising tides. Crane makes himself clearer than ever before.

pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader

cw: 18+, smut, brief mention of past suicide attempt, psychiatric hospital scene, brief seizure

words: 12k

a/n: hiii lovelies !! consider this a holiday gift <3 i thiiiiink it’ll be worth the wait :)

He’d come much too close. And not close enough. Your lips lingered on his like a searing knife. A flame that came too near and singed off the top layer of skin.

His head buzzed as he followed Alfred without thought down the steps. His fingers traced the ghost of you as they skimmed his lower lip. It had only been a second, but you’d sent such a jolt through him that he’d swore he’d been struck by lightning. Why did Gordon have to come now? 

The edges of his vision blurred knowing you were up there waiting; if he’d remembered to shut the door, maybe he could’ve ignored Alfred. Asked to kiss you. Maybe you would’ve reciprocated. Maybe. Then he could’ve tasted you. 

Nah. No way.

His left hand flexed at his waist, holding the tension of a quiver as it grieved the loss of your warm skin. He thudded hard down the last stair, thoughts wandering to how quickly he could get this over with; he hadn’t expected the tension to linger like this, consuming his entire body, even as he shook Gordon and Martinez’s hands and listened to them speak. His hips sitting in the chair didn’t feel right—too hard, too static, he needed to move. 

Something about paperwork regarding something about a court, something about a trial, something about testifying against Risou or signing away the rights. As much as he tried to blink back to the moment and engage with what was in front of him, he remained untethered. 

Focus. Seems straightforward. Jail time and some institutionalizing. That part of him burned again thinking about how animalistically they treated patients. Focus. My word has weight. 

It was a constant refrain as your fingers brushed your bottom lip: why did Alfred have to interrupt? 

You swore you felt a shift in the air—but maybe you wanted to think so. There couldn’t be a world where he had actually wanted to kiss you, right? Where his breath on your neck meant anything... You pulled your legs up to the couch and leaned against the back. Head pounding. Heart racing. 

The room was extraordinarily empty without him. The television’s screensaver ping-ponging within its frame, the gentle whir of the mini fridge to your left. Though the door was open, you couldn’t make anything out; with how unstable your body was, consumed with the shock it just endured, you couldn’t begin to snoop.

At the back of your mind were your worries: would Mar be okay? Would Bruce have to leave? Did someone escape? What happened? Soon after they materialized they were flushed away by the pounding in your mouth and the tingle in your hands and feet. His lips touched mine. Your thoughts were jumbled and incoherent besides. Our mouths touched. 

The caffeine wasn’t helping much, and any possible adrenaline from his abrupt departure had been drained by holding him close. Your heart’s thunderous pace was relentless, even as the seconds turned to minutes and your eyes began to close. 

An hour later Bruce sat with his head in his hands, supported by weak wrists from endless stacks of paperwork. Two untouched mugs of coffee sat where Gordon and Martinez had. Too busy slogging through formalities, they hadn’t bothered. Bruce was glad for it. Could have prolonged their loitering. 

Alfred wandered back with the click of his cane, setting it against his chair while he walked the two cups over to the sink. Bruce knew it was awful, but despite the images from the crime scenes and Martinez’s bright, happy-go-lucky tone while he incessantly spoke, his mind was stuck on the room upstairs and its possibilities. Yet now, when he could finally move back to you, his feet were welded to the floor. 

“Should I anticipate the young lady coming over more often?” The cups clinked together as the man rinsed them, and Bruce tried to play off his surprise.

Should he? “I don’t know.” Something ensnaring had sunk its teeth in and overtaken him; he was drawn to the room like a moth to flame. Had your mouth truly touched his? Not your chin, or some trick of the air?

“It’s good to have a friend.” 

It rang discordantly through him like a bent gong. Friend. When he was procrastinating climbing the stairs to see you because he worried he’d trip and fall onto your lips and lose his hands in your hair. When he was overflowing with unused, pent-up energy that wouldn’t lower to a simmer. 

The alternative of being questioned by Alfred about having a woman upstairs had unglued his feet, not able to bear where he might steer the dialogue next. Within a few seconds he was jogging up the stairs and counting each step.

He repeated a mantra to hype himself up as he stood in the hall. He needed to breathe. That’s all. Breathe. A deep breath, then walk inside… “Sorry for—” 

You were sound asleep on the couch, but he slunk in a few more steps to make sure. Your breaths were long and deep, your eyelids with a slight flutter, both signs that he shouldn’t wake you. Sensing the chill in the room, he padded to Alfred’s study and grabbed the blanket laid atop the chair by the fireplace. He fluffed it in the hall so he wouldn’t disturb, and held his breath as he tossed it over you. In a blip he was gone, sending a text to Alfred through sweaty palms about letting him know if you woke, then descended to the batcave before anything else could be said. 

You startled when you felt something on top of you. An emerald green quilt covered you to your chest, the occasional snags of white thread in its valleys lending a homemade quality. Waking up in unfamiliar rooms started to wear on your sanity, but thankfully Bruce had kept the decorations so slight it didn’t take long to orient. 

Pushing off the blanket Alfred had undoubtedly tossed on, you slapped around for your phone. Getting to your hands and knees revealed it tucked at the bottom of the couch, squarely between the cushion and the arm. 

HOURS. You’d been asleep hours. 

3:02 a.m. was the time blaring from your home screen. You had a single text from Mar updating you with a group picture from Mora’s, but she hadn’t responded to any of the messages you'd sent prior. She hadn’t invited you, though you probably wouldn’t have gone. You didn’t think you were allowed to feel bad in such a case, but it stung.

Impossible to decide if it was a blessing or curse that Bruce was nocturnal, you padded out to the hallway with the quilt wrapped around you like a cape. What had compelled him to make a cape on his suit? Were capes intimidating? Heroic? Distracting?

The stairs were cooler than you remembered, but you stalled after the first set. Standing in the hallway where you’d embraced, like this. The air, the night. Your melancholy was admittedly lower, but you knew a hug from him would fill you the same. You forced yourself down to the foyer, and jumped when you met Bruce sitting in your seat at the table. He startled too.

“I let you sleep, I thought you needed it.” He sounded apologetic, nervous. You shook your head and pursed your lips. 

“No, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.” He got up and opened the fridge. You entered the room in full, careful to scoop the edges of the blanket dragging on the ground. “Want anything?”

The eye contact was fleeting; the second your gazes met, you both cut away like a dodged bullet. You snuck to your chair across the table, furthest from where he stood, and nodded. “What do you have?” 

“Bread, cheese, broccoli." He sifted through unknown items and withdrew some ciabatta and a cheddar loaf. 

“Grilled cheese is good.” What you wanted to say was that you didn’t deserve for him to be cooking, that you’d overstayed your welcome, and it was embarrassing you were here. Arguing with your host, however, seemed even more remiss—and you didn’t want him to turn around yet. His presence was stifling. 

While he prepared a pan on the stove, you rolled the quilt into a compact cylinder and placed it on Alfred’s seat. 

“Was that warm enough?”

“Yeah, perfect.” Had Bruce given it to you? “Thanks.” 

He didn’t respond, busy slicing cheese and toasting the bread. Had he noticed what had happened upstairs? You couldn’t have imagined it. You really, really couldn’t have…

“Want a drink?”

Each syllable was a firework popping. 

“Think there’s juice.”

You got up while he placed the bread in the pan. A container of orange juice glistened on the top shelf, and you followed Bruce’s opening of the cupboard to his left and grabbed two glasses. 

The drink was sweet, with a tang that was an ideal distraction from the elephant in the room. If he wouldn’t mention it, you weren’t opening that can of worms either. 

Seeing as he’d only made one sandwich, which he put on a single plate and walked over to you, you sought to test the waters after taking a bite. Maybe it would ease the pressure. “You call that a sandwich?”

Bruce straightened, his eyes narrowing. “What do you mean?”

Admittedly, it was delicious. “It’s fine, but…” you eyed the pan on the stove. Feigning a groan, you rolled up your sleeves and grabbed the spatula. He moved to stand but you waved him down. “I’ll show you how it’s done.”

As you began making the sandwich the exact same way he had, placing the toast down, the cheese on top, flipping it at the same time, he grew increasingly suspicious. “That’s how I made it.”

“It’s different.” You flipped the sandwich once more, then placed it on a small plate from the cup cabinet. You sat it at his table setting and gestured to him. “Try it.”

Bruce looked up at you with discernment. You bit your cheek to stave off a laugh. Slowly, almost methodically and with a great hesitance, he picked up the sandwich and took a bite. It didn’t take a second for him to catch on, speaking with food in his mouth. “Tastes the same.”

“Probably won’t taste it on the first bite, detective.” You put the spatula away, wondering if you shouldn’t do the dishes to make the load easier on Alfred in the morning. Or their housekeeper. Or whoever did the cleaning in the kitchen. The gentle crunch of another bite was music to your ears, and turning back toward him revealed the most concentrated expression you’d ever seen him make. It was a brutal ordeal not to fall to the floor and laugh until you saw stars.

He opened his mouth with what you were certain would be another comment about how it was not different, so you interrupted. “Just take a few bites. Really think of the flavors.” Slowly, you wandered back to your seat opposite him. He was almost entirely finished with the sandwich, and had just swallowed an especially large bite. Perfect.

He was almost glaring. “Are you messing with me?” His brows were knit together, his jaw tight, his eyes roaming the tabletop as he struggled to uncover the difference. 

Once his gaze landed squarely on you, you folded. He lowered what remained of the sandwich as you barely held a laugh. “Why would I ever mess with you to get you to eat?”

Bruce’s eyes flashed, but yours were already shut with silent, full-bellied laughter. Something about how late at night it was. How dark the kitchen was. How seriously he took things. How awkward things felt after your embrace. When you managed to open your eyes a good twenty seconds later, you noticed the flicker of a smile on his lips. 

He’d totally fallen for it. While he wanted to join in on your contagious laughter, he felt supremely unnerved. He bought himself time by moving the plate to the sink, hoping your laughter wouldn’t be so easily contained as he waded through confusing thoughts. 

Only twice in recent memory had he forgone his own perception for the words of another, and both belonged to you. He recalled the creature vividly; in fact, at least once a week it would infiltrate his dreams. But you had a different story—so he bowed to you. He wanted to feel stupid for overthinking a grilled cheese at three in the morning, but it hung over him like nothing else. Not a raincloud, per se… that was too sinister, too foggy.

He peeked over his shoulder to watch you pour another glass of juice. A blanket, maybe? A weighted blanket? It was a heavy feeling, but one he wasn’t so nervous to give in to. Like something supposed to soothe. Why did he believe you so easily, and why did he want to believe you? It couldn’t be familiarity; if Alfred had tried the same antics, he would’ve outright refused. Possibly taken one bite, then made it clear the two sandwiches were precisely the same… God, it was ridiculous. 

A chuckle escaped him. It must’ve been at the precise time you’d taken a particularly big sip, because he heard the strangest, bubbliest garbling sound and turned to see you with chipmunk cheeks struggling not to blow your drink. Another laugh ripped out of him, and you slapped the table and shook your head, eyes crinkled with humor pleading for him to shut up. Bruce bit his lip and turned away, breathing tightly through his nose. 

He liked hearing you laugh. He liked seeing you playful and lively. He liked having you in his kitchen, even if he might have to mop after you went to bed if you couldn’t get it under control. He looked to check if you’d managed, and you had. Your bright eyes staring back at him from across the room. You were alone again, and he swallowed thickly. He could move the pitcher to the counter, the same with your glass. Shove the placemats to the floor…

“Not gonna finish it?”

He glanced at the quarter of sandwich left, his eyes blurring the edges of the toast as his pupils struggled to focus. He popped it into his mouth and centered on the taste of the cheese and roughness of the bread against his tongue. It was barely enough to keep himself tethered as he plunked into his seat. 

You grinned and asked about what went down with Gordon, and he responded with the most detail he could muster: it wasn’t much. All his effort channeled into what you were saying, because the other side of the seesaw was hyperfixated on your mouth. No, your eyes. Your lashes. Your fingers. The intangible location of your voice ringing in his head. Whew.

And so you talked for the next hour. Trying to pretend like you hadn't clung to each other like koalas mere hours ago, hoping he was forgiving about you tricking him into eating, playing a cat and mouse game with eye contact that drew progressively more tense though the conversation remained logistical. 

The topics weren’t enthralling by any means; updates about the people you’d help house (all situated, some starting new jobs soon), opinions about the candidates for mayor (you and him agreed that Mr. March was what Gotham needed, but were unsure if he’d break in with such genuine focus on people over profit), and a bit about how the election was covered in other states (as you told him: ‘almost nonexistent’). Regardless of how exciting the discussion was or was not, the simple act of engaging with Bruce was addicting.

You truly didn’t talk about anything invigorating, or even anything about each other or your individual lives—the time just flew. By the time you both started talking about each other, the room was misty, and you couldn’t stop staring at his mouth when he spoke. 

