#really in conversation with my sleep deficit right now

[turian]

thinking once again about like. idk you know when you're technically sort of something but the connection to being that something was so thoroughly stolen by genocide that like... even tho you have technically experienced racism specifically related to being smth. you still feel like you can't claim it. and like. it creates the most bizarre situation ever where i'll be sitting there like okay yeah that was definitely racism and definitely directed at me but i feel like the racist was being inaccurate. which leads to such absurd thoughts like "i feel like i should have been pointing out to that racist that i don't really feel like i can claim this and therefore don't always even bring it up" even though the people i'm thinking of absolutely would not have cared about that nuance, idt

[followtheowls]

For a fic prompt, could you possibly write something about Ezra being injured and the medbay and Kanan and Hera are waiting for him to wake up/are worrying. Thank you so much :)

Thanks for this prompt <3 I also used it as a part of my ficlet series on ao3! I hope you like it

tw: medical talk (nothing to gory or graphic though), non graphic mention of injury

fandom: star wars rebels

characters: Kanan Jarrus, Hera Syndulla, Ezra Bridger

Words: 1.7k

The Medbay was not a quiet place, Kanan decided. He took in his surroundings from his place in his chair, in the corner of the small Medbay that was designated for waiting. He could hear the medics bustle around chatting and moving from one patient to another, the medical droids zooming around looking for their next task or procedure, and the medical equipment and machinery hum and creak while they carried out their functions. He could hear the beeping and chattering of binary from the droids, and the medics’ attempt at a hushed conversation. To Kanan, it seemed ironic that a place for healing and resting would be so incredibly noisy, but then again, he was probably more sensitive to it than most. He found that the loss of his vision had forced his other senses to adapt and subsequently become more sensitive to compensate for the loss of his eyesight.

The scent of bacta was thick in the air. So thick, in fact, Kanan could feel it burn his nostrils as he breathed in. The scent provided almost an instant headache, and his stomach churned as it reminded him of agonizing memories, in this very Medbay, from his recovery after returning from Malachor. Nothing eased the effect of the smell, it was something that was burned into his memory unchangeable. Even breathing through his mouth was only a half solution, the odor was so saturated and overwhelmed the air that he could almost taste it. Kanan wondered how the medics were able to work here all day. They probably become desensitized to it, he thought, too much time spent alongside it to let it bother them anymore. Kanan hoped he wouldn’t have to spend enough time in this overwhelming environment to even get near the point of getting used to it.

Kanan felt like a raw nerve, exposed and vulnerable. There was a lot to try to keep track of through the Force, and though he had grown accustomed to using the Force to guide himself through life, right now it was taking extra concentration to center himself. He was feeling everything too keenly. He jumped as he felt someone brush his side accidentally, sitting down in the seat next to him. Hera, he thought. He felt her hand slip into his and squeeze. He returned the gesture, squeezing back with equal pressure. He waited for her to speak first. 

“The medical droid says if all has gone well in surgery that they should be finished soon. He’ll probably be put in a bacta tank for a day or two, depending on how well the surgery goes. They didn’t have any other information to give us.” She stated quietly. Kanan just nodded and tightened his grip on her hand. They sat in silence for several minutes, and Kanan once again became ambushed by the chaos of the medbay.

He prided himself on his ability to remain calm in stressful situations, something that had been hammered into him during his upbringing at the Jedi Temple, but, at the moment, he could feel himself begin to drift from those teachings. Somewhere in Medbay, his padawan, his son in everything but blood, was lying broken and exposed on a table in an operating room, with several surgeons working hard to save his life. He needed to find his balance and his center, but he didn’t know how to do that when he was teetering on the edge of losing everything. 

He should’ve been on the mission, Kanan scolded himself. He should have been there to look out for Ezra, to protect him from what he hadn’t learned yet or from the hate of the Empire. Force knows no one ever did that for Ezra before Kanan was around. Kanan could even fathom imaging the possibility of losing Ezra now. That’s not how it was supposed to go, children were not supposed to go before their parents, it’s against the natural laws of the universe. 

Hera spoke up suddenly. “Stop,” she said sharply. “I know you. Don’t do that.”

“What?” Kanan responded, genuinely confused.

“You’re blaming yourself. I can see it all over your face. This is not your fault or my fault. The Empire. They did this,” she hissed, her anger a white hot presence in the Force. He just hummed in agreement and stroked his thumb over the back of her hand.

Several more minutes passed, it was hard to tell how long they sat there not speaking, just waiting. It could’ve been five minutes or an hour. Kanan really couldn’t tell. He felt Hera stiffen next to him and sit up straighter, and through the noise of the Medbay, he could hear footsteps getting louder and moving towards them. Together they both stood to greet the medic.

“He’s alive and he made it through the surgery. It was touch and go for a while, and his heart arrested once on the table, but we were able to successfully revive him and repair his internal injuries,” explained the medic. Kanan let out a shaky breath he didn't even know he was holding, and slid back into his seat, nauseated and tortured by the knowledge that his padawan’s heart had stopped. 

Hera’s voice shook as she found the strength to speak. “Thank you so much. Will there be any long term effects? Any lasting issues we need to know about? And can we see him?”

“He will, hopefully, make a full recovery,” responded the medic. “There is a very small possibility that there could be some neurological deficits caused by lack of oxygen to his brain during the time that his heart stopped. But, in my professional opinion, I think that possibility is extremely low due to how quick we were able to restart his heart, but we won’t know until he wakes up. Otherwise, he is young and strong, and it is expected that he should recover just fine. though he will need to take it easy and rest for a few weeks. Right now, we have him immersed in a bacta tank to ensure a speedy recovery. I can take you both to see him if you like.”

Hera let out a cry of relief and happiness and she bent down to tackle Kanan in a desperate embrace. He returned it with equal ferocity, almost numb with relief. If the situation wasn’t so dire and serious, Kanan maybe might have made a joke and pointed out just how mom Hera was being. It would have been funny if the situation wasn’t so, just, not funny. The tears were evident in Hera’s voice when she responded that yes, they would like to go be with him, but Kanan was not one to judge. He knew if he had functioning tear ducts, he would’ve been bawling minutes ago.

The medic led them out the door and into a big open room adjacent to where they just waited. Kanan could sense a few medical technicians and droids fluttering around doing their jobs, but his focus immediately snapped to the muted-but-thankfully-still-there presence of Ezra that was emitting from what was presumably inside the bacta tank in the center of the room. While Kanan was his usual brand of stoic and silent, next to him Hera let out a half-suppressed, choked gasp. The medic respectfully excused himself to give them space, telling them he would be in his office if they needed anything.

Beside him, Kanan heard Hera let out another water breath, and he felt her struggle in the Force to contain herself and her emotions. He wrapped his arm around her and pulled her into his side, prompting her to lean into him. It was just as much for his support as it was for hers. It would be okay, they could be unbalanced together. 

Hera shook under his arm, and he felt her lose a bit of the emotional battle she had been fighting. He heard the small plops of tears as they slipped off her chin and made contact with their clothing. He squeezed her a little tighter and whispered reassurances that Ezra would be okay, trying his best to be comforting, but certainly feeling like he was failing. Kanan was hovering between a mix of not knowing what to say and navigating his own residual numbness, shock, and terror from the terrifying moments when he hadn’t known if he still had a living son or not.

After a minute or two of silence between them, Hera, always the most verbal with her emotions, spoke up. “Kanan, he - he,” she was cut off involuntarily by a forceful sob. She attempted to gather herself and start again. “He - just - he looks s-so young,” she whispered, her words choppily cut apart by sobs. “And so f-fragile, in there. The tank is so b-big and - and he just looks so small.” She finished her sentence, and abandoned any premise of maintaining her composure by dissolving into quiet, but powerful tears. She turned away from the sight of their kid in the tank and leaned into him fully, pressing her wet face into his sweater. 

Kanan couldn’t or didn’t have the capacity to imagine what she was looking at. He couldn’t bring his mind to produce that image for him. But, for the very first time in the eight months since becoming blind, he didn’t actively wish for his sight back. At this point, Kanan had mostly accepted his blindness, and had learned to lead his life without sight. But, typically the most emotional moments with his family were the moments he truly wished for his vision. But not right now. He knew that the scene in front of them would be seared into Hera’s memory for life, but something deep inside him, he realized guiltily, was relieved he couldn’t see it. Relieved, because, maybe, he hoped, this way the image wouldn't haunt him. That he wouldn’t go to sleep at night and dream of it, or freeze in the midst of a firefight for fear of seeing it again. Just in that fleeting moment, he felt grateful. Grateful that he didn’t have to see what Hera was seeing, Ezra hurt and broken, and suspended in bacta while connected to a million wires. Grateful that Ezra was going to recover. Grateful for more moments with his family.

[themadauthorshatter]

Time to give this series more angst, and to make Henry even more of a dick; this is Charles's story now.

If you haven't read the previous parts, they are right here:

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4 and revision

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

Really quick recap: With Charles captured, Henry tries to persuade Charles into gibing up the sapphire. Upon resistance, however, Charles is left alone, and in a race against time.

LET'S JUST DIVE BACK IN!!!

We start on Earth as a child, man, and woman are outside and setting up a picnic near some woods.

TV perspective, we see the child hold the basket as his parents set up the blanket, one of them holding a cooler for drinks and condiments, the two talking, but we can't exactly hear what they're saying.

The man talks about drills and finally having a day off, to which the woman agrees, and then she sighs that it's good they have a day to themselves and their son.

Speaking of, the woman tells him to join them, now that the blanket's set up and cooler's open.

He does and they begin.

TV perspective again, we see from the child's perspective that these two adults are smiling and hear their words more clearly, especially when the woman places a hand on her son's head.

"What do you think, baby? Wanna help me throw Daddy in the water?"

"Try it. I'll pull you both in with me." The man turns to the boy, a smile on his face. "Don't give her ideas, Hawk, she's pure evil."

"How dare you," the woman laughs back. "He's my son, too, you a-"

"Hey. Language, he's just a kid."

"Right, and a future pilot like his parents."

We cut to see the child grown up, said child being Charles as he looks between his parents, confused and concerned.

"Mom? Dad?"

As they smile at him, an explosion goes off behind them and fire raises, coming closer by the second.

They don't notice, but it's a good thing Charles does.

"Mom! Dad! BEHIND YOU!" Charles shouts as he reaches out to them.

Too late, because the fire engulfs them both, but simply blows past Charles like wind or fog.

With the fire gone, smoke rises, but shows Calvin and Konrad, the two smiling with Charles in between them.

"Thanks for taking the fall for us," Calvin says. "Really we don't know what we'd do without you."

Charles looks between them and gives a confused look to them both. "What!?"

"Yeah," Konrad replies. "Better you take the fall than us. Who knows who would've lost it, if it were us instead of you."

"Captain Canterbury, for one," Calvin states.

"And the General."

"And Grit. She would've been sooo mad."

"And Rupert. Don't forget him."

Charles covers his ears and crouches down, saying to himself, "You're dreaming. This is just a dream. You've just gotta wake up."

"They're not wrong," Charles hears Rupert say, his friend appearing through the smoke-fog and standing over him. "If it had been them instead of you, I'd make you wish the General just put you in an orphanage instead of letting you join the government."

"Come on," Charles murmurs as he lightly slaps himself. "Come on, wake up already!"

Rupert reaches down and grabs Charles, pulling him up until they're practically breathing the same air.

The thing is, though, Charles isn't looking at Rupert, per se. He sees Galeforce instead, and what the General says to him:

"If it had been you instead of them, none of this would've happened."

"STOP!" Charles shouts as he pushes Galeforce away from him and runs. "WAKE UP! WAKE UP!"

Charles suddenly stops in his tracks when he sees Henry, who's standing in front of the military base as it burns.

"Don't have anywhere else to go." Henry holds out his hand, smirking. "Might as well come with. I really have missed you."

Charles tries to run again, but Henry grabs him and holds onto him as the fire grows and bursts behind them.

"WAKE UP!"

We cut to Charles as he's dropped to the floor, the cuffs still on and Charles waking up, sweaty, shaking, and hyperventilating. Don't worry, he didn't land on his wounds.

He looks around, feeling worse when he remembers where he is, who he spoke to, and what they were talking about.

Charles groans and sits back against the wall, a little tired of just about all of this.

He does notice he's free and runs toward the panel to open the door, but that hope dies when he sees the cuffs are still on his hands. He tries getting the panel to activate using both his nose and togue before giving up and kicking and beating at the door.

"No. No. No. No! No! NO!"

Charles sits against the wall and closes his eyes tightly, trying not to fully break down.

It doesn't help that the withdrawal of medicine has started and the hum of the orbital station is getting a little too loud, and Henry comes in with some breakfast in a tray; he's not sending in anyone else because he doesn't want Charles attacking them.

Charles does notice Henry, but ignores him, because he's not in the mood for dealing with him.

Henry sits across from him and sets the tray down. "I would've waited until you woke up on your own, but you looked like you REALLY needed some help."

Charles only glares at him.

Henry sighs at this and moves closer to Charles, bringing the tray with him before taking a piece of food on a fork and holding it in front of Charles, who cringes away from it; he has nothing against scrambled eggs, but he does when Henry serves them.

Henry's amused look drops instantly. "None of it is poisoned in any way, if that's what you're thinking. Now open up. You need to eat."

Henry goes to feed Charles again, but the pilot presses himself against the wall as much as he can.

Henry, done with this, grabs Charles by the jaw and makes him eat some breakfast; it's pancakes, for anyone curious.

Charles tries kicking him away, which works, but Henry claps a hand onver his mouth before Charles can spit out his food.

The two glare at each other, but Charles also holds up his hand, which still have the cuffs on them.

"Look. You're going to be here for a while. I don't know when you ate last, so eat. And I don't trust you yet, so I'll feed you."

Charles, more pissed than ever, remains resolute, wanting very much to spit out that piece of pancake in his mouth.

Henry has none of that and uses his other hand to plug Charles's nose.

It's incentive for Charles to eat his food and let Henry feed him.

After a while, when the plate's empty, Henry speaks back up.

"You know, this is the quietest I've ever seen you, since we met."

Charles inhales sharply and trembles a little bit, trying to talk.

Henry leans forward and turns his ear toward him.

Charles struggles, but eventually forces out, "Medicine."

Henry has a confused look on his face before realizing what Charles means, standing up, and taking the pill bottle out of his inside coat pocket. "This medicine?" He asks, being a smug prick.

Charles races toward Henry, who steps back and watches Charles fall back down.

TV/Camera perspective, we see that Charles's eyes keep darting to the seams/bonds in the metal floor, to some scuff marks from shoes, to the details on the cuffs, like the seams, bolts, and even the metal around his wrists. We also hear the hum of the orbital station get lower, especially when Henry walks toward him and kneels down in front of him, reaching his hand to him.

Out of the perspective Henry lifts Charles's chin up, so they can see each other better.

"Sorry, Charles. As much as I like our conversations, I think I like you better like this." Henry holds up the pills again and leans closer to Charles. "Unless you know where the sapphire is."

Charles only stares at the medicine and reaches for it, forgetting the cuffs, and Henry holds them further away.

"Please," Charles says, just above a whisper.

Henry only holds the bottle close again and shakes it. "Where can we find it, Charles? Just tell me, and I'll let you take as many as you want."

Charles can only stare between the bottle and Henry, who's patiently waiting for an answer.

"Please."

Henry sighs, shakes his head, and stands back up, Charles watching in absolute despair.

"I'll leave you alone for a little while to rethink your answer."

Charles watches Henry, trying to protest as he leaves.

Tv/Camera perspective, we follow Henry leave Charles, who yells for him even as the door shuts.

Henry walks until he's in the Communications area, where he meets Burt.

"Oh, hey, Chief."

'Hello, Burt,' Henry signs. 'Is the message ready?'

Burt nods. "Yeah. Got the message and video ready. Just, uh, waiting on your call."

Henry examines the file, and the video feed that's attached, and nods as he smiles. 'Send it.'

CUT TO EARTH IN THE MILITARY BASE!

Galeforce is training via target practice and trying not to think about Charles being in danger, even though his parent instincts are going absolutely crazy.

That's when new character to this whole thing Victoria Grit comes in and reports to Galeforce that they just recieved a message from the Toppat Clan.

Galeforce follows her and meets up with Rupert, the twins, and Canterbury as they open the file.

It's a video that shows Charles in his cell as he sleeps, hanging by his wrists.

Galeforce is triggered instantly, while everyone else is highly disturbed.

They watch as Charles has his nightmare, as he's given breakfast by Henry, and has his medicine taken away from him, even when Henry leaves.

Galeforce is silent and trembling with pure rage as Rupert growls, "That bastard," and Canterbury mutters, "Junky," under his breath.

"Charles is attention deficited," Victoria explains. "Without those pills, he's about as functional as a plastic compass."

"Why do it, though?" Konrad asks. "Why take the pills, if Charles needs them that much?"

"Read what His Majesty added," Calvin replies as he points to the message attached.

'GIVE IT BACK'

Galeforce barely registers what the soldiers elaborate on a plan, instead watching Charles on the floor of his cell, trying to cover his ears and remain calm.

"Hang in there, Charlie. We'll get you out of there."

[morimakesfanart]

Sindria’s Prophet Ch02

[01]

Given the state of Balbadd, I didn't expect to get more than gruel or bread if I was lucky. It was a starving nation. Yet I found myself eating a meal with a little more substance to it. I couldn't call it delicious, but as the saying goes "hunger is the best spice." A part of me wondered if I'd get sick from eating the local food since my body wasn't used to it.

It was just me, and Ja'far. I could tell something was off, but I was too hungry to care. He kept his customer service face on the whole time. If I was in a more confident and mischievous mood I would have made myself difficult just to see how far I could push him. Instead, I expressed my thanks.

"You were able to find her!"

I almost choked at Sinbad's sudden entrance.

The king turned to me with smoldering eyes and a soothing tone. "It's an honor to meet the Beautiful Prophet again."

I was just lucky I was focusing on breathing and hadn't gone back to eating or I might have actually died from his flirty line. I had to remind myself that he never means anything he implies while flirting.

He was clearly expecting something great from me while I was too busy looking for the exit from his eyes.

'Prophet?' I repeated in my thoughts when I was able to form them again. Ja'far had called me one too. That meant they believed that I really did know fate at the level I did.

I looked down at the rest of my food with the sobering realization that I was being bribed -or at least buttered up. I was finally fully awake.

I had already slipped up and revealed something I shouldn't have. I'd have to be careful not to mention anything else involving the Sacred Palace.

I broke eye contact and answered, "I'm not sure how much I should say, if I'm honest," and saw Sinbad sit down out of the corner of my eye.

Ja'far cut in "Can you at least tell us if this idiot will get his metal vessels back?” Sinbad gave a complaint to the name calling but we ignored it.

"He'll get them back," I said. "The thieves that stole them will realize what they are. In a few days there will be a battle which will make it easier for you to meet. Most of the fight will be over by then, but he will have reason enough to use his Djinn."

Sinbad turned to Ja'far, ecstatic. "See? I told you there was nothing to worry about!”

Then he turned back to me a bit more seriously. "Now what's this about a battle?"

I shouldn't have said that.

I took a bite of food to stall while I decided on an answer. I wanted to help, but I really didn't want to mess anything up. This arc is critical for Alibaba's development. There was no way I was just going to give Sinbad the answers. I swallowed and answered his question with one of my own, "Have you told Alibaba yet that you think he should take over as king of Balbadd? I'm pretty sure that conversation is supposed to happen today.”

The King of Sindria blinked at my question. "That was earlier today."

"Only a little before we found you, actually," Ja'far added.

That meant I must have slept past noon. I knew my sleep deficit was bad, but still...

I smiled. "Good. Supporting and guiding Alibaba is the right choice. He'll come to you when he finds his resolve. Your request for help from your alliance will also be important even if they end up not being needed."

"I see," Sinbad said with child like excitement before leaning forward and asking, "Now, about the battle-.”

I wagged a finger at him. "Uh-uh. You'll be getting no more from me about the future. I can't let you mess this up because you want to play savior."

"But if I know, then I know I can-"

"Nope! You might be able to feel the waves of fate, but you will be able to do the most good with a supporting role."

"I see," he said clearly taken aback.

Not breaking stride, Sinbad put one hand on the table and leaned towards me. "It all happened just like you said it would: Prince Sahbmad's reveal to my conversation with Morgiana this morning." He gestured to his general, "Even Ja'far scolding me. So Beautiful Prophet, what's going to happen next?"

Sinbad watched me and hummed as I went back to eating. It was a bit uncomfortable, but I was almost done anyway. Besides, he didn't seem to actually be looking at me. It was like he was trying to see through me while organizing his thoughts. Ja'far watched both of us.

I felt the current around us grow, and wondered what he was planning.

"Are you ready to tell me your name, or should I keep calling you 'Beautiful Prophet?'" Sinbad voiced.

I blushed a little at the nickname again. There wasn't really a way around it anymore. "Hmm. " I really didn't think I could handle hearing him say my name.

After a moment the King of Sindria almost looked nervous. "Are you going to charge for your name??"

I wasn't expecting that reaction and laughed, "Maybe I should if I'll get to see more expressions like that." I put down my utensils and pushed my plates to the side -I had finished my food anyway. "I had just been considering whether to tell you my full or nickname, but now I'm curious what my name is worth to you." I rested my head in my right hand.

The king's shoulders dropped, but he seemed a little amused by my antics. "Are you always this difficult?"

"Nope," I said with a smile, "Only with scoundrels."

"Oh? So you think I'm a scoundrel?” Sinbad crossed his arms, but his smile grew.

Ja'far was beginning to look done with the whole situation. 

"Yes," I answered, "I know every significant moment in your life from the moment you were born to how you die. I know how underhanded you can and will be, so I have every reason to call you a scoundrel."

"Now I'm even more curious."

"Well, I can't say I'm not tempted to tell you one of your own secrets, but..." That would definitely be a bad idea. I didn't need him thinking I was antagonistic towards him.

I lifted my head from my hand. "How about this?" The inevitability of working under him was becoming clearer, but I wasn't going to just follow his lead or tell him whatever he wanted. "If you can make sure that I have food and housing while you're here, then I'll help save Balbadd." I was gonna do that anyway and he knew that, but he also might see this as an opportunity to tie me to him, and that was what I was really after. I didn't want to resort to seduction unless I had to; that would be a battle I'd definitely lose.

Honestly, I wanted to run and hide from him knowing who he would become, but if I could influence him and maybe change the ending a little then-

"Tell me your name first, and I'll agree." Sinbad had that know-it-all in-control look.

One does not simply get away from Sinbad once he targets you.

I broke eye contact. "Fine. I don't know how comfortable I am giving my full name so just call me 'Mori' for now," I relented. I preferred my nickname anyway.

My left hand that was on the table was suddenly covered in warmth and I turned to see Sinbad holding it with his own.

"Mori, when we finish things here in Balbadd, come with me to Sindria." His eyes were serious, and I couldn't look away. That was far more than what I had asked for.

"I'll think about it," was what I answered, but I knew I'd be going to Sindria. It just didn't feel safe openly agreeing with any of his requests.

"Thank you," Sinbad said, giving my hand a squeeze. He let go and stood up. He stopped near the door and looked back at me. "As long as I'm in Balbadd I'll take care of you."

The deal was sealed.

As Sinbad stepped out, Ja'far offered to guide me to my room so I could get situated, and I agreed.

---

Since Sinbad had joined the fog troop, his group seemed to have moved out of that grand hotel. I had guessed as much when reading and watching the series. Why else would they stop using a fancy room for their meetings, and start using that run down one with just a small wooden table?

The room I was given was, understandably, a small one. The bed wouldn't be comfortable by any measure, but at least it was actually a bed. There was a dresser and a few candles. There was a small window in the middle of one of the walls.

As I sat in my new space, I was stuck thinking about my name. My parents named me "Morgan" because it was an ungendered name, so would hopefully lead to more job opportunities, and also because they both liked the tales of King Arthur.

Morgan le Fay is different in every version of the legend. First being good to morally gray to being evil in later tellings. All the same she was gifted with magic and prophecies. Some scholars even think she might be a reference to The Triple Goddess Mórrigan, a goddess of war and fate, said to favor the best fighters, and give prophecies. As time went on, she lost believers and her powers diminished.

Just like her, I found myself giving prophecies to a great warrior king. The Mórrigan was also said to have married two great kings of legend and gave them prophecies that helped their kingdoms rise, but the implications to the king I was dealing with was too embarrassing -and Sinbad never falls in love or gets married. My feelings were my own problem.

---

~POV shift~

Not long after securing the prophet to their side, King Sinbad and his generals regrouped. How were the injured healing, how were the resources holding up, had Aladdin's condition improved, was Alibaba still acting like he had already lost, etc -they got caught up on the state of things.

"Oh right. Masrur," Kind Sinbad addressed the general that had been missing earlier. “Even more of that girl's predictions came true.”

The redhead just looked on with a "Is that so?"

Sinbad was carefree. "It is. And she gave us good news. It looks like the thieves that took my metal vessels will be returning them soon."

"That is good news."

Ja'far clarified, "Yes, but she also said that you wouldn't get them back until some upcoming battle happens."

Sinbad hummed, "That is true."

"Can we really trust her?" Masrur asked.

Sinbad nodded. "I've felt it since I first talked to her. She's someone who will listen to me."

Masrur and Ja'far shared a silent conversation. This "prophet" was just another woman who was under their king's spell.

"She even knows about the waves," Sinbad added to himself with a far off look.

"Besides," I continued, "I think that amount is more than enough as thanks for the meal."

[thiswasinevitableid]

Hi!!!!!!!!!! I just saw your playlist for the indruck rockstar au so naturally I had to go and reread the whole entire thing in one go this morning and I just wanted to say how much I Love it and the way you write that whole scenario, especially with the way you incorporated the music lyrics??? (Especially since you wrote a bunch of those????) chefs kiss. I was wondering if you had ever written or planned out any of the sternclay that happened before this story took place because the way you described what we got of how they got together sounded so amazing and I would Die to hear their point of view. Hope you have a wonderful weekend!!!!!!!!!

Thank you so much! I’m really proud of that fic, and it seems to have been one a lot of folks really enjoyed. And well, when you asked this, it got me thinking. So here’s a brief history of how Stern and Barclay got together in this universe. Heads up: it is NSFW

That didn’t go as planned. 

Joseph only meant to alert The Cryptids to the fact their manager was clearly skimming off the top and downplaying offers for further connections in the business before turning every ounce of charm he could muster on Barclay. He came to fuck bigfoot, not change careers. 

Now he’s packing up the second of his two suitcases, conversation with his parents still ringing in his ears. They’re not taking the fact that he’s dropping out of college to manage an up and coming, horror rock, very gay band particularly well and have tried twice to talk him out of it. Which is why he’s glad he went through all the bureaucratic steps before calling them. 

He’s never been more terrified or excited in his life. He’s sure he can do this, he’s already booked them four more gigs in a logical tour path, found a better system for making their merch, and is tracking down a promising P.R lead. It’s the close quarters that scare him the most; he’s certain he could charm Barclay for an evening, could get the others to like him enough to hang around back stage once or twice. But for months on end? What if they think he’s prissy, or too perfectionistic, or too normal?

What if Barclay hates him?

------------------------------------------------------

“I must admit, I’d have thought you would have made a move on Joseph by now.” Indrid says before pulling a sweater on over his head. It gets caught on his glasses, and he flails until Barclay helps it the rest of the way down. They’re somewhere south of Madison, the van cutting a lonely path down the dark road; it’s so late, and they’re on one of those vast, distinctly midwestern stretches where there’s nothing but night sky and fields. Jake drives, tapping the wheel in time with the radio while Joseph sleeps in the passenger seat and Vincent sprawls on the far back one.

“Kinda weird to hit on your manager, right?” Barclay peers warily around the passenger seat to be double sure the manager in question isn’t listening. He isn’t, lips parted slightly and dark hair falling in his face as his sleeping body is tilted this way and that by the motion of the car. 

“Not when the manager looks like that and has already broadcasted his eagerness to fuck you.”

Barclay can’t really argue that first point; Joseph walked into that sorry excuse for a dressing room looking like centerfold come to life. There’s a certain kind of fan of theirs who spends their daily life buttoned up and following the rules, and Joseph struck him as exactly that kind of self-repressing, well groomed gym bunny. They’re always the most fun fans to fuck, in his experience. Couple that with the fact Joseph was (is) hot and willing, Barclay would have happily called dibs on the van for an hour to fuck him senseless that first night. But now…

“I dunno, he hasn’t really flirted with me since we met. And even then he didn’t flirt much.”

“The lecture on Haye’s deficits did start about two seconds after he entered the room.”

“Yeah” Barclay sighs fondly at the memory, “maybe he’s just not interested now that he’s seen me offstage.”

“Or maybe you’re both acting from the same vein of professionalism. Which is not terribly punk rock.”

“I’m being myself” Barclay grumbles “that’s-”

“The most punk rock thing you can be.” Indrid finishes, nodding sagely. Then he smirks, “but that doesn’t change the fact Joseph wants to get into those leather pants of yours. Why do you think he keeps recommending the stage outfits that involve them?”

“Hey, I like that look too. It’s my idea as much as it’s his.”

“Mmmmhmm.” Indrid yawns, rests his head on Barclay’s shoulder.  Then he sings in his ear “Baby you got the clothes, baby he’s got the romance, you’ve got the moves so while you’ve got the chance, you wanna get in his pants, you wanna get in his pants, you wanna-”

Barclay elbows him sideways onto the seat, making them both giggle like they’re ten and wrestling on the trampoline in his backyard. 

“Enough with the prophecies, Mothman.”

“That was hardly a prophecy.” Indrid sticks his legs into Barclays laugh, “but very well. I will leave you to pine for as long as you please.”

Barclay spares another glance towards the front of the car.

“I’m not pining. I just want him to like me.”

A snore in reply, Indrid out with his arms sprawled in different directions. Barclay chuckles softly, roots around for one of their two pillows, and settles his head against the window. He doesn’t shut his eyes right away; instead he watches the lights of distant houses and stars race past, melding into the reflection of Joseph’s sleeping face.

------------------------------------

“I bought us ten more minutes, I cannot believe they didn’t warn us this was a double appearance. I’ll-” Joseph finishes shutting the van door and promptly grips it so hard it leaves an indent in his palm. 

The band is in various states of rapid undress, trying to get back into their first set of outfits, and smack in the center of the tableau is Barclay, naked from the waist down.

“-I’ll be more thorough going, um, going forward. See you all backstage.” 

He can’t scramble out of the vehicle fast enough, finds one of the two functioning bathrooms in the place and locks himself in without a second thought. Leans against the graffiti coated door and shoves his hand down pants, a little embarrassed at how turned on he is just from one peek at Barclay’s dick. That doesn’t stop him from picturing it as he shoves two fingers into himself and jacks off like it’s the last chance he’ll ever get. The smell of two kinds of smoke, the half dead bulb, the din of the crowd gathering in the building all make him harder; he’s so desperately horny for his bassist he’ll make himself cum in a shitty dive bathroom. The thought has him moaning, and he covers his mouth with his free hand as he cums. 

With a much clearer head, he washes his hands and leaves to round up his band. It’s better this way, better for him to get off alone than put Barclay in a weird position by his manager coming onto him. That’d be weird for everyone; this way is much easier.

Ten minutes later, standing in the shadowy steps and watching The Cryptids perform, Barclay growling and sweat-soaked, giving Indrid a messy, open-mouthed kiss when the singer initiates it, he knows it won’t be easy at all.

---------------------------------------------------------

They’ve done it; Joseph helped the others successfully sign with Amnesty Records, securing them a re-release of their first album at higher quality and with wider distribution, a massive U.S tour, and more money up front than any of them have ever seen. Amnesty sees promise in them, and Barclay knows they can deliver. They celebrated for two nights solid, and now reality sets in; Indrid is locked in a hotel room, writing like he’s possessed by the ghost of several rockstars at once, Vincent and Jake are trying to find places to live now that they’re based in Atlanta, and Barclay…

Barclay is standing in a half-furnished apartment that doesn’t belong to him. It belongs to Joseph, currently hopping on and off the phone while Barclay waits for dinner to arrive. In a perfect world he would have just cooked, but given how Joseph’s been the last few weeks, he’s worried that gesture of intimacy might freak him out. The manager was in meetings all day and is still in his suit, a forty dollar one they bought in a strip mall at the edge of town. On him it looks like it cost a thousand dollars just for the slacks. The slacks Barclay is failing very hard at not staring at. Joseph isn’t even twenty-one, but he’s been working deals like a pro, and it is the hottest fucking thing Barclay has ever seen. 

He tries distracting himself from his unhelpful gay thoughts via distressing images. All he comes up with is having to steal Indrid’s phone from him after the singer called his family for the first time in almost three years. Whether that was to deliver a final fuck you or toss a hail Mary of reconciliation their way, Barclay isn’t sure. All he knows is he watched Indrid’s face take a turn, old hurts smothering the spark in his eyes, and he took the phone away while someone yelled on the other end of it. 

“How are your parents taking it?” Joseph looks up from the laptop on the kitchen table where he’s entering dates into a calendar. 

Barclay smiles, “Good. Pretty sure they’ve told everyone in the family the good news. Alice can get a chain email out like nobody’s business. They say they love me and are proud of me and that I have to promise to still come home for Christmas every now and then.”

Joseph smiles back, open for a moment before a guard slips back up. Barclay tucks his hands in his pockets, psyching himself up. He has to do this. He has to know.

“Have I, like, made you angry or something? You’ve just been standoffish lately.” 

“Working out everything for the contract has been so stressful I’m not sure anyone but the execs have seen much of me.” The answer is well-rehearsed. 

“Oh.” Barclay nods, hands still in his pockets and shoulders slouched. 

“And, um, and they haven’t gone away. My feelings for you.” This answer is far quieter, the other man looking up from the screen with fearful eyes. 

“That’s a...bad thing? But I, uh, I, like you too. I like so fucking much.”

A little puff of laughter, “I can tell. Believe me, I can. It’s just that being your manager is different than being a random fan looking for a hook-up; I might  want something you’re not ready to give, or vice versa, and if we rush into things it could fuck up everything you guys worked for. Everything we worked for.”

Barclay cautiously steps forward, “What if we took things slow? Like, really slow.”

Hope sneaks into the corners of Joseph’s eyes, “What would that look like?”

“Like we go step by step, with first dates and like, hand holding and shit. We can take as long as we want; I mean, unless you’re planning on ditching the next big thing in the music world, think we’re gonna have plenty of time to spend together.”

“I like the sound of that.” 

Barclay circles the table as Joseph stands. He cups his cheek, running his thumb up his cheekbone.

“Hey.”

“Hi” Joseph’s eyes have taken on a distinctly Bambi-ish shape. 

“You wanna go get dinner tomorrow?”

The other man loops his arms around his shoulders, “Absolutely.”

Their first kiss comes less than twenty four hours; they may be taking it slow, but there’s only so much two men who’ve been pining in the confines of a van for months can take. It’s soft and popcorn scented and Joseph holds his hand the entire time. 

---------------------------------------------

Joseph waits in the dressing room, ears ringing from the sound system and the screaming crowd. It’s the first time The Cryptids have played any sort of true arena, and they sold out the show a week in advance. 

Barclay clomps into the room in his combat boots, grinning as soon as he sees him. He’s dripping with sweat, his eyeliner is a little smudged, and even though he isn’t the lead vocalist, he has enough backing vocals that his voice is a touch raw when he speaks. 

“Fuck that was fun.”

“You all did so well. I, this is going to sound corny, but I’m so proud of you.”

“Should be proud of yourself too, babe. Without you, we’d probably still be playing no-name bars in Des Moines or Fresno.”

“Managing is easy when the talent’s this good.” He runs his hands up Barclays’ fishnet-clad chest. 

“Take the compliment, blue eyes.”

High on pride and the knowledge that at least a third of the crowd would commit a felony to take his place, Joseph pinches Barclay’s left nipple, “No.”

Barclay growls, grabbing his lapels and yanking him into a salty, toothy kiss. He moans in reply, drops his hands down to undo Barclay’s fly so he can grind against him, feel him getting hard through his dress pants. 

“You really wanna do that here, babe? Don’t wanna make our first time all soft sheets and candlelight?” Barclay rubs the top button of Joseph’s shirt between his thumb and finger. 

“Yes, I want you and I want you now” 

Barclay lunges, shoving him back until his ass hits the dressing room table.

“Fine” he grunts, getting his cock out while Joseph kicks one leg free of his pants, “can’t take a compliment, gonna take something else.”

“OHmylord, fuck, fucking finally.” He thunks his head back against the mirror as Barclay sets a ferocious tempo. 

“Shit, you feel even better than I thought you would, and I’ve been, fuck, thinking about it for a long fucking time. Ever since you walked into that shitty dressing room in those tight shorts and shirt with my name on it.”

“Nnhng” He spreads his legs wider at the memory.

“Oh you fucking like that, don’t you babe? That why you wanted to do this here? So I could treat you like the horny fucking fanboy you really are?”

“Yes, ohmylord, yes, yes.” He can’t feel anything but the points where they connect, can’t hear anything beyond Barclay’s growls in his ear and the slap of skin on skin.

“Fuck” Barclay pulls his hair with one hand, shoves his knee further up with the other, “shoulda known, even with that fancy suit all you wanna be is my fucking toy.” It’s a snarl, the hottest sound he’s ever heard and he drags Barclay into another kiss, amazed that he feels close to cumming already. 

Knockknock.

Barclay turns his head towards the door, Joseph muffling his panting breath in his shoulder. 

“Uh, who is it?”

“Mothman. The winners of that drawing are back here to meet us.”

“Shit” Joseph hisses, starting to sit up only for strong hands to trap him in place. 

“Cool. Uh, gimme like” Barclay looks down to where his cock is buried into Joseph, “three minutes?”

The smile in Indrid’s voice is unmistakable, “Of course. I still need to find Vincent. See you soon.”

“Three minutes seems optimisticAH, ohgod” He holds on for dear life as Barclay fucks him with sharp, deep thrusts. A calloused hand finds his dick and Joseph bites down on a broad shoulder to keep from alerting everyone in the vicinity to his impending orgasm. 

“That’s it babe, cum for me, cum on my cock in a backroom like the horny, needy thing you are.” Barclay stills his hips, hand working with slick, messy movements until Joseph cums. He doesn’t wait for him to finish all the way before slamming into him for ten of the best seconds of Stern’s life and cumming with a deep moan. 

“Fucking-A that was good.”

“Good is an understatement.”

“I love you so fucking much.”

“I love you too.”

A kiss on the head as Barclay helps him onto the ground, a flurry of putting their clothes into a rough approximation of order. Then Barclay kisses him again as Joseph strokes his hair. 

“Offer of soft sheets and candlelight still stands.” 

Joseph holds him tighter, smiling against his neck, “I guess we know what we’re doing tomorrow night.”

----------------------------------------------------

It’s the last day of recording the tracks for “Blood on the Mirror” and the mood is bittersweet. After this, there’s one more tour and then The Cryptids go their separate ways. It was time, everyone but Indrid and Jake ready to move on to other projects, and Joseph is already on board to manage Indrid’s solo career (“I’d trust it to no one else, Joseph. I mean it”). All the same, when the final track is deemed done, everyone applauds and embraces like they’re going off to war. 

He heads down to his office to finish reading over venue contracts while the band packs up, but he only gets through one before Barclay appears. 

“Hey, blue eyes.”

“Hi, Bigfoot.” Joseph stands and comes to the door to kiss him, “are you already set to go home.”

“More or less” Barclay rubs his arm, his most consistent anxiety tell, “uh, there’s just one thing I gotta ask before we leave.”

Hushed voices down the hall, but no one there when Joseph looks behind him to check. When he turns back, his hands fly up to cover his mouth. Barclay is down on one knee.

“I, uh, I know this might not be the most, uh, traditional spot to do this but it feels right. I’ve just been thinking about how a huge chapter of my life is coming to a close and there’s this whole new, exciting, terrifying blank page where I have to write the next one. And I, I realized that I want you to be in that chapter with me, and the next one, and the one after that. So, uh, what I want to know is: Joseph Stern, will you marry me?”

He nods, not trusting his voice to come out with intelligible words. 

“Oh thank god.” Barclay springs up, cupping his face and spinning him in a kiss. Joseph laughs as whooping cheers echo towards them. Indrid, Jake, and Vincent, are peering around the nearest corner, beaming.

“Indrid is for sure going to say I told you so the second he gets me alone” Barclay chuckles, “I was so afraid you’d say no because things will be kind of up in the air for the next few years.”

Joseph turns his face back towards him, “You’re right, they will. But I can’t think of anyone I’d rather spend them with.”

[retrievablememories]

no manners | lucas

title: no manners pairing: lucas x black!reader genre: angst, implied smut request: “Aww thanks✨😊 Hope it’s not too much(I have a wild/creative imagination😌) Could you write a fic where Lucas is married to an African American who lives in America while he’s in China with WayV. One night after a call where Lucas suggests she go out with friends because she’s too lonely, she drinks too much and ends up going home with a stranger. When she wakes up she finds out what she did and a few days later she finds out she’s pregnant 💁🏿‍♀️that being said ain’t do it if it’s weird” word count: 5k warnings: workplace sexism/harassment, infidelity, alcohol use, mentions of intoxicated sex, mentions of pregnancy, emetophobia warning, mentions of blood, medical setting, angst!! just sad shit man a/n: hard to think of a good title, idk. the song’s about a sad relationship so close enough? ion fuck with drake anymore but passionfruit was the soundtrack for this one lol

You wake up in the middle of the night again—you’ve been doing it a lot lately. Your head aches a bit and your throat feels dry. You reach for the bottle of water on your nightstand and drink from it, though it doesn’t make you feel any better.

Pulling the covers back over yourself, you turn towards the empty side of the bed and feel that familiar pain settle in your body again. There are painkillers for physical discomforts, but what do you do for this kind of ache that comes from deep within the heart? You sigh and simply close your eyes, trying to block out the feeling. 

It’s been over 3 months since you’ve seen Lucas in person, which might as well be the equivalent of several lifetimes for you. You knew this was going to be inevitable once you got married, and even while you were still in the dating stage you experienced it. But you’re not sure if you could’ve accounted for just how intense it would feel now. It’s different now. You’ve made a home together—are going to have a family someday—and yet you barely get to spend any time together.

Burrowing deeper under the covers, you curl yourself up as small as possible, as if you can squeeze out the pain by leaving no more room for it.

Even work is bland now. You work at a firm for a fairly popular magazine in your city, and although your duties keep you busy most days, even those things are starting to lose their appeal. Your peers certainly don’t help.

“You look like you’ve been going through it,” Your coworker Daniel says over lunch. Your other coworker, Patrice, elbows them in the side for his indiscretion.

Your jaw clenches. You have to make an effort to relax your body and gather your thoughts before responding. The last thing you need right now is to lose your job, although you already know Lucas could support the both of you if necessary. “I’m fine. Just a little sleep deficit, but I’ll live.”

“Don’t mind him,” Sharia says, rolling her eyes. “We all get a little worn out sometimes. I hope things get better for you soon.”

“I’m just pointing out the obvious,” Daniel interjects, holding his hands up in surrender. “Don’t shoot the messenger. Sharia’s right, though; we all know how you’re feeling.” No, you don’t, you think, resisting the desire to scoff in his face. “Work’s been pretty hectic the past few weeks.”

“Yep, real busy,” you say curtly, not wanting to draw this conversation out further. It’s clear that he thinks he’s making some kind of connection with you, despite him knowing jackshit about anything that’s going on in your life. His presumptuousness has always rubbed you wrong.

“Absolutely. Hopefully the big boss will ease up on us soon here.” You think Daniel is done, but then he speaks again, and Patrice puts her head in her hands. “Anyway, how’s everyone’s home life faring from all this? You and the husband doing all alright?” You know that last statement is specifically for you, and it makes you even more weary.

Sharia shifts uncomfortably as if she can feel the tension you’re experiencing. She’s the only one on your job who knows who you’re married to, as you didn’t want to let your other nosy colleagues in on your life. She’s the only one you can trust to keep your business on your front porch where it belongs. 

“We’re doing fine,” you say, keeping your voice light. “How are you and your girlfriend?”

“Actually—are you sure you and dear husband aren’t having any problems? You know...of the bedroom variety? Maybe that’s part of why you’ve been so stressed lately.”

“Jesus, Daniel!” Patrice exclaims in disbelief.

“You’re way out of line.” Sharia gives Daniel a warning look. “We’re at work, this isn’t gossip hour. I don’t think you need another HR report under your belt.”

You continue to sit with your hands clasped together, digging your nails into the back of your hand and watching the wall clock count down the minutes until the lunch break ends. Still 10 minutes left. If this were any other setting, any other person, you would’ve cursed Daniel out and likely given him a good backhanding, but he knows you can’t do anything here. And that’s precisely why he does it.

“What goes on in our lives is none of your business,” you say slowly, trying to keep your voice even. “I don’t know where you pull this crap from. You should listen to Sharia.”

“I hope that’s not a threat, because we all know the boss doesn’t care,” Daniel scoffs. “I’m not going anywhere, so you girls might as well get used to it.” Thankfully, he decides to take his leave at this point, collecting the rest of his lunch and stalking back to his office.

Patrice and Sharia exchange looks, and you merely sit and continue staring at the clock, watching the hands count to the next hour. It’s all you can do.

You’re relieved when you step through the front door of your house that night. Or maybe relief isn’t the word for it—but there is definitely a sort of deflation that happens once you pass through the threshold. You feel sapped and tired, and you can only think of scraping together whatever leftovers you can find because you’re too tired to cook a new meal.

As you walk into the bedroom, you remember that you and Lucas are supposed to video chat tonight, and that makes you feel a little better, but not as good as it could. You glance at the empty side of the bed and sigh heavily.

The rest of the evening passes by simultaneously too slow and too fast. It’s almost like the weight of your depression is dragging down the rest of the world and making time flow in a strange, nonsensical fashion. You eat your leftovers, watch bad reality TV, and even try to check a few work emails before your mind drifts off again. You keep replaying the events at lunch and getting upset again, though you don’t want to.

By the time the hour for your video call comes along, you’re curled up on the bed holding your phone tightly, waiting for it to ring and your husband’s name to flash across the screen. You answer almost instantly when it finally does.

“Yukhei,” you breathe out once his face appears on screen. The sight of him is enough to make your eyes sting immediately, and your throat is choked off with tears.

“Y/N!” Even through the phone speakers, his voice is loud enough to fill your room, and your sudden laughter at his excitement is enough to make the tears building in your eyes finally fall down. Lucas leans closer to the screen, his features drawing into a concerned expression. “Oh, shit—Y/N, what’s wrong?!”

You’ve stopped laughing now but the tears keep flowing, and you wipe your eyes futilely. For a while, all you can do is shake your head and keep crying as Lucas coos to you on the other end of the phone, growing increasingly concerned about your emotional state.

You put the phone down to wipe your face, and only then are you able to calm down enough to speak. “I just hate everything.”

Lucas frowns. “What do you hate, baby?”

“This fucking job, I hate Daniel, I hate being talked to like I’m an idiot, I hate…I hate you not being here.” You pick up the phone again. Your head hurts from crying, and you put your forehead in your hand as you look at Lucas on the other line.

“I’m sorry, Y/N. I wish I could be there with you. You know I’d kick his ass for you...and anyone else who makes my baby cry.” He sighs and chuckles, though there’s no real humor to it. “Maybe I should kick my own ass too, then. I’m always away from you, and I know that doesn’t help. There are moments everyday when I wish I was there beside you, but…”

“It’s not like you can help it,” you say, and you feel powerless to do anything about it. “You shouldn’t...feel bad about it.” If only you could take your own advice.

“It’s impossible not to.” Lucas’s fingers drift to his wedding ring, twisting it around his finger like he does whenever he’s distressed. It’s become a subconscious thing for him at this point, but you always notice, and it comforts you to know your relationship can be a solace for him. “I have the other guys here, and it helps, but...who do you talk to when you’re feeling alone, besides me?”

“Ugh…” You lean back against the headboard. “No one, really...I don’t want to bother Sharia with my issues. Or my other friends. I feel like everyone already has their own stuff to deal with…”

Lucas leans forward again, as if he’s talking to you face-to-face. “My dear wife, I won’t pretend to be your therapist, but I think I have a prescription for you.”

You laugh and shake your head. “And what would that be?”

“You should go out. Take a few days off from work, leave the house, do whatever. But I really think you need to be around other people.”

“Go out?”

“Yes, with your friends! You’re cool with some people from work—Sharia, at least. Or your college friends, if not your coworkers. Anyone. I don’t want you to be spending all your time alone.” A melancholy note enters his voice. “And since I can’t be with you now, I want you to at least get out without me.”

“I don’t know...”

“What’s wrong?”

“The problem is that I miss you. Going someplace where you aren’t isn’t gonna help.”

“You’re so stubborn,” Lucas says, but his voice is warm with affection. “Just do it for me, please? You don’t think it hurts me to see my lovely wife so upset? I only want you to be happy.”

Your heart warms at that, and you look up at the ceiling, not wanting to start another wave of tears. “Well, okay...you’re right. I’ll try it this weekend. But I’m still gonna be thinking of you the whole time.”

Lucas smiles. He brings his ring finger close to the camera and kisses the band of metal. “For life, right?”

You mirror his actions. “Always.”

The next day, you catch up with Sharia at the copy machine. 

“Hey girl, how are you doing?” she asks, feeding more paper into the machine. “Not too bad after what that fool said yesterday, I hope.”

The mention of that leaves a bad taste in your mouth, but you shake your head and pretend to brush it off. “I’m fine, no one’s thinking about that sleaze. I was wondering if you were up for hanging out this Friday? It’s kinda short notice, but me and some friends are planning to go to a club…”

Her eyes light up at that. “Oh? Which club are y’all going to?”

“The one on the same street as that new five-star restaurant that just opened up. Apparently it’s a bit exclusive, but one of my friends claims to have direct connections, so we’re gonna try it out.”

“Oh, to be rich and glamorous.” Sharia laughs. “Sure, I’ll go. I’m always up for some fun. Anything that’s not this damn job.”

“Great! You know where I live, just swing by around 8?”

“Sounds like a plan to me.” Sharia looks like she wants to say something else, but Daniel strolls into the room and she rolls her eyes, quickly turning back to the copy machine.

“Hey ladies, what’s going on?” Daniel leans against the wall as if he plans to pull a long conversation out of you, but you shake your head and walk out.

“Bye, Daniel.”

Sharia follows suit, grabbing her documents out of the machine and not even checking if they’re correct before following you out. “Yeah, not gonna happen.”

The Friday night that you head to the club is unexpectedly hot. It rained hard earlier that day and the air is still thick with humidity, which makes you grateful you’re gonna be spending most of your time indoors. Your friend’s connections come in to save the day, just as she promised, and your group of five is soon standing in the club without having to wait in a hot line all night.

Your friend leads everyone over to the VIP section and you all sit down, marveling at the club’s sleek interior. Everything is all glitter and glass and steel, giving the building an almost futuristic look.

“We need some drinks, there’s no way I’m spending all night in a club like this sober,” one of the girls suggests. The others agree and spend a few minutes playfully arguing over which drinks would be best to get before standing up.

Your friend notices you’re still sitting down. “Are you two coming with, or do you want us to order for you?”

“Just order something for me, doesn’t matter what it is,” you say, waving your hand. Sharia agrees. She waits until the others leave, then turns to you with a serious look.

“You should quit.” You stare at her, wondering if maybe you’ve misheard over the loud music.

“Quit? My job? Do you hate having me around that much?” you joke, though you feel confused and a little hurt.

“Now you know—what I’m saying is, we both know who your man is. I think you would be fine if you just quit and started looking for another job or even stopped working for a while. There’s no reason why you should have to stay there and keep putting up with Daniel’s shit.”

You don’t hate the idea. It’s one you’ve thought of numerous times before, but you’re not confident about taking the first step towards it. “I don’t think it’s that simple...having a job keeps me busy. I’d probably die of boredom if I didn’t have work. And anyway, I’m not really ready to be a housewife...especially considering that my husband isn’t even there half the time.” Your mood drops a little when you think of this. Sharia notices and tries to pull you back before you lose steam before the night even starts.

“Hey hey, it’s just a suggestion! You don’t have to do anything except whichever choice will be easiest for you. I’m just trying to look out for you girl, God knows no one wants to be harassed on the job everyday.”

“I hear you. But I don’t want to think about this anymore,” you groan. 

When the other girls come back, you take your drink and immediately down half of it in one go. You need something to distract you from the bad mood attempting to creep up on you.

“Well damn, okay! Someone’s eager!” you friend shouts, and everyone else laughs.

The rest of the night goes similarly, quickly spiraling out of your hands before you can really realize it. The alcohol makes you unable to think about any one thing for too long, which is what you want—maybe even need. You lose track of how many drinks you have and how many songs you dance to. All you can feel is the burning in your throat and the blissful emptiness of not having to think, worry, or stress. For once.

At some point, someone’s hands are on your body and you think maybe it’s one of your friends, but none of them would touch you like this—or kiss you like this. It’s not Lucas either, it can’t be because he’s still in China isn’t he? but you want it to be Lucas, it should be Lucas, so you return the kiss anyway, and there’s more touching and feeling—

until you end up in someone’s car, a taxi maybe, it’s not the car you came in but that doesn’t matter either, just the hands and the sensation of it all, of being touched by a person other than yourself when you haven’t felt it in a long time—

and maybe if you close your eyes for long enough it will be him.

The first thing you notice is the splitting sensation in your head. You don’t remember how you got into your bed or how much you had last night, but you haven’t experienced a hangover like this since your college years, so it must’ve been a lot. You groan and bring your hands to your head, also noticing that your bonnet is nowhere to be found. You must’ve been really wasted last night.

You reach for the water on your nightstand, but it’s not there. In fact, nothing’s there. Your hand meets air, and you suddenly feel slightly alarmed—where’s your nightstand? You finally crack one eye open only to see a room entirely different from the one in your home. 

You jolt up, which only makes your head throb harder, but you can’t be bothered with that right now when you’re in a strange place. Pure panic explodes in your chest as you look to the side and see a strange man sleeping next to you in bed—his bed. You can only see his top half, but you can assume he’s naked underneath, as you are equally nude.

“Fuck, no,” you blurt out. You throw the covers back and move as fast as you can to collect your strewn clothes, not really caring if you wake the man up at this point. You just know you’ve got to get the hell out.

You pull your clothes on and dial for an Uber on your phone, sprinting out of the bedroom just as the man starts rustling in the bedsheets. You realize his place is some sort of luxury apartment, which means he’s probably one of the many famous or semi-famous men who frequents that club. That idea makes you panic more as you unlock the door and run out of it; you don’t have the patience to wait on the elevator, so you take the stairs two at a time.

You’re full-on shaking by the time you get to the bottom and end up outside on the sidewalk. Some people passing by give you sideways glances at your presumed Walk of Shame, with you still wearing your club outfit, but there’s no room to think about their judgment. You’re too busy being eaten alive by your conscience.

The ride home is mostly silent. Your driver tries to strike up a conversation at first, but they realize you’re in no state to talk and leave you to your thoughts. With your hangover, the sun’s brightness feels like nails stabbing into your skull, but the pain gripping your heart still manages to be worse.

Your wedding ring feels especially heavy on your finger, like solid lead weighing you down. You badly want to take it off, but you also don’t want to remove one of the few things tying you to Lucas right now. The conflict tears you apart. You almost feel like your ring has become a sentient thing, burning your skin and pinching your finger with the threat of cutting it clean off.

You scrub yourself for what seems like an hour after you get home. When you finally get out of the shower, you end up in the armchair in your room, sitting in your towel and simply staring at the bed. Lucas’s side of the bed. The side of the bed where a picture of you two sits framed on the nightstand, one you took on the day of your wedding shoot. It seems to mock you now, saying, Look at what a good thing you had. Look at what you’ve destroyed.

The ring burns again.

Monday feels surreal in a sickly way.

You don’t call or text anyone over the weekend—not even your friends who are worried and demanding answers for what happened at the club. You feel like maybe you shouldn’t be, but you’re angry at their demands; why didn’t anyone stop you if they were so concerned? Weren’t they all there, too? Either way, it’s too late to think about “what ifs.” What’s done is done. You don’t want to talk or think about it anymore. But that’s impossible.

Stepping into work doesn’t feel real. No one knows anything except Sharia. All your colleagues still greet you like you’re the same person, the same hardworking employee and loving wife they all know. It’s better that they don’t know, but in some irrational way, this also makes you angry. Don’t look at me like that. Don’t treat me like I’m the same person. My life is ruined; nothing can ever be the same.

Nevertheless, you interact with them all like it’s any other Monday and play along with their tired banter even when you want to scream to the world that none of this matters. You do a decent job of avoiding Sharia during the first half of the day, occupying your time with assignments and then creating busywork when you finish those. 

Until lunch. Then there’s nowhere left to run.

You go to your car with the excuse of picking up your food today—even though you don’t intend to do anything but sit in the parking lot—and no one questions it but her. She follows you outside. You don’t even have the energy to tell her no. You’re at least glad that she doesn’t speak until both of you are safely in the car and away from other ears.

“Are you okay?”

“I don’t know if that matters,” you say blankly.

“Well, it does. You might have made a terrible mistake, but you’re still human.”

“There’s no way to be okay after this. Sharia, what the fuck am I gonna tell him?”

“There’s nothing you can tell him but the truth. He deserves to know that much, at least.”

“I can’t do it.”

“Y/N, it’s better to get this over with sooner than later. It’s only going to hurt worse if you wait. What would you do anyway, just ignore his calls?”

You grip the steering wheel. “...Maybe. If I have to. I don’t know.”

Sharia sighs. “I can’t tell you what to do with your life. But he will need to know at some point.”

“He’ll hate me,” you blurt out, a tear already rolling down your cheek. You try to stop them from coming, but this is the first time you’ve allowed yourself to cry since it happened. You’ve surprised even yourself with how long you avoided this part. The dam has no choice but to break, sending you into a cascade of tears as you rest your head on the steering wheel. 

Sharia’s arms are warm around you, but her embrace does nothing to make you feel better. You feel as if you don’t deserve this kind of reprieve from her. And certainly not from Lucas.

A couple weeks later, you sit in your OBGYN’s waiting room, your body stiff with fear and anxiety.

You haven’t talked to Lucas in the entire time since you went to the club that Friday night. You know there is no way he’d go that long without talking to you, though—which is why you blocked him on every avenue you could think of. To be safe, you also blocked all of this group members, making sure there would be no way for him to get into contact with you. 

You feel like you’ve lost your mind with the lengths you’ve gone to—what if he thinks you’re kidnapped or dead?—but you’re more afraid of facing him. The thought of looking in his eyes while your transgression swims in the back of your mind makes your stomach pitch to the floor.

And you would like to think that’s the only thing making you sick these days. But you can’t ignore the odd pains and nausea and sudden spotting even if you wanted to. It’s what has landed you in this doctor’s office today, with your hands tucked between your knees and your head spinning as you try to ignore the bitter taste of bile rising in your throat. 

Eventually, you can no longer push it back, and you go to the bathroom to empty your stomach—even though there’s not much there to begin with.

When you leave the restroom, a nurse is standing outside in the lobby, her expectant eyes landing on you.

“Mrs. Wong?”

“That’s me,” you say weakly.

“Hi! Come on back so we can get your vitals. I hope you’re doing okay today…” You follow her into the back rooms to get poked and prodded, your blood pressure and temperature taken and your height and weight jotted down on a chart. You don’t pay much attention to what she’s saying. Every word sounds like it’s being filtered through a foggy telephone. 

You return to reality when she hands you the transparent cup and the pregnancy test to take, and things become even more painfully clear when another nurse comes in to take your blood. You know the blood test results will take longer to come back, but you requested it anyway. You have to be sure.

Despite the nurses’ cheerful demeanor, you feel cold and isolated when you use the test in the small restroom. The feeling only worsens when the doctor confirms the reading and happily shakes your hand, unaware of or unwilling to acknowledge your dread.

It’s positive.

That weekend, you finally unblock Lucas. Your mind is in a tangle while you do it, but you can’t avoid him any longer.

You don’t know if he’ll even answer your call. You wouldn’t blame him if he didn’t. Maybe he’s busy with practice or even asleep. But what makes you feel worse is that you know he’d never ignore you if he wasn’t otherwise occupied.

His name only stays on your phone for a few seconds before he’s immediately picking up the video call, his face suddenly appearing in full color before you. He seems panicked, almost dropping the phone in his haste to answer it. When he rights the screen again and sets it on a steady surface, his expression is difficult to decipher. Then it turns into pure discontent.

“Do you have an explanation for this?” You’ve never seen Lucas this irritated before, and it makes you tremble. It can only get worse from here. “I called and texted and nothing got through. I look on your social media and I’m blocked on every platform. What is this, Y/N?”

You can only shake your head. The words are stuck in your throat. You chew the inside of your cheek, unsure how to respond.

“This isn’t a joke, Y/N. What’s going on?”

Your grip on the phone tightens as your stomach ties itself into a knot. You feel sick again, but you can’t throw up now. “Yukhei, I went t-to the doctor, I-I’m pregnant.”

Lucas pauses, and various emotions flit across his face in the span of a few seconds. His eyebrows draw together in something akin to confusion and hurt. “You’re...pregnant? Why the hell did you need to block me for that? Please don’t tell me this about my career again. Baby, listen to me—”

“Yukhei, I’m only 4 weeks.”

Lucas’s words drop off completely. His body stills, and for a moment you wonder if the video has paused. Your palms sweat and your skin prickles. He sits back in his chair and looks off to the side as if he’s trying to gather words. Finally, he says,

“What are you telling me? Because this isn’t what I’m hearing, is it? This is some kind of prank, right?” His voice gets louder and more frantic towards the end, though he struggles to keep from outright yelling at you. “If you want to play games, this isn’t funny.”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, baby, I’m sorry. There’s nothing I can say—there’s no excuse for it, but I was drunk, I-I was lonely, I just don’t know—” You form a fist with your left hand, digging your nails into your palm, and the warm metal of your ring against your skin threatens to burn you again.

Lucas lowers his head and pushes his hands through his hair. He keeps his head down like this for a while as you stumble and try to explain yourself, your words devolving into barely decipherable sobs.

“Shut up. Just shut up!” His words are muffled from him covering his face. He’s never talked to you like that before, which makes you want to cry more, but you don’t say another word. “I just don’t want to hear it. I’ve sat here everyday and thought of you, counting down days until I could come back to the U.S. to see you, and this is what you give me.”

You merely sit and listen with your heart trying to burst in your chest. His words feel like knives being thrown at you; the pain is practically physical.

When he finally takes his hands away from his face and looks up, his eyes are wet and red with tears. “This is impossible. I need time to think about this.”

“I-impossible? Wait, Yukhei—”

He hangs up the call before you can finish speaking, though you aren’t sure what more you could’ve said to him anyway.

With nothing but your screen staring back at you, a sense of unease seeps into your body and makes your limbs stiff. You want to reach out for him, want to make him see that you never intended to hurt him this way. You don’t want to lose everything you’ve built this soon. And yet, you can already see it all slipping through your hands.

You are more alone than ever.

[geeky-politics-46]

The Asgardian Candidate

Loki/The West Wing FanFiction Crossover

Chapter 2 - “The Interview”

“Alright let's try the budget deficit question again. Your answer was fine, but simplify it. You aren't teaching an economics class. Remember, 10 words. Besides if you bore the voters to death then they can't vote for you."

Toby Ziegler explained as he coached president Jed Bartlet ahead of the first debate. As communications director he had the vital role of making sure the president was prepared for anything the moderators might throw at him.

“Ah, but if I've bored them to death then they can't vote for the other guy either. That's called playing the long game Toby." The president smiled cheekily & tapped his temple with his index finger.

Clearly the long nights of drills weren't wearing on him quite as roughly as they were on his staff.

“Besides I've never seen this guy go more than a single sentence on policy before redirecting the conversation to himself. The man's the biggest narcissist I've ever seen. Did we ever get an answer on why he wears those horns? It’s gonna look less like a debate & more like a bull fight. Leo, be sure to remind me not to wear red.”

Sam Seaborn rubbed his eyes in exhaustion & managed to cut the president off before he kept talking.

“Yeah, but see that's part of the problem Mr. President. If you start reciting policy point by point in detail you're going to appear out of touch with the average voter. They will feel like you're talking down to them." He said expanding on Toby's point.

“You gotta thread the needle here. Give them enough detail that they are confident you know what you are talking about, but succinct enough to keep the atmosphere light & engaged. Frankly a joke or two wouldn't hurt either… & no, still no answer on the horns.”

Bartlet shifted his position in front of the desk, glanceing over to Leo who gave a single nod. He took a deep breath & rubbed his brow.

“Alright guys let's take it from the top, but only once more or you’re gonna have to explain to Abby why I apparently don't need to sleep anymore."

“Not it!” Toby & Sam both exclaimed in unison. Leo rolled his eyes, sometimes he swore this was really a high school & could not possibly be how the White House actually functioned.

“Fine Mr. President, any heat you get from the first lady send it my way. What’s she gonna do spill my deepest darkest secrets? Abby’s known me long enough to know the dirt I have on her in return. Frankly I’d just opt for her to kill me instead.”

“Okay, & now that we’ve finished that trip down dark scary memory lane, it’s back to policy.” As Toby was opening his mouth to begin asking the first question the door burst open & Josh came running in with his arms in the air.

“I got it, I got it! Victory is mine! I found it! I found the thing we’ve been waiting for!” Everyone stared at Josh in surprise & confusion, Leo was finally the one who broke the silence.

"Okay first of all, no more coffee for you Josh. Second of all, what the hell are you talking about? What thing did you find?"

A proud smile appeared on Josh's face as he extended his hand towards Leo. He was holding a flash drive. “Our ace in the hole Leo. I found our ace in the hole."

Leo raised an eyebrow & took the drive from Josh. He silently read the handwritten label, Loki interview - Meet The Press, with that morning’s date written underneath it.

With tentative hope he glanced back up, meeting Josh's jubilant gaze. "Mr. President, I think we're gonna have to adjourn ahead of schedule tonight.”

——————————

"If it's Sunday, it's Meet The Press. I'm your host Chuck Todd. On today's show we are joined by Loki Laufeyson, the bombastic presidential candidate turning the institution on it's head. But what really makes this candidate tick?"

Even now watching the replay hours later Loki was still seething with rage.

That bumbling idiot of a host had dared bring up his relationship with his family. He never spoke about them for a reason. His heart still ached from his mother's death. She was the one person who had truly believed in him, & now she was gone.

His father, his adopted father, had always treated him as less than his older brother. Odin had groomed Thor for the throne. Using Loki as a mere pawn in his game to make Thor work harder to become the king Odin planned him to be. His brother was oblivious to his pain. Frankly Loki thought Thor was oblivious to most things. He was too busy trying to impress Odin to see how much his actions hurt his younger brother.

They would never be equals in the eyes of their father. Nor in the eyes of the Asgardian people. Loki was cruelly aware of that now.

That was why he had come to Midgard in the first place. To find a throne of his own or take one by force if he had to, & leave the memories of his father & brother behind.

The interview had started mundane enough. The host was painfully tedious, but Loki had discovered most of these talking heads & pundits were.

A few questions about how the campaign was going, polling numbers, & his growing following. Then of course the policy questions. Loki had discovered merely a sentence or two on the specific topic was enough to pacify most hosts & voters before switching back to his main message. That they were in dire need of a leader, & he was the one who would save them from themselves.

Then Loki began to lose his control on the interview. "Now we always see you alone on the stump. We know you are a bachelor, your devoted female following has managed to dig up that much at least."

Loki was still basking in thoughts of his future adoring female subjects when the host began to prod beneath the god’s composed facade.

"What about family? We've learned very little about your parents & your brother." The mere mention of Odin & Thor sent his blood running cold, his signature smile was swiftly replaced with a firm set scowl. Loki gathered all his strength & tried his best to charm his way out if the situation.

“Well my dear mother was sadly killed, a loss I still mourm to this day. She was truly a magnificent woman. The rest of my family is back in Asgard. It's as simple as that really." Punctuating his statement with a big winning smile to hopefully end that train of thought.

The host however continued to push. Each question chipping farther away at Loki's controlled demeanor. "Are you close with your father?... What about your brother?... Is family important to you?"

By the end of the show Loki couldn't even hear the words the host blathered. He could only hear his own pulse pounding in his head. He knew his anger was visible on his face. This public undoing of his carefully cultivated image only enraged him further.

How could such an imbecilic mortal have touched such a live wire in a god? If it weren't for the TV cameras he would have snapped the man's neck right then & there. For the time being though his revenge on the host would have to wait. He had bigger concerns at the moment.

He was now vulnerable, a soft spot had been exposed to the world & more dangerously to his competition. Loki had no doubt Bartlet's team would try to use this moment of weakness to their advantage. He no longer had the high ground in this fight, but he mentally vowed to reclaim it.

Loki was not about to let Thor & Odin be his undoing yet again.

[losingmymindtonight]

Trope: Clingy

AN: me, editing this fic: god, why is Peter so ANNOYING?

that little voice in the back of my head that’s an asshole: it’s because you based him off of you

As usual, I didn't edit this very closely, and it was written on a bus and in dining halls. This is just the new standard for the semester, y'all. I'm so sorry. Still, it's my usual brand of sleepiness (+ fixing Tony’s story in Endgame). If you've read of my other stuff, welcome back. I'm a one-trick pony.

--

Peter smacked his bedside clock, and his ceiling lit up with a galaxy, swirling and lazy. In the center, bright green numbers spelled out 1:58 am.

He could hear the indistinct murmur of the TV wafting up through the floorboards. When he focused, he could pick up Tony’s breath, and unmistakable off-kilter, over-fast thud of his heartbeat. Tony had told him that the technical name for it was tachycardia. A permanent reminder of Afghanistan and the damage done there. Even without the reactor and the shrapnel that had orbited it, Tony’s heart would never be healthy again.

He probably could’ve gone back to sleep. Actually, he definitely could’ve gone back to sleep. He’d been burning the candle on both ends, recently, with Spider-Man and all the summer work Midtown had assigned, a half-assed attempt to catch the Dusted students up to speed. His general lack of self-care had come to an apex last week: when May had ambushed him with a print-out of his sleep patterns, courtesy of the biomonitor Tony had given him. 

And that was, of course, how he’d ended up here: on a forced break from the suit and school and everything else. He’d been a little bitter about it, for the first five minutes, but then Morgan had lunged into his arms and a late-summer breeze had rattled the trees and Tony had pulled his duffle bag off of his shoulder, squeezing the back of his neck as he did it, and he’d decided that being bitter was for people who hadn’t died yet.

He hadn’t even realized how exhausted he was until he’d had Pepper’s homemade mac and cheese in his stomach and his head pillowed against Tony’s shoulder. He’d made it all of fifteen minutes into the classic Cinderella before Tony was ushering him off to bed, guiding him up the stairs and griping about teenagers having a major deficit in self-preservation skills.

To be fair, he was probably right.

Those few hours of sleep had been nice, but Peter could tell that he needed a lot more. Maybe an entire week’s worth. If he moped enough, he was pretty sure Tony would let him do it, too. Yeah, that would be nice. Sleeping for a week, curling into his sheets, listening to Tony’s heartbeat thumpthumpthump-skip through the floor.

Except it was 1:58 in the morning, Tony was watching TV in the living room, and Peter was too curious for his own good.

He pushed off his bed, grabbed the throw that Pepper had folded over the foot of his mattress, and settled it over his shoulders like a cape.

The hall was cold. Peter traced the wall as he headed for the stairs. There were picture frames everywhere. So many that he could barely see the wallpaper through them. Of course, there were dozens of photos of Morgan, from the first picture taken after she was born to one they must’ve hung only a few weeks ago: her dangling upside down from a swingset in the backyard, grinning wide. There were a few photos from Tony and Pepper’s wedding, the one they’d had during the five years Peter had missed, and a few more from the vow renewal they’d put on after he’d come back. And then, of course, there were the photos of him.

When Peter had first come to the cabin, there was only one picture of him hanging in the hall, which was definitely one more than he’d expected to see. Tony didn’t really talk about it, mostly because he didn’t really seem to like talking about anything that had happened during the missing years, but Pepper had told him that he’d put it up sometime after Morgan’s second birthday.

The funny thing was, it wasn’t even a picture of Tony and Peter together. In fact, it’d been taken long before Tony had ever even met him. Peter couldn’t have been more than two, but he was sitting in a patch of grass, brandishing a flower out to whoever was holding the camera with a smile on his face.

Apparently, Tony had found it when he was going through his and May’s apartment. He’d shyly offered it back to May, once everything had been reversed, but she’d just smirked at him and told him to keep it.

Now, though, there were at least half a dozen photos of him, all framed and hung alongside Tony and Pepper and Morgan. Peter holding a Spider-Man themed tub of Ben and Jerry’s. Peter and Morgan sitting on the dock. Peter and Tony working in the lab. Peter curled over his desk, taking notes from a textbook.

The stairs creaked under his feet, but Peter knew the pattern. Third step, seventh step, twelfth. The TV was louder, now, and he could tell it was turned to a History Channel documentary on Hitler and aliens. Tony wasn’t actually watching anything, then. He was just using it for background noise.

Sure enough, Peter turned the corner to see Tony slouched back on the couch, eyes fixed on his StarkPad rather than the badly-rendered animation of Hitler being abducted by a UFO.

“Hey, bud,” Tony said, not glancing up. He moved his arm, though, holding it up in an unspoken invitation for Peter to curl up with him.

(It was Peter’s favorite kind of invitation.)

He padded over, hardwood cool and textured against his bare feet. He flopped bonelessly into Tony’s side, and he heard the man let out a little snort of amusement, like Peter’s laziness was the most precious thing in the universe.

“You comfy?” Tony whispered, fingers tracing gently through Peter’s hair.

“One sec,” he muttered. He spent the next few seconds curling himself into a ball, knees knocking against Tony’s ribs. He poked him irritably until he twisted a little, letting Peter settle more comfortably, cheek pressed up against his collarbone.

He let out a contented sigh. “Now I’m comfy.”

“Oh, good,” Tony said, dry. “Glad we’ve got that sorted.” His voice softened, low and concerned. “What’re you doing awake?”

“I woke up and heard you breathing.”

It was probably something Peter wouldn’t have said if it wasn’t 2:00 am and he wasn’t half asleep. From the way Tony went all still and quiet for a few seconds, he guessed that his mentor had realized the same thing.

“You can hear me breathing from your bedroom?”

“Mhm. And your heartbeat.”

“Huh.” Tony turned his attention back to whatever it was he was doing on his tablet, seeming perfectly content to end the conversation there. “Fascinating.”

He hadn’t exactly had a specific intention in coming downstairs, outside of finding out what Tony was up to, but being ignored was not on his list of expectations. May kept making offhand jokes that Tony was spoiling him, and maybe that was a little true, but it was nice to have someone who looked at him like everything he said was lined with gold. He’d gotten used to it, after coming back. Tony listened to him like he was speaking scripture, or something. Like everything he did was a miracle.

He reached out and plucked the StarkPad out of Tony’s hands, setting it on the arm of the couch.

“Hey,” Tony chastised, but there was no real bite in his words, “I was doing something.”

Peter glanced up, smiling innocently. “Whoops.”

Tony rolled his eyes, but there was something curious there, too. Curious, gentle, concerned. “Why’re you being difficult, huh?”

“I just wanted to make you pay attention to me.”

Tony huffed out a breath that was half laughter, half fondness. “You don’t have to make me pay attention to you, buddy.”

Peter didn’t really feel a need to respond to that. Instead, he just nuzzled closer, pleased.

“Did you have a nightmare?” Tony asked, eventually. It took him a lot longer than Peter had been expecting.

“Nope.”

Tony was quiet for a second.

“So you really did just want attention.”

“It’s what I deserve,” he joked, and he felt a satisfied rush of success when Tony laughed.

“Uh-huh. Sure.” Another soft chuckle. “God, I’ve created a monster, haven’t I? Everyone kept telling me it would happen, and now it has. I’m reaping what I’ve sown.”

“You like it.”

“What, having clingy children? Absolutely not. I despise it.”

Peter just shook his head. He was too cozy to play along with Tony’s game. It was past 2:00 am, Peter had been dead this time last year, and he just wanted to have a few moments of warm, honest affection.

“You like it,” he repeated, and he could tell that Tony got the message, because he pulled Peter closer with a long, white-flag sigh.

“Alright, I do. Just keep that a secret, okay? If Morgan finds out, we’ll have trouble on our hands.”

“I think she already knows, Mister Stark.”

“Oh, god. We’re doomed.”

He snorted. “You weren’t doomed with just me?”

“That’s a fair point, actually.” There was so much affection in Tony’s voice that it overflowed into Peter’s chest. “There was never any hope for me, huh?”

“Nope.”

A few minutes slid past in relative quiet. The TV still droned on in the background, but Peter mostly tuned it out. Tony’s heartbeat was a better soundtrack, anyway.

Tony rubbed his side to get his attention. “Can I have my tablet back, Pete?”

Peter squinted one eye open, suspicious. “Why?”

“Because you’re going to be asleep in,” Tony faked glancing at a watch, “approximately five to ten minutes, and I have work to do.”

He didn’t really take offense to the estimate. Anyway, he was tired, and there wasn’t a better place to catch up on some sleep than with Tony there. Nothing, not even nightmares, could touch him like this.

Peter lazily handed him the tablet. He guessed it was probably a defeat, but it didn’t feel like one. After all, Tony just set it aside again and kept all his focus on him.

“You know,” Tony murmured, and he was using the tone he always put on when he read Morgan a bedtime story, “I saw an article earlier. I don’t remember what it was about, exactly, because you and Morgan were distracting me, but it talked about a study this institute did into parents. D’you wanna know what it said?”

“Uh-huh.”

“It claimed that the average parent worries about their child for five hours every day. And right away, I thought, that can’t be right. That’s not enough. I’m worrying about Morgan and Peter constantly.” He felt Tony press a light kiss to his head. “You never need to make me pay attention to you, Pete. I promise that I’m already doing it.”

He liked it when Tony referred to him and Morgan as one unit. My kids. My children. It didn’t really matter how often Tony reassured him that Morgan didn’t change anything, that Peter still mattered to him just as much ever: the hint of insecurity lingered. But these moments, these little slices of full-focus, all-on-him attention, soothed it away, if only for a little while. If only for a second.

“It’s a full-time job,” he whispered.

Tony paused. Peter recognized the silence as thought. Tony Stark may be known for rushing ahead, but that wasn’t all he was. He was careful with Peter, in the same way that he was careful with Morgan.

“It’s more than that,” he finally said, slowly. “You and Morgan… you two are the most important pieces of who I am. It comes before everything else. Everything I want, everything I need, is a secondary concern. And I know you hate it when I say this, but it really isn’t a feeling you’ll be able to understand until you’re older. Right now, it’s all about you, and that’s how it should be. It’s how it’s meant to be. But one day, you’ll have kids of your own, and you’ll get it.”

Peter just hummed. He hadn’t really absorbed much of what Tony was actually saying. He’d been way more content to doze during the speech. And in his defense, he had gotten the gist of it. Tony really could’ve just said I love you, I love you, I love you over and over again and ended up with the same result. 

Tony huffed a gentle laugh.  “You didn’t pay attention to a word of that, did you?”

“I kinda did.”

“Yeah, sure.” Tony scratched lightly at Peter’s scalp. Somehow, he always knew the exact spot to hit. “Get some rest, kid. I swear I’ll give you all the attention you want when you wake up.”

“And now.”

“Yeah, yeah. And now. You want constant attention when you’re tired. I’ve gotten the memo.”

“No, all the time.”

He could sense Tony shaking his head, hands moving to carefully tuck his bedroom throw more firmly around his shoulders. “You’re gonna be so embarrassed about this when you’re not sleep deprived, bud.”

“Nah,” Peter mumbled. He was already done with the conversation, if he was being honest. He was curled up against one of his favorite people in the world, he was exhausted, and he just wanted to sleep. “‘M never embarrassed with you.”

The comment won him Tony pulling him closer, which was never something to complain about. “That’s what I’m here for.”

“And attention,” Peter added, grinning lazily. “And food. And money.”

“Oh, yeah. Let’s not forget all that.”

--

AN: This was, as many of my fics are, inspired heavily by my dad. He tends to stay up really late working, and I like to come downstairs and bother him. 

I stumbled across the statistics I mentioned while doing some reading for my Women’s and Gender Studies class. When I asked my parents if it was true, they both immediately went, “absolutely not, I worry about you and your brother 24 hours a day, every single day.” Hence Tony’s little speech.

[fleckcmscott]

The Knot

Summary: Arthur and Y/N finally have the wedding they discussed on their sprint to City Hall.

Warnings: Swearing

Words: 4,238

A/N: This was requested by @sweet-nothings04​. It is the fluffiest thing I have ever written. Special thanks to @ithinkimawriter​ for the support and beta-reading!

If you have any thoughts or questions, please comment, feel free to message me, or send me an ask. Requests for Arthur and WWH are open!

The nightly routine Y/N had developed over the years was a simple one. Her barely-there foundation, neutral eye shadow, eyeliner, and light mascara would be washed away with soap and water. After changing into a nightgown, she'd brush her teeth and hair. Moisturizing cream would be dabbed on her forehead, cheeks, and chin. (A couple of thin lines had formed at the corners of her mouth, and she hoped to prevent more.) She'd crawl into bed beside Arthur, they'd talk and cuddle, then she'd kiss him good night and wait for sleep to take her. It was a relaxing end to the day that didn't require a lot of effort.

But this evening was not routine. What Patricia seemed to have planned for it put Y/N's habits to shame. Peeking into the mint green satchel she'd brought caused a grimace. It was possible the clay and honey cosmetic masks wouldn't be too bad. The toe separators and nail polish and pumice stones didn't interest her. And the floral, spray-in hair perfume was pungent. God. All this fuss prompted Y/N to pour the both of them the rest of the wine.

"This is too much for me." Y/N frowned in the bathroom mirror and examined the mud on her face. "How long do I need to keep this on?" she asked, the alcohol making her grumble.

"Ten minutes." Patricia set a timer and placed it on the sink. "And don't whine. This stuff is why no one knows I'm over fifty."

"And here I assumed it was your vibrant personality." After taking a sip from her glass, Y/N turned to the tub. There were about five inches of hot water in it, topped with pink foam that smelled like artificial roses. It reminded her of the dusty, scented candles her grandmother had kept in the bathroom, but never lit. Patricia sat on the edge, dipped her feet in and waved for Y/N to join her.

Patricia started scrubbing the ball of her foot. "Are you excited?"

Y/N made a thoughtful noise. When she and Arthur had gotten married at city hall a year ago, she hadn't needed a wedding - she'd needed to be married to him. He'd wished for one, though, and she'd promised him that. "The wedding I had before was stressful. I could go without it." A gentle smile came across her cheeks. "But I am for him." She sighed contently as she submerged her feet. "When we were filling out the invitations a month ago, he was so happy. He pasted one in his journal - he showed me the page - and put exclamation points all around it."

That wasn't all he'd done. Arthur had convinced her to practice a slow dance to one of his mood music records. It hadn't taken much effort for him to talk her into it. ("I've imagined this a lot," he'd told her.) She figured she'd gotten pretty good, having learned to let him lead her instead of trying to anticipate his steps. His generous encouragements and the pleasure in his eyes had helped.

Snorting, Patricia grabbed a nearby smoother and began working on her heel. "How did a hard-ass like you end up with a sweet man like him?"

"He thinks I'm sweet." Y/N shook her head, splashing around with her toes. "Don't tell him he's been had."

At the buzzing of the timer, Y/N sprung up and went to the sink. Getting the mask off was as annoying as she'd suspected. The packaging said to use a cloth, lukewarm water, and circular motions. But the clay was stubborn and didn't want to leave her face. Patricia apparently found it hilarious, laughing all the harder when Y/N looked at her with indignation. Three washrags and an empty glass of wine later, her skin was clear. Irritated, but clear.

Patricia gestured over her shoulder as she dried off. "There's a present for you in my bag. You said no gifts, but it's nothing. And I didn't want to give it to you in front of Robert and Matt tomorrow."

Intrigued, Y/N retrieved the bag from the floor and sat next to her on the tub's edge. Matt, Y/N's former boss, she could understand. But what would Patricia give her that she didn't want her own husband to see? It only took a little digging to find the box, slightly bigger than her hand, with a red ribbon around it. "You shouldn't have." She opened it and pulled out what was inside. Her best friend had given her a black, satin thong with side ties. She stared at it a moment, then burst out laughing. "It's so tiny," she exclaimed, the triangle front barely large enough to cover her palm. "I don't have the ass for this!"

Winking, Patricia nudged her upper arm. "It won't stay on long enough for Arthur to notice."

~~~~~

Meanwhile, Arthur was at a pub with a friend for the first time in his life. He'd been to comedy clubs plenty of times, and Y/N had introduced him to numerous restaurants. But his general lack of interest in drinking and absence of companionship had never made bars a desirable destination. It had been Gary's idea, though. And with his company, Arthur was part of the crowd instead of apart from it.

They were seated at a small booth near the kitchen, away from everyone. Their conversation was sparse. Despite his overall increase in comfort, Arthur still had a hard time with social situations. Granted, Y/N had told him he was steadily getting better at them. And now, with the effect of the Fuzzy Navel in his hand, he was doing all right. There had been no forced laughter (which only happened a few times a month), no bouncing of his legs, and no nail biting. He was proud of himself for that, especially given the hint of nervousness he felt.

Tomorrow was their big day. The wedding was going to be at their apartment. There would only be four guests: he'd made it clear Penny wasn't welcome, and the elderly woman Y/N had invited, Ms. McPhee, had declined with an apology and cookies, saying she was too ill to go anywhere. Dinner would be potluck style. Finally, he'd fucking have what he'd dreamed about for years. Although it was implied every time he touched Y/N, he'd get to vow, publicly, to stay with her forever. To take care of her, no matter their circumstances. To love her ceaselessly. And, he reflected, she'd promise to belong to him, too. He grinned around his cigarette as he smoked, looking into his drink, joy rushing through him at the thought.

Gary took a swig of his porter. "Are you looking forward to tomorrow?"

"Yes." Arthur answered without hesitation. "But I don't know why Y/N wanted me to spend the night out. We're already married."

"You can't sleep with the bride before the wedding. It's tradition."

Tradition. His chest tightened at that. Tradition hadn't meant anything most of this life, anything besides futile yearning. He couldn't remember if he'd been read to as a kid. Lost teeth probably ended up in the garbage. Holidays had always been too expensive to take part in, and with Penny's apathy and all the hours he'd worked, he hadn't had the energy to try. He was glad to be making up the deficit with Y/N. Still. This was an odd custom, and not really applicable to them. "But I've been sleeping with her for two years." Almost as soon as he spoke, he realized his double entendre. He brought a hand to his forehead. "Shit. Sorry, Gary."

A sly smile crossed Gary's face, but he didn't seem upset. Which made sense - filthy jokes and dirty tales often flew around the locker room at HaHa's. The shorter man reached into the breast pocket of his striped shirt, then held out a small package. "Here. I got this for you."

Curious, Arthur examined the cellophane enclosed carton. The teal box of NoDoz said it would keep him awake, was fast acting, and safe as coffee. And there was a sentence, written in a cursive font on the bottom edge: "Number 1 with Newlyweds!" Oh. Oh. He knew what they were for. Once in a while he'd come across The Honeymoon Game when flipping through channels. The tablets were often mentioned, along with comments about "being busy all night long." The burning in his cheeks only amplified his giggles as he tucked them in his pocket. "Thanks. For letting me stay over, too."

"You're welcome. It's just the sofa." Gary gave a shrug. "What time did you want to get back home?"

Arthur recalled the list of errands Y/N had helped him make. He had to stop at the flower stand near their place and get a white carnation for himself and a bunch for her. Garlic bread needed to be ordered at Marchetti's, to go with the lasagna Y/N was attempting. He wanted to give himself a good half hour to change, fix his hair, and practice saying what he'd written.

Gary agreed getting back to the apartment in the early afternoon would be fine. Arthur wasn't expecting his follow-up question. "How'd you know she was the one for you?"

Trying to hide the embarrassment behind his answer, he sipped his cocktail. "Gary, no other woman ever wanted to be with me."

"I'm sure that's not true," Gary replied. Arthur didn't move to correct him. Maybe he'd successfully hidden his prior failures from his former co-workers by simply not joining in when they all talked about women.

It took time to come up with a response. When he gave it, the words were quiet, his tone almost reverent. "She never acted like there was something wrong with me." The corner of his mouth quirked up as he tapped the ash off his cigarette. "No one else ever did that. Not even my mother." Realizing he may have insulted Gary, he backtracked quickly. "You- You were always nice."

Gary visibly brightened and waved at a waiter to order them both another round. Arthur sat back against the torn cushion of the booth, already slightly dizzy from the first one. It was going to a long, hopefully good, night.

~~~~~

The preparation for the 4:00 PM ceremony did not go as smoothly as planned. The dish Patricia brought, which she had wanted to keep a surprise, was macaroni and cheese. Y/N ran out and bought three salads from the deli so there'd be an option besides pasta. She'd made a small tear in the hem of her light blue wedding dress, one she'd picked up at a consignment shop, when she'd gotten caught on a doorway. And Arthur insisted on not seeing her in her dress beforehand, so she spent most of the time cooped up in the bathroom. She could hear Arthur's hushed tones as he paced the living room and spoke to Gary ("I'm gonna fuck up. What if I start laughing?"), and Gary trying to reassure him ("Arthur, just read it.").

But those snags were nothing compared to the issues at her first wedding. The flowers had never arrived. The cake topper had fallen, splitting the groom's head in half and breaking off the bride's arm. And, about halfway through it, she'd realized she was making a mistake. Presently, standing in front of the mirror while she fiddled with her high, split neckline and waited for Patricia to get her, she knew she hadn't erred. Doubt never entered her mind when it came to Arthur - only love, happiness, and gratitude.

When the door opened, Y/N ran her palm along the embroidered lace of the dress's bodice, smoothed the chiffon of the full-length, A-Line skirt, pulled at the wrists of the long, translucent sleeves, and took a deep breath. Her heart quickened when the faint notes of Arthur's favorite, sentimental Jackie Gleason Orchestra LP reached her ears. She stepped out. All the furniture had been pushed up against the walls, leaving space in the middle of the room. Their four friends stood there expectantly. Then she looked at Arthur, and the excitement she'd told Patricia she felt for him suddenly became her own.

He'd slicked back his hair, the way he always did when he was trying to be formal, curls loose around his ears. The white button-up he was wearing was a tad large around the shoulders. But the likely second-hand black vest and trousers he wore fit perfectly. The carnation in the waistcoat's breast pocket was a nice addition. He was wearing his red and yellow tie, still the only one he owned, in spite of it being part of his Carnival outfit.  As she approached him steadily, she studied his face. The affection in his soft expression caused her breath to hitch, as did the drawing together of his dark brow as he admired her. She giggled, hoping he liked the nontraditional dress.

There was no need for the question, however. As soon as their hands met, he clutched hers and smiled. The autumn sun, which was already halfway down the sky, brought out the deep chestnut undertones of his brown waves. And the clear green of his irises glistened beautifully in the bright light. If it would have been acceptable, she would have kissed him on the spot. Instead, she settled for mouthing, "You're gorgeous." The blush that resulted, the way he lowered his head as he grinned happily, and his silent, "You, too," made her stomach flutter.

Listening to what the yellow-pages officiant said was nigh impossible. And from the expression on Arthur's face, he couldn't concentrate, either. But they managed to get through the basic vows, those same, time-honored words spoken at nearly every wedding she'd attended. (Except for "worshiping" and "obeying" - she'd insisted those parts be removed, explaining they were equals.) They'd each come up with their own short pieces, too, and at his insistence, she went first. "I didn't come to Gotham to find love. I just wanted to leave everything behind. Then I met you. You made getting remarried the easier decision I've ever made."

What Arthur said in return, reading softly but clearly from a worn piece of paper, had her beat. "People think I'm weird. But you don't." His Adam's apple bobbed and a slight tremor entered his voice. "You're my one and only person that can understand me." His rasp turned into a hiccup at the end, and he sniffled and scoffed while he tucked his notes away. The clench of her throat was immediate, and she threw her arms around him, not waiting for the words "you may kiss the bride" before joining their lips.

~~~~~~

​​​A wedding day was supposed to be special. Out of the ordinary. Exceptional. Anything but regular. But Arthur couldn't remember the last time he had felt normal for as many hours in a row as he did today. The flash of a pocket-camera when he'd cupped Y/N's face and kissed her after she'd lunged at him. Their short dance, with the shallow dip they'd practiced and her stepping on his foot only once or twice. The gentle "I love you" he'd murmured against her lips. The acceptance of her friends when they congratulated them both. All of these extraordinary moments coalesced into a warm, tender, soothing ache that, in spite of his doubts, confirmed he was a real person, worthy and capable of love.

The glass door opened behind him, and, expecting Y/N to drag him back inside, he flicked his cigarette away. But upon turning he saw Patricia, drink in her hand. They'd spoken briefly a few times since initially meeting a couple years ago. Arthur didn't yet have a clear impression of her. Y/N and she were close, he knew, and they often met for lunch. And Patricia had helped her try to stop the Wayne Foundation case from going forward. Observing the older woman, he noted the gray scattered throughout her hair, the lines on her face that were less prominent than his own, the minimal rouge on her cheeks. She reminded him of Penny before her health had declined. Before everything had changed.

"Could I have a cigarette?" she asked, indicating the pack he was holding.

He blinked at her. "Sure."

She stepped to him as he retrieved one for her. After she plucked it from him and placed it between her lips, she took his lighter. "Y/N doesn't know. Keep it that way. You may not have picked up on it yet, but she can be bossy."

Chuckling, he cocked his head. Y/N had warned him about her bossiness early on, but it wasn't as bad as she'd claimed. Sure, she was assertive about certain things. But smoking was the only thing she was overly pushy about. The reason for her nagging prevented it from being more than a minor annoyance, though: she wanted them to spend a hundred years together, she'd said, instead of him dying prematurely of lung cancer. Blunt to a fault, as usual, with an inkling of sweetness underneath.

"Y/N was crazy about you from the start," Patricia said, pulling him out of his musings.

A glow blossomed in his chest and he dropped his gaze bashfully. "She talked about me?"

She smirked up at him, as if she was about to reveal a secret. "She gave me a note with hearts and exclamation points on it after you slept together."

Eyes widening, he turned back towards the street and focused on a manhole cover. It shouldn't have surprised him - he'd spoken with Gary about Y/N - but it did. And meant the world to him. But he was beginning to wonder what else she'd disclosed. Christ, was Patricia aware he'd been inexperienced? Had Y/N said he'd done a good job? Had she...Could she have talked about his body, the way the men at HaHa's described the women they were seeing? Those notions were laughable, he tried to tell himself, and attempted to push through them amid his growing discomfort.

Patricia gave his forearm a maternal pat, allaying his unease. "It was because you were gentle with her." He watched her angle her body towards the window and peer inside, and he followed her gaze. Y/N was pointing at a spot in the living room for the folding table they'd rented, along with six chairs. "She's gritty - she's been through a lot. I'm glad she has you to let go with."

Nodding slowly, Arthur understood. He was a good partner, a good husband to Y/N. And it wasn't only the woman he loved more than his own life saying it - it was her closest friend, her confidante. Intermittently, his conditions made it difficult, particularly on those days when he needed repeated validation, or the fury he carried deep within him threatened to bubble up. (Though it had gotten better with treatment, the stability his life now had, and Y/N's support.) Patricia recognized that he was trying and believed he was doing well. Accomplishment wasn't a sensation he often experienced, but the foreign sensation creeping into him must have been it. "Thanks," he said, clearing his throat. "I love her a lot, too."

They went inside and put up the chairs and set the table. There wasn't a table cloth, but Y/N had taken out their "good plates," with gold filigree on the rims. One of their cotton napkins went missing, so Y/N put a paper towel under her cutlery. After he lit the two cream taper candles he'd found in a drawer, everything looked perfect.

The food and drink were something else. The only macaroni and cheese Arthur had ever had come out of a box. Patricia's tasted savory rather than salty, but he wasn't sure if he liked the tomatoes it had in it. Although the pasta was too soft, Y/N's lasagna was good, if a bit heavy on the sauce. The garlic bread helped with that. The salad was mostly ignored; he only ate the small serving she stuck on his plate. The scotch Gary brought was passed between himself, Matt, and Robert. Arthur did try a sip, but it was exceedingly strong and stole his breath. He decided to stick with wine.

As the evening went on, Arthur grew pleasantly warm and drowsy. Y/N and Patricia had taken over most of the banter, guffawing and being mildly foolish. Matt had brought a chocolate sheet cake for twenty-four instead of six, and Y/N had to hold her stomach to quiet her tipsy laughter when it was sliced. Arthur's hand crept to her thigh and squeezed lovingly, his eyes locked on her with adoration. The depth of his feelings, his keen awareness of her, her presence at his side, was drowning out the rest of the room. It didn't take long for her to turn to him and mouth, "Let's say good night."

Y/N sent everyone home with leftovers and a hug, and forced Matt to take most of the cake with him. Gary gave Arthur a wink and a nod as he left, and Arthur snorted as he shook his head and shut the door. Propping himself against it, he sighed, trying to clear the fuzziness from his head. She came up behind him and kissed his shoulder. "Patricia's going to have the photos developed in triplicate and give us the negatives."

He twisted to face her and put his arm around her shoulders, slightly dizzy. "Does that mean we'll get copies?"

Giggling, she pressed into him and nuzzled his cheek. "Yes. We'll get three copies." She looked up at him as she leaned back. The ardor in her gaze made his pulse skip a beat. Then she lead him to the bedroom without preamble, blowing out the candles on the way.

He'd read and seen enough to recognize what was expected of him. This was their wedding night. It was when the music would swell and the screen dissolved to black in the old movies he would watch. He was supposed to take charge and make love to her. And he wanted to. Truly. But he'd eaten more than he usually did in two days. That combined with only having slept a couple of hours the previous night, anticipation having kept him awake on Gary's couch, lead to the tiredness he now felt.

Her hands were everywhere, though, roaming his back as their mouths melded together. Arthur slid his tongue between her lips, and he could taste the wine they'd toasted with and spent the rest of the night drinking. Breathing raggedly, he swallowed her moan and held the nape of her neck. When she presented her back to him, he paused before caressing the lace on the back panels of her dress. He took the dainty zipper between his thumb and forefinger and slowly pulled it down. The intimacy of what was happening, of Arthur Fleck unfastening the dress of his bride, made him shudder. Once the bodice was completely undone, he pushed his forehead to her and kissed the soft skin at the top of her back.

The dress fell slowly, catching on her breasts and hips as she brought it down. When she turned to him, his brows lifted. She was wearing the smallest pair of black panties he had ever seen. They barely covered her sex. He huffed. "Where did these come from?"

A grin broke out across her cheeks. "Patricia was convinced you'd love them."

Smirking, he gave a little nod. "I do." They were tied at her waist. If he just pulled the string, she'd be revealed to him. "You're so pretty." His fingers teased a bow, trying to will himself to perform. But he wasn't feeling it. "Um." He chuckled sadly, knowing he was about to disappoint her. "I ate too much. And I think I'm drunk. I'm sorry." He winced and looked away from her.

Y/N stared at him, then laughed throatily and squeezed him close. "Oh, thank god. Me, too. It's been a busy day."

His grasp on her tightened. "But a good one?"

"A wonderful one." She pecked his mouth and moved towards the bed, not bothering to take off her bra before slipping beneath the blankets. "You can untie me in the morning."

As Arthur undressed, he folded each piece of clothing and placed it on top of the vanity. He'd take care of it whenever they got up. By the time he sat on the bed in his briefs to take off his socks, Y/N's breathing had slowed to a steady rhythm. Sleep always seemed to come easily to her. Carefully, he got in beside her and stroked her hair back. Not wanting to wake her but needing to touch her, he kissed her brow bone faintly, gliding his fingers along her cheek. Then he ran his hand down her side and teased the string on her hip, loosening the knot until he could whisper his fingertips over her without obstruction. She mumbled quietly but didn't stir.

Smiling, he breathed against her temple. "I hadn't been happy one minute of my entire fucking life before you." He sniffled and swiped at his nose, sighing contentedly. "Sometimes I am now. Like today." He rested his head next to hers on the pillow, his arm going around her waist to tuck her back against him. "Thanks, Y/N Fleck."

~~~~~

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[iamtrebleclefstories]

Every Day I Love You More - Ch. 5

Chapter 5 - YOU DIDN’T KNOW? 

After having drunk sex, Jo and Alex are having a baby. An actual baby. Here’s how everyone finds out.

-Sequel to I’m Happy Right Here with You-

Alex slips up, more people find out. 

It had been three days since Callie found out about Jo’s pregnancy and there had been no shortage of teasing remarks from Callie and Cristina. Every time Jo or Alex were left in a room with either of them, they were forced to hear the endless jokes being made about them and their drunk sex baby. Jo found it funny if she was being honest. The lightheartedness of this pregnancy was so refreshing considering what happened the last time. The jokes were a welcome distraction from the fact that Jo was in the process of filing from divorce from Paul and her lawyer was going to submit those papers by the end of the week.

That morning, she’d woken up before Alex did, which wasn’t unusual. However, for the first time in weeks, she woke up without the sudden need to vomit. She laid there on her side and stared at his sleeping form for a while longer. It was surreal waking up next to him. This morning especially so, since it wasn’t clouded by overwhelming nausea. Jo was convinced that there was no way that this was her real life. She had to be dreaming.

She had been stroking his hair for a few minutes when Alex spoke, “You know, watching people sleep is kind of creepy.”

Alex opened his eyes only to find Jo rolling hers, “Can’t you be normal and just say, ‘Good morning, babe. I love you and I can’t believe you’re carrying our baby.’ Can’t you do that?”

“Good morning, babe. I love you and I can’t believe you’re carrying our baby,” Alex gave Jo a quick kiss as Jo gave him a look of annoyance. “Hey! You’re not throwing up today. That’s a good sign.”

“Yup,” Jo nodded. “I feel great, actually. I think the baby finally decided to cooperate.”

Alex placed his hand on her flat stomach, “I can’t wait until you have a bump.”

“You mean until I get fat? Honestly, neither can I,” Jo smiled. “But Lucy said it might be a while before I start showing. I have a retroverted uterus so I’ll probably start showing later than most women. But I guess that’s a good thing. The longer I can hide my pregnancy, the less of a chance for Paul to find out and try plea presumed paternity and make our lives a mess.”

“He can try and try, but he won’t win, Jo. This is our kid and if we need to do a paternity test to prove it, then we will. He has no rights here,” Alex assured.

Jo took a deep breath and thought of how supportive Alex had been ever since she had confessed to him about her marriage. She exhaled, “You’re right. He has no rights. This baby is ours and he can’t take it away from us.”

They laid in the bed for a few more minutes in silence before deciding it was time to get up and get ready. After having been on Peds for over a month now, Jo had switched onto a different service for the next couple weeks. A part of Jo was a bit disappointed that she wouldn’t get to spend the entire day with Alex anymore, but she supposed she should be excited for a chance to learn something new. For the next two weeks, she’d be on neuro with Derek Shepherd.

When Jo and Alex arrived at the hospital, they parted ways and Jo went down to the residents’ lounge. She smiled as she saw her friends getting changed into their scrubs for the day. Jo grabbed a clean pair of scrubs and started to change clothes. Just as she was pulling her shirt off, she heard Stephanie whistle.

“Damn, Jo. Did you do anything different? Because your boobs look great,” Stephanie commented.

“Oh,” Jo laughed awkwardly. “It’s just a new bra… is all. Ever since Alex and I got together, I decided to update some pieces of my wardrobe if you know what I mean.”

“Look at Jo, trying to be all sexy for her man,” Stephanie teased.

“I bet he loves it,” Leah wiggled her eyebrows. “How many times a day do you catch him staring at your boobs in that thing?”

“Way too often,” Jo admitted.

The girls laughed and continued to get dressed. Once ready, Jo made her way to the Neuro ICU where she’d be meeting Dr. Shepherd for rounds. It had been a while since she had been on a neurosurgery, so Jo was excited for the next couple of weeks. The first patient she’d be rounding on was a trauma that came in last night. The man had massive internal injuries that were addressed immediately after coming into the hospital. He had not been stable enough last night to take in for surgery that would stop a slowly growing brain bleed, so Dr. Shepherd would take him in first thing this morning to correct it.

“Wilson. It’s good to have you on my service again,” Derek smiled as they walked out of the patient’s room. “How are you doing? I haven’t really gotten a chance to speak with you since you and Karev got together. He’s been hogging you to his service.”

“I doing great,” Jo grinned. “Excited to be on neuro again.”

“Well, you will be getting just a bit of peds today,” Derek shared. “We’ve got a baby with spina bifida that we’ll be working on this afternoon with Karev. Are you thinking about going into peds?”

“Honestly, I don’t know,” Jo shrugged. “I like everything. I do love peds, but who knows? Maybe I’ll end up in cardio or neuro or ortho. Don’t tell Alex I said that, though. I think he’s trying to be my Robbins.”

“No worries. Your secret is safe with me,” Derek chuckled. “Come on, let’s go. We’ve got a brain bleed to stop and a couple aneurysms to clip before our fun spina bifida surgery.”

The day went by pretty smoothly for the most part. The guy with the brain bleed came out of surgery without any major deficits. Jo had assisted in a couple aneurysm clippings and now they were on their way to the pediatric wing to visit the spina bifida baby in the NICU. When Derek and Jo arrived, Alex was already giving the parents a brief rundown of what their baby—Brandon’s—surgery would entail. Derek explained the procedure in a bit more detail and encouraged the parents not to fear.

While Jo prepped the patient, Derek and Alex prepared to scrub in together. Alex looked up at the older man, "Hey, can I ask you a question?"

"Sure, Karev. What is it?" Derek nodded.

"Has Jo been okay today? I'm just wondering because she looked a little dizzy and unsteady this morning before we left the house," Alex inquired.

"She's seemed alright to me," Derek encouraged. "We've performed quite a few surgeries today and she hasn't swayed once. Why is something wrong?"

"No," Alex shook his head. "I was a little worried. She just got over the morning sickness a couple days ago and it was pretty hard on her. I didn't want the next thing to be dizzy spells that could affect her work."

Unsure what to do with the new information he'd received, Derek just decided to go about the conversation as if he know what was going on, "Oh, well she's fine. Great even."

Alex nodded thankfully as Derek mulled over Karev's words. Alex must've thought that Derek already knew about Wilson's pregnancy from Meredith, so he decided to go about the procedure as if nothing had happened. The surgery was successful and Derek decided that he'd let Wilson leave early. Everything else could wait until tomorrow.

As he arrived home that night, Derek kissed his wife and kids. He ate something quickly and spent the next few hours on the phone with D.C. as they tried to come up with more plans about the brain mapping initiative. Finally, at around eleven o'clock, he was able to get ready for bed. Derek had been sitting in the bed reading a medical journal when Meredith walked into the room.

“How was your day?” Meredith asked as she climbed under the covers.

“It was good,” Derek smiled. “I had Wilson on my service today. She is a very good and capable resident. Incredibly sharp. We clipped a couple aneurysms, stopped a brain bleed, and operated on a little boy with spina bifida.”

“Awe, like Zola,” Meredith commented. “Sounds like you had a pretty calm day today. Those are nice when you come home to two kids under the age of three.”

“You are so right,” Derek nodded and gave Meredith a quick kiss. “Oh! I almost forgot. Why didn’t you tell me that Alex is having a kid?”

“What?” Meredith sat up from the bed. “What are you talking about?”

“Wilson is pregnant,” Derek stated. “Karev mentioned something about how he was glad that she was mostly over the morning sickness now. But he said he wanted to keep a close eye on her because this morning at the house she seemed a bit dizzy.”

“What?” Meredith was confused. “Wilson is pregnant?”

“Wait… You didn’t know?” Derek asked.

“Would I be reacting like this if I knew?” Meredith was shocked. There was no way one of her best friends was having a kid and she didn’t know about it. “No. There’s no way. Alex would tell me if he were having a kid. He’s one of my best friends.”

“I don’t know,” Derek shrugged. “He mentioned the morning sickness so casually, it was like he assumed I already knew. That or he slipped up and didn’t realize what he said.”

“No, I’m sorry,” Meredith jumped up from the bed. “I can’t sit here wondering. I’m going over there right now to find out.”

“Meredith! It’s midnight. Don’t go bother them. You’ll see them tomorrow,” Derek tried reasoning with his wife.

“I can’t wait,” Meredith shook her head as she threw on a pair of jeans. “This is huge. This is life changing, Derek. This cannot wait until tomorrow.”

Before long, Meredith was on her way to Alex’s house. When she parked in the driveway, she searched around her purse for the old set of keys to the house. Finding them, she made her way up the porch steps and let herself in through the glass door. She walked up the porch steps and stormed into Alex’s room yelling, “You guys are having a baby?”

Alex and Jo—who’d been sleeping peacefully—startled out of sleep. Jo screamed as she saw Meredith’s dark figure lingering by the door. Alex sat up quickly, trying to assess the situation and determine if they were in any immediate danger. Finally realizing it was Meredith, he slumped back down onto the bed, “Dude. What the hell? Why are you yelling?”

“Is it true? Wilson are you pregnant? Are you guys having a baby?” Meredith interrogated.

“What?” Jo said, distraught.

“Derek said that Alex mentioned how he was happy that your morning sickness was gone, so then he asked me if I knew that you guys are having a baby.”

“Shit… I didn’t even realize I said that,” Alex rubbed a hand over his face. “Jo, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to tell him.”

“It’s okay,” Jo shook her head.

“So, it is true?” Meredith asked. “You guys are having a baby! Alex, how could you have a baby and not tell me about it? This is huge!”

“What is going on?” Cristina had woken up to shouting coming from down the hall and came to investigate once she recognized her best friend’s voice.

“Did you know?” Meredith turned to Cristina.

“Did I know what?” Cristina made a face. “And why are you screaming?”

“Did you know that Alex is going to be a father?” Meredith demanded.

Cristina froze, eyes wide, “Um…”

“Oh my God! You knew and you didn’t tell me,” Meredith accused. “I can’t believe you wouldn’t tell me this. I had to find out about it from my husband.”

“Hold on, you told Derek before telling Meredith?” Cristina looked at Alex. “That’s a crappy move, man. Even for you.”

“I didn’t mean to tell Derek,” Alex defended. “I said something about Jo’s morning sickness and he must’ve thought that Meredith already knew.”

“Hello, pregnant person over here wants to speak,” Jo gathered everyone’s attention. “Look, Dr. Grey. We didn’t want to tell anyone until I hit twelve weeks. I’m sure you can understand that. Yang found out because she lives here and saw the pregnancy test boxes in the trash, and Torres found out because I had to leave the room for an x-ray. I’m sorry you had to find out like this, but if it makes you feel any better, there’s an ultrasound picture on the fridge downstairs.”

“Even Callie knows?” Meredith sighed. “Look, I’m sorry. I was just a little blindsided finding out this way. I’m happy for you two. I’m sure you are going to make wonderful parents. Wait, you said you have an ultrasound picture already? How far along are you?”

Jo grimaced, knowing that as soon as she shared how far along the was there would be a whole new slew of questions. Jo took a deep breath, "Just a bit over ten weeks."

"How are you ten weeks? My birthday was ten weeks ago and you guys weren't together then," Meredith scrunched her face. She lowered her voice and sat down in front of Jo. "Are you sure Alex is the father?"

"Mer!" Alex chastised.

"What? I'm making a valid question," Meredith lifted her hands in apology. "As far as I remember, Alex, you and I had a conversation at my birthday party where I told you that you were being stupid and to make a move because I couldn't stand seeing you pouting and staring from afar."

"We did?" Alex asked. "I don't remember."

"Well, yeah figures, because you were completely wasted," Meredith reminded. "So, explain this to me so I can understand."

Alex and Jo both sat in silence, reluctant to verbalize what had happened that night between the two of them. Cristina, on the other hand, had been waiting for a moment like this to present itself. Bursting at the seams, Cristina blurted, "They had drunk sex the night of your party and accidently made a baby."

Meredith stood there stunned for a moment before breaking out in laughter, "Oh my... oh my God… you guys… Haha, you made a drunk sex baby. you know I can't say I'm surprised that this is how you are becoming a father, Alex. It's karma for all those years of being a man-whore. You on the other hand, Wilson, you surprise me. Didn't think you had it in you."

Jo buried her face in her hands in embarrassment and Alex glared at Meredith and Cristina as he felt his face get hot. This was not how he had pictured Meredith finding out about his kid, but he guessed that there was really no other way that would feel like them. Alex was glad that Meredith knew, because now he could ask her tons of parenting advice and tips on dealing with the hormone changes Jo would be experiencing very soon.

"Wow. I can't believe it," Meredith said after calming down. "Alex Karev. In love. A father. you're all grown up. You see, I told you that Wilson would be good for you."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever. You were right," Alex grumbled. "Now get out of my room and go home."

"I'm not going home," Meredith stated. "I'll stay with Cristina. Now, Jo you said something about an ultrasound picture?"

"Yeah... it's downstairs on the refrigerator," Jo replied, removing the hands covering her face. "Well, at least we don't have to worry about hiding it when you come over."

Meredith smiled, grabbing Cristina by the arm to drag her down the stairs to look at the sonogram. Just as Meredith was about to leave the room, she popped her head back in the doorway, "Oh and just so you know, I fully expect to get a copy of every ultrasound photo from here on out."

"Get out!" Alex huffed.

"Goodnight," Meredith grinned.

[vincent-g-writer]

The Silver Screen Savant: Thoughts on Hollywood Autism, Pt. 1

When I was a child, I didn’t fit in.

A common statement, many people empathize with. However, to say “I didn’t fit in,” is a gross understatement. I stuck out like a sore thumb, and at times, still do. Now, why was this, you may ask? Well, there are things I could name. A banal little checklist of traits and characteristics would probably do the trick. But I’m not sure that would do it justice. So I’ll tell you what it felt like:

I had trouble reading facial expressions, because people’s face, and hands, and body would say one thing, while their words said another. Smiles that didn’t reach the eyes. Laughs that were a little too hearty, or loud, or hollow. Disingenuous conversations and actions frustrated me. If lying was wrong, why were, as my mother used to call them “little white lies” acceptable? Why did we smile and thank our new neighbors for their homemade casserole dish, before promptly throwing it away when they left? These things, and many others, puzzled me. But the thing that puzzled me the most, was interacting with my peers. I didn’t understand the sensation of a hundred million bees, pricking me with electric anxiety when I went to school, or played with children in the neighborhood. I didn’t understand why they weren’t constantly talking, wondering, asking- about everything. I didn’t understand how their minds worked. Most of all, I didn’t understand why it physically hurt me to look into people’s eyes, child and adult alike. On the other hand, I did notice they didn’t like me very much. “You’re weird,” they would sneer. Or “you talk too much.” And, they were right. I knew they were. Even as I would wax poetic about all sorts of nonsense, like the difference between a cocoon and a chrysalis. I knew. But I couldn’t…I couldn’t shut myself off.

And that’s just one tiny example, of a lifetime.

Back then, if you’d asked what was “wrong” with me, on a good day, I would have shrugged. Other times, when I despised every fiber of my being, I’d parrot back the sentiments of my peers. “Freak,” “loser,” and “r*tard” were words I heard often. And for a long time, I believed them.

Today, I know differently. Not to say the above struggles no longer apply. If anything, some of them are worse. But now, I now longer blame or hate myself for being different. Now, I understand.

The Lightbulb Moment

In 2014, my daughter began speaking. She was four years old. Before then, she could say “dada,” “juice,” “two,” and “go.” The rest was garbled noises, when and if she made a sound. Most of the time, she didn’t. My wife and I were concerned, to say the least. But it wasn’t exactly a new worry. My princess never crawled, never pointed to get people’s attention, or show them things, and did not play with toys. Plus a host of other concerns. So we hopped on Google, and after about, oh, half an hour of research, got in touch with a doctor. Now, I feel like I must add the caveat here that we wanted to have her seen before then. However, many issues (including a bout of homelessness) prevented that. So we were a bit…late, in that regard. No matter. Her doc sent her to a local play therapist, and after about fifteen minutes of interaction, the therapist knew exactly what was going on: Our little Princess was diagnosed with Autism Spectrum Disorder.

But wait! There’s more-

Once this became clear, my wife started looking into other things. Her own independent research, as it were. She kept it to herself for a month or three, then avalanched it all into my lap . Our Princess wasn’t the only one, as it turned out. And really, had I ever bothered to look…it was obvious. But I was in denial. I couldn’t possibly be autistic. So, like the stubborn Taurus I am, I dug my heels in. I refused to discuss it, for almost year. But, my beloved wife, who is much smarter and wiser than I am, knew what to do. In the name of “research for Princess,” she had me read a list of common autistic traits/symptoms. And it all came crashing down. I couldn’t deny it anymore. I was, without a doubt, also on the spectrum.

The gift of the Media: Fear, self hatred, stigma…superpowers?

Now, you might be asking, why exactly did I doubt myself? Cultural association, of course. And by “cultural association,” what I really mean is “the media.” Mostly, anyway. See, I’ve noticed a trend. In movies, tv and books, autism is usually presented in one of two ways: The Rainman, or the Idiot Perma-child, who cannot care for themselves. And I’m neither.

On the one hand, I was a straight A student. I could sleep through classes and make 100%. I was reading by the age of three or four, and I graduated highschool at fifteen. On the other, I have been known to go a full forty-eight hours without eating, because I “didn’t think about it.”

But I’m not the autistic person you see on tv. Now, that isn’t to say those people don’t exist. They do. For example, my daughter deals with much more noticable struggles than I ever have, while I have another member of my family (also on the spectrum) who is a certifiable genius. And I’ve known many others who are “obviously” autistic, whereas I pass as allistic* (see footnotes below) easily. Which is a sad discourse altogether, really. One the one hand, an “obviously” autistic person, what one might call “Low Functioning” (I could write a whole other post about why “low/high functioning” labels are harmful, however, for the sake of brevity, there’s some here, here and here) are often boiled down only to their struggles, where as people such as myself are relegated to “Not autistic enough to be my problem” or “well, you don’t look autistic.”

To quote-

“The difference between high-functioning autism and low functioning is that high-functioning means your deficits are ignored, and low-functioning means your assets are ignored.” -Laura Tisoncik

Why is this? As you might have guessed from the title of this post- I put a lot of it on the shoulders of the entertainment we consume. Nevermind certain hate organizations who swath themselves in the cloak of “advocacy” such as Autism Speaks, and Anti-Vaxcers, who think it’s better to have a dead child than an autistic one.*

I could go on. At length. However, I’m going to try and stay on track, just this once. To put it plainly, Hollywood Autism often works exactly like “high” and “low” functioning labels: We’re either uplifted to inhuman portrayals of superpowered savants, or downgraded to an “inspirational” invalid. In these stories, we’re props. The “Magical Disabled person!” as Tv Tropes puts it, there to uplift the neurotypical character from their adversity. After all, if this poor dumb sod (i.e- me) can be happy with their burdensome life, surely the pretty white able-bodied protagonist can! We’re “funny,” “scary,” or “sympathetic,” characters, who lack dimension, and nuance. We’re “inhuman.” We’re the lesser. Or at least, that’s one way it’s written. The other is the hyper intelligent, almost “superhuman,” and definitely super jackass genius, who’s much too smart™, and logical© to ever have feelings, friends or empathy. That’s it folks! That’s the show!

That’s what books, tv and movies told me, anyway. And what I truly believed for a long time. It’s why I cringed away in terror and shame when my spectrum issues were finally noticed. And why it took me so long to come to terms with it.

So, there you have it. Part 1. On the next episode, I’ll give some examples, both good and bad, and maybe even a little “what not to do,” or at least a “please consider real hard before doing this in your own work.”

If you like writing, talking about bad tropes and even worse marginalized representation, you can follow me at wordpress or at my “still has that new car smell” twitter. For now- thanks for reading.

-Your loving Vincent

*allistic= Non autistic.

*Vaccines do NOT cause Autism, however, if they DID, it would still be better to have an autistic child than one who died at the ripe old age of “easily preventable but deadly communicable disease.”

[thatwhumplife]

The Good Ones

Whumptober 2020 Prompt 3: My way or the highway - forced to their knees, held at gunpoint

Fandom: Chicago Fire

Summary: Matt’s altruism has a way of getting him into some sticky situations. 

Words: 1332

Matt Casey was one of the good ones. Despite everything he had been through, or maybe because of everything, he developed a deep sense of empathy and a passion for helping people that drove him into his current career. But his passion extended beyond his job. It informed his life as a partner, as an alderman (for a short time), and as a citizen. 

So when Matt heard a scream from the apartment next door, it was obvious what his response would be. 

Lili Kramer lived next door with her two children, Jamard and Jasmine. Matt had seen her in passing and had some short conversations in the hallway but didn’t know a lot about them, other than that Lili was a single mom. She generally kept to herself and kept the kids in order. Matt rarely heard a peep from their apartment. 

Matt opened his door and looked out in the hallway, which was empty. It was the middle of the morning on his day off. Most of his neighbors were away at work. He listened for several seconds. It was quiet again. 

He stepped up and approached Lili’s door and knocked. “Lili? It’s Matt, from next door. Everything okay?” 

Matt heard shuffling from inside for several seconds before he heard a reply. “Yeah, um, yeah, everything is fine. Thanks though.” 

There was something off in her voice. He was sure of it. “You sure? Do you need help with anything?” 

“Yeah. I-I mean, no. No, I – I don’t need anything. Thanks!” 

“Okay,” Matt responded, uneasily. “I’m here if you need anything. Right next door.” Matt’s gut told him something was wrong. He couldn’t just walk away.

Matt ducked back into his apartment and slipped his shoes on. He grabbed his cell phone off the charger and pocketed it before going out the other apartment door, to the outside, closing the door behind him as quietly as he could. He stayed close to the wall until he got to Lili’s outside door. He carefully leaned forward and peeked through the glass. 

A man was standing in the living room, with his back to the door. Matt immediately zeroed in on the gun in the man’s right hand. Lili was facing him, tears streaming down her face. 

Matt was counting his blessings that it was the middle of a day on a Tuesday and the children would be at school. 

He leaned back against the wall and out of sight before pulling his phone out and dialing 911. He told the dispatcher who he was, where he lived, and that there was a man with a gun in the apartment next door. He gave the best description he could, based on the few seconds he was able to peek through the window. 

He heard the man’s voice getting louder and told the dispatcher he had to go but left the call connected as he put his phone in his pocket. 

“You thought you could just disappear and that I would never find you. Well, joke’s on you.” 

Matt tried to get closer to hear what was going on when he accidentally stepped too far forward, knocking his shoe against the door. 

The man immediately turned around, pointing his gun in Matt’s direction. He strode forward and opened the door, keeping the gun trained on Matt. 

Matt threw his hands up. “Whoa whoa whoa. I just wanted to check and make sure everything was okay.” 

“Who the hell are you? This look like any of your business?” 

Matt swallowed thickly. “I just wanted to check on Lili.” 

The man motioned inward with his gun. “You want to check on her? Get in here. Now.” 

Matt’s feet carried him in against his will. He looked up at Lili and saw the devastated look on her face. Tears fell and she mouthed ‘I’m sorry’. 

“Get on your knees,” the man demanded. “And keep your hands up.” 

Matt’s stomach started doing somersaults. He sank to his knees and started praying. To God. To the Chicago PD. To anyone who might be listening. 

“Who’s this, Lili? You sleep with him too?” 

Lili sobbed. “It’s just my neighbor. Please, just let him go.” 

“Nah, nah, I don’t think so. You think you can sneak around, and parade these men around MY children?” 

“Matt isn’t involved. He’s just my neighbor. Jason, please. Please just-“ 

“Shut up!” he shouted, pointing the gun at Lili. His hand shook. 

Matt took a deep breath. “Wait a minute, I think there’s been a misunderstanding. Just put the gun down and we can all talk about this.” 

“Oh, we can talk about it, can we? Is that all we need to do?” 

The man, Jason apparently, put the gun to Matt’s head. Lili sobbed. Matt stared back at her and tried to decide what his options were. Jason did not seem to be operating at 100%. But was the deficit enough for Matt to take him on when he had a gun? 

“First, we’re gonna take care of Matty here, and then, Lili, you and I will do some talking.” 

Matt knew it was now or never. He turned around and hit Jason’s arm as hard as he could. The gun fell to the floor, smacking loudly on the hardwood. Matt dove towards the gun in an attempt to take it over as Lili screamed. 

 Jason was just far enough ahead of him that he reached the handle of the gun first. Matt grabbed for his wrist in an attempt to knock it back out of his hands. Jason rolled on top of him as they struggled. 

A loud BANG rang out. Pain pierced through Matt’s shoulder. He barely had time to process what had happened before he heard the door slam open.

“Chicago PD! Put the gun down!” 

Jason sat back on his knees and raised his hands in the air, dropping the gun. It clattered to the floor. 

Chicago PD officers swarmed the room and yanked Jason off of Matt, throwing him to the floor and tightly handcuffing him as another secured the gun. 

Matt lay on the ground, breathing heavily and trying to push through the pain radiating from his shoulder. 

An officer appeared next to him. “Matt Casey, right? Captain at 51?” 

Matt nodded. 

“We got a bus coming for you,” he said, leaning down and pressing a towel to the bleeding wound. “Keep pressure on that.” 

Lili rushed forward. “Matt! Matt, I’m so sorry. Are you okay?” 

Matt winced, taking hold of the towel and pressing down. “I’m fine. Are you okay?” 

Lili laughed, tears still streaming down her face. “You’re asking me if I’m okay?” 

Matt hesitated, unsure whether it was too soon to start processing what had happened. “Lili? Who is he?” 

She took a deep breath and steeled herself. “Jason. My ex. The kids’ father. We, uh, our relationship has never been very good. We moved here to get away from him. But somehow, he found us.” 

Matt nodded, understanding. “How long since you left him?” 

“Six months next week.” Lili looked around and sighed. “I was really starting to settle in to our lives here. We were happy. God, what am I going to tell the kids? We can’t stay here.” 

“Whoa, hold on. One thing at a time. What matters is you’re safe. And hopefully he’s going away for a very long time.” 

Lili’s shoulders sagged as she broke down into more tears. 

Another officer appeared. “Ma’am? We have a few questions to ask, if you’ll follow me.” 

Lili looked sadly at Matt. 

“Go, it’s okay, I’m going to be fine. Go with them.” 

Kari, another medic from 51 on first watch, came through the door with her jump bag. 

“Captain Casey,” she said smiling. “You really have a knack for getting yourself into these situations, don’t you?” 

Matt shrugged and then immediately regretted it. “Agh. Getting shot is not usually my intention.” 

She laughed. “Let’s get you cleaned up and over to Med.”

[duckbeater]

Courtship, pt. 2

Writing about happiness is very difficult and boring. The below are some small attempts I’ve made to write through my happiness. My small, important readership deserves an update, says my brother, whose sensibilities have only rarely steered me catastrophically wrong.

I AM BUYING CHAMPAGNE TO CELEBRATE MY LOVER

Today’s the last day of his job and he’s throwing himself a little party. In September he begins med school and in the next month he’ll put his affairs in order, readying for the big move. I have the sense that tonight begins our diminuendo, despite his staying over last night and spit-fucking me, and I’ll surely stay over tonight, after the many champagne toasts to his prosperous life ahead. 

We’ve started sleeping as two spoons embracing chest to chest, with our faces tucked awkwardly in a neck or an armpit. Of course I wake up gasping, my mouth sucking after a less hot pocket of air, and turn, and enjoy that he pulls me tightly back to him. He’s a heavy sleeper and I’m a light sleeper, and our bedding situation resembles something like a rock in a tumbler with my rolling over and over and over again, arising too early, wildly underslept, shining with sweat, but ecstatic that we’ve touched all night long. I’m attending his celebration in a sleep deficit that I’ve covered with caffeine and a long, soulful run beside the lake. I’ve been thinking about us a lot. 

He wouldn’t call himself my lover, I think, but I’m hoping the expensiveness of the champagne I’m bringing will convince friends in attendance that that’s what we are. I’m hoping my largesse goes noticed and commented on—that it’s interpreted as my being in love with him, and that his peers compel him, by either fretting over my largesse, or pitying me for it, or anyway finding it impressive or amusing or tender or charming—that they tell this young man I’m adoring him and I’m adoring him well. That my adoration seems steadfast and considered. And despite the riskiness of the circumstances (our differences in age, the widening gulf in distance, a sometimes depleting lack of shared cultural references), when we are together I feel comfort and joy. This must be obvious to him without the expensive champagne. I’m always saying it out loud, or anyway variants on the theme of “comfort and joy,” like a seasonal blessing, a profusion of blessings, needing remarked upon. I’m seriously afraid I mother him.

“Let us take in the scene,” I have said before, “let us only observe for the moment my sitting in your lap, your hands on my neck, my constant kisses. What joy!”

He’s done something to my sense of my proportion, and also my prose style. I can’t seem to describe our relationship without slipping into the sardonic, recursive, mildly-institutionalized voice of Robert Walser, a writer I find too cute by half. I’m finding my life too cute by half, I fear. If this is what happiness feels like, I don’t really want much more of it. It’s making me stupid. “People will think that pain has made you stupid,” wrote Walser, a statement that comes back to me when I can’t distinguish between the good times and bad times making me an idiot.

AFTER THE SPIT-FUCKING

We stayed up late talking about what it means to say goodbye to people who don’t know you’ve cared for them. I don’t pretend this conversation had subtext. For the last two years, he’s worked with profoundly disabled people, first as a case worker and then, after the pandemic closed the campus and made that job “nonessential,” as a nursing assistant on the same floor. 

He spent months feeding, changing, bathing and bedding non-ambulatory children and adults. Most cannot speak, a few cannot see, and none can walk, of course. It is a world I’ve rarely thought about—indeed, a world many of us rarely consider, because in its theater of human need are scenes of unremitting hopelessness. It is a languageless suffering and it perdures. I can become very mystified, very shallow-breathed thinking about his care for these souls, however quick he’s been to dissuade me from romanticizing or elevating his ministrations. “One of my verbal residents tells me to fuck myself all the time,” he’s noted. Still, I would point out that birth defects and accidents account for a small percentage of his caseloads’ impairments, and that active neglect and abuse perpetrated intentionally by former guardians (or unwittingly by the American healthcare complex) have hobbled his charges for life. I don’t like hearing stories about choked babies and toddlers left so long in beds their soft bones grow slab-wise, so I’ve asked him, coward that I am, to please skip origins if he’s entering an otherwise benign workaday anecdote.  

His most patient complaint: using his iPhone to FaceTime parents who want to see their son, then listening to one-sided conversations, burbling, giggles, tears, even story-time. His campus closed to all guardians—a devastating precaution. “Don’t send anything xrated today,” he’d text, and I’d know he was hosting a reunion. So I’d keep my clothes on. And he’d answer the phone from an immediately weeping seventy-year-old mother saying, to her forty-year-old son, “Why good evening, Max, good evening. This is your mother. Hi, baby. Hi. I love you. I am your mother. I will always be your mother. I am sorry I cannot touch you, I cannot hold you, I cannot be with you in this time, but you are my Max, and I am your mother. And I love you always. You can hear me and I’m gonna tell you all about my week, okay? And then I’m gonna ask Scotty here how you’ve spent your week, okay?” He said he usually cries on these calls and when I asked why, he said, “Because it seems polite?” And I pressed harder and he said, “Because I get to—I get to connect these people who have missed each other so much, and it’s so sad. They haven’t touched in months. They might not touch this year. My phone sometimes runs out of battery. It’s so weird.”

I’ve asked him whether families are happy to be rid of their incredible dependents and he said that by and large families are miserable to give over members to the institution: that age arbitrates the giving. “A mother and father have a baby at twenty-five. They can care for him well into their fifties—their twenty-five-year-old, their thirty-year-old son. But when these parents enter their sixties? Their seventies? They can’t lift an adult male. They can’t bathe him or change him. Even basic nutrition gets hard. Meal prep is tiring. It’s long. They start to lose track of medications, and they have medications themselves, you know? So the situation gets very difficult and if they want to live, and if they want him to live, they feel like they have to give him up.”

We’re at the point now where intimacy is a given. He doesn’t swallow, but brings me to orgasm, taking me in his mouth and then dribbles it, I guess, my cum, back onto my stomach, apologizing with a flushed red smirk. “I hate that,” he says, “I really hate it.”

“Go ahead, eat it,” I say, joking.

He gives me dark eyes and showily palms the wad into the black pillowcase behind my head.

“Holy Christ!” I yell. “The nerve! The pluck! The audacity!”

There must be a phase in relationships when extracting intimacies—not only of the “terrible things I did in high school”-vein, or the “times I cheated”-vein, or the “unwittingly right wing ideologies I support”-vein—that close couples endeavor. Where you’re always compulsively revelatory, to seem as interesting as you did in early courtship, as erotically forward and emotionally captivating. We’re in that moment and we surprise one another with small tributes as befits that level of affection.

One of the intimacies I proffered is that I’m going through a religious re-awakening, a need for ritual and sacraments. He finds this funny. (I find it embarrassing.) Yet one of his duties has been wheeling charges to his building’s Tuesday Mass, and then helping to administer the Eucharist. I don’t think he in fact touches the host (I don’t think many in his care can safely take of the host; “I’m mostly there in case anyone seizes,” he said), but he did slip a large wafer away for me and now it’s in my apartment, among my candles, possibly growing mold. He asks me when I’m going to eat it and I tell him around Christmas. 

(That was a lie. I’ll eat it when our romance is over, to consecrate the time we had.)

“I eat it,” I say, and he glowers.

I TOLD HIM ABOUT A MYSTERY SURROUNDING MY FAVORITE AUTHOR

Norman Rush. For a decade and better I’ve wondered about the long dedication in Mating, whose last lines read, “...and to the memory of my father, and to my lost child, Liza.” The novel, set in Botswana and borrowing heavily from Rush’s time there as director in the Peace Corps, suggests that perhaps Liza died in Africa or was born still. She goes unmentioned in his Paris Review interview, in subsequent novels, short stories, and reviews. There’s no hint of Liza’s fate. (As I edit this, I recall a phrase in Mortals, the narrator’s idea that “children exposed you to hellmouth, which was the opening of the mouth of hell right in front of you.” Explaining further: “[I]t was the grandmother, the daughter, the granddaughter tumbling through the air, blown out of the airplane by a bomb, the three generations falling and seeing one another fall, down, down, onto the Argolid mountains. With children you created more thin places in the world for hellmouth to break through.” And then, in Subtle Bodies, Rush describes a wayward teen boy, whose angry and aggressive behavior corresponds exactly to Rush’s own troubled teen son. In fact, Subtle Bodies is about the decision to have children at all. Nina follows Ned to a funeral, to fuck him. So, Rush has indeed remarked on children and strife, as he has lived it. Anyhow—) Yet by accident I listened to an old Fresh Air interview where Rush is asked to comment on the aspect of family in his novels, and to clarify that inscription. 

“I have a daughter who is now thirty,” he says, “who was born with diffuse brain atrophy and has been institutionalized for many years. Um. But I think the rest is pretty self-explanatory.”

“What was her condition?” presses his interlocutor.

“She is uh profoundly retarded,” pauses, “and will be so.”

“So you feel she is lost to you?”

“Yes. There is no recognition possible between her and us.”

I reproduced this exchange from notes on my phone. Scotty replied, “I don’t think that’s right, actually. Maybe between her and—who—who was it?”

“Norman Rush and his daughter Liza.”

He said, “Maybe between Liza and her dad—yeah, maybe she was so disabled she couldn’t recognize him. I take care of men like that. But I recognize them.”

We were talking about important books at all (I mean that semi-seriously) because his co-worker had gifted him three works, including a volume of Yeats’ complete poetry.

“Why did Paco give you Yeats?” I asked.

“He thinks I need more poetry,” said Scotty.

(Frankly I have felt and still feel sexual jealousy against Paco, who recently got brilliant red and black knee tattoos of spider webs. Like, Spider-Man spiderwebs, covering both kneecaps. Every few weeks he cooks a large meal for Scotty, and they talk about life until 4 A.M. drunk on bourbon, immobilized by edibles, full and warm and caring, and it makes me mad. It makes me mad, because I can’t really see the point of staying up until the uncomfortable small hours between 2 and 5 unless there is sex involved, but Paco is straight, a father, an excellent chef, a dedicated friend, and so my grousing is a kind of unwarranted possession that baffles me into silence on the matter.)

I didn’t have anything intelligent left to say about Norman Rush. I groped along a narrow thought, however, a thin ledge. “You know—a novelist, especially a novelist as concerned with language and comprehension as Norman Rush, would feel particularly devastated by the condition of his daughter. He would see it as ironic and then as punitive and again as senseless—supporting his comforting regime of a militant atheism.”

Although very sober, I recited the first stanza of The Second Coming, tripping over two lines (but the best lines), saying, “The worst lack all conviction, while the best/Are full of passionate intensity.”

“What?” said Scotty.

“I just—that was Yeats.”

“Who?”

“Go ahead and tell your boy Paco that your hot fuck gave you a teach on William. Butler. Yeats.”

“What?” said Scotty. He grinned at me. He got up and ate a yogurt.

[innaminitus]

A job for engineer

Pairing: Loki x Reader

Imagine: 4. Imagine being Tony’s niece who falls in love with Loki after Tony warns you about him.

Warnings: language, smut

Word count: 3016

A/N: I SWEAR TO GOD THIS WASN’T GOING TO BE SMUT TILL THE LAST MINUTE, MY HAND SLIPPED

“Alright, kid,” Tony unlocked the door to his workshop. “This is the most important place in this compound. My kingdom.”

You looked around and admired all the technology. Tony was your godfather and promised to take care of you this summer – you were engineering student and begged him for it for a few months now. You were supposed to work with him and learn as much as you could.

You walked to the wall filled with Iron Man costumes.

“I want to build one,” you sighed, admiring the intricate seams and wires.

Tony laughed.

“I’m not sure summer is enough to teach you all of that, but… we can try with helmet at least.” Your eyes shone when you looked at him, fighting the urge to hug your uncle. “I don’t really have time today, so I’m going to pass you to the rest of the team.”

You froze.

“Are they here now?” You thought he agreed to have you here because the compound was empty.

He nodded.

“You wanna meet them?” He asked with slight smile, leaning against the wall.

“Is that even a real question?” You squeaked. “Of course I do!”

You stormed out of the workshop and run up the stairs. Just at the top you crushed with something, swayed and almost fell down, but someone held your waist and didn’t let you fall.

“And what is this thing?” You heard a cold voice and shot your head up, almost again hitting the person who held you.

“It’s my niece, Y/N,” Tony said and you took a step back to look at the man before you. He was at least a head taller than you, his black hair was wet and he looked as if he went straight out of the shower. “What do you have there, Loki?”

Loki. That’s right! You knew he looked familiar. Only without the weird, leather clothes, with wet hair and in a plain black t-shirt he looked almost nothing like the God of Mischief who attacked New York a couple years ago. He was… hot.

Loki raised a hand with a showerhead in it.

“It broke.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t take a shower with your crown on, Reindeer Games.”

Your eyes travelled from one man to another and before anyone said anything, you snatched the showerhead.

“I’ll fix it!” You ran out of the corridor before Tony could stop you.

“You don’t know where to go, kid!” You heard him shouting and came back with a little less enthusiasm.

He handed you a case with some tools and pointed at Loki.

“He’ll show you the way. If you break that even more you can go back home.” He winked at you and went downstairs.

Without a word Loki rolled his eyes and guided you to his room. On your way there you met Natasha and Steve, hurrying somewhere and giving you worried looks.

He opened the door at the end of the corridor on the second floor. You didn’t know what to expect and you definitely weren’t ready for the amount of books and paintings you saw. He headed to the bathroom and opened the door for you.

“Here.” He leaned on the doorframe as he watched you take your shoes off and step into the shower.

A quick look at the broken head told you it was only missing a screw and you quickly found another one in the case Tony gave you. Fixing it took you two minutes.

Just as you were about to get out you slipped on the drops of water on the floor of the shower, waved your hands in the air instead of trying to hold onto something and would’ve probably broke your nose on the tiles if Loki wouldn’t once again catch you.

“Aren’t you the clumsiest little thing?” He asked in a velvety voice, his hand steadily held your waist when he pulled you up so you could stand on your own.

You were sure you were blushing as awfully as it was possible and you quickly broke free from his arms.

Not that you felt bad in them.

That thought was strange enough for you to stare at his handsome face for a second before you shook it off and managed to murmur thanks and get out of his room, tripping over a pile of books.

*

It’s been a few weeks and the summer got really hot, making it quite unbearable to stay inside when such a beautiful weather seduced everyone from outside the windows, so you decided to spend the evening on the pool.

You really hoped Loki would be there, even though you knew he wasn’t exactly fond of such events. Somehow you developed a liking in him. Alright, a crush. The way he always mocked Thor and Captain made you laugh and you found out that despite his cold personality he was really fun to talk to once he didn’t feel like everyone was dreaming about locking him up. Before you noticed, you were thinking about him in the workshop and when you were alone, but, boy, you were bad at flirting and he probably didn’t even know you liked him. There were moments when you thought he liked you, too; little touches on your shoulders or hair, short smiles when he thought you didn’t see him, the warmth he usually treated you with. But those moments were too short to make you sure.  

You were just supposed to go outside to the others when someone grabbed your elbow and pulled back to the compound.

“What in the name of God are you wearing?” Tony gasped with disbelief in his eyes.

You shrugged and looked down at your rather skimpy swimsuit. You’ve brought a, let’s say, normal one, but you really wanted Loki to finally notice you.

“That’s called a swimsuit.” You said the last word very slowly and very clearly, just to make him a little angry.

“Listen, Miss America,” He pointed a finger at you. “This is not a swimsuit, this is few strings and deficit of material. And don’t think that I’m stupid enough not to know what you’re trying to accomplish here.”

Your cheeks burned, but you only crossed your arms and rolled your eyes.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” You wanted to turn and go, but he stopped you.

“You know damn well. You can’t even focus on the job and you were begging me for it for months now. This is not a man for you.” He motioned Loki’s room. “Think about it. He is dangerous, reckless, disloyal, and he is a god. How do you imagine your life would look like if your tries come out successful? He will use you and toss away. Find someone closer your age or at least human.”

You stared at him for a second before you gave up.

“Fine.” You ripped your arm out of his hand. “I’ll change.” You turned to the stairs. “But if he wants to use me, I’ll gladly let him.”

You heard Tony’s annoyed sigh when you climbed the stairs and locked yourself in your room.

When you finally reached the pool without Tony being overprotective you sat on the longer and reached for the sunscreen in your bag. You peaked at Loki, who as the only one wasn’t wearing a swimsuit and was reading a book under an umbrella. He wasn’t looking at you, of course, and you really wanted him to look. You began to apply the sunscreen on your legs, desperately trying to think of some better conversation starter than “it’s hot today”, but before you could think of any, you were done. With a sigh you looked around, begging God for any opportunity.

And then you saw it.

“Hey, Steve!” You called Captain loudly and waved at him. He turned and looked at you with his usual slight smile. “Can you help me?”

He excused Tony who he was talking to and came over to you. You took a quick look at your godfather, who was killing you with his eyes and gesturing you to stop playing around, but you ignored him.

“What can I help you with?” Steve smiled at you and sat on the edge of your longer.

“I… My hands are short.” My hands are short?! What the fuck?! He raised his eyebrow. “I mean… Can you help me with the sunscreen?” You said louder than was necessary and gestured at your back.

“Sure.”

He took your sunscreen and you turned around. Just as you looked at Loki who you were now facing, he quickly lowered his eyes to the book he was reading. So he was looking at you.

Steve’s hands on your skin were easy and delicate and you knew you had to comment it if you wanted to gain Loki’s attention.

If you only weren’t so terrible at flirting.

“I didn’t expect your hands to be so soft,” you said, still looking at the book Loki was pretending to be reading.

“Thank you. I guess?” If you were terrible at flirting, he was terrible at playing along.

“Do you work out every day?” Just shut up, Y/N.

“I try to. I’ve got to stay in shape, after all.”

You wanted to comment his American butt, but it wouldn’t help at all.

“And you definitely do,” you sighed, as if this sunscreen application was the best massage of your life.

For just a quarter of a second you could swear Loki clenched his fingers harder on the cover.

“Done,” you heard Steve say and turned to face him with the sweetest smile you could come up with.

“Thank you, you’re the sweetest.”

He blushed slightly and you fought the urge to roll your eyes. Loki came back to reading his book, this time his eyes actually followed the text.

Fuck.

Your genius plan failed. What now, what now, what now…

“Swim with me,” you said, approaching him.

He looked at you, eyeing you from head to toe.

“No.”

“Come on, let’s have some fun.” You reached to him, but he ignored your hand.

“You have plenty other people to have fun with.”

“But I want to have fun with you,” you said quieter, lowering your hand.

He still didn’t look at you.

“Sorry to disappoint you, then.”

You rubbed the back of your neck and tried to say something, anything, but your mind was empty and all you could do was to drown your sorrows in a pool.

*

You were welding metal sheeting of your newly built helmet, listening to AC/DC way too loud than the hour would require and sipping flat beer. It was nearly one in the morning, but you didn’t feel like sleeping, so you were in the workshop in oversized t-shirt serving you as pajamas along with just boxers, since it was way too hot to be wearing anything more. You didn’t expect to see anyone at this hour, anyway.

You were thinking about what Tony told you earlier. He was right, but you didn’t want to admit it. But what could you do about it? It wasn’t like you could stop loving someone just because. Doing nothing was just as bad as getting rejected. You weren’t the one to sit and wait for something to happen, but actually doing something to achieve your goals wasn’t working great either.

You tossed the welder away and looked at your work. The helmet was raw and far from finished, but you were proud of what you’ve done. You gently put it back on the table and reached for the electronics you still had a little difficulties with.

“FRIDAY, can you show me Tony’s instructions again, please?”

The A.I. immediately viewed what you asked for on the screen before you. You frowned and looked down at the wires and cables you had to deal with.

“For the love of God, can you turn that noise down?” You heard a voice behind you and you turned so quickly you almost fell off your chair.

Your face lightened a bit when you saw Loki, but the shine quickly faded when you remembered what was, or more likely wasn’t, going on between you two.

“Yeah, sure…” You silenced the music with your phone. “Sorry.”

You were sure he was going to leave so you turned back to the electronics, but instead he approached you, making focusing on wires even harder than it already was.

“What are you doing?” He asked, leaning over the table.

Whether you wanted it or not you blushed and hated yourself for it.

“Tony’s teaching me his ways.”

“Stark’s not here now, so why are you working all alone at night?” He sat at the table and watched as you tried to untie the knots.

“I can’t sleep.” You shrugged.

“And why is that so?”

“None of your business.”

With swift move he snatched your chin and forced you to look up.

“What is it, little one?” You tried to break free, but his grip was strong. You hated when he called you like that. You were not a child, you were an adult with a degree right around the corner. “Are you mad at me because I didn’t want to swim with you?”

“Yes.” That was the truth, or at least some of it.

He rolled his eyes and let you go.

“You were already having lots of fun with this half-brain, Rogers. Who was I to interrupt your get-together?”

Your heartbeat was going crazy.

“Am I supposed to believe you are jealous?” You raised your brow, but it cost you a lot not to show all of the emotions you were feeling right now.

He slowly leaned closer to you, making you move away slightly.

“Isn’t this what you wanted?” He whispered, titling his head. “To have me dying of jealousy at your feet?”

Your heart was beating so fast you couldn’t actually feel it anymore; it felt as if it stopped.

“N- no…” You stammered out.

He moved away, got up and walked to the door.

“What a shame. I was just supposed to kneel.” He smirked.

You almost gagged at his words, your lungs weren’t working properly, the air was too dense to breathe it in. He was going to leave, you had to stop him-

“How about I kneel then?” The words escaped your mouth before you could actually think about what you were saying and where it would lead you.

He stopped and looked at you, his smirk widened as he slowly came closer.

“Do you even know what you’re saying, my little engineer?” He was standing just before you.

No.

“Well enough to make you stay.” You smirked at him, looking way more confident than you felt. You slowly reached to the screen and with a swipe turned off every camera that Tony could’ve placed there. They turned off with a silent noise.

He grabbed your fingers and rubbed your palm with his thumb.

“Let’s put these in some better use.” Holy fuck, holy fuck, holy fuck- “And these as well.” He added, using another hand to swipe his finger through your lips.

Your body knew better what to do than your head. With a smirk you slid from your chair and kneeled before Loki. His hand fell on your hair and stroked them softly and you could already see the hard bulge in his pants. You reached to unbutton them and unmercifully slowly you slipped them down his thighs along with his underwear.

Dear God.

He was perfect.

Just the thought of having him inside of you made you squeeze your thighs together.

You reached to his hard member and wrapped your fingers around it. It was hot and delicious and you wanted to taste him badly, but you controlled yourself and began to move your hand up and down, receiving a satisfied sigh. You were pumping him steadily, wanting him to be all wet and pink before you put him in your mouth. He was breathing heavily, his hand stuck in your hair. You made sure he was watching you when you innocently looked him in the eye and stuck out your tongue, collecting every bit of wetness he was giving you. Fingers in your hair clenched, but he didn’t force you any further. You slowly traced the tip of your tongue along his vein, from the base to the tip which you wrapped your lips around. A silent moan that could just as well be a sigh escaped his lips when you sucked him and put deeper and deeper. Your fingers wrapped what you couldn’t fit and soon you found yourself almost purring at the sensation of having him deep in your throat, of the warmth of his cock and his fingers pulling your hair.

He swept the hair from your forehead with his other hand and dived it in them as well. He bucked his hips, once to check if you were fine with it and then more when you didn’t object. You grabbed his thighs as he thrusted himself deep into your throat making you gag and your eyes water, his pushes were rougher and rougher when he fucked your face and you loved every minute of it.

He was whimpering and you could tell he was close. He closed his eyes shut and shot his head back, his moves became faster and you almost choked when he spilled himself into your mouth, and you gratefully swallowed every last drop of it. With one last flick of your tongue he was clean and you let him out. Your lips were swollen and your throat hurt, but for the love of God, you wanted to immediately do it again.

You slowly got up when he zipped his pants and looked at you with blurred eyes. His hand shot to your face and held it gently, his thumb collected a drop of cum from the corner of your mouth.

“Looks like I used you, after all,” he smirked. He’s heard.

“Feel free to do it again.” You smiled before pulling him to kiss.

___

Tag list for Loki smuts: @lokislilslut @princerowanwhitethorngalathynius@darkprincessloki92 @marvelrose @bluestaratsunrise

[singingvio]

So on the headcanon list I just posted I talked about Vio possibly having ADHD and being distracted easily, and because I’m ADHD myself and relate to Vio’s character a lot, I want to talk about that more.

First, a lecture on what exactly ADHD is and how it works because some people just interpret it as ‘LOL I have an attention span of a millisecond who wants ice cream’ and that’s actually incorrect and it kind of pisses me off, then, after that, more headcanon stuff! :D

(I am not knowledgeable about this in a medical sense by any means, but I DO have a pretty bad case of ADHD so I still know exactly what I’m talking about)

First of all, in case you didn’t know, ADHD stands for Attention-Deficit/Hyperactivity Disorder. In non-fancy words, this means Okay Let’s Take Notes Oh My Gosh It’s A Butterfly Let’s Catch It, or A Bit Too Hyper And I Probably Shouldn’t Have A Lot Of Sugar, but there’s more than just that.

There are three major types of ADHD:

ADHD, combined type - This one is the most common type. I have this version of ADHD, and I know the most about it. This means you have trouble paying attention and get easily distracted, and you’re probably hyper or impulsive. This hyperactivity can sometimes last for a very long time, or a very short time. For me, I can be really tired and suddenly want to run a marathon, and then just go to sleep. Or, I can wake up really excited for absolutely nothing and stay that way for almost the whole day. The attention thing you actually can’t fix easily without medication, unlike people with a short attention span who don’t have ADHD. I’ve tried paying attention, and unless I hyperfocus on something (like right now, actually), I CANNOT pay attention for longer than a few minutes. I take medication every morning so my attention span is longer, but that’s really all I can do.

ADHD, impulsive/hyperactive type - This form of ADHD is only hyperactivity. It’s the least common and people with this type of ADHD are energized and can be impulsive or extremely hyper, but this has no affect on their attention span or distractibility. This type still can get distracted, but it’s much harder and they also can’t get into hyperfocus as much as the other two types.

ADHD, inattentive and distractible type - This type is kind of in the middle of how common it is, and it makes it harder to pay attention and you’re easily distractable, and it’s easier to go into hyperfocus (though honestly, I do not reccommend it, you forget to eat and everything). This doesn’t come with being hyper, easily energized, or impulsive, though again, you can still be so without being an ADHD combined type.

We still don’t know how ADHD is caused, but it’s probably genetic. It’s a brain-based biological disorder. Here’s where I get sciency because I had to look this up from multiple sources, so buckle your seatbelts.

People with ADHD have low dopamine levels. Dopamine is a neurotransmitter, a type of brain chemical, and can be found using positron emission tomography, or brain-scans. Brain metabolism in people, especially children, with ADHD is shown to be lower in parts of the brain controlling attention, social judgment (we’ll talk about that later), and movement.

Only 4 to 12 percent of children are actually diagnosed with ADHD, and interesting fact, boys are 2-3 times more likely to have hyperactive/combined ADHD than girls. This isn’t important, just a fun fact I guess.

Let’s move on to symptoms of ADHD!

For inattention:

1 - short attention span for age group

2 - difficulty listening to others

3 - hard time remembering details

4 - easily distractable

5 - forgetful often

6 - poor organization

7 - poor study skills

(I’ve got symptoms 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, AND 7.)

For impulsivity/hyperactivity:

1 - Often interrupts others

2 - Not a lot of patience

3 - Tends to blurt out answers

4 - Takes risks and doesn’t think before acting

5 - Has a hard time staying still

6 - Can’t be in one place for long

7 - Fidgets excessively

8 - talks a lot

9 - has hard time engaging in quiet activities

10 - Forgetfulness

11 - Has a hard time staying on tasks and often leaves works uncompleted.

(I’ve got symptoms 1, 2, 4 (the second part), 5, 6, 7, 8, 10, and 11.)

Also, as an added bonus, if you take medication for treatment, you also might experience symptoms of:

1 - insomnia

2 - decreased appetite

3 - stomachaches

4 - headaches

5 - jitteriness

6 - increased hyperactive behavior after the medication wears off.

Also just so you know a lot of people I know with ADHD get in trouble a lot for not paying attention so there’s that! (You don’t know HOW many times I’ve gotten detention for completely forgetting about homework, projects, or just not paying attention)

People with ADHD can also often be diagnosed with anxiety or depression, since dealing with it can be really stressful or make it feel too hard to deal with. (I’ve got anxiety, so I know exactly what this feels like, it’s difficult).

NOW, on to what I think Vio has!

I think Vio has ADHD, combined type, though the attention defecity shows more than the hyperactivity. The hyperactivity just doesn’t seem to match up with his character, as he doesn’t seem to get worked up that much at all. Sometimes when he’s stressed or under pressure, but even then not often. Still, he probably has combined type.

Also, the symptoms I’ve found he shows in the manga are as follows:

Inattention symptoms 1, 2, and 4. However, my personal headcanons also show him having symptoms 3, 6, and 7. I think he’d have a pretty good memory, but not a very sharp one, having a hard time remembering details like the order things happened or the time, but still having a good enough memory that he can rely on it when he needs to without much trouble. I also headcanon that time runs away from him often like me. Time flies with little to no prompting, as the saying goes. ^^

He also has impuslivity/hyperactivity symptoms 1, 3, and 8, though I also headcanon him to have symptoms 5, 6, and 7 as well. He’d probably have a hard time keeping himself from blurting out information, and as a coping mechanism he’s probably try to keep all his thoughts to himself, which explains why he doesn’t talk much to others in the manga. This isn’t a very good coping mechanism, by the way, keeping it all bottled up is just begging for disaster, and I should know.

As for treatment? He probably doesn’t know he has ADHD and just thinks everyone has the same problems he does and is just better at concealing them. When he finds out, either by research or being diagnosed by someone else, he’d probably be shocked.

“Wait, are you saying not everyone has trouble paying attention, staying focused, or sitting still, and even if they do it’s not even that bad? What?”

He’d also probably talk down to himself at some points after that because Vio I feel aims for perfection often, and having a mental disorder would be hard on him since it’s a sign he’s not perfect, which of course he isn’t duh.

After he finds out, he might take medication but mostly rely on therapy. Not an actual therapist, but talking to others about his problems would probably help him more than the medication and dealing with it on his own.

So, yeah! AND NOW, THE THING YOU’VE ALL PROBABLY BEEN TELLING ME TO LIST, HEADCANONS!

- Vio talks to Shadow and Blue the most about having ADHD, since they both might also have it and also they’re easy to talk to once you get to know them.

- He’s one of the types who goes into hyperfocus a noticeable amount. Not so often it’s a big problem, but you might see him at 2 AM furiously writing something down, and then at noon he’ll pass out from exhaustion because it turns out he wasn’t able to fall asleep because he suddenly Had To Do The Thing Right That Second And Couldn’t Stop.

- He’s also the type to get lost in space a lot thinking and you might mistake for sleeping if you can’t see his face. It’s not the same as hyperfocus, but it’s just as hard to get out of when I do it myself.

- He derails the conversation topic unintentionally and as a result tries not to start up conversations. By derailing the topic, I mean you’re talking about your favorite sweets and he’ll suddenly say something about the history of chocolate which will connect to the history of some other food he likes that suddenly turns into Did You Know Water Can Be A Torture Device and then suddenly you’re talking about different torture techniques that are really weird. Candy-->Torture that’s just how it goes sometimes.

- That One Kid Who People Don’t Know How To Talk To Because Their Interests Are Really Uncommon.

- He’s an... okay... notetaker, but try to read the notes and you’re ready to lose that game. His handwriting is terrible because he tries to write everything down before he forgets, which results in sloppiness.

- The medication side-effects he has are effects 1, 2, and 4, but mainly 1 because honestly it’s practically canon in this fandom that Vio has the hardest time sleeping out of the Links.

Most of these headcanons, actually, this entire post, might be me self-projecting but nevertheless I think Vio having ADHD really fits his character and I want to see more ADHD Vio stuff in this fandom because I really like the headcanon.

[yourtransgendersocialworker]

02.11.2020 On the ADHD Diagnosis

After traveling down several medical and therapeutic tracks, I was referred to see a psychologist who specializes in ADHD and trauma. I had my fourth appointment with him today, and of all my diagnoses, this one has felt the most jarring. 

About a year ago, my medication management provided a referral to be tested for ADHD. She had been thinking out loud for months that I had ADHD, something I vehemently denied, citing my strong work ethic and success as a student. I was tested using the Quotient Test, a computer-based exam that monitors your impulsivity, distractability, and inattention. The test boasts a high accuracy rate. I took the test, sitting in a hallway nook in an office. A person attached a sensor headband on my head and told me to click the mouse when I saw a star shape on the screen. At times, the task was incredibly easy, but I often clicked too soon and would react maybe a second or two late and realize my error. I laughed the few times it happened, thinking some mistakes are sure to be common. 

My med. provider was pleasantly surprised when the test results came back showing incredible impulsivity, scoring high deficits in all areas. Cue inner dialogue: “Me? Really? I bet my boss would never believe that. Is that why stuff is so hard? Is this why it feels like I’m working harder than everyone else around me?” Around July 2019,  I agree to try ADHD medication. At this point, I've tried so much, I'm pretty much willing to try anything the medical professionals recommend. I was prescribed Adderall at a low dose and I felt nothing. We tried a higher dose and I still felt nothing. I was going through so much at the time, and changing several medications after a medical procedure, I decided to stop taking the Adderall, with support of my doctor, because it wasn't doing anything anyway and I needed to see how my other medications were working. 

Fast-forward February 2020, I can happily say I have found a medication combination that is working for me.  When I was at my worst, providers were franticly adjusting medications frequently, hoping to see the slightest improvement. I have remained on the same medications for five months now, and that is the longest run I've had in a long time. I feel stable on my medication, but I still struggle in several domains. 

My medication provider and I recently circled back to the unmedicated ADHD and together, we agreed that trying a low dose medication, along with therapy, could be worthwhile. This time she perscribed Concerta at its lowest dose. After two weeks, I felt nothing, so she increased the dose to the next prescribed amount. So far, I feel nothing.

Today I met with the psychologist, Dr. Paul, and I asked, "What am I even supposed to feel on ADHD medication? I know some people take it to get high like speed but I'm assuming that's not what I'm supposed to feel. How will I know when it is working?" This question led to a much larger conversation about my ADHD diagnosis. I felt frustrated in my previous sessions, because I felt like Dr. Paul was trying to educate me on stuff I already knew about and he spent almost the entire second session talking. I think I spoke two or three sentences. I confronted him on this today, (not the not letting me speak part- I'm not *that* advanced- but the educating me on stuff I already knew about) and he got real with me real quick. It was much appreciated.

He explained that my ADHD affects my prefrontal cortex and I'm working often out of reptilian brain and mammalian brain, which could be translated as I'm working out of survival and emotion. I'm not accessing the further evolved prefrontal cortex often, or likely, mine isn’t development as much as the “typical” brain. As he explained just how this affects me, in strikingly accurate detail, I understood how ADHD and trauma work hand-in-hand. 

I've worked with so many kids with ADHD. To be honest, I didn't hold much weight in the diagnosis at all. I always thought- it's not ADHD, it’s trauma. But over the years, I've learned that trauma can cause ADHD- trauma and ADHD are not synonymous. But even then, I was still naive in my understanding of ADHD. I thought it meant kids who can't focus and are hyperactive and struggle in school. It surprises me (and kind of embarrasses me) to reflect back and see how little I understood about the diagnosis, even though I'd been working with kids diagnosed with ADHD for years. 

What was especially hard about today was Dr. Paul giving me the likely prognosis of my ADHD:

You will likely always struggle with a self-imposed routine. It likely won't become habit for you. You do and you will continue to thrive in structured settings. Lucky you. Lucky you that your ADHD has made it as such that you must complete all of your work as quickly as possible. You will probably always thrive in work settings, or settings where others are monitoring your performance. You will probably always struggle with your own free time. You will probably thrive better in a relationship than alone, because you have high standards on pleasing others, you work on an emotional satisfaction plane. Your energy and motivation will never be inherent. You will always be working at it, and you will likely have to change your approaches to structure and motivation often. What worked for months may not work tomorrow, and you have to try new approaches. You live in emotional brain. There are many ways this motivates and tears you down at the same time. Your brain likely isn't going to change that much, but self-imposed structure and medication will likely be very helpful. This was hard information for me to hold. I've known for a long time I need structure and routine. I've struggled with it for so long. I've managed to maintain a somewhat consistent morning routine and I always thrive in my work structure. I've talked to therapists about it for years and the phrase I said then is the same I say now, "I just want to be motivated. I want to WANT to be motivated." I've told countless therapists, and personally, I'm constantly swaying between, "Don't sleep all the time./ It's probably what my body needs." "Give yourself grace/ Hold yourself accountable." "You are lazy./ You are being kind to yourself." "You are good." "You are bad."

Dr. Paul explained how my impulsive brain responds to how I'm feeling in the moment. He told me I'll probably never have that intrinsic motivation and I'll probably need to consistently work on structure. He then talked me through the stages of grief. I recognized where I was. All I have wanted is structure. All I have wanted is to want to do the things that are best for me. To know I will likely always struggle is hard to stomach when so badly that's all I've wanted to accomplish and overcome. I was told a similar prognosis about suicidal ideation, and now I see how the two intertwine. 

I've tried several times before and I will try and try again. I've made signs for my mirrors and doors. I've set alarms and reminders. I've enjoyed brief periods of self-imposed structure and thrived and I've clung to that feeling but struggled to achieve it in any steady form for years. I don't know what else I can try and hearing the recommendations about setting a bed time alarm feel frustrating. But now I have to take this diagnosis and work with it. I'm often frustrated about the amount of work I have to do in *seemingly* comparison to others. I'm frustrated about this diagnosis and feeling worried. 

The good news is that I am in a place in my life where I am able to focus on this and attempt to alleviate some of the symptoms. I am curious, if I can get above this, how it may affect my mental health overall. I wonder if it could be a game changer. This all feeds in to this self-perpetuating fear that I thrive when I have a partner but not when I am alone. And that feeds into the other self-perpetuating fears. I know what I need. I understand it and I understand so many tools to help combat it. But I've always held the notion that once I established a solid and steady routine, I would stick to it and feel good and be good. Now, I feel like I have to accept that might not be a possibility to me. Maybe soon I will see this as freeing, but right now, I'm feeling sad, like I'll always be climbing a ladder, chasing that good feeling, but never finding solid footing.