#tinted-neuro

[thebibliosphere]

How did you get rid of yr migraines?? #ineedthistoo

They're not totally gone, but I found out they were being hugely exacerbated by atypical binocular vision disorder. (Meaning I don't have the usual expected double vision, which was why my regular eye doctor missed it.)

I got tested by a neuro-ophthalmologist who did a 3, almost 4-hour eye exam to find that my eyes were not working in harmony and were likely causing a lot of fatigue and pain.

If you want to read more about how I got diagnosed and what it was like, I documented the whole thing on my blog. Just look for 'binocular vision disorder.'

If you want the tl;dr version: I am now wearing micro prism lenses to correct my eyes, along with a red tint to the glass to help with my severe photophobia.

My eye doctor prescribes migraine patients red-tinted lenses, as the red tint blocks more blue light than either yellow or green-- which are the typical color of lenses designed for screen use.

Even if you don't have any form of BVD, I'm going to highly suggest looking into red-tinted glasses, as even when I was waiting on my new prescription coming in, I was wearing a pair of non-rx red glasses, and my migraine pain severity went down drastically.

I didn't realize how much I was squinting and clenching my facial muscles from pain caused by blue light (natural and tech generated). All the screens in my house are now set to the night-light setting, which makes them orange/red, and I'm getting uv films for my windows so we can still see out but not have as much sun/snow glare in our south-facing home.

I'm also replacing the green acetate cover for my screen with a red one, just for an added layer of protection.

It makes my world very rosy, but it's helping*.

I also take magnesium and b2 as directed by my regular neurologist, which seems to help--though obviously, it couldn't help correct the issue my eyes were creating, so I'm interested to see if I get more benefit from them now.

The rest of my migraines now seem to be hormonal, which I am still pursuing, though sadly, with little help from my current ob/gyn. Need to work on that.

Anyway, that's how I went from 15-20 migraines a month down to 3. My eyes were fucked. They are still fucked, and I'm doing vision therapy along with the prisms to try and help, but so far, it's working!

---

*For anyone wondering, I still do green light therapy, which is also recommended for migraines. I'm just also trying to block as much blue light as possible, as that seems to be a major source of pain for me, not to mention the disruption to my sleep schedule. I've suffered my whole life from delayed sleep phase syndrome as part of my ADHD, but my chronic insomnia and problems sleeping have improved a lot since I started wearing red lenses and filtering all the tech in my house. (Ignore that I'm posting this at 2am, I'm awake by choice.)

#binocular vision disorder #atypical binocular vision disorder #chronic health tag #chronic migraines #long post

[comfy-whumpee]

Birdhouse: Roman’s Rescue

CN: BBU setting. Other pieces in this arc: Mistake, The Forum, Everyone and Tyler.

@neuro-whump​, @rosesareviolentlyread​, @mylifeisonthebookshelf, @pumpkin-spice-whump, @whumpsday, @firewheeesky, @why-not-ask-me-a-better-question

There were four trainees on delivery today. Their chaperone, Handler Novak, was in the front with the driver, and the four pets sat in their individual padded seats, strapped into place for the journey. They’d started the trip with six, but the first two had been dropped off already at a big brownstone building.

They had been Help At Work Domestics, silent but excited to go out and pioneer a new flagship product for the company. 993948 was feeling the same way. There was a lot riding on their ability to be exceptional. He had worked so hard during training that he had almost never been in trouble. He could type faster than anyone else, he could memorise information quickly and perfectly, and he knew a dozen different filing and organisational strategies. He could suit anyone. He could adapt to anything. Any office he was placed in, he could excel.

The prospect was a small technology company, he knew that already. He didn’t know much about what that would be like, but the nice thing about offices was that they had similar needs. That was what they had been taught, anyway.

The bus pulled up. Handler Novak got out, and pulled open the sliding side door. It made almost no sound, sleek and silver in the weak sunlight.

Handler checked the clipboard, reached in, and popped Roman’s straps. Roman got up, twisting his hands together nervously, fingers tugging at the cuffs of his white button-down shirt to make sure they were perfect. He had to be perfect. Help At Home products were always perfect.

The building was tall. That was the first thing he noticed as he stepped out, Handler Novak placing a hand on the small of his back to walk him in. It must have been at least ten floors. No, twenty. He couldn’t tell and it was too fast for him to count. He walked through some glass doors into a reception.

The hand on his back lifted away, prompting him to stop and fold his hands behind him. Handler stepped up to the desk.

“Good morning, sir! How can I help?”

Handler Novak put on his polite, warm voice. The kind he used when talking to people, not pets. “Hi, good morning to you too. I’ve got a delivery for Charlie Mason.”

The receptionist smiled. She didn’t look at Roman, but he smiled back anyway. He might be working with her. “They’re expecting you. Head into the elevator on the left. Eighth floor.”

“Thank you, miss.”

993948 was walked to the elevator. It was walled with mirrors, and he met his own eyes as the tiny room carried them upward on its back.

He was pale, the same kind of sallow tint as everyone had in training. On him, even with the soft light of the cushy elevator, it made him look paper-white, and his hair was barely any better. The only solid point of colour was his one brown eye; the blue one seemed washed out too.

“First impression, pet,” the Handler said softly as the elevator slid to a smooth stop. A pleasant chime announced the opening of the doors. 993948 straightened sharply, inhaling slightly and squaring his shoulders.

The doors glided open to show a plain corridor. The Handler murmured, “Huh.”

Hand on his back, 993948 walked down the plastic flooring, looking around. The pale, sea-green walls were marked here and there by doors, an eventually Handler Novak found the right one. “Here we go.”

He stepped into a small lobby with a sofa and water cooler, and almost immediately, someone approached. He was tall, with a bright shirt and busy beard, and he smiled like 993948 was an old friend. “Good morning, folks.”

“Morning,” Handler greeted him cheerily, offering a hand to shake. “I’ve got your brand new Domestic-colon-Office pet here ready to start. Can I get Charlie Mason’s signature before I head off?”

“That’s me,” said a deeper voice, and 993948 looked over to see a broad man with slicked-back hair, with a serious set to his features even as he smiled too. “Good to meet you. I can take the paperwork off your hands.”

“Of course.” Handler Novak passed over a manila folder, and set the rest of his black tote down at 993948’s feet. “Here are his starting supplies. You can order replacements for him at any time, and we offer free delivery on any add-on or accessory. As long as he has access to food and a bathroom, he’ll be able to take care of all his needs, and will otherwise be ready to work. Eager to, in fact.”

“That’s what I like to hear,” Mr Mason said, signing a piece of paper before handing it back. “There you go. Signed, sealed and delivered.”

“Thank you, sir. Give me a call if you have any trouble at all getting him settled today. Your purchase might be complete, but that doesn’t mean you’re on your own. You can speak to one of us for advice at any time, and any problems, we’ll be there.”

“Alright, thank you. Have a good day.”

“You too.” Handler didn’t look at 993948 before leaving him behind. The beating pulse that echoed through the pet’s skin seemed to go unnoticed.

Looking around him, he noticed more people than just the two who had greeted them. There was a slimmer man at a desk, scratching his five o’clock shadow as he worked with one hand. At the back of the room was a hulking man bent over his desk in total silence, a mug steaming at his elbow. He could even hear someone moving around in a kitchen, which he guessed was just next to the reception.

“Right, have you got a name?”

Mr Mason had asked a question. “Yes, sir. 993948 is my unique identifier code.”

Mr Mason’s eye squinted sceptically. “That’s not a name. We’ll think of something. Come through and meet the others.”

A lanky, fit-looking man came through from the kitchen doorway and stopped short at the sight of him. “Oh, hey. Just like in the picture.”

“This is Tyler,” Mr Mason said by way of explanation. Tyler smiled ambiguously, his eyes running all the way down to Roman’s toes and back again. “He’s our sales and marketing guy. And this is Dillon,” to the bearded man, “he’s customer service and PR. Over there’s Phil, tech lead.” Phil waved. “And at the back is Joel, CFO and ops.”

Joel didn’t turn, but his voice snapped out, “He can call me Mr Harden, thanks. I’m not his friend.”

Mr Mason smiled, somewhat apologetically. “You can call the rest of us by our first names. We’re a small start-up outfit, we’re not fussy about that stuff. Nobody wants to be bogged down in formality when we’re trying to do something bold and new.”

“Hell yeah, Charlie,” Tyler agreed, lightly punching his arm. “He didn’t mention it, but he’s the CEO and product lead. If the lights are on here, Charlie’s working.”

993948 smiled. He liked this. He liked it a lot. Mr Harden was right that they weren’t his friends, but he could be theirs. He would support them and their dream with whatever they needed. Mr Charlie spoke calmly, but there was conviction in his words.

He knew about all stages of a company’s lifetime, and the start-up phase was the most volatile. Only a quarter of start-ups went on to succeed. He would be part of turning this one into a success. It was so exciting.

“Thank you,” he said, not just for the introductions, but for even being here. “What can I do?”

-

“Oh, you poor thing.”

Roman had been in the cupboard. It was where he was meant to be. He always went into the store cupboard when the cleaner was here, and she never opened it, and she probably knew about him because she’d have seen his cushion and blanket on the reception sofa, but they never, ever met.

This wasn’t the usual cleaner. She was young, with big black eyes in a brown face, her hair tied up tight in a ponytail, her maroon apron crisp and new. She had opened the cupboard. She hadn’t known about him. Now her brows were drawn in sympathy, and her voice was gentle and warm.

“Oh, look at you. I’m so sorry, I must’ve startled you. Please don’t hide in there, come out, stretch your legs. What’s your name?”

She had barely been here ten minutes. She didn’t have gloves on and she wasn’t carrying anything with her. Why had she opened the cupboard? Did she think there were supplies in here?

He introduced himself, since she had asked. “I’m Roman, 993948, Help at Home Office Domestic.”

“Hi, Roman,” she said, as if she hadn’t heard the second or third parts. She had a sweet, melodic accent that he’d never heard before. “I’m Anaiah. It’s nice to meetcha. Don’t hide in there on my account, you’re not the first I’ve met.” She stepped back, and he obediently stepped out, back into the office.

She didn’t smell like cleaning materials either. Something was wrong.

“Did they mean to leave you behind? Can I take you to someone?”

He blinked at her. “This is where I belong. I’m an Office Domestic, produced by Help at Home for all business and—”

“Lemme stop you there, Roman,” she interrupted with a little smile. “It’s nearin’ dusk and you’re on your own in here during the holiday. Can I take you someplace nicer? Maybe you have someone you’d wanna see, who’d take care of you?”

His stomach flipped. Tyler had been off sick for the last week before closure. It had been lonely, and it was been worse every day since Mr Charlie had cancelled the plan to take him home for Christmas. No holiday in the warm kitchen, cooking and cleaning and being good company. Not for Roman.

You don't need a holiday, Mr Charlie had told him. That's your whole point.

But now he had a chance. “Tyler,” he said, unable to help himself. “Tyler Schatz. He’s my friend. Can you take me to him?”

Anaiah smiled like he told her exactly what she wanted to hear. “Yeah, I can. C’mon. Let’s go see Tyler.”

Relief swept over him, but was followed immediately by a surge of panic. She wasn’t supposed to agree. He wasn’t supposed to leave. Help at Home pets are happy. Help at Home pets are content.

“Who are you?” he asked, stepping backwards. Was she dangerous? He had never met a dangerous person. They had always kept him sheltered here, safe from people who would hurt him. Mr Dillon said there were always people who would hurt someone weaker than them. Roman was defenceless.

Even as he thought it, he remembered his hand, pockmarked with wounds from the stapler. Some had torn on the way out and left tiny scars. Mr Charlie was stressed, more stressed than ever.

That was what he said, anyway. But sometimes, Roman thought it was something else. Something to do with Tyler staying late last week, and then not coming back the next Monday morning.

“Like I said, I’m Anaiah,” the imposter said, and her tone was still mild, but her words were impatient. “I’m the cleaner while your usual is away for the holiday.”

He shouldn’t ask the question he needed. His chest felt painfully tight. “How did you know where to find me?”

Her smile stayed plastered on. “I was looking for your vacuum cleaner.”

“You’re meant to use the one in the maintenance cupboard.”

“That’s my mistake, then.”

She was lying. Why would she lie? Was she dangerous? Was he in danger? He shouldn’t argue with her in that case, but then she would take him away. He didn’t have any way to stop her. He probably didn’t even have the courage to fight. The mere thought of defending himself like that chilled hm to the bone until his body felt unusable.

Was she really a cleaner? How else would she have gotten in? And the usual cleaner hasn’t come. So she is one… But she hasn’t done any cleaning. She doesn’t even seem worried about leaving her job before even starting, just to help a stranger. To help a pet.

Trust crooks only to rip you off, Mr Charlie would say.

“Hey, now,” Anaiah said, raising her hands. “Breathe, okay? I’m not taking you anywhere you don’t want to go. How about this? I’ll do my cleaning. I’ll get things nice here. You think on whether you’re ready to go.”

She smiled. The smile seemed real. But then, how would he know?

He sat back down in his cupboard and closed the door. After a minute, he heard the sound of her pulling in a cleaning cart.

In the relative privacy of the cupboard, wedged between their marketing banner and a stack of printer paper, he pulled his knees to his chest and tried to think.

She shouldn’t have known where he was, and she shouldn’t have known he had someone, and she shouldn’t have agreed to take him because that meant she was either lying or she knew more than she was letting on.

She knew he was there.

That wasn’t really special. Maybe the old cleaner had told her. Maybe she had been by during the day, when he was working. Maybe she’d heard, because of how many visitors and customers he had served drinks to. Did people talk about that kind of thing? Maybe because he was a new designation.

But she had offered to take him away.

So she had heard about him, and then decided she would rescue him. But that didn’t explain her being here as a cleaner. If she really was, surely she wouldn’t risk her job for him? She had seemed impatient during the conversation, like she wanted it done. She wasn’t really meant to be here, was she?

She had come specifically for him.

That meant… What did that mean?

Tyler had sent her.

Tyler had sent her to rescue him.

Tyler, his only friend. Who had talked to him and listened. Who had smiled and hugged him and stared in horror at the injuries he’d been given. Who had told him it was wrong and too much, and wanted to protect him.

Tyler of the bunny outfit and the drunk kisses and the temper he tried so hard to hold back but didn’t always succeed.

He opened the door. Anaiah was mopping the kitchen floor when he went to find her. She looked over at him, but didn’t ask. Just waited.

“I don’t want to go to Tyler,” he told her. His voice was weak. He didn’t sound sure; he wasn’t sure. “I want to go somewhere – different. Is that okay?”

This time, there was no impatience. “Of course. Pick up anything you want to take with you, and I’ll finish up, and see if I can find your papers. Then we’ll hit the road. Okay?”

He swallowed the lump in his throat. “Okay.”

Looking around, the empty desks and chairs felt suddenly mournful. In the electric light, a wall of white against the blackness of the windows, everything seemed to have no shadow. Joel’s desk with his wife’s photo. Charlie’s locked office door. Dillon’s big black headphones hanging on their stand. Phil’s football poster. Tyler’s coffee mug, that he hadn’t picked up and removed in the vain hope it would be wanted tomorrow.

When Roman tucked himself into Anaiah’s cleaning cart and left his home through the mirrorless, juddering service elevator, he left behind a spotless office, his blanket and pillow neatly folded on the reception sofa, and on Charlie’s desk, a broken stapler left among a scattering of silver staples.

#whump #bbu #my fic #emotional whump #the birdhouse #roman #charlie #tyler #joel #rescue #escape #dehumanisation

[joydemorra]

Frequently Asked Questions

Welcome to the FAQ. Here are some of the most often asked questions in my inbox.

- Who are you, and what am I doing here? Hello, I’m Joy, and this is my little corner of the internet. You may know me from such viral posts as Crucifix Nail Nipples, Robin Williams punching death eaters, or from my advocacy work where I focus on issues of disability, chronic illness, and neurodivergency. You may also know me from my international best-selling novel about vampires and werewolves kissing.

In which case, the vampire nipple thing probably comes as a bit of a shock. I also co-host @theayesphere, an interactive podcast with my bestie @ayeforscotland, on his Twitch channel.

If you genuinely do not know how you got here, welcome anyway. I hope you find a reason to stay.

- I sent you a message, and you never responded! I’m sorry about that. I get a lot of mail daily, and it’s impossible to keep up with. It’s not a reflection of you or my regard for you. I appreciate every kind word and message of support sent my way, even if I can’t always reply to it.

I am but a humble peddler of smut who never expected to have a viral blog. I’m also multiply disabled, so the struggle to keep up is real.

- So, what’s wrong with you? How long have you got?

The quick answer is I have a connective tissue disorder known as Hypermobile Ehlers Danlos Syndrome (hEDS), comorbid with Mast Cell Activation Syndrome (MCAS) and Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome (POTS). All three were diagnosed in 2020 after a lifelong struggles with chronic pain, chronic fatigue, fainting episodes and what I thought was asthma and chronic vomitting but actually turned out to be slow-acting idiopathic anaphylaxis. I am now on a treatment plan and am considered stable.

In late 2022 after losing the entire year to debilitating migraines, I was also diagnosed with atypical Binocular Vision Disorder by a neuro-ophthalmologist. This was a major root cause of my chronic migraines which had been missed by both a regular ophthalmologists and several neurologists. My case was considered ‘atypical’ because I did not present with the classic double vision symptoms checked for by most ophthalmologists. But upon extensive testing by the neuro-ophthalmologist, the misalignment in my eyes was diagnosed correctly and I was prescribed micro-prism glasses. I was also prescribed red-tinted lenses to help with extreme photophobia, as red blocks more blue light than other colors.

After three months of screen rest and allowing my eyes to adjust to the lenses – as well as extensive vision therapy–my monthly migraine count went from 20+ migraines a month down to 3. My remaining migraines appear to be hormonal in nature, but I have found that taking 400mg of b2 (riboflavin) a day, as prescribed by my neurologist, has greatly reduced the pain.

Despite the recent progress in my treatment, I am still a very sick, very fatigued individual and struggle to keep up with life sometimes.

I also have chronic ‘double depression’, cPTSD and ADHD, leaning more toward the hyper end of the spectrum. So I’m doubly cursed with a slow, slow body and a fast, fast mind that sometimes wants to yeet itself off a cliff. It’s an Experience. All of my posts pertaining to mental health are tagged as #mental health. Most of my ADHD stuff can be found under #adult adhd.

You can read more about my health issues by following my #chronic health tag or blacklist if you prefer! I also have one for my teeth #chronic health tag: teeth, though that one is less active since the nerve damage in my jaw was resolved.

- Why do you use affiliate links? Good question! There are a lot of hidden costs that go into indie publishing, and a large part of that is what we lose to places like Amazon in fees. Using affiliate links to promote our work allows authors to recoup some of that loss from our royalties, though not quite all of it. The links don’t cost you anything, nor do they tell me anything about your private data or shopping habits. They’re just a way for me to claw money back directly from Amazon. I try to limit how often I link to Amazon as the only thing I’m interested in peddling are my weres. And maybe a couple of vampires while I’m at it.

- Who is ETD/Mothman?

ETD/Mothman was the name my blog gave to my husband several years ago when my blog started getting popular. He has since joined Tumblr, and you can follow his shenanigans @mothman-etd

- Wait, you wrote a book?! I did! Hunger Pangs: True Love Bites is a 2x international best-selling paranormal, pun-filled polyamorous queer romance series with elements of Gaslamp fantasy and political satire. It features vampires, werewolves, and several other manner of creatures that go bump in the night. It has been described by those who have read it as “like reading the queer-goth-punk love child of Terry Pratchett meets Jane Austen. You can read more about it here or check out my website. The primary tag used by the fandom here on Tumblr is #Phangs.

- Vampires or werewolves? Why not both? \_(ツ)_/

- Hi, I want to support your work! Which purchase method best supports you? Any way you choose to purchase my books helps me! Purchasing through my Payhip or Gumroad nets me the most money, but purchasing through sites like Amazon contributes to my sales ranking, which increases my chances of trending in the algorithm and gaining a wider audience. Reviews are also a fantastic way to support an author, as is word of mouth.

Please note, I will be phasing out the Gumroad links following their stance on NFTS and the ensuing behavior of their CEO on Twitter. This should not affect your files. If, for some reason, you lose your digital copy and Gumroad won’t let you download it again via your email link, please reach out to me at info @ joydemorra.com

- Can I write fanfic/create fanart of your work? Please do! I want nothing more for you to enjoy my work to the point of creation. Just be careful not to tag me in any fanfic, and please don’t send me any headcanons. If someone accidentally guesses my plot and shows it to me, it can risk any of my future book plans. Keep fandom discussions within fandom. The author is (un)dead, and their opinion doesn’t matter. If you make fanart, you can tag me in that, but please don’t link to your Patreon or Ko-Fi in the post where I can see it. If I see you are making a profit from my work, I am legally obligated to file a takedown. If I do not see any such links, which may or may not exist in any reblogs I am not immediately tagged in, we do not have a problem. 🙈🙈🙈

- Can I cosplay your characters and tag you? Absolutely! Just make sure you follow the above advice about Ko-Fi and Patreon links.

- Will you sign my copy of [____] If this is post-pandemic times and we are at a meet and greet, yes! I’ll also have bookplates for sale soon that you can insert into your copies or do with them as you please.

- Are you going to turn any of your books into audiobooks? Yes! My audiobooks are narrated by Catherine Bilson (aka @caitlynlynch) and you can find them listed under my buy link options.

- Why do you write two versions of the same story? Glad you asked! I write two versions of all my stories so that people who enjoy sex scenes can enjoy them, and those who prefer not to read depictions of sexual acts don’t need to skip pages to avoid the more explicit scenes. You can read more about my decision to do this here.

- Help! I bought the wrong version! Most of my retailers will allow you to return the book for a full refund, freeing you to purchase the correct copy. If you bought a copy through my Gumroad or Payhip, drop me a line at info @ joydemorra.com, and we’ll get it resolved :)

- You’re an editor, right? Will you look at my manuscript? Regrettably, I am not taking on any new clients at the moment, but if you would like to check out my editors, you can fine them at @roselarkpublishing

- When will you be editing again? When I have the mental and physical capacity greater than the depth of a teaspoon.

- When is your next book coming out? When I have the mental and physical capacity greater than the depths of a teaspoon. (Sorry, I know I’m taking too long.)

- Will you reblog my donation post? I’m afraid that due to the high volume of requests that I get (anywhere from 5-20 a day), I am currently only reblogging donation posts from mutuals. I’m sorry. There are just too many for me to keep up with without flooding my dash. But please do look into @copperbadge’s Radio Free Monday, which I always try to reblog. The submission form is here, and Sam wrote a guide on how to write fundraising posts here.

- What’s your favorite book? Feet of Clay by Terry Pratchett. Closely followed by Going Postal by Terry Pratchett and Howl’s Moving Castle by Diana Wynne Jones.

- What’s your favorite movie? Singin’ in the Rain!

- Favorite music? I’ve been listening to The Amazing Devil on loop for over eighteen months, so it’s safe to say I like them.

- Why do you use Amazon? Aren’t they evil incarnate?!?

They are, but they’re also the biggest-selling platform for eBooks for indie and trad authors and not using them is career suicide. If you don’t like Amazon, I have plenty of other platforms for you to use, including directly from my Payhip, which allows you to use Kindle without giving Jeff Bezos a penny.

- Can I send you something I made/thought you might like? Sure! My PO Box is:

JOY DEMORRA # 250 2038 FORD PARKWAY SAINT PAUL MN 55116

- I saw you from the essential oil discourse and was just wondering… Please have pity on my chronic fatigue and refer to the master list post compiled very kindly by @paradoxanomalyenigma. You may find that I have already answered your question. If not, come ask me!

- Why did you move from Scotland to the US? I met and fell and love with Mothman. Originally we were going to live in the UK, but they changed the immigration laws six weeks before our wedding, and it ended up being more accessible for me to move here than for him to move there. Ideally, we would both like to have dual citizenship one day.

- Does Mothman really believe in me? Always.

- Are you Wiccan? No, I’m a pagan who identifies as a secular witch and have been for the last 20+ years. I don’t hold to any particular creed or belief. The gods might well exist. I’ve just got little time for them.

- Can you post to your bad luck chain-mail spell breaker? It makes me feel better. Here you go! Here’s my other curse breaker post if you want it, too.

#FAQ #info post

[arlo-venn]

Oh! The eye update is this 👁️:

The ophthalmologist believes that the bulk of the issues are neurological and related to my migraines. She believes I have been downplaying migraines as headaches when they aren’t exactly the same as the migraines I typically get, which makes sense. She says the rest of the issues, the film over my eyes, the irritation, stuff like that is probably due to chronic dry eyes as well as allergies/MCAS. My eyes never feel dry but I guess they don’t have to. She says they’re likely drying out throughout the day which is why they’re worse at night. I’m supposed to start using eye drops throughout the day, but I’m afraid of them, especially since the recent recalls, so I’m not sure if I will.

She has no explanation for the development of the uneven green rings or my pupils going off center, but is very confident that my eyes are both very healthy, so I guess we’re chocking that up to EDS and the eyes having lots of collagen in them? Idk. This is just what my eyes look like now.

So I have to go back in March to be checked by the neuro-ophthalmologist I saw in 2019, and find a better neurologist to discuss changes to migraine patterns with. Oh, and I’m two years behind on updating my prescription (bc I can’t afford glasses lol), which could be contributing to migraine influx, so I’ve gotta get that scheduled next week too. She recommended glasses tinted with pink or yellow.

The eye doctor was a huge bitch but everyone else there was incredibly nice. The neuro-ophthalmologist is also a jerk but she’s like, the only one. I owe them $339 and will probably have to pay that to be seen in March, but I’ll cross that bridge when I get there. I could be approved for disability by then. I didn’t have to pay it to be seen yesterday because it was considered an emergency.

#oh and the abnormality in the vitreous that the ER doctor saw is likely just a deformity #which the neuro-ophthalmologist did tell me in 2019 #so that tracks

[slut-and-falcon]

Fiyero gets migraines like a lot. And previously to and at Shiz, he had a major reputation as a partied and then crashing hard. And yes while he did party and drink from time to time, his infamous ‘hangovers’ were actually bad migraines in which he couldn’t get out of bed.

And he wears the sunglasses because light sensitivity related to the migraines along with hiding his blood shoot eyes- because he used 🍃recreationally and for pain management.

Post the events of No Good Deed, and after Elphaba turns him back to human and they leave Oz/hide in the Vinkus, they get worse due to both the physical and mental trauma. And Elphaba is one of those ppl whose never even had a headache before (in this very specific headcannon, the canon implies head trauma, like a lot of it), so she tries to be understanding but truly cannot grasp what he’s feeling. And her confidence issues are such that she refuses to try to do anything neurological with magic- and this drives a large wedge between them. Why wouldn’t Elphaba help him feel better? Can’t Fiyero understand how dangerous and maybe not even possible what he is asking if for is?

They express their frustration separately to a magical neighbor, and she sided with Elphaba that neuro magic is far too dangerous to use due to the lack of knowledge on it, but she does provide alot of coping tools and skills to help alleviate pain - she instructs Elphaba on how to add magnesium to their diet, how to make ginger ‘candies’ and how ginger, citrus, and peppermint fight inflammation. She also teaches her about magically made ice and heat backs, charmed red tinted sunglasses that change their tint as needed.

Elphaba then consults various biological and medical books and studied muscle tension, the nervous system, and acupressure. She also studied nutrition triggers, learns how to track the weather for migraine triggers, and makes a note to keep Fiyero extra hydrated.

And Elphaba being the ever practical person she is writes this all down, and gives it to Fiyero as a gift, explaining that she’s upset that he’s in pain and she can’t do much to completely get rid of it. But, she said, here is a book worth of information that *IS* going to help you feel better.

I just the love the idea of them trying to help each other even if not in ‘traditional’ ways, or how the other would expect. I’m my eyes, there’s nothing more that says ‘I love and care about you’ than a partner taking the integrity to do the mental load of the health for the other when they are in need of it, and doing so without being asked.

#am i self projecting? #yes lol #I cant back this up with textual evidence because it’s a true headcannon that I made up #I just want to relate to characters lol #chronically ill #disabled #fanfic #headcannons #headcannon #wicked #elphaba #fiyero #Fae #yero #wicked movie #wicked book #migraine #canon disabled character #they’re a queer relationship that passes as straight #Elphaba is intersex and non-binary but doesn’t have the language #Fiyero is pan

[aas502]

Initial typeface comparisons & initial testing of colour/type relationships

Typeface: What I’m looking for in a typeface for this project has somewhat specific. I am looking for something that is sans-serif, has a playful personality, and perhaps most importantly has to be accessible as my target audience are near-divergent and therefore may have trouble digesting written text. This means that my typeface can not be too decorative, must be relatively uniform, and must not have imposter characters. 

The initial batch of typefaces that I tested were promising, but my favourites were either not playful enough (Modern Era Sans) or too decorative (Athletics) so unfortunately none of them made the cut. 

Colour/Type Relationship: At this point in the process it became clear that my colour selections were too vibrant and lacked contrast. Contrast is very important in inclusive design, and colours that are too similar can be problematic for the neuro-divergent community for a variety of reasons including dyslexia, and enhancing ADHD symptoms. Towards the end of this stage is when I began experimenting further with colour tints which is where the potential of these colours began to show through.

[americanfamilyvisionclinic]

Dr. Levi Zurcher, FCOVD, a neuro optometrist in Olympia Washington, discusses common vision problems caused by traumatic brain injuries. Among the most common vision problems associated with traumatic brain injuries are sensitivity to light, decreased peripheral vision, poor binocular vision, double vision and visual midline shifts. These vision problems are treated using a combination of prism glasses, tinted glasses, syntonic light therapy, and vision therapy. #Commonvisionproblems #TraumaticBrainInjury #Visiontreatment - Find out more about Common Vision Problems From Traumatic Brain Injury? Click the link below now! https://amplifyeyecareolympia.com/neuro/common-vision-problems-from-traumatic-brain-injury/ or Visit our website 🌐:https://amplifyeyecareolympia.com/ Visit us at 📍:  400 Yauger Way SW. Bldg 1, Ste A Olympia, WA 98502 Contact Us 📞: Phone [phone]                            Fax [phone] Submit a form: https://amplifyeyecareolympia.com/contact/

[tinted-neuro]

27/1/22

Last day at work before I take a few days off! Somehow had a burst of productivity so not only did I get my ethics form sorted, I edited my review draft and finally sent it off to all my supervisors. I’m dreading the comments but whatever, I couldn’t look at that draft anymore.

I have my degree graduation in two days (EEK!) and my worry is that I will trip on my new pair of heels while on stage 😖

Happy Chinese New Year to those celebrating!

#studyspo #tinted-neuro #studyblr #gradblr #phdblr #phd life #neuroscience

[thebookreader12345]

Non-Stop Bickering

Pairing: Crockett Marcel x reader

Summary: Being a neurosurgeon, Y/N never thought she'd be spending most of her days in the ED, especially with Dr. Marcel, who she claims she can't stand being around

Requested: Yes, by anonymous

Warnings: slight swearing, mentions of death

Word Count: 1,468 Words

"Y/N," Dr. Abrams shouted to get my attention. "I just got a page about a neuro consult in the ED."

"Okay. And...?" I trailed off, unsure of what to say.

"So go down there and deal with it," Sam spoke.

"But the page went to you," I counter.

"And as the Head of Neurosurgery, I'm making you do it," Sam retorted.

"I hate you sometimes, Sam," I tell my boss.

Dr. Abrams cracked a small smile. "No you don't. Have fun!" It didn't take me long to make my way down to the ED, and when I arrived, I found Maggie, who was standing at the nurses' station.

"Hey, Maggie," I greet the charge nurse. "I was told someone needed a neuro consult."

"Yes. Dr. Marcel," Maggie called out and waved the doctor over. "Your neuro consult is here."

"I asked for Dr. Abrams," Crockett claimed.

"Yeah, well, he sent me instead," I say. "Lets just get this over with. I don't want to see your face any longer than I have to."

"For your information, many people find me handsome," Crockett shared.

"Uh-huh," I hum as we made our way to the patient's room. "I'm sure they do."

"It's the truth," Crockett insisted.

"Right. What did you need me for?" I ask.

"My patient, Jaimie, she's 17 years old and was just in a huge car crash with her parents. I took her to surgery a few hours ago and she was fine after that, but all of a sudden she crashed and has been on the vent since," Crockett informed me.

"Got it," I mutter as the two of us entered the room. I pulled my pen from my jacket pocket and ran it up the bottom of Jaimie's feet. When that didn't stimulate a reaction, I swapped the pen out for a flashlight and shined the light in the teenagers eyes while also glancing towards the heart monitor standing off to the side.

"Well?" Crockett posed.

"Sorry," I apologize and shove the flashlight back into my pocket. "She's never gonna wake up."

"What? But she was fine earlier," Crockett put in.

"Yeah, but she's shown no reaction to pain or light. I'd talk to the parents as soon as possible to see if they'd like her organs to be donated," I advise.

"I told them that she'd be okay," Crockett murmured. "I promised them that they'd get their little girl back."

"You did what?" I hiss. "Crockett, you of all people should know that you can never promise that someone will make it out okay. Not when you work in the ED."

"She was fine when she came in," Crockett argued. "I just assumed...no. Jaimie can't be gone."

I scoffed. "So you don't believe me? You're the one who called me down here!"

"No, I called Dr. Abrams down here," Crockett corrected me.

"Whatever! Dr. Abrams would've come to the same conclusion I just did," I declare.

"Yeah, well, I'm gonna page him down here," Crockett stated.

"Go ahead. But you're wasting your time," I warn him. "She's gone." And with that, I left Jaimie's room to go back up to the neuro wing. I stepped inside the elevator and pushed the button of the floor I wanted to go to before leaning against the back wall and crossing my arms over my chest. Just as the doors started closing, a voice from inside the ED became clear.

"Hold the doors!"

I leapt forwards and slotted my arm between the tiny open space, causing the elevator doors to spring back open. And there, standing before me, was Will Halstead. His cheeks were tinted a light shade of pink, and he seemed to be almost out of breath.

"Thank you," Will breathed out as he entered the elevator. He then pressed another button on the front wall of the elevator which lit up as the doors slid shut, leaving the two of us alone in the small box. As the elevator ascended, it was dead silent accept for the slight dinging that emitted from the speaker signaling that we had passed another floor. "So, I uh, I heard the argument you and Marcel had down in the ED."

"I'd rather not talk about it," I assert as politely as possible. "He asked for my professional opinion, I gave it, and then he questioned my ability to diagnose a patient. That's what happened. End of story."

"I don't think he meant it like that. I think he was just upset about his patient, and he let his emotions get out of control," Will offered. "And you know how he gets when his patients are kids."

For a split second, I felt bad for yelling at Crockett. I remembered that he once had a child who died, a little girl named Harper. And while she had never reached the age that Jaimie had, his fatherly instincts had kicked in. But that all went away at a moments notice when I also remembered that he had insulted my work.

"Yeah? Well you don't see me walking around talking shit about his work," I exclaim as the elevator came to a stop and the doors opened. "Just drop the issue, Will. I can't stand to be around Crockett, and I don't think I'll ever be able to."

"But Y/n," Will started, only for me to cut him off.

"It's okay. Things will sort themselves out soon enough," I assure him as I stepped out of the elevator. "See ya later, Halstead." I found Sam standing at the nurses' station in the neuro wing typing away on a tablet, and when he heard me approaching, he looked up.

"How was the consult?" Sam quizzed.

"Next time you get a page from the ED that Dr. Marcel needs a consult or whatever the hell else, you're taking it," I grumble and walk right past him.

...........................................

I thought that after telling Sam I didn't want to do neuro consults in the ED for Dr. Marcel anymore, he'd listen and not assign me to do them. So when I got called down to the ED my next shift, I wasn't expecting to be directed Crockett.

"Not again," I mumble quietly as I approached Crockett, who was standing at the nurses' station putting away a tablet. He looked up as I approached, and a small smile graced his lips.

"You just couldn't stay away, could ya?" Crockett questioned.

"Just let me do my consult and I'll be on my way," I mutter. The consult only took a few minutes, and I was glad that I'd be able to leave ED, but just as I started walking away from the nurses' station, Crockett grabbed ahold of my arm.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Crockett seethed. "You didn't talk or even look at me the entire consult."

"Yeah, well, sorry if I don't want to be near the man who insulted my medical abilities," I retort.

"What? Come on. You're still mad about that?" Crockett asked.

"Of course I'm still mad about that! You can't just offend someone's career and expect everything to be okay after that! I mean, that really hu-"

I was cut off as Crockett surged forward, wrapped his arms around my waist, and pulled me towards him before placing his lips over mine. For a second, I was frozen where I stood. I didn't know what to do. But then my body reacted by kissing Crockett back. Crockett and I had always had a strange relationship. One minute we were fighting, the next we were flirting. And now here we were making out in front of the whole ED staff. After a few seconds, Crockett pulled away from me.

"I didn't think you'd kiss back," Crockett spoke.

"I didn't think you'd ever work up the courage to kiss me," I counter. "After all of our non-stop bickering, I thought you'd pick up that I liked you sooner."

"Believe me, I did," Crockett admitted. "I was just hesitant about approaching you because I didn't want our work to get in the way of what we could have."

"Well, I think I'll actually enjoy coming down to the ED now," I say.

Crockett smiled. "I'll look forward to seeing you. It'll probably be more often than we think since Dr. Abrams never comes down when I page."

I laughed softly. "Yeah, he doesn't like people interrupting his work, so he'll only come down if he's got absolutely nothing to do."

"Right, well, I'm off the clock in an hour, and I'm assuming you are too. What would you say if I asked you to grab a beer with me after work?" Crockett implored.

"I'd say I would love too," I reply.

"Great. Then I will see you after shift," Crockett claimed.

___________________________

Tag List:

@prettypyschoinpink @securityfriendly-jay @scarletsoldierrr @lorenakaspersen @virtualreader @carnationworld @caitsymichelle13 @king-crockett

#one chicago #one chicago x reader #one chicago imagine #one chicago imagines #chicago med #chicago med x reader #chicago med imagines #chicago med imagine #crockett marcel #crockett marcel x reader #crockett marcel imagine #crockett marcel imagines #x reader #imagine #imagines

[maracujatangerine]

43. Colour vision

CW: institutionalised slavery, dehumanisation, box boy universe

They didn’t even try to make it into a perfect pet anymore. The training had stopped. Now, it was just waiting, existing in the limbo of its white, cold cell, or spending days on end tied down to a bed, nothing to do but wait for their clinical, uncaring touches. Nobody was actively hurting it now, but this was almost worse. With no training it was not beaten for failure or on a handler’s whim, but there was also no chance to do things right. No chance to earn a pat on the head or a slightly warmer place to sleep. Nothing to occupy whatever was left of its mind.

While the pet watched, the white wall in front of it started to waver like air above an open flame. Suddenly, splashes of colour filled the white tiles like silent fireworks.

There was green in shades of sun-through-leaves, old-church-rooftops and dragonfly-caught-in-evening-sunlight. There were shades of blue of an brisk-autumn-morning-sky, deepening-sea-over-sand, sparkle-in-a-friend’s-eye. Yellow like dress-that-a-girlfriend-once-wore, first-dandelions-in-spring. Red like old-house-by-the-road and roses-placed-by-headstone. Without warning, the wall exploded, in slow-motion, soundlessy. The white tiles shattering against each other on the ground.

The pet found itself in a white space, shapeless, silent, all alone.

It walked, and walked, only hearing the sound of its own voice, only feeling the tears rolling down its cheeks. It realized, it would never leave.

*

Coriander woke up to darkness. The dream leaving a lingering feeling of unease. Not fear, exactly, not like the dreams of punishment and pain. These times just felt… hopeless. Like there was no use to anything.

At least it hadn’t been screaming. It didn’t want to disturb its mistress.

It was impossible to fall asleep again. After tossing and turning for what felt like an eternity, Cory quietly made its way downstairs for a glass of water. This was not an uncommon occurrence, and the pet moved sure-footedly through the darkened house. Though, this time a blue-tinted light came from the living room, with the clacking of a keyboard.

“Hello love, can’t you sleep?” Its mistress was sitting cross-legged in the sofa, her laptop in her lap.

“Why- why are you awake, Miss? It is nearly two o’clock.”

“I’m just working a bit. You know it is a really busy time right now.”

“Can-can this pet help?”

“Thank you, but no. I have to do it myself. I am preparing a presentation for the day after tomorrow.”

She looked up at Cory with compassion.

“Bad dreams again?”

The pet considered denying it, to avoid revealing yet another of its imperfections, but lying to its owner was disobedient.

“Yes, Miss Lydia.”

“Don’t you want to come hang out with me on the sofa?” She saw the pet’s hesitant expression and added. “I wouldn’t mind some company myself, you know.”

The pet hesitated, but gave in. It was just the two of them there. Coriander crawled up and laid down next to her on the sofa. Accompanied by the staccato sound of Lydia’s typing, Cory could slowly feel itself drifting closer to sleep.

Tag list: @cupcakes-and-pain @whump-em @whumpzone @wh-wh-whu @neuro-whump @carnagecardinal @cowboy-anon @whump-me-all-night-long @redwingedwhump @myst-in-the-mirror @haro-whumps @eatyourdamnpears @bloodsweatandpotato @pinkraindropsfell @whumptywhumpdump @theydy-cringeworthy @whump-in-progress @whumpsy-daisy @nicolepascaline @whumpcreations @briars7 @shiningstarofwinter @whumppsychology @alex-ember @miss-kitty-whumptastic @whumpy-writings @in-patient-princess @youtube-fandoms-bands @goblinchildindabog @mazeish @distinctlywhumpthing @inpainandsuffering @canniboylism @icannotweave @incoherent-introspection @kim-poce @broken-typewriter @the-monarch-whumperfly @whumpers-inc @grizzlie70 @lil-whumper

@mazeish A bit of a nightmare, for you. 🥰

#pet whump #pet whumpee #box boy #box boy multiverse #box boy whump #box boy universe #bbu #rescue whump #recovery whump #caretaker #lydia and coriander #pet-whump #original writing #nightmare whump

[maddiewritesstucky]

Rating: Explicit (18+)

Pairing: Stripper Bucky / Architect Steve

Words: 3790

Tags: Sexy shower antics, post-exercise endorphin highs, Steve is a badass for like 10 minutes, Bucky is not a morning person (until he suddenly is), enthusiastic morning sex

A follow-up one-shot to the slow death of Steve Rogers. Many thanks to my radiant cassowary @kalee60​ for giving it your clever eyes. Infinite birdseed for you 😘

(Also on Ao3)

When Bucky wakes up, he is aware of two things, and two things only.

One - it’s way too fucking early for his eyelids to have peeled themselves back the way they have, if the rosy tint of the sky outside is anything to go by, and two - his foot should have connected with some part of Steve’s anatomy by now on it’s customary post-waking stretch across the mattress.

His body is coming online one limb at a time, and he grunts his displeasure into the rumpled sheets; gaze firmly averted from the clock on the bedside table. Putting a number to it will only make him angry, and the stupid beautiful soft dawn light filling the bedroom tells him everything he needs to know anyway. 

Why they had decided to move into Steve’s apartment when Bucky’s actually had things like properly functioning curtains, he has no idea. 

"Steve,”  he groans, voice thick with the remnants of sleep and the injustice of waking before he intended to. 

He kicks his foot out a little further; throws an arm out to join the search party too, but finds Steve’s side of the bed decidedly more vacant than it had been when he fell asleep last night. 

Running, some vaguely helpful part of Bucky’s subconscious supplies, you fell for a man who goes running at bastard o’clock in the morning. 

He flops over onto his back and scrubs his hands up over his face; up through the tangled mess of hair that seems to find new ways of defying its scrunchie-prison every night. His vision sharpens into focus and sticks a moment on the giant canvas print photo of himself and Steve smiling back at him from the far wall; a grinning relic of a Bucky who was not woken before his time.

It still makes his stomach flip a little, that picture - the two of them stuffed into the heavy-knit sweaters Bucky’s ma had made them last Christmas; both in the  throes of losing their shit over the comically absurd miscalculation she’d made on size. Steve’s got tears in his eyes, and Bucky’s aren’t even open, and they’re clinging to each other with that special kind of desperation that intense, prolonged laughter seems to spawn.

It’s everything good about their life together, that photo; the sheer warmth and joy they’ve found in one another over the past year, the sense of  home and family and right. 

It’s even more heartwarming, Bucky finds, when the sun is a reasonable distance above the horizon.

He drags his protesting body out of its sleep-warmed cocoon, his intentions set on the brand new bag of espresso grind that Last-Night Bucky had so wisely left sitting on the kitchen counter. 

He’s going to use Steve’s favorite mug, the one he’d happened across in a yard sale that reads ‘architects do it on drafting tables’  with a lewd stick figure drawing. Partially because it holds the most coffee, and partially because if Steve had remained in bed this morning, with all his familiar warmth and dependable big-spoon behavior, Bucky would have remained blissfully unconscious until his alarm went off. 

...Steve’s not here to actually  see  this particular middle-finger of a gesture, but that’s beside the point. Bucky will  know.

It’s not until he’s shuffling his way down the hall, already two steps past the closed bathroom door, that Bucky registers the faint sounds of water hitting tile, and the sporadic, off-key hum of a post-run Steve. 

His feet halt in their tracks before he’s even made the conscious decision that coffee can wait.

He wants to keep walking, to get his precious cup of bean nectar and crawl back into bed for another hour or three, it’s just...

Post-run Steve is kind of Bucky’s jam. 

He’s sweaty, and loose-limbed, and hopped up on exercise endorphins which, more often than not, make him inexplicably horny and give him the closest approximation of a bad boy complex that someone with Steve’s demeanor could possibly get. 

Post-run Steve is the only good thing about being awake at this god forsaken hour. 

The sunrise, and the stillness, and the smell of fresh dew can get fucked, but Bucky will carpe the hell out of a diem for some Post-run Steve.

He slips quietly into the bathroom, and is immediately grateful for the time he spent descaling the shower door yesterday when he’s met with an unimpeded view of Steve’s glorious back. What goddamn right an architect has looking like that, Bucky has no idea, but you wanna talk about some aesthetically pleasing angles?

Steve’s got one hand braced against the wall, head dipped to draw out the line of his back. His skin’s a little flushed; water channeling in fast-flowing rivulets between the soft ridges and swells of his drawn-taut muscles, and he’s breathing those quiet grunts of the recently-exerted. 

He’s a living, breathing thirst-trap, and the knowledge that he’d only blush and change the subject if Bucky told him so just makes it a thousand times better. 

Bucky pushes his soft flannel sleep pants off his hips and lets them fall to the floor, sending up another silent salute to Last-Night Bucky for going commando, and steps forward to pull open the shower door.

...Later on, when Bucky is reflecting on it all, he’ll blame the early hour and his pre-caffeinated state for the fact that he didn’t realise. The soft noises falling from Steve’s lips, the very particular bunch and flex of very particular muscles…

Any other time of day, Bucky would have known straight away. 

Any other time of day, and Bucky wouldn’t have even needed to be in the same room - he could be at the bodega down the street, and his nipples would inexplicably harden at the pluck of Steve’s distant arousal on the cosmic spiderweb. 

But as it happens in the moment, it’s not until Steve’s head is falling back on a low moan that Bucky realizes exactly what it is he’s walked in on. 

“Oh, shit...”

It’s off his tongue before he can reel it back in, and Steve almost jumps out of his skin. 

His head whips around, and for the briefest flicker of a moment, he looks shocked and uncertain and embarrassed as all hell. 

But this right here is no weekday-afternoon Steve. This is not the blushing, bumbling hunk of love meee that occupies the corporeal form of Steve Rogers 95% of the time. 

No, this is Post-run Steve, and it’s all of about two seconds before he’s schooling his features into something more akin to vaguely-smirking indifference; turning until he’s facing Bucky front on, and settling his weight back against the shower wall.

“Babe, I’m sorry, I didn’t--” Bucky begins, as close to apologetic as one can really be about seeing their significant other in a compromising yet Very Sexy position. But the words dry up on his lips as Steve lifts a finger to his own in the universal gesture of ‘shush.’   

He watches, rapt, as Steve first reaches over to the tap and shuts off the water, and then takes up the bottle of Bucky’s conditioner, squirting some into his hand before wrapping it back around his cock. 

And then that jacked-up idiot, that neuro-chemical flooded pseudo bad bitch, looks Bucky dead in the eye...and goes right back to jerking off. 

He’s putting on a goddamn show with it too - pulling at his cock, long and slow and tight; dropping his head back against the wall and letting his moans ricochet shamelessly off the tile. The sound of his fist working over his dick is lewd as hell, so much more audible for the fact that there’s no rush of running water to mask it anymore, and Bucky wonders briefly if he ever actually woke up at all, if this isn’t just all a very believable wet dream. 

It certainly contains all the usual elements - intense eye contact; a big fat dick getting rubbed off by a beefy, naked, wet dude (bonus that it’s Bucky’s actual, real-life boyfriend); the kinds of sounds you usually only hear in porn…

For all Bucky knows, he could still be tucked up in bed asleep, and not standing here naked and painfully erect in this steamed up bathroom, watching his boyfriend jack it like he’s starring in some locker-room porno.

“You need somethin’, or you just come in here to watch?” Steve drawls, arching a brow at him, and yeah  - there’s a  lot of things Bucky needs all of a sudden.

He rakes an assessing gaze over Steve’s body, stepping into the shower and pressing his palms to the swell of Steve’s pecs.

“I just wanted to make sure your run went okay,” he shrugs, “no pulled tendons, shin splints...