“Speaking of,” Bruce piggybacked on the campaign talk to direct things more personally. Each time he went to City Hall, he risked being found out. Each time you went there, you risked being openly harassed—if you hadn’t been already and had the foresight not to tell him. 

“How do you deal with being treated that way at meetings?” He intensely focused, like you were about to say some ancient, secret code he couldn’t miss a second of. While it felt like being spotlit, it was so unusual for you to hold anyone’s attention that it was frightfully endearing. You didn’t have to ponder long for the answer to spill. 

“I just think about how pointless it is to value their opinions. I don’t respect them.” You took another sip of the juice as you shrugged. His eyeline followed the glass, perceptive as ever. “If they think I’m weird, or gross, or whatever else, it probably means I’m doing something right.” Even as you said the words, you struggled to internalize them. Though you technically believed it, your chronically unmet desire to be valued proved a shaky foundation to dismiss scrutiny. You wrapped your arms around your chest, noticing a subtle flick of Bruce’s eyes down and back again. “And I don’t like them anyway. Why do I care what they think of me?”

He wished he could walk into rooms and not care. Throw away their opinions without thought. As a Wayne, this was another way he was isolated from normalcy. His gaze cast down from yours, following a small crack in the wood midway through the table length. He had to play into the elite’s hand; he didn’t have a choice. He was more them than the other way around. “Easier said.”

“I guess it’s about caring more what I think.”

He looked again at those beautiful eyes. Why should he care if they thought he was an idiot? Did they define his family’s legacy, or did he? After all, did the public decide if Batman was good or evil? When he stopped people from getting mugged? Saved kids from trauma? He followed your fingers as they wrapped around the glass. When he stopped you from being assaulted?

Bruce’s eyes had trailed again to his own fingers and thumbs. You prompted him. “What?”

Lamenting on the public’s opinion had pulled the air from the room. Did he value a public that had stolen his family? A public which, until very recently, had all but smited Batman, and condemned the Wayne legacy to a drugged-up skeleton hiding in his tower? 

“My mom.” He sighed from the bottom of his lungs. You followed his rapid blinking, how his eyes scattered across the table. His voice was more timid than you knew it to be, his body fidgeting. “She, uh.” He bit his lip, and you flung away creeping thoughts. “I spent most of my time with her. She lived as if there was always an audience.” Memories of her toying with the hem of her pajamas during a movie night, checking the mirror she kept in her pocket to see if her lipstick had moved. Even when she was alone, she had to be camera-ready. What had she endured to make her behave that way? How little did he know her? Know them?

And he hated to say that. Lived. 

His brows fused together, his back straightening to meet the chair. You leaned forward, hoping he knew you were a willing, attentive audience to any part of his mind. That these moments were gifts, not burdens. He didn’t look up.

“You’re right.” You struggled to avoid the jump in your stomach at his acknowledgement. “Living for the public’s estimation is borrowing a legacy. Can be taken at any point.” He sat in silence after that, time which allowed a smile to spread to your eyes and your chin to rest in your hands. 

“Keep going.” His eyes stuttered up to yours, and the slightest tinge of pink speckled his cheekbones. 

“About what?”

“Anything.”

He flushed to red, and your thoughts became jumbled again. So sweet. His lack of arrogance was staggeringly apparent, and rapidly becoming the hottest thing about him. It was terrifically difficult not to think about how that humility might translate elsewhere.

An expanse of possibilities had his mind inching toward disaster. Surely ‘anything’ didn’t include making a speech about how nice you looked, or how much he enjoyed seeing you across his table. The neckline of a tee had never bothered him before, but now it chafed. He glommed onto the first question in an effort to distract from the tension building in his chest. The question spiraled out of his journals and into the open air between you. “The meetings. How do I throw people off?”

“Of Batman?” Taking advantage of the single space you could reveal his alter ego felt holy. It made him feel larger, a little more imposing. The tired frame of the man in front of you was the same armored creature slinking through shadows in the night. Too often you forgot that, and now it was scintillating. He nodded. The room heated a few degrees. You wrung your hands together beneath the table, suddenly clammy. Well, to start… his eyes were so Vengeance it was virtually comical. He noticed the flicker.

“Tell me.”

You might tell him anything. He could rifle through your thoughts like you’d handed him a stack of your journals back home. Reminiscing on that moment where you’d faltered an apology to the faceless man, and the click of your eyes on his that spurred instant recognition. If you could slow it down, piece it out any further, you would. But it was simple. Agonizingly simple. 

“You can’t really wear colored contacts, so.” 

His eyes narrowed. You knew he was suspicious. For all he knew, you could’ve been stalking him for months and tracking his every whereabout, and you didn’t have any way to convince him otherwise. “You actually recognized me from my eyes?”

Crossing your fingers he wouldn’t notice your increased consideration, you soaked in the possibility that you’d been enamored from the beginning. His absorbing eyes, just as expressive as they were right now. Oh, if he kept looking at you... “Guess so.” 

He shifted in his seat, something you read into far too deeply. His fingers tapped the table’s edge, occasionally clenching to grip it. Speaking of absorbing.

Your attention focused on his fingers, and he realized you’d been staring at them. He tucked his hand into his lap, fingers straining toward something he couldn’t get. He tracked your eyes to the jug, noting you swallow when your lashes fluttered. The air in his lungs compressed. “Nothing else?”

You had a twinge of doubt; a shred that dissipated when you and him walked arm in arm and you’d felt how stacked his muscles were. Something you never would’ve known hid beneath his oversized wool coat. You mustered enough energy to stop blush from creeping onto your cheeks. Unfortunately, it meant not leaving enough to refrain stumbling over words. “You’re uh, pretty dense. Walking me to the hallway, muscly. Felt them, it.” To make matters worse, you’d said it while making ceaseless eye contact, so you noticed every twitch in his face when you did. Don’t breathe, don’t blush, don’t let oxygen get to your head…

“Lose the muscle, then.” 

You couldn't make out if he was joking. “Yeah. Don’t need ‘em.” You wanted to demand he stop boring his eyes into you. You were parched and desperately needed relief, but your hands shook and rattled against your thighs. You’d cause a scene if he kept it up too long. 

“What would’ve thrown you off?”

You hummed, wondering if any combination of traits or behavior could’ve convinced you that a person of the precise build and brooding demeanor was not a vigilante. Separating him and Batman was impossible. You dug your palm against your chin to freeze the tremble as you mused his question in avoidance of your blooming desire. “I don’t know.” His eyes dropped to your mouth, and you reflexively bit your lip. “Clumsy. Talkative. Casual, maybe. Batman seems so… cold, and calculated. So serious, and uptight.”

“I have to be. My family.”

“They already assume the worst of you, what’s some superficiality?” You stuttered when you noted he continued to linger on your lips. “You need something that gives an alibi to your nights.”

“Like what?” He was looking at you again, and you went weak. 

Your face heated to a fever pitch. If there was one quality Batman didn’t possess, it was sex appeal. At least, not in how he, uh. You hollowed thinking of how brutal and merciless he could be if he handled you with those gloves, and that armor… “I mean, if you want to lean playboy,” your lips pressed into a hard line, not believing you’d introduced it to the airspace. 

His pause was unraveling. “I can’t bring people here.” 

“Go there?”

The tension pooling in your stomach bubbled into a laugh at the absurdity. His brow quirked. “What?”

“Talking about pimping you out, it’s, it’s ridiculous.” 

That laugh again. He reached for his glass. “Eventually word would get out that I’m not sleeping with them.” 

“Why not?” Too busy taking care of me? You pressed your thighs together.

“Can’t have anything take up my nights.” Why did he—feel jealous? At the thought of touching anyone but you? He released his grip on the cup before he broke it. You bit your cheek, brows cinching. “What?”

“Nothing, it’s weird. Already deleted it.”

He heard tight, shallow breaths escape his nose. Whatever it was, it was likely a good idea. You were full of good ideas. Full of, of… less weirdness than he was right now.

“I was thinking about if you did, but it was fast, but then—”

His eyes flashed. “Fast?”

“I don’t know!” Bruce’s face was bright red, his jaw slack. Get a shovel and bury me. “I told you. It wouldn’t make sense, it would be too short.”

“Too short?”

The room spun. With how goddamn perceptive he was it was a matter of seconds before he noticed the heat in your cheeks, the shake in your hand, and the barely-concealed panting. He laid his palm flat to the table. You felt it painted across your lower back. You squeaked. “I’m feeling tired, um,”

“You can sleep here, same room.” Why did he say that? “As last time.” 

“Okay.” You downed the last of your glass to cool your throat, and grabbed the jug to put back in the fridge. 

You sounded out of breath, he felt breathless, and you were leaving so hurriedly. “Y/N,”

You stood up so fast you slammed your legs into the table and knocked over the juice. It splattered across your shirt and pants, dousing the fabric, and you scrambled to place it upright. “I’m sorry,”

“It’s alright.” His elbow brushed yours as he soaked up the wreckage with a dishrag, and you banged the chair back in an attempt to distance. 

“I need to, um,” the frenetic energy had you about to pass out. 

“You can use the shower upstairs.”

“Thanks.” 

The instant you were out of his eyeline you sprinted up to the bathroom and pushed your back against the door, floundering for air. The nanosecond he heard you in the stairwell he bent over the table and took deep, labored breaths that did nothing to neutralize his headiness. He didn’t know what he meant by saying your name, but his next thought was how you might look splayed out on the table.

Fuck. You tossed your clothes on the counter and got the water running, jumping in despite its freezing temp. It met your blazing skin and melted in small streams down your legs, but it didn’t comfort. You turned the knob hotter. 

Steam tinted the shower glass, adorning the aged shampoo bottles with pearls of dew. Cold didn’t work. Heat didn’t work. So scorching it practically scalded your shoulderblades. It did quicken your heartbeat, but it was already racing. 

That meal was dangerous. Being alone together so late, staying over so often… a plume of hot breath fell out of you. It was a miracle you were showering and not straddling his lap. Was it?

Would it… be so bad? 

It was as though your body had already given in; the room’s lighting was hazy, your breathing increasingly deliberate. You thought back to what Mar had joked about many a night at Mora’s: “There’s no such thing as bad thoughts.” She’d said it while thinking about getting a third or fourth drink, but it settled into the thick of your chest differently now. 

You swallowed hard as you pressed your back to the glass. The coolness brought a gasp to your lips, and your mind shot to Bruce’s sigh against your ear. Your heart was a broken metronome; speeding up as your fingers flexed down your torso, catching when you hesitated.

No bad thoughts, huh?

Your trembling fingers slid across your stomach, then paused. Not in his shower. Not in his bathroom. Not in his home. Not when he’d been so… vulnerable with you. Your throat went dry, your pulse echoing between your thighs in rebellion. How he’d gripped your shirt. His pause. You could’ve sworn… What if he kissed me? Feeling his heartbeat knock against yours and the heat of his breath on your neck threatened the stability of your legs. 

Maybe he’d hate you for fantasizing about him; maybe it was creepy, and horrible, and nasty. Maybe it was inappropriate and weird; maybe you’d loathe yourself in the morning, but the morning wasn’t here, and neither was he. As much as you fucking hated it, you could keep a secret. 

You ached, so sensitive to touch you had to start gently, practicing godly restraint. It took a Herculean effort but you shoved your guilt to the side, telling yourself it could come back when you stepped out of the shower. Right now, as your fingers swirled circles over your clit, you needed to imagine his hands on you or you might die. The all-consuming desire slammed a fever to your cheeks and let your reason slip away with little fight. 

The outside of your thigh flushed beneath the grip of your free hand. You never touched yourself in the shower, the water destroying any lubrication, but it didn’t make any difference when you were this drenched. You kept repositioning, making the circle tighter and tighter with increasingly firm pressure for your fingers to stay in place. 

However he wanted, you were ready—against the wall, on the counter, his bed, his car, Jesus, even the bare ground. You bit your lip to the point of pain as your wrist began to ache, speeding up as you imagined his cock slipping in and out of you. 

“Fuck,” he cursed under his breath, muffled moans slipping past his lips. He could hardly breathe, his air so ragged, body impossibly tense. You’d feel so good, so fucking good, he couldn’t take it. He was so close already. His hips drove off the bed as he chased the image of you. Jesus fucking Christ, he couldn’t think, stroking himself faster and faster, imagining your, oh, your, your mouth, fuck,

Your tongue jammed against your teeth and your jaw trembled as your body tensed toward an orgasm. Lewd, sinful noises of your wet cunt absolutely begging for him to pound into it, slamming deep into you over and over—you could take it, fuck, you could take anything. If he heard you, if he came in right now, if he said he wanted you, you’d fuck him. All fucking night, until you memorized the taste of his fucking sweat and the exact angle that made his eyes roll, oh my GOD—

This was sacrilegious; you were here, and there was no way you felt the, he prayed you wouldn’t hear him—mmm. How would he explain this? Panting and trembling in his bed, envisioning the shapes you could make, how you might sound, how you’d look at him as he… goddamn.

You forced your fingers to slow down, your orgasm building too quickly. Unwillingly pulling your hand away brought a fantasy: he was so fucking frustrating, he would absolutely, positively, god, he would make it hell, wouldn’t he? 

He’d never whined while he stroked himself, never sweat through his sheets, never felt his heartbeat in his temples, but he didn’t want this feeling to end. It was hell moving his hand away, his chest caving into itself as he caught his breath, but he wouldn’t finish until he got enough of you. Enough of your lips on his neck, of your gasps in his ear, of making you feel so, so good… His praise fell out in wanton moans. “Yes baby, perfect, ah, ah,” 

Making you beg, right when you were the most strung out… His voice in your ear telling you no, not yet… lacing his fingers between yours and guiding your hand away. His lips warming your cheek as he kept teasing. Your face going red as you writhed beneath him, begging him to move your hand back, the water pounding the shower floor cloaking your pleads. “Let me just, fuck!” The dull ache in your hand was yours, but that was the beginning and end, all but levitating under his imagined touch.

“Yeah, right there?” His lashes fluttered, his tensing abs creaking the bed as he nearly lost it.

You were even more responsive after only a few second’s break. “OH,”

“Baby,”

You groaned, sighing out gasping pleads for him to fuck you, understanding this feeling had been growing for weeks, realizing how horrendously fuckable he was. Even when he made rude comments, when he was pissy, annoyed, “please,” you begged the air to bring him to you, “please, Bruce, please please,” you were so gone you couldn’t breathe. It was happening so quickly, the tsunami of how it felt to fantasize about him… 

He shut his eyes and imagined you saying his name, begging him to cum. Bruce, let go for me… His brows knit together and his jaw slacked, stroking himself faster when goosebumps tingled up his spine. Faster, his cock twitching, you’re doing so well, baby, so needy… you made him so desperate, so pathetic, nothing but a fucking toy for you… he stroked his cock like it was you gripping him, moaning and grinding on him like it was all yours. It was. He was all yours. All… fucking… 

The tension snapped when you visualized his shower-sodden form standing in the doorway, so real you could almost reach and pull his pants down his hips. Your vision whited out and your heart stalled, an involuntary groan pulling itself out of you as your abdomen tensed forward, folding in on yourself. The guilt sideswept you at your most vulnerable, transforming the pleasure into a sharp knife and the heat in your face to burning coal. 

He’d never wanted someone more, and nowhere was this more evident than the pure flight that was his climax. Maybe calling after you in the kitchen had been a vow, a premonition. Your name fell from his lips like poetry; like water flowing through a river. 

After a speedy wash through riptides of shame and yearning that threatened to drown, you stared at your clump of dirty clothes that had fallen behind the toilet. As much as you trusted Alfred and the maid to keep things pristine, and how you were fairly certain you’d been the only person to use this bathroom in decades, you couldn’t bring yourself to put them back on. You couldn’t bring yourself to move. Couldn’t bring yourself to remember you actually existed.

Standing in your towel, hoping clothes would magically appear, you shivered in front of the massive bathroom door. The steam from the shower was heavy against the mirror, manipulating shapes that looked a lot like sin. The towel was long and thick, arguably the biggest tell that he was a billionaire. You’d never seen a towel so long or so wide, it nearly hung to your ankles. You tightened it and took deep, regulating breaths. The notion of seeing him after he’d consumed your fantasies made you want to die. Your hair was still dripping, your knuckles shaking as they gripped the cotton at full strength. 

You narrowed your glare to the golden doorknob. I can do this. I’ll just walk up and ask for a shirt. It’ll be fine. Just fine. Painfully, you reached for the door, hoping for the metal’s coolness to soothe you, but you’d been in the shower too long. It was warm and slick, matching the temperature of your own skin. Your heartbeat quickened, and you swallowed hard, still acutely aware of the echoes between your legs and praying it wasn’t stamped to your forehead. 

You slammed the door wide and found yourself standing alone in the open hallway. It was dark, thankfully. Maybe he wouldn’t be able to tell you were only in a towel. Maybe he’d already have clothes right by the door and you’d only have to face him for a few seconds. Maybe you wouldn’t even have to look at him. Pretend you got some shampoo in your eye. 

The steps to his doorway were much too difficult. Your legs were lined with lead. You did another pep-talk as you situated in front of his door, making sure to knock with your opposite hand to try and feel less naughty. You released a shivering breath.

Shit. Bruce’s heart stopped when he heard your knock, and he tripped over himself as he stumbled out of bed toward his bathroom. Faster than he’d ever done anything in his life, he desperately bent himself over the sink to wash off his abdomen. The water was too cold, it was making things too sticky, it needed to warm up, warm UP!

Another knock. You would leave if he didn’t show up soon. Maybe you were having a reaction, oh, shit! He grabbed a towel and scraped at his skin and tossed it behind him, throwing on a folded tee atop his dresser as he fumbled his way to the door. He’d bought new Benadryl, but where was it? Had he brought it up with him to the movie room? Was it in the medicine cabinet downstairs? Was it in here somewhere—

“Hi, um.” His eyes landed on your bare shoulders before stuttering up to yours. Your lashes were clumped together from the shower, face flushed from the heat. Probably why he couldn’t get hot water. “Do you have a spare shirt?”

“Yeah.” He could barely hear himself talk over the ringing in his ears. Of course you’d show up like this, not even a few minutes after… he bit his tongue as he turned and ransacked his dresser drawers. His cheeks turned red as it dawned on him that you might have heard… fuck. 

He cleared his throat as he moved to the middle drawers. “Uh, how was your shower?” He hoped you’d say something to the tune of: Oh, long and uneventful. The shower is so loud in there, could hardly hear myself think. Definitely couldn’t hear you jacking off to me. His fingers shook as he pulled on the handles. There seemed to only be pants in the middle drawers, and your faint response reminded him you were stranded in the hallway. “You can come in.” His increasing anxiety nearly made him implode when he heard you step inside. The last drawer came up empty. 

“It um, it was, yeah, fine.” 

He didn’t know whether to look at you or not. He moved silently to his closet, hoping Dory might’ve hung some of his undershirts. Could you see how red his face was? Oh god, did the room smell weird? Could you tell something was off? Were you about to confront him about it? 

He was acting strange. Not so strange as to be concerned, but a bit off. Like you’d interrupted something. How did he spend his evenings when he wasn’t out as Batman? Was he prepping for Batman, but you’d gotten in the way? Did he hate that you were here and felt like he could finally stop the facade, but now he had to plaster on a kindly demeanor? Was this a kindly demeanor? He appeared… frazzled, though that could be a total projection given you’d just climaxed to… you gulped. Not now.

Relief flooded you as you realized his hair was wet, and his shirt clung to his torso. If he’d showered at the same time, he probably couldn’t hear! Your tone was too sunshiney for the apology, but you didn’t have the capacity to manage it. “I didn’t mean to interrupt your shower, I’m sorry, I can wait.”

He hesitated before continuing his thumbing through hangers. “I didn’t shower.” 

The room was silent a few beats. He kept searching through his closet, which was decidedly massive, while you stood clinging to your towel for dear life. You would rather Alfred saw you dripping in the hallway than stand shivering within a few feet of Bruce’s bed. 

His bed looked comfortable. All too inviting. Your attention was split between watching his body move, and trying to take a photograph of the room’s layout with your mind. The guilt that gnawed at you was quieted in his presence, overwhelmed by being with him again. Truly all-consuming; so tall, strong, capable, understanding, smart… he was everything.

In his effort not to make you uncomfortable, he hadn’t looked at you since you knocked. He tried to focus on finding a tee shirt, any non-collared shirt, but kept coming up short. Was this the last shirt he’d just put on? Jesus… 

His attention snagged on the corner of his bed, horror flooding him as he realized he may have left cum on his sheets, or his blanket, and oh god, you might see it— “Uh, you can grab whatever you want in here.” He stepped to the side, waiting for you to step up and start looking before he rushed to the bed and scoured his sheets. 

As you neared, his chest thundered. His body still caked in sweat, he probably smelled like shit, you could probably tell exactly what he’d been doing, you always read him like a book, fuck… he needed to check his bedsheets, make sure there was nothing on them, okay, you were starting to peruse the hangers,

He stepped to turn, eyes locked to his bed just a few feet away, cursing himself for creating a sweat pattern in the sheets, when he heard you gasp. Whipping his head around showed his foot had caught the edge of the towel and yanked it off of you. He squeezed his eyes shut and stepped back, apologies propelling from his chest. “I’m sorry, shit, sorry, sorry,” 

Some rustling and whooshing sounds, then you spoke. Bruce stood in the middle of his room in total darkness, mortified, refusing to open his eyes until you left. He’d accidentally caught a view of your lower back before he’d realized his fuck up, and failed to rid his mind of the image. Sure that his face was beet red, that his sheets were dark with sweat, that his body was beaded with it, his hands and torso still dirty and incriminated, tearing your only covering off of you, he prayed a bomb would explode under his feet and take him to an early grave. 

“Lock a woman in your tower just to get her naked?” He went utterly still until he heard you laugh. You aren’t mad? He felt his heartbeat in his fingertips and the tightness in his chest loosen. “I’m covered now.” 

Blinking back to the room to see you standing in his dress shirt, one button at your waist holding everything together, your eyes crinkled at the edges holding back a smile. His eyes narrowed as if to ask, and you obliged, like you were beginning to share a secret language. 

“I’ll be sure to spill juice on this in the morning.”

Playing it off. He wasn’t about to get in the way. He looked at the white shirt you’d chosen, and smirked. How was he still standing? “Just Dior.” 

“At least it’s not the Prada.” You winked at him and turned to leave, the spin fluffing the back hem enough to skirt his leg. Certainly you could see how enamored he was if you looked back, and right then he might not have cared—but you didn’t. When you shut the door he fell to the edge of the mattress, planting the heel of his palm to his forehead as he caught his breath. You were a goddamn force.

Impossible to stifle your heaving breaths, you moved from his doorway with utmost urgency. The cool air of the tower traveled underneath the linen to relieve your heated skin as you made your getaway up the stairs. You couldn’t believe you’d said that, or winked, or that he’d very likely seen you naked. Or that you were in his home again. Dressed in his clothes. Fresh from a shower where you begged him to be inside you.

Your body already knew which direction to walk; you already knew the height of the knob and weight of the door, and how many steps it took to fall into the bed. It was starting to be normal talking to Bruce. Normal to be in his tower. You both… knew each other. If he’d pulled that towel shtick a month ago you would’ve argued, stormed away, and avoided him at the next meeting like the plague. But you believed he didn’t mean it, and thought it adorable how he’d stammered an apology through a clenched, closed face. Though initially distracted by the accidental kiss (?!), it was endearing how he’d launched into your arms. How you launched into his. 

He felt familiar; he felt safe.

He scrubbed the shirt in the sink, showered, and managed to change his sheets before staring at the ceiling until the sun rose. Whirls of smoke crowded the room, permeated only by drive-by thoughts that attacked just when he thought he might be falling asleep. Of going to your room. Your room. In his home. Knocking on the door. Your door. Admitting that he wanted to listen to you talk. Or stare at you. Or both. Or more. All night.

The thrill was short-lived. Whenever his muscles tensed like he actually might, the ceiling turned to meteors. His reputation. Family. Batman. His heart bled. He would crush you. 

That was something Alfred failed to understand: his life was fundamentally incompatible with others. Either layer was too much on its own, but when they stacked? When he was a Wayne and when he was Batman? What would happen if the world found out? If they threw him in jail, then you too? If he kept up this public persona, which he figured he’d need to, he would only become a bigger and bigger target. What happened to Alfred could happen to you, or worse. 

Even if nothing tragic ended up happening, your life would be irrevocably shifted. You wouldn’t be able to get coffee. Go to bars with your friends. You’d need security outside your apartment, people following you at all times. Always looking over your shoulder, always doubting the motives of whoever wanted to get to know you. Whatever you chose to do for a career would be squashed. After that first headline, you’d live and die by his association. He loathed being under perpetual shadow, preceded in every. little. thing. by preconceived notions, cursed to contrived interactions for eternity. To put you in the blast radius… fuck. He fisted his sheets and grit his teeth until his jaw popped. It couldn’t even be a question. If he wouldn’t wish this on his worst enemy, how could he do it to you?

That was if you felt the same, and how could he ever know for sure? You never failed to speak your mind or put him in his place, absolutely, but the imbalance was too great. Even for you. He’d never trust anything other than the word ‘no’. 

By the time Alfred knocked on his door in the afternoon, he’d cemented his conclusion into a megalith. It was dangerous, cruel, and selfish of him to pursue you. Like Alfred had said: you were a friend. A secret, temporary friend, and he could enjoy his time with you as such. He wouldn’t forgive himself if he pushed it any further, no matter how much he yearned for it. When he considered cutting you off entirely his body locked up, his mind procuring a million alternatives; the most convincing of them being that you were lonely here, and it would be kinder to lend some companionship until you left for home. 

And wouldn’t that be the ultimate show of care? Seeing an incredible flower, wanting to cut it, but letting it grow? He was convinced you’d thank him for sparing you, anyway.

You awoke to gentle taps at your door and someone clearing their throat. “Breakfast is ready. Or—lunch.”

Bruce. The room wasn’t yours, the sheets too expensive for you to mistake them for your own. His shirt had slid off one shoulder and crumpled under your side. “I’ll be right out.” 

Sliding off the bed reminded you that you didn’t have any underwear. How would you sit—

“Dory left your clothes here. Want me to bring them in?”

You pulled the shirt straight and fastened a few buttons. “Sure.”

“Now?”

You grinned. “Now.”

Like a true gentleman, he opened the door slowly and kept his eyes to the ground, holding a shallow wicker basket in front of him where your clothes lay folded with a candy on top. “Dory washed them.”

“Tell her I said thanks.” You bridged the space between, taking the basket from underneath to nullify any possibility of your bodies touching. He nodded, making brief eye contact before sighing and grabbing the door. Your spine prickled with the ghost of his fingers on your back, his breath on your ear. You bit your lip. 

“Do you want to walk down?”

“Oh I uh, I need to change,”

“I’ll be outside.” He left with a nod and the click of the lock.

In the spirit of speed, you pulled on your pants and tucked in his dress shirt, finishing the buttons so Alfred didn’t get any ideas. You stretched your arms, shook out any residual sleepiness, and pulled your hair back. You grabbed your phone to check the time, and noticed three missed calls: Dr. Crane, Dr. Crane, Dr. Crane. The blood left your face. 

You shouted out to Bruce, starting to pit his shirt. “I’ll be a minute, I’ll meet you down there.” 

“Sounds good.”

You scurried to press your ear to the door, making out the faintest footsteps down the staircase. Shit. Shit, shit. The last call had been a few minutes ago, and you pressed the phone to your ear with a force that threatened to crack the screen in half. With each passing ring you grew more nauseous, kicking yourself for continuously forgetting to call. But Bruce had been fine, right? Bruce had been normal, and polite, and talkative, and open about his feelings. 

“Y/N.” 

“I’m so sorry for forgetting to call, I woke up—”

He launched into a scolding, in a voice somehow made sinister by how measured it was. “I haven’t been asking a lot of you, because I assumed you would take the initiative to tell me what I need to know.”

“Dr. Crane,”

“However, given your history of dodging my calls—”

“I’m sorry, I’m really not trying to dodge anything,”

His sigh sounded like a curse, which sewed your mouth shut. “You’re not working, correct? No longer in school?”

You paused to ensure you didn’t interrupt him again. “Well,”

“Are you keeping his status from me?” 

“Not at all,” you looked to the doorway as if Bruce had his ear to it. 

“Perhaps you’ve formed an alliance with Mr. Wayne.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“You do.”

The room dropped ten degrees. 

“Come to my office today before five. I have some things to show you that should convince you to take the precariousness of life seriously.” He hung up before you could reply, leaving you stranded with a gutting blend of anxious guilt. 

If only Alfred hadn’t scheduled Wednesdays to be meeting days… then the pancakes wouldn’t be burnt, and the juice wouldn’t be insulting, Christ.

Bruce’s wrist ached from manually driving orange halves into the juicer for the past half hour, a task which had made the pan on the stove start to smoke, which contained the pancakes, and he hadn’t even began with any sausage or bacon, or eggs—why had he said things were ready? Because he had five blackened pancakes sitting on the table and a half jar of juice sitting uglily on the counter? 

He heard you descending the stairs. Despite his pep-talk the entire morning, and the one he gave before waking you, a lightness besieged him while in your presence. It decorated the walls of the kitchen when you stepped inside. “Where’s Alfred?”

“Meetings.” He tossed the last rind, embarrassed by the pitiful juice rations. “The juice from last night was for today, so I, it won’t be as good.” As he walked to place the glass by your seat, his ears turned pink and the silence in the room ricocheted. Every step pounded in his head, hyperaware of your placement in the room, his limbs tingling at the squick of your chair across the floor. He peeked over his shoulder to see you taste it. He grabbed some utensils and tucked into his seat, feeling a peculiar need to micromanage his table decorum. 

You grabbed some pancakes and he handed you a fork. “They’re burnt, I was juicing the oranges, and,”

“It’s fine.” Your smile was meek, but the twinkle in your irises made him forget. You took another small sip. 

“So it’s horrible?”

Your eyes crinkled once more; it was happening more often now, and he soared higher each time. “Telling on yourself there, Bruce.” 

Who knew his name could sound poetic? That he’d clutch each time you said it like a security blanket? If it hadn’t been made abundantly clear in the past twelve hours, he might’ve realized in this moment—as he roamed the slopes and valleys of your face with the spirit of a loving caress—that he adored you.

Your face slipped, and his matched. “What’s going on?”

“I didn’t sleep very well.” You took another drink from the glass, your eyelids heavy. “Nightmares.”

“You could’ve woken me.” Did he sound too indignant? Possessive? Needy?

“They weren’t too bad, just tossing and turning a bit.”

Whatever it was, you didn’t want to discuss it further. He chewed on some pancake (that was somehow sour, dry, and too wet—either your tastebuds were nonexistent, or you were capable of more politeness than he knew), and thought through his next move. The creasing by your eyes had withered, your grin the same. “What do you like to do back home?” Remembering how you lit up talking about your town, and your cat. Wearing his earnest on his sleeve. 

Your lashes fluttered, chewing slowed. “Be in nature. Go on bike rides, drives, camping.”

“You said the trees were nice.” He tucked another bite into his cheek, hoping either the conversation or his insistence on eating the entire plate would lift your spirit. 

“Yeah, they are.”

“What else do you like about it?”

“I don’t know.” You rested the fork and moved the plate away. If he followed his ambling convictions, he might assume you were angry with him. If he followed them deeper, he might think you had a reason to be. 

“Sorry if bringing up your hometown isn’t—”

“It’s alright, not feeling very… energetic today.”

You played with the rest of your food while Bruce finished his. Each passing second you appeared more dejected, and by the time he rose to put his dish away, he was about ready to blurt how can I help?! so loudly it would’ve interrupted Alfred stories below. 

You bumped into his back when he turned to meet you, and he blushed. A quick swivel and he’d put your pancakes down the chute, rinsed the plate, and cleared his throat. “I know a place outside city limits, lot of empty roads. Used to test drive out there.” He cleared his throat again as he wrestled a stammer. “I could take you on a drive, might help.”

You could’ve cried. Domestic Bruce was a sight you were rarely privy to, but it kept your heart beating. The clock on the stove read 3:47, and Arkham was a twenty minute Uber from your apartment. When he turned and looked at you once more, god, you turned into a puddle. He was so pretty. He searched your face for a second, then went still on your eyes. The smallest upward tilt of his mouth made tears well. Sitting passenger while he gunned it down abandoned roads, taking a turn too hard and slamming your bodies together. Maybe your lips could skim again, or press, or… 

“Can you take me to my apartment?” You brought your hands to your chest and turned before he could notice a tear slip. Whatever waited for you in the shadowy offices at Arkham was menacing, and you couldn’t tell the one person who would actually listen.

“Sure.” A pause, which you held your breath in for, your stomach tight. “Now?”

“I’ll grab my stuff.” You longed to sprint the stairs all the way to the top and howl jagged, desperate truths from the rafters, but you walked calmly to the room above his, knelt to grab your folded shirt and shoes by the door, and followed him to the garage. You blurred your eyes to focus on the material of his shirt and not the outline of him underneath. A pipe set to burst. 

Hopefully he wouldn’t ask you on the drive about what your plans were. The cabin air was stifling, especially so lying on your back. Once Dr. Crane told you what you needed to know, you could regroup. Journal about it, even. In some shorthand. Codename. Pretend you went on some journalistic assignment and discuss it that way with Mar, if she would listen…

“Here.”

Your neck cricked with the rocket speed in which you scurried out of his car. You made it halfway down the alleyway, planning a low shout of ‘thanks!’ once you were out of his forcefield, but his door was opening. No, Bruce, please… if he initiated a hug, or even a fucking high five you would pour everything out.

“You left your bag.” 

Oh. You both walked toward each other, and his strides were so long it took a single move from you to be mere inches from him. The pleather wrinkled in your fist. You muttered your thanks, and took off without a second glance. 

Turned out there weren’t many rideshare drivers who would accept trips to Arkham. After being tossed around by a dozen drivers, the only acceptance was a gruff looking older man in a Chevy pickup. He made a joke about ‘the loony bin’ when you got in, and you grit your teeth for the duration of the drive. 

At 4:47 you pulled up to the steely gates. You’d planned a speech to hype yourself up, but faced with the memory of Bruce black and blue in vicious restraints, you instead pretended you were visiting a jail. A jail, or a school that was funded in a strange way. Anything to not sob at his supposedly very precarious existence.

The guard at the front desk didn’t look at you while you checked in. You stood with twiddling thumbs in the empty waiting area; an area with no seats or benches, the sole accompaniment being a fish tank and a cacophony of creaking metal. 

You checked your phone: five minutes passed. If he didn’t hurry, he’d blame you for showing up late. Even though you’d run up to your apartment to change, ordered Uber after Uber while on the toilet, forgone a snack…

“‘Ave a good one, chief.” A man with a forceful tone and heavy accent cut through the hallway and nodded at security. He was recognizable, you’d seen him before, but you couldn’t place it…Thick brows, black eyes. He paused and tucked a folded paper into his black leather jacket. His eyes flit to yours, and his cheeks coiled into a grin. A gold-capped tooth twinkled under the LEDs. “Ay sweetheart, how you doin?” 

The man from City Hall. Except Bruce wasn’t here to grab you by the elbow and escort you away. You nodded. “Doing okay.” Your voice lost its gusto. 

“Aren’t we all, eh?” He chuckled and it pierced your gut like a dull knife.  

“Ms. Y/L/N?” Your gaze moved a few feet to the right to the lady you’d checked in with. Goosebumps prickled your arms when you walked past the man. 

“Don’t worry. The people here, they run a tight ship.” He winked, then went on his way. The woman escorted you to Dr. Crane’s office, the first room on the right. You heard him before you saw him. “Ms. Y/L/N, finally. Follow me.”

He sped past you, his clipboard dipping in a ‘come here’ gesture behind him. You had to jog to keep up, though he wasn’t tall. The hallways were tinged green with stale lighting, the concrete floors crunching the arch of your shoes. He stopped halfway down the second turn and pointed to a small window situated at two-thirds the height of the door. 

The bolts smelled rusty when you walked closer, Dr. Crane’s narration starting immediately. The room was empty, except—no, it wasn’t. Someone sat facing the opposite wall in the far corner with their legs pulled to their chest. 

“This is Ms. Reál’s room.”

She turned as if she heard her name spoken, and you made out dozens of scratches across her face and neck. Some were old, some freshly scabbed over, some oozing and raw. The freshest ones trickled streams of bright red down the orange jumpsuit. Your voice shook. “She’s bleeding, can you—”

Bella locked eyes with yours through the window, and she shrieked. She clawed her way up and threw herself at the door, pounding and screaming against it. You gasped back, the force of her torment shaking the door. Your body spun to him, shock crossing your face. “Can someone go help?” 

“Keep looking.”

“It’s too—”

“Too what, Ms.?” He tucked his clipboard into his chest, his expression so neutral you couldn’t make sense of it. Bella’s screaming was dampened by the reinforced walls, but remained booming and apparent. 

“Personal.” You’d never met Bella Reál, and surely you weren’t cleared to see these things. As a prominent government figure, she had to have a similar process to Bruce. Paperwork, NDA, consent… 

“Look, Y/N.” His jaw clenched, the clipboard digging into his armpit. You couldn’t feel your body as you inched closer, keeping your eyes low and shutting them when the psychiatrist could no longer see. All you heard were her screams. Screams that began to roar and pierce through your chest. He clicked his pen impatiently, and you wondered if he could tell your eyes weren’t open. You snapped to attention when she sounded like she’d been struck. 

She was flat on her back, body convulsing. Her head and eyes moved wildly, and you reached to grab Dr. Crane’s coat. Your fingers were numb, and you scoured the room for things she could hit her head on. Her bed was about a foot away, the metal edges sending you into a tailspin. “She’s seizing, get a nurse to, her bed,”

“She’ll be alright.”

Your head whipped back, the slack expression transforming to a glare. “What are you talking about?” You turned to look again, and her convulsing had brought her about a half foot closer to the bed frame. You yanked the doorknob but it wouldn’t budge. Your mind went white. 

Dr. Crane was nonchalant, pulling out his clipboard to note something as you slammed your palm against the door in a futile effort to loosen it. You stopped when logic caught up to you, realizing that might scare Bella more. 

“Psychosis can involve many nights without sleep. High stress, low food intake, unwilling to take medication because they believe they’re unchallenged. It can all lead to Ms. Reál.” The clip snapped against the board, and it echoed along the hall. 

Bella’s seizing had begun to calm, just inches from the metal corner. You caught panting breaths as you gathered your wits. Using her name like she was a symptom. Like something on display. “She needs someone to help her.”

“I wanted you to see the best outcome.”

“Of what?” Anger was seeping into your voice. Dr. Crane’s brow raised, and his knuckles tightened against the board. 

“Ms. Reál didn’t have someone like you. By the time we got her inpatient, it was too late. Her seizures had already stolen her sanity.”

“How did she get those cuts? Why isn’t anyone monitoring her?”

“We have cameras in all patient rooms, Y/N.”

Your name in his mouth felt like a razor. “So, what? You think Bruce—Wayne will end up the same way? Caged and catatonic?”

“Catatonia is the opposite of what you just witnessed, ma’am. It would be in your and Mr. Wayne’s best interest to follow the advice of professionals rather than the whims of an impressionable amygdala.”

His smugness made Bruce sound like he was singing in a church choir. Fucking stuck-up… “Is this why you brought me here? He’s doing fine.”

He squinted. “Defensive.”

“He’s taking his meds, he hasn’t seen any owls, he hasn’t had an attack, he’s been completely normal. Which is why I haven’t been talking, there’s nothing to report on.”

“Nothing, hmm?”

You shrugged, completely out of sorts. Why were you talking about Bruce now anyway? “She needs someone to help her.” You turned to look through the window, but it slid closed. “What the fuck?”

“You’ve seen what I meant you to.”

“And what aren’t I meant to see?”

His lips pursed. “If Mr. Wayne is functioning as you say, then I have nothing more to discuss.”

“So he’s fine? Since he’s been taking his meds, he’s had no side effects,”

“You seem to have it all figured out.” He walked back toward his office, this time without motion to follow. “Call me if he’s catatonic or otherwise.”

After another pass at the window to get it to open, you ran after Crane. “When is he in the clear?”

It was like you weren’t there, and it was insulating. When he pushed open the door to his office, you jammed your foot inside to keep it from closing. “I want to help him. If there’s anything more I need to know, tell me.”

It was tough feeling thankful he’d responded with his voice dripped in disdain. “Dr. Vry recommended you on the basis that you were uniquely immune to the charms of the Wayne estate. I’m not sure she was correct.”

“I—”

“Your face flushes when you speak of him.” He stared you down like he physically had you in a chokehold. Your throat constricted. “You’ve become increasingly defensive the more time you’ve spent in his presence.” He stood from his chair. “And you now seem very assured in your estimation of his symptoms.” The clipboard slapped onto the wood and he strolled to his door, gripping the handle but not opening. “Almost like he’s spoken intimately with you to assuage any anxieties.” The light blue of his eyes was arctic, and you were so flabbergasted by his insinuation you couldn’t move. “Why would he do that with someone he isn’t colluding with?”

You breathed out a response. “Colluding—”

His voice rose: “I brought you here to remind you of what is at stake. If you keep anything from me, any behavior even slightly outside of the norm, there is little between him and a coffin.” He opened the door with a gust that blew your jacket askew. 

“When is he safe?”

“If Mr. Wayne makes it to his next prescription pickup with no side effects, and no deviation in mood, interest, or reality, you are relieved of your post.” 

“When is that?”

“Is he attached to you?”

These turns threatened to send you flying. Bruce, shaking, clinging to you. Answering every text, every call; stepping in line with you at meetings, driving you home, orchestrating hangouts. Opening up in ways you couldn’t imagine he’d spoken to anyone before. And how Dr. Crane had forced that level of vulnerability. The guilt grew fifty tons. “You made him have to rely on me, I don’t know what kind of answer you’re expecting.”

“I would advise you to begin untangling yourself from my patient now, to prevent an unfortunate situation.” 

An unfortunate situation? He talked of Bruce’s death like it was gum stuck to his shoe. Oh, Jesus, your head started to spin. 

“Look what he did the first time you left.”

The wind knocked out of you. He stared back with his dead eyes, his creaseless face glassy smooth. This was the most forthright he’d ever been in saying it was your fault. Stars popped into vision. “He has medication now,”

“Which is why you are even capable of leaving, and need to start the severing at your earliest convenience. Good day, Ms. Y/L/N.”

Luckily the hallways were clearly marked in bold, bright letters, or you wouldn’t have stumbled out. Since it’d been less than fifteen minutes, you requested your same driver. If he didn’t accept, you’d call Mar until she answered. Get wasted at a club. But the man accepted, and ten minutes later you found yourself bumping over Gotham’s potholes.

Bruce wasn’t fragile. He could handle someone leaving. He could handle you leaving, and certainly you from before the attempt. He’d said it wasn’t your fault. That your arguing hadn’t caused it. He’d told you to leave multiple occasions since. He could. He could. He could. 

The man dropped you at the parking garage entrance. Pedestrians sidestepped you, a man shoved into your shoulder to ensure he wasn’t inconvenienced. And you took it. 

You checked your phone to see if it was worth a trip to Rai’s. A text message from an unknown number had been sent three minutes ago. 

Meet me at the old deli under the Tricorner Bridge. 2am. Come alone. Tell no one.

[steviewashere]

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.”

[episodeoftv]

Round 3 of 8, Group 1 of 2

propaganda and summaries are under the cut (May include spoilers)

Merlin (BBC): 4.06 A Servant of Two Masters

cw there is a scene where Merlin gets a snake shoved into the back of his neck (which can then control him because magic) and obviously various failed attempts at assassinations

When Merlin falls into Morgana's hands, he becomes a deadly weapon in her fight for supremacy. Using ancient magic, she pits friend against friend to create the perfect assassin. An oblivious Arthur is in great danger. Will anyone notice Merlin's unusual behavior before he does the king some serious harm?

merlin (whose main role in the show is saving arthur's life over and over again) is enchanted to try to kill arthur. he makes a hilariously bad assassin and it's fun watching other characters react to the personality change, as well as getting to see some badass merlin and the whole scene with morgana in the beginning was so interesting to watch. he disguises himself as a mean old man so he can say what he really thinks! and the costumes are fantastic in this episode particularly

The West Wing: 2.22 Two Cathedrals

As the Haitian army continues their seizure of the American embassy there, Bartlet and the staff prepare for the announcement that Bartlet has M.S. and the President must decide whether or he will seek re-election. As the funeral for Mrs. Landingham takes place and the announcement draws nearer, Bartlet thinks back to his past in search of the answer to the question everyone is asking: Will he seek re-election?

This episode is such a tour de force. It makes me cry, it’s amazing. Also the casting of the flashbacks is so well done?? Idk, no clever thoughts, it’s just really good

Per Wikipedia, “widely considered to be one of the greatest episodes of The West Wing and one of the best episodes in television history.“ If you watch this episode and don’t have feelings all through Bartlet’s monologue then did you even watch it? No, you didn’t. If you haven’t seen this show, and this episode specifically, then you need to.

[the-guilty-writer]

Valid

Spencer Reid x Reader

Summary: After experiencing a non-epileptic seizure, Spencer refuses to leave your side.

A/N: Oh you know… just me writing to try to help heal from medical trauma.

CW: reader experiences a non-epileptic seizure, mentions of medical gaslighting.

---

For once, you found a doctor that you didn’t hate. Of course, most of the doctors you hated were MDs and Spencer had three PhDs, so he wasn’t a medical doctor, but sometimes just the Dr. abbreviation in front of the name was enough to make you upset.

You wondered, sometimes, if those doctors would have a different opinion about the cause of your so-called “psychogenic” seizure condition if they knew that you didn’t have seizures when you thought about how angry you were at them, despite their insistence that strong emotions were surely the cause of your episodes. If it wasn’t that, then they’d say it was repressed trauma, despite having therapists and psychological evaluators tell you that they didn’t see anything concerning. In the early days, you’d kept track of everything, hoping to find a trigger that was avoidable or something that you could work through, but you never did. And medical professionals never believed you.

There was nothing they could do.

You worked at the BAU, but not on the team. Your job was all about VICAP- analyzing the data to help look for any serial crimes that crossed state lines to give the FBI jurisdiction, and to evaluate if any of them required the expertise of the BAU. As soon as your position was added to the unit, Spencer had become intrigued with your job.

“You’re doing a geographical profile on the whole nation, essentially,” he had said.

“Essentially,” you had replied.

Because of safety reasons, everyone you worked with knew about your condition, but you didn’t make a big deal out of it. If anything, you tried to hide it as much as possible. When you did have seizures, you usually caught an aura in time that you could close your office door, lay down to make sure you were safe, and recover in peace. That was the only reason you were thankful that your office, which was previously JJ’s, wasn’t in the bullpen.

Most of the time, however, you were in the bullpen- sitting at a spare desk with at least two computers and a stack of spreadsheets. That’s exactly where you were today.

“Anything interesting?” Spencer asked as he came by your desk, leaning against it and taking a sip of his coffee.

“Possibly,” you replied. “And by possibly I mean there is about a-” you typed in a few numbers on your computer. “0.0032% chance that there’s a serial killer crossing between Texas, Oklahoma, and Kansas.”

“You know,” Spencer started. You probably did know, but you let him keep talking anyway. “For an organized killer that would be a great way to evade detection considering all the jurisdiction lines that would be crossed.”

“That’s why I check it every week,” you told him. “I might not be a profiler, but I do know my statistics and geography.”

“Oh, that reminds me of…” Spencer began to ramble on about a new paper that had just been published. “I’ll bring it to you tomorrow.”

“Thanks,” you went to smile, but it faltered slightly as the wave of an aura washed over you. And this time it was the kind that you knew was coming hard and fast. “I’ll be back-”

You got out of your chair and began to walk towards the bathroom. You wouldn’t make it to your office, but maybe you could save yourself the embarrassment of having to explain your unexplainable condition. Weakly, you opened up the bathroom door and stumbled inside.

Even thought it hadn’t stopped a seizure in the past, you leaned over the sink and splashed cold water on your face with the hope that it might work just this once. You felt the aura get stronger, more intense, and your body began to give out.

You crumbled to the bathroom floor- your vision leaving you and your control over your body gone. It felt like your brain had turned to mush. There was a faint sound of a door opening, but you weren’t sure if it was real or not, because the next thing you knew, you were out cold.

---

When you started to come too- the liquified world becoming solid once again- you smelled Spencer. It was his cardigan, balled up under your head. The next thing that cleared up was your hearing, but the only thing you could hear was the soft buzzing of the bathroom lights that needed to be replaced. And then there was your vision. It always came back last and was the slowest to clear, but when it did come back to you, you were met by the sight of Spencer.

There was a sort of panicked calm about him- his eyes wide with worry, but his voice soothing as he talked.

“Hey,” Spencer said calmly. “It’s Spencer. You had a seizure. Just relax.”

You took a deep breath. It could be hard to speak after a seizure sometimes, but you were able to get some words out. You started to focus on your breathing, letting the world come back to you slowly. “I’m fine.”

“You had a seizure,” Spencer said again. “Please relax. I don’t think you’re fully coherent yet.”

“I’m fine, Spencer,” you said. You carefully tried to sit up, but your head was still fuzzy and your body was still weak. Slowly, you pulled your torso upward and leaned against the wall for support before handing Spencer’s cardigan back to him and closing your eyes. “Please, just leave.” You felt heavy with embarrassment.

“I’m not going to leave you,” Spencer said gently. He sat down next to you on the floor. “You shouldn’t be alone after that.”

You opened your eyes a bit, trying to get used to the lights. “Spencer, please-”

“No,” this time he said it far more firmly. “I’m going to stay with you until you’ve recovered.”

Tears began to well in your eyes and you felt yourself wanting to sob. “They’re not even real,” you whispered. Those were the words the doctors had told you. Even after years of trying everything from CBT to biofeedback to mediation… they all just believed you were hysterical or looking for attention. “They’re not a big deal.”

“I saw it,” Spencer said, his voice taking on a higher tone. “It was real, and it was scary, and it is a big deal.”

“Then why don’t the doctors think it’s real? Why do they say it’s all in my head?” you said quietly. A tear slipped down your cheek, but you weren’t sure why. Maybe it was the humiliating feeling that a coworker had seen you at your worst, or the echoes of the voices of all the specialists that told you that you were crazy over and over again.

Spencer took your hand gently, trying to comfort you. “It’s not all in your head. There’s so much about the brain that we don’t know- it’s possible that what causes your seizures scientists don’t even know exist yet. Just because they can’t see it doesn’t mean it isn’t real. It isn’t your fault that medical professionals feel the need to blame things they can’t see on psychiatric issues instead of being open minded,” Spencer tripped over his words just a little. You hadn’t spent months hanging around profilers to have caught onto nothing.

“You sound like you speak from experience,” you said quietly. There was a pause. “But you don’t have to tell me.”

“No, I-” Spencer said. “I want to tell you.” He sighed. “A few years ago I was having headaches. They’d last days at a time. I couldn’t focus at work and it cut my reading speed in half.” If you had the strength you would have laughed at that- even at half the speed, Spencer could still read about five times as fast as the average person. “And I got every test and image done imaginable, but the doctors told me it was all in my head.”

His hand was still in yours and you squeezed it gently in support. He smiled gently. “I ended up finding a geneticist that helped me. She had me superdosing with a few vitamins at certain intervals and they cleared up eventually.”

“I’m happy for you,” you told him. It was sincere. As hard as it was to watch other people get better while you still suffered, you were always glad they didn’t have to continually experience pain.

“I wish I could help you,” he said.

“You’re the only doctor I know who hasn’t minimized my experience and told me that yoga and therapy will make it go away. That’s more help than an MD has given me in years.” You opened your eyes fully, having started to recover more.

Spencer’s eyes were wide and longing, like if he looked at you with enough sympathy it would take all the trauma of being gaslit for years taken away. “You’re not crazy. Your condition is real, No matter what anyone says.” He squeezed your hand again. “You’re valid.”

There weren’t words to express the relief his words gave you, so you had to settle and hope that he could feel, through the touch of your hands, how impactful his acknowledgement was.

“Thank you,” you whispered. “Really. Thank you.”

[yrrtyrrtwhenihrrthrrt]

Hello could you do more fics about ballister head injury?(love your worke❤️)

THIS RESPAWNED IN MY DRAFTS HOLY SHIT

I'm so glad you love my work thank you so much for this ask 🩷 sorry it took so long but as I had said in another post, my Tumblr ate it for breakfast and it was disappeared from my askbox and drafts. But it reappeared!!! Please enjoy your very late drabble request <3

Cw: seizures, brain injury

Ballister leaned against Ambrosius, closing his eyes. “You sleepy, Bal?”

“Mhm.” Ballister rubbed his eyes. “I couldn't get to sleep last night. Kept having headaches and weird dreams.”

“That's no good, babe. Try to take it easy today. Do you think it's your head?”

“He just said it was his head, duh.” Nimona cut in. She'd been back for the past couple months, and she and Ambrosius were still getting used to each other. Ballister chuckled. “It's probably fine.” Ambrosius made a worried face.

Eight months ago, when Ballister was on the run, he'd suffered considerable head trauma, several times, one after another after another. The whole thing left Ballister with considerable brain damage in the frontal and temporal lobes especially. It was especially significant in the first few weeks after everything happened, when he was often unsteady on his feet, spoke with slurred speech, struggled with short term memory, understanding rapid or unclear speech, and extreme emotional outbursts where he would be extremely afraid, sad, angry, or happy without apparent cause. He'd also started having seizures at that time. Ambrosius learned to deal with them, but he always hoped each one would be Ballister's last. The doctor said they'd stop eventually, but they never knew when eventually would come.

Thankfully, since then, his brain had healed tremendously. Still, Ambrosius couldn't help but worry when Ballister had anything going on with his head.

“Alright, well, just be careful, okay? Don't strain yourself.” He kissed Ballister's cheek.

Nimona cackled. “Come on, Nemesis. I don't think the boss is gonna let some dumb headache slow him down! He's not made of glass, you know. He's ten percent solid steel and a hundred percent badass!”

“My arm makes up five percent of my weight, Nimona, also it's made of titanium.” Ballister smiled at her.

“See? Even cooler.” She returned to what she was doing and Ambrosius sighed. Maybe he was being a little overly anxious.

But as the day went on, Ballister seemed off. Foggy, distracted, a little bit uncharacteristically emotional or snippy sometimes. Even Nimona noticed, Ambrosius could see the puzzlement in her face even if she said nothing. It all came to a head later that day, they were at a park and they were noticed by members of the public, who started their usual barrage, asking frankly triggering questions and requesting photographs and signatures.

Ambrosius was used to all that, but while Ballister was somewhat accustomed to it, it always stressed him out. Ambrosius managed to fish his lover and Nimona away from the paparazzi and back to the safety of their vehicle.

“You guys alright?” Ambrosius started it up, flying through the airways. Ballister didn't answer, he glanced over. “Bal?”

His lover looked distant, blinking fast, looking around in a haze. “Do you, lemon?”

“What?” Oh shit. “Nimona, take his arm off!” Ambrosius began landing the vehicle in a safe place.

“What?” She looked quizzically from the backseat.

“Now! He's having a seizure, the prosthetic is wired to his nerves and muscle, the electrical signals can make it go nuts!”

Ballister knew a seizure was coming when he tasted lemon out of nowhere. They needed to get it together quickly, he was already having trouble speaking.

Quickly Nimona reached forward and disconnected the arm, and not a moment too soon. Ballister’s face twisted and his head began to jerk, along with his right leg, a rhythmic back and forth motion. Once Ambrosius was safely parked, he grabbed the blanket from the back seat and cushioned Ballister's head, and started a timer on his phone. A car was not the ideal place for this to happen, he wasn't completely sure of the protocol. Ballister was at least buckled, so he couldn't collapse into the dashboard. “It's okay, Bal.” He whispered softly. Everything will be okay.”

Nimona's eyes were wide with terror. After sixty-two seconds, Ballister went still, his eyes blearily gazing in front of him, foggy. Ambrosius stroked his hair. “It's over, love. It's over. You're okay.”

Nimona swallowed. “What happened to him?”

Ambrosius exited the vehicle and came around to open Ballister's door so he could more closely check up on him. He unbuckled him and helped him out of the car, supporting most of his weight. “Nimona, let me lay him in the back, he needs to lay on his side.”

Nimona moved out of the way. “What happened to him?”

Once Ballister was laid safely in a recovery position, Ambrosius sat beside the car and stroked his hair. “He had a seizure.”

“A seizure? I thought you had to be born with those. I've never seen him do this before.”

“He hit his head, a lot, after–” Ambrosius swallowed. “After what I did to him. It all added up, and left enough damage that this happens sometimes. Eventually it's supposed to go away, but we have no idea when. He's okay, he just won't be able to talk for a few minutes. Will you sit back here with him? Just make sure he's breathing okay, and try to comfort him while I drive home. Sometimes he gets a little emotional. You can give his arm back, too.” He swallowed. He wanted to comfort Ballister, but he needed to get them home safely. Ballister could recover better at home.

Nimona didn't seem to know what to do, but for once, she didn't argue. Ambrosius drove home hearing her speak softer than he ever had, in a reassuring voice.

When they got home, they managed to assist Ballister inside. He could now understand speech and get out a word here and there, but he was mostly disoriented and exhausted. Once Ambrosius checked that his breathing was normal, and he didn't have any severe bites in his mouth, he tucked him into their bed and let him rest, setting a timer to wake him up and check on him.

Nimona looked gaunt, she paced the living room.

“Aren't you a thousand years old? I thought you'd be used to things like seizures. This wasn't a bad one, thankfully. He's okay, you don't have to worry.” Ambrosius was a hypocrite. He was extremely worried.

She shook her head. “Not that, I mean, I've seen them before, they're normal, I've known thousands of people– but I didn't realize— I didn't realize someone could hurt their head so easily.” She whispered.

“What do you mean?”

She swallowed. “He got hit in the face with a rock when the Institute blew up. And I dragged him home. And I didn't even try to make sure he didn't hit his head! He was getting smacked into curbs left and right and– and I thought it was funny!” She rubbed her face. “I haven't been close with a human in so long, I forgot how fragile they were, how even something like that– it's partially my fault, don't you get it? I was careless and he hit his head and now he's suffering because of me.”

Ambrosius swallowed. Ballister told him about how Nimona said he'd hit his head on the curb when she took him home, and yes, it had contributed to several in a series of head injuries. He sat on the couch. “Nimona, it's not your fault. I knew about that. The doctor said the concussions hadn't helped, but most of the damage was from the debris, from Todd beating him up, and from when he fell through the stadium floor. It's just– how it is.”

Nimona sat on the couch beside him and sniffed. “You don't understand. I forgot how easily humans can be hurt. How easily they can die.”

“Oh…” Ambrosius looked down. “Well, for what it's worth, I don't think he'd be here at all if it wasn't for you. Humans are weak, but Ballister is strong. He's kind, resilient, and forgiving– I know that better than anyone. He's gonna be fine. Don't beat yourself up.”

Nimona sniffed and smiled at him. “Thanks, nemesis.”

[noxexistant]

ai-less whumptober; day nine

@ailesswhumptober 9 — hypothermia/heatstroke, “You look pretty pale.” ↳ the distribution yard, circa 1898 word count; 1.4k

cw; seizures, referenced suicide attempts/self-harm

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Summer is fucking miserable.

Well, there isn't really a season in which their work isn't. It's miserable work — regardless of the weather, whatever weather it is. But most of it doesn't help.

Most of the time, it's the wrong side of cold to be working outside from before dawn to past midnight, or else it's warm and that's worse. In the fall, there's wet leaves over every inch of ground that Oscar has to fight for his life not to slip on with every step. He's eaten shit and ended up with bruises up his back more than once. In the winter, there's ice and snow to battle against, freezing temperatures that their cheap, worn-out clothes are never enough to stave off — and Mo always gets sick.

Though he gets sick in the summertime too.

It had happened a few times, back on the farm. When they were working outside all hours of the day, even through summer — on real hot days, Morris would drop like a stone. Heatstroke, Da had explained. Too much sun. Morris is only scrawny, can't regulate his temperature properly, so when he gets hot, he gets sick.

It's all Oscar can think about today. It's the height of August, and the air all around them is oppressive. Thick and warm, sticky, suffocating. The sun is hanging high in the sky, beating down on them relentlessly, and though Oscar had weeks ago began to forego his wool undershirt, wear his shirt loosely buttoned with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, he still feels like he's boiling. It's the hottest day yet.

And Morris won't take anything off.

They've been arguing about it for days, especially today. Oscar has been telling him, over and over, that he's fucking stupid for it. Oscar's got scars too, all over, and he hates having them on any sort of show but he's smart enough to recognise when it's necessary. Morris refuses. And Oscar knows its different. Knows the scattered scars now visible on his own bare forearms have different connotations to the ones hidden beneath Morris' sleeves — uniform slashes up the insides of his wrists up to his elbows, thick horizontal lines and a few vertical, thicker. Obvious. But Morris had gotten so sick back on the farm, another illness that Da was half-sure would finally kill him. And here they are again.

At least it's not his fault that he's being ordered to work under the beating sun again. This time it's just their Da's brother barking the commands rather than Da himself.

Oscar can't even keep a proper eye on Morris because of it.

It's afternoon so the distribution yard is devoid of newsies, and thus they're working the whole space, toting around huge carts of old papers and crates and stacks of the evening edition as they roll in, under strict supervision of Wiesel, so their vicious argument from morning distribution about Morris taking his goddamn shirt off had had to be tabled for the moment.

The ground is bone dry and dusty, scraping beneath Oscar's boots and kicking up with all the movement, making it seem even more laborious to breathe the dense air. The sky is rippling with the beating sun, sitting on Oscar's skin like a flame that's slowly burning through him, cooking his godforsaken Irish skin like a cut of bacon. He knows Mo must be burning, if he's not already burnt, and once again tries to look around for him.

"Oi," Wiesel snaps. "Break those fuckin' crates up, Os, I ain't tellin' you again."

Oscar grits his jaw and gets back to it.

"Fuckin' asshole," Morris mumbles from nearby.

He can hear Morris moving around the yard behind him, hear the rattling of the cart wheels, the creaking of wood bearing too much weight. He can hear Wiesel talking to the other employees that are working around them, a more amiable tone that he never bothers to grace the brothers with — and he hears the footsteps of someone coming out. Glances up and nods a cursory greeting to Roy coming out of the printing house.

Behind him, he hears Roy greet Morris.

"Christ, 's hot out here."

"Yeah? Hadn' fuckin'—noticed," Morris spits. His voice sounds slightly strange, angrier than he usually gets without the usual triggers. The words clumsy and blended together. Roy doesn't comment, perhaps doesn't notice. Or just thinks it's valid ire for the circumstances.

"Your uncle got you workin' out in this?" he asks. It's loud, like it's half aimed at Oscar too. Oscar shrugs.

"Work's gotta be done."

"Gotta be done," Roy echoes with a laugh. "You're a capitalist's dream, Delancey."

"Fuck off," Oscar laughs, putting his foot through another crate. He knows Roy's grinning at him, and all his misery from work is soothed somewhat by the balm of a friend's existence.

"Oi, runt," Roy says then, voice lowering, dipping into concern. "Lookin' pretty pale there. You alright?"

In an instant, Oscar's gut is churning again. He looks around immediately, and sees the taller man stood with Morris in the middle of the yard, a cart abandoned beside them, a hand clasping Morris' arm. Morris is stood entirely rigid, face dazed, mouth opening and closing but no sound coming out.

And then Morris goes down.

"Fuck," Oscar says. "Fuck!"

He tosses the half-broken crate down and runs, boots kicking up a stream of dust, but he isn't too concerned. Morris passes out sometimes. He's a dumbass who doesn't eat nor sleep enough and is forced to be constantly overworked, Oscar is almost used to the sight of him dropping where he stands and being a limp pile of bony limbs.

But Morris isn't limp. He's convulsing.

Roy looks stricken. He's older than Oscar by a few years, big broad guy with a thick beard and a rough mouth, but in this moment he looks utterly helpless. Afraid.

It's nothing compared to how Oscar feels.

In an instant he drops to his knees in the dirt, reaching out for his brother, but Morris is. Gone. His eyes are glazed entirely, face twitching, limbs jerking sharply like he's being beaten and dragged by someone invisible. He's all drawn up, his face looks scared, he looks like he's in pain. He's drooling. Oscar doesn't know what to do.

"Get help!" he shouts, and, finally, Roy goes, takes off running.

Oscar, shaking, presses a palm to his brother's sweaty forehead. He feels impossibly hot, so hot it's almost Oscar's instinct to flinch away, but he doesn't. Can't.

"Mo," he croaks. "Mo, you're okay. You're okay."

He doesn't know that he is. It's never been like this before.

A terrified part of his mind tells him that his little brother is dying. A part that gets louder when the twitching and convulsing suddenly stops, and Morris goes limp, hazy eyes sliding closed, head falling back so suddenly that Oscar has to catch him.

"Help," he pleads shamelessly as Wiesel comes running over, another couple workers at his heel. "Help him."

Wiesel ultimately looks just as lost as Roy had. Looks remarkably like Da had, that first time Morris had dropped in the field.

There's the same lack of willingness to face accountability in his eyes. The same adamant refusal to accept that he did this.

"What's goin' on?" a voice calls from the gates, and Oscar feels another wave of protective fury overwhelm him. It's the newsies, because of course it is, all flooding in to come line up for the evening edition. All staring, crowding, trying to climb over each other for a better look at the sight of Morris on the ground, Oscar cradling him. Kelly pushes to the front, something indescribable in his face, lips parted. The dirt beside Morris' face is wet with drool and bile. He's very slowly starting to stir, eyes half-open, sliding around as he fights to focus. He makes a noise. Slurred, utterly nonsensical. Scared. Pained.

"What d'you think happened?" one of the newsies asks shamelessly.

"Is he dead?"

"Is there blood?"

Oscar could kill them. Instead, he forces his gaze — dark and dripping with fury — to raise to Wiesel.

"Get 'im inside," his uncle says quietly. "Get 'im looked after."

"Fuck you," Oscar spits. And lifts his little brother up into his arms.

"Oscar. Is he okay?" Jack calls out, voice echoing across the yard.

Morris is mumbling, eyes still unfocused. He's limp. His skin is hot. Oscar turns and carries him carefully inside into the shade. To once again be the only one who cares about him, who'll look after him.

"Oscar!"

Oscar kicks the door closed behind him.

[accessibleagere]

Accessible agere #1: colored text and fonts

Very many agere posts use Tumblr's colorful text feature and fonts either from Tumblr or outside it to fit aesthetics. Unfortunately, this creates an accessibility issue for people who use screen readers, as well as many people with visual or processing disabilities who don't use screen readers.

The problems:

Screen readers read out the name of the color of the text each time it changes, which isn't a problem for the most part, BUT gradient text will make it read the color before each individual letter, which makes it basically impossible to understand what the post says.

People who have difficulty seeing, or difficulty with processing visual input, or sensitivity to visual input, may have difficulty with reading some or all colors of text. Colors close to the background color of the post can be a problem for people with low vision, and bright colors or several contrasting colors can cause pain and seizures in people with migraines and photosensitive epilepsy.

Fonts that exist in Tumblrs code (the ones that come up if you select the "Aa" button) can be processed by screen readers in the same way as colors. However, fonts from outside of Tumblr will not be recognized by most programs and may cause them to not read the post, read confusing sounds, or crash entirely. This also applies to many copy pasted aesthetic symbols, some of which will make the program try to swap between languages.

Fonts can also be a problem for other people with vision and processing issues, like dyslexia. They may not be able to read the text.

Solutions:

Simply not using colored text or fonts is the easiest solution.

However, if you would like to use them, adding a warning to the post itself and/or a content warning tag such as "cw colored text" or "cw fonts" and making a separate post that has the same content, but without colors or fonts. The accessible post can be linked at the top of the main one for easy finding by people who need it.

Thank you for reading! Questions? Comments? Requests? Feel free to reply or send asks, just keep things polite!

[fletcherwilbury]

@whumptober Day 3: Journal

Warning for Misgendering, transphobia, ableism, violent outburst, past coma, past seizures, past medical issues

[kukuu031]

https://www.tumblr.com/kukuu031/754101517478395904/

nobody really answered this as well as i wouldve hoped. "eyestrain" is tagged for those who might have neurological disabilities that make them very sensitive to things like rapid flashing, certain video effects (ie. shaking, blurring or fast rapid motions) bright lights and colors which can trigger anything from a quick shooting pain in someones eye, migraines, or with epilepsy and a few other things, seizures. its very true that everyone's brains are different and you're never going to be able to tell 100% what will trigger someone or not- so its best to be on the safe side.

from someone who is usually affected by this and gets eye headaches & migraines, as far as your art goes most of it is fine, but for posts like these https://www.tumblr.com/kukuu031/754056590441709568/ https://www.tumblr.com/kukuu031/751147493664997376/ i would tag them as eyestrain due to the bright lime green in the backgrounds. as far as your blog goes, its difficult to look at and read things like your bio because the bright pink will give me a headache, and i have to copy and paste it somewhere else in order to read it properly. i cannot scroll through your blog for longer than a handful of seconds. i would recommend changing it to something a bit more muted like #de3287 and the text to #d3fafc . of course those are examples, but i wanted to show how you can use similar colors that you like while also making it accessible to more people.

oh and one more thing. when tagging, just tag as "eyestrain", not "eyestrain cw" or "tw eyestrain". this gets extremely annoying to try and filter out and tagging this way and is way too common on tumblr.

thank you for reading.

THANK YOU SO MUCH i was actually hoping someone would reply anything besides just a Yeah its ok. im aware my art can b really bright and saturated but i didnt know my acc would b like that too !! im so sorry and thank you for taking the time to reply. i will change my layout and add the tags, hope you have a good night !! or day !! whenever you read this !! 😭🫶

[justalittletomato]

The Morning after was silent. (Maul x reader)

Cw: morning after

Starlight waking to the Zabrak mediating on the floor. Eyes closed and turned toward the window.

It was still long before the sun would rise.

Starlight wondered if they should take their leave? They had never discussed what came after. They pulled up the sheet and reached over to find their clothes.

“Are you leaving?” He slipped past them. No sound of metal, maybe Starlight was too busy listening to their heart beating loudly in their ears.

They should leave. They must go. The act was done.

“If that is alright with you Lord Maul.”

Formality returned. Where hours before they said his name with such tenderness.

His usual frown deepens, starlight sees those golden eyes change. Not the soft honey shade they had gazed into. Burning.

The calm before the storm. Starlight readied themselves.

—

Maul felt the voices in his mind yelling. Giving into desire. So weak. Allowing the Mandalorian into his bed. Acting upon the passion that he longed denied.

A moment of weakness. His red flesh burned where their lips had brushed.

He was not to want this. He was not allowed to want this.

Awake. He sees them wake. Hand reaching over to the space beside them. Maul confused by the gesture and how his hearts quickened at the sight.

They pulled away and turned to their other side. Reaching down to bring up their clothes.

Bright red scratches down their back. Slight bruises on their arms.

Where Maul had touched and clung to.

—-

“Lord Maul?”

They bring him out of this thoughts. Their hand on his wrist.

“Go then.” Ah there he is. Lord Maul with anger just below the surface.

—-

The Mandalorian walks toward the set of doors. Hand on the knob…

Maul watched as they stopped. Frozen in place.

Maul felt his anger rising. They wanted to go didn’t they?

He places two hands on either side.

“Turn it.”

A small shake of the head.

His sharped nails tap at the door.

“What is you want?”

A hitch of breath. “I don’t know.” They turn to him. “I don’t know.”

—-

He was frustrated. His hearts were racing. He growled at them.

“Stay then, we have more work anyway. The servants will be bringing a meal soon.” He scoffs and pulls a chair for them.

Starlight takes a seat. A blush on their face.

“I’ll need a change of clothes.” The clothes from last night. Rugged and will be obvious to show what transpired.

Maul gestures to the room. “Your duchess left quite an assortment. Have at it.”

The slight guilt felt. The robes, tunics and over the top designs.

Maul glances. “The red.”

It was not a suggestion. A red elaborate robe and accompanying gold sash.

The collar covered the bites.

Maul adjusted the sash. “Red suits you.” An hand brushes over their shoulder

The servants announce the meal has arrived. Starlight shies into the touch.

—-

The servants rush back to gossip.

The palace rumor mill begins.

Credits exchanged.

And one Prime Minister slamming down his morning tea. Unacceptable

@stardustbee @eyecandyeoz @patchiefrog @pixiestookourstardust @gran-maul-seizure @storm89

[detachedfacade]

cw: panic attacks

Steve hadn't been coping well. He hadn't been for a few years, really. But he thought he had got over all of that, gotten past the nightmares and the insomnia. Since his very first run in with the upside down, Steve knew there had been underlying issues he was ignoring. His hearing loss, eyesight issues, nerve pain that seems to come and go with the wind. And the worst, frequent but unpredictable major panic attacks. He had never gone to the doctors for any of it. At first it was more about being an arrogant boy rejecting the need for help. More recently it was a matter of money.

After pulling Munson's body out of the upside down, Steve had blacked out. Hit his head on the counter in the trailer and, according to Robin, had a seizure. He didn't remember that. What he did remember was waking up in the hospital and immediately panicking about the bill, about the fact his parents had taken him off the insurance.

The nurse tried to calm him down, put her hands on his shoulders. But his body was tense and he couldn't breathe, and every noise that passed through his head felt fuzzy and painful and he pushed her back, hard. She returned with a doctor not long later but long enough that Steve had started picking at his stitches trying to pull them out. "I can't afford it." He said, knowing in the back of his mind his actions weren't rational, yet still unable to stop.

It was this panic attack that kept him in the hospital longer. Not just to clean up the wounds he had made a mess of but to deal with what was obvious to the doctors, his anxiety disorder. Steve refused to speak to any counsellors or therapists, what could he say to them that they'd believe? Ultimately they ended up putting him on a high dosage of diazepam and sent him on his way, told him his parents had taken care of the bill.

"My parents?" He asked. And the receptionist nodded over to the waiting room where they sat, his father pouring over the sports section of a day old newspaper, his mother chatting to a stranger sat beside her.

It was uncomfortable, but Steve had been uncomfortable for years. "Thanks for paying." Steve said. "I wouldn't have been able to…"

"It isn't a problem." His mother interjected. "It's…you're our son. I regret how things -" She sighed, looked up to the ceiling, blinked. "We thought we lost you, Steven. After the earthquake we rushed to your place, that awful little apartment and it was completely…It was just rubble. And the firemen couldn't tell us if you were in there…"

His father gripped her shoulder, rubbed his thumb in circles over her cashmere cardigan.

"Son." He said. "You're coming home with us, okay? You can hate us. We can have our differing opinions. I care more to know you are safe."

If he could, Steve would have cried then. But he hadn't cried in front of his father since he was five years old. He wasn't sure he was capable of it.

"Thank you." He said. "I don't really have any stuff."

"Everything you left is still in your bedroom." His mother said. "They may not be your favourite but I'm sure you'll still fit into all of your old clothes."

Steve wasn't necessarily excited about the idea of moving back home, losing the freedom he had found in that little apartment of his. But he was tired, he had nowhere else to go - not if he didn't want to be a burden to the Buckley's or the Henderson's. And frankly, he could use some parental love, even if it was conditional, even if it wouldn't last. So he followed them through the parking lot into the car. Took the seat on the left in the back, the one he had always sat in as a child, where the leather is more worn down and the window doesn't wind down all the way. And he felt like a child again, tucked into the back of his parents' lives.

After surviving the upside down, Eddie is concerned to find out Steve has moved back in with his homophobic parents. alternate title: Eddie Munson is Not Okay (I Promise).

Read more on ao3.

[shion-yu]

Day 8 - Seizure

Julian was aware that he may have gone too far this time. Whumptober 2023! I’m using the @ailesswhumptober's prompt list. This story is about my OC Shumei - here’s his profile if you’re so inclined: https://toyhou.se/23743470.shumei-tw. This one’s EXTRA dark, you have been warned.

TW/CWs: Medical abuse!!

Julian was aware that he may have gone too far this time. Shu was out of his mind with fever. It was so bad that his boyfriend couldn’t even get a sentence out. Julian was actually giving him full doses of medication and yet the fever still wasn’t breaking. He held Shu up in bed, his hands planted firmly on Shu’s forearms to keep him from falling to the side bonelessly. “Shu, darling, Shumei, look at me, please.”

Shu’s eyes sluggishly moved in Julian’s direction, but Julian could tell he wasn’t actually seeing anything. This was bad. Really bad. Julian was actually truly worried for Shu’s health and he didn’t like that feeling. 

Julian stroked Shu’s hot face gently, eliciting only weak whimpers from the delicate man in his arms. “Darling? Can you hear me?”

There was a long pause, the only sound Shu’s labored breathing until he grunted in some weak acknowledgement. Okay, at least Shu could hear him, Julian thought to himself. “Shu, I’m going to draw you a bath. Hang on for me, okay?” No response this time.

Julian didn’t want to leave Shu even for a second, but the master bath was connected to their bedroom so he was at least able to leave the door open and watch Shu while he filled up the tub. The sound of rushing water was now familiar - he’d given Shu many baths over the past year, but he’d never felt so anxious for it to fill up. It seemed like the water level wasn’t rising fast enough. He made sure it was lukewarm before he stopped the drain and returned to Shumei’s side. “Just a few minutes, Shu.”

Shu twitched in bed. At first Julian thought that was a good sign that he heard Julian - but then he didn’t stop shaking. His hands were balled into tight fists that pulsed tightly, and soon his boyfriend was straining his neck upwards. “Shu?” Julian asked. The tremors only grew stronger, more pronounced, and Julian realized Shu was having a seizure. “Shit,” he swore. He took the pillows away and pulled back the covers so Shu couldn’t get tangled in anything. He pushed Shu onto his side and started counting.

One... ten... twenty...

His boyfriend’s shaking grew more violent. Grand mal seizure, Julian’s brain supplied. If they were at the hospital, he could order an IV push antiepileptic right away, but they were just at home. There was no one else around. Usually Julian loved that it was just the two of them in the apartment, but for once he wished someone else were here to help him wait through this.

Thirty... fourty... fifty...

A minute had never felt so long to Julian in his life. Foamy, red tinged sputum began to form in the corners of Shu’s lips and Julian winced. Shu must have bitten his tongue. 

Sixty... seventy... eighty...

The smell of urine, blood and bile mixed in the air. All scents that Julian was used to in the hospital, but in their home it felt markedly wrong. He couldn’t go this far again, he told himself. He had to take better care of Shu, otherwise he wouldn’t have a boyfriend to take care of at all.

Ninety... ninety-five...

The shaking was easing up now, Shu’s body relaxing ever so slightly. Julian grabbed his stethoscope from the bedside table and listened intently, relieved when he could hear Shu’s airway had not been obstructed. His boyfriend’s lips were tinged blue, but his heart was beating strong and fast. He’d be fine. Oxygen would have been helpful, but Julian didn’t have any at home. He’d have to order some right away. 

Shu groaned weakly, no discernable words to be made out. “Shh, it’s okay, it’s over,” Julian said, wiping a trail of blood that ran down Shu’s chin with his thumb. “It’s all over.”

Julian stood and glanced back at the bathroom, which immediately prompted him to run to turn the faucet off. The tub had overflown, leaving a thin layer of water on the porcelain floor that soaked the bath mats. He swore and threw several dry towels down to at least make the bathroom walkable before he went back to the bed and undressed Shu. His clothes were damp with sweat and urine and clung to Shu’s skin; Julian peeled them off of his boyfriend and then carried his naked form to the bathtub. Not bothering to get undressed himself, he stepped into the tub and lowered Shu into it. More water splashed loudly over the edges of the vessel. He’d deal with it later; right now, he had to lower Shu’s fever before his boyfriend had another seizure.

The water was slightly cooler than room temperature, so while it wasn’t exactly pleasant, it wasn’t the ice bath that Shu’s body reacted to like it was. He cried out loudly, unseeing eyes flying open in panic as Julian held him in the water. He writhed in Julian’s grasp, but thankfully he was too weak to get anywhere.

“I know it hurts. I’m sorry, you’ll feel better soon,” Julian whispered to him. “Just hold on a bit longer.”

No answer. Julian hadn’t expected one. He cupped handfuls of water and ran them over Shu’s face. “I’ve got you, I’m right here.” The noises Shu was making broke Julian’s heart. He usually liked when Shu cried, but this was different. Shu wasn’t conscious enough to show the emotions that Julian loved - he couldn’t feel sad or needy or weak. He couldn’t feel anything except pain, and that wasn’t what Julian wanted. He wanted Shu to rely on him and him only - not be completely at the mercy of just anybody because he was too unconscious to tell otherwise.

“You won’t get this sick again, I promise,” Julian said softly, because he knew Shu couldn’t understand him. He rubbed the blood off of Shu’s face and began to drain the tub; the water was a sickly brown color that disgusted him. “I won’t let you. I’ll be more prepared next time.” He leaned forward and kissed Shu’s burning forehead. 

Once the bath was empty, Julian filled it once more while they were still inside so that he could rinse Shu off with clean water. Shu was shivering violently, but Julian felt that his temperature had lowered at least slightly, so it had worked. He picked Shu up and carried him back to the bedroom, the soaked towels on the floor squelching unpleasantly beneath his bare feet. He placed Shu down in the chair next to the bed, pulling a fresh pair of underwear on his boyfriend and pulling a t-shirt over his head. He covered Shu with a blanket then changed the sheets quickly, throwing the soiled ones straight into the wash along with the soaked towels and pajamas. There, things were back in order. He changed his own dry pajamas and then put Shu back into bed.

He held Shu’s limp form close to him as he called into the hospital pharmacy, requesting all manner of IV medications that normally would only be available to home health agencies. His assistant would bring it to his house - it  would only take a couple of hours to arrive. Home oxygen would arrive tomorrow, just in case.

“Ju... li...”

Julian looked down at his boyfriend in surprise. He hadn’t expected Shu to wake up yet, but Shu was tough, he reasoned. It was why he’d pushed him so hard - because Julian had watched him take so much already. 

He held Shu closer to him. “Yes, darling, I’m here.”

“My mouth... hurts...”

Julian nodded. “You bit your tongue. I’ll let you have some ice chips later. Not yet.” He didn’t think it was a good idea for Shu to try and swallow yet.

“So tired,” Shu mumbled, his eyes closing again. “I can’t...”

“You don’t have to do anything,” Julian told him gently. “I’m here to take care of you.”

Shu’s eyes fluttered open once more for just a second. “Thank you,” he whispered. Julian felt his heart swell and he smiled.

“You don’t have to thank me, Shu. I love you. I’ll always love you no matter what.” Shu fell asleep once again and Julian kissed him a few more times. He loved Shu more than anything else. Shu was perhaps the only thing he loved. Today had been scary; it’d gone too far. But the thanks he got at the end of the day had made it worth it. The look in Shu’s eyes - fully dependent and trusting in Julian - was enough to remind Julian of every reason why he was doing this. He meant it when he said he intended to take care of Shu forever and ever - for as long as he could make sure Shu needed him.

[episodeoftv]

Round 2 of 8, Group 1 of 4

propaganda and summaries are under the cut (May include spoilers)

Daredevil: 2.06 Regrets Only

cw there are some fight scenes and one character is in a hospital bed looking beat up for most of his screen time

A lethal foe returns with a vengeance, Foggy and Murdock risk the firm to ensure justice, and Karen sees a different side of the Punisher.

this is where the tension in the series starts really ramping up. s2 is all about figuring out what the truth/justice means to each character and how they can best get at it, and the way they all go about it is fascinating. also it's the episode where matt and elektra sneak into a fancy dress party and karen talks to frank about his family for the first time

The West Wing: 2.22 Two Cathedrals

As the Haitian army continues their seizure of the American embassy there, Bartlet and the staff prepare for the announcement that Bartlet has M.S. and the President must decide whether or he will seek re-election. As the funeral for Mrs. Landingham takes place and the announcement draws nearer, Bartlet thinks back to his past in search of the answer to the question everyone is asking: Will he seek re-election?

This episode is such a tour de force. It makes me cry, it’s amazing. Also the casting of the flashbacks is so well done?? Idk, no clever thoughts, it’s just really good

Per Wikipedia, “widely considered to be one of the greatest episodes of The West Wing and one of the best episodes in television history.“ If you watch this episode and don’t have feelings all through Bartlet’s monologue then did you even watch it? No, you didn’t. If you haven’t seen this show, and this episode specifically, then you need to.

[film-flick]

BEST 10 HORROR MOVIES OF 2023 (SO FAR) ACCORDING TO ROTTEN TOMATOES

1. HUESERA: THE BONE WOMAN

Valeria's joy at becoming a first-time mother is quickly taken away when she's cursed by a sinister entity. As danger closes in, she's forced deeper into a chilling world of dark magic that threatens to consume her.

2. ATTACHMENT

ATTACHMENT is a horror romance about Maja, a has-been actress in Denmark, who falls in love with Leah, a young, Jewish academic visiting from the UK. When Leah suffers a mysterious seizure, Maja fears their whirlwind romance might be cut short and decides to follow Leah back to her home in London. There, Maja meets her new downstairs neighbour: Leah’s mother, Chana. An overbearing, seemingly religious and highly secretive woman, Chana seems resistant to all of Maja’s attempts to win her over. And as Maja notices strange occurrences in the building, she begins to suspect that Chana’s secrets could be much darker than first anticipated.

3. TALK TO ME

When a group of friends discover how to conjure spirits using an embalmed hand, they become hooked on the new thrill, until one of them goes too far and unleashes terrifying supernatural forces.

4. M3GAN

M3GAN is a marvel of artificial intelligence, a life-like doll programmed to be a child's greatest companion and a parent's greatest ally. Designed by brilliant toy-company roboticist Gemma (Get Out's Allison Williams), M3GAN can listen and watch and learn as she becomes friend and teacher, playmate and protector, for the child she is bonded to. When Gemma suddenly becomes the caretaker of her orphaned 8-year-old niece, Cady (Violet McGraw, The Haunting of Hill House), Gemma's unsure and unprepared to be a parent. Under intense pressure at work, Gemma decides to pair her M3GAN prototype with Cady in an attempt to resolve both problems--a decision that will have unimaginable consequences.

5. INFLUENCER

INFLUENCER tells the story of Madison (Emily Tennant, "Riverdale"), a popular social media influencer who is having a lonely and uneventful trip in Thailand despite what she tells her followers on Instagram. While reflecting on her boyfriend canceling the trip, she meets CW (Cassandra Naud, "See"), a fearless and enigmatic traveler who offers to take her to some of the most Instagram-worthy locations. Together they share authentic meals and drinks with locals, discussing the differences between Madison's online presence and CW's lack of one. After showing Madison all of the amazing sights, things take a different turn when CW brings her to a surprise location -- a deserted island that is completely off the grid.

6. BROOKLYN 45

Friday, December 27, 1945. Five military veterans gather in the ornate parlor of a Brooklyn brownstone. Best friends since childhood, they've reunited to support their troubled host -- but when his invitation for cocktails turns into an impromptu séance, the metaphoric ghosts of their past become all-too-literal. Trapped in their host's lounge, the Greatest Generation now finds themselves put to one final test... with their only route to freedom being more bloodshed.

7. TOTALLY KILLER

Thirty-five years after the shocking murder of three teens, the infamous "Sweet Sixteen Killer" returns on Halloween night to claim a fourth victim. Seventeen-year-old Jamie (Kiernan Shipka) ignores her overprotective mom's (Julie Bowen) warning and comes face-to-face with the masked maniac and, on the run for her life, accidentally time travels back to 1987, the year of the original killings. Forced to navigate the unfamiliar and outrageous culture of the 1980s, Jamie teams up with her teen mom (Olivia Holt) to take down the killer once and for all, before she's stuck in the past forever.

8. THE BLACKENING

The Blackening centers around a group of Black friends who reunite for a Juneteenth weekend getaway only to find themselves trapped in a remote cabin with a twisted killer. Forced to play by his rules, the friends soon realize this ain't no motherfu**in' game. Directed by Tim Story (Ride Along, Think Like A Man, Barbershop) and co-written by Tracy Oliver (Girls Trip, Harlem) and Dewayne Perkins (The Amber Ruffin Show, Brooklyn Nine-Nine), The Blackening skewers genre tropes and poses the sardonic question: if the entire cast of a horror movie is Black, who dies first?

9. SICK

As the pandemic steadily brings the world to a halt, Parker and her best friend Miri decide to quarantine at the family lake house alone--or so they think.

10. INFINITY POOL

While staying at an isolated island resort, James (Alexander Skarsgård) and Em (Cleopatra Coleman) are enjoying a perfect vacation of pristine beaches, exceptional staff, and soaking up the sun. But guided by the seductive and mysterious Gabi (Mia Goth), they venture outside the resort grounds and find themselves in a culture filled with violence, hedonism, and untold horror. A tragic accident leaves them facing a zero tolerance policy for crime: either you'll be executed, or, if you're rich enough to afford it, you can watch yourself die instead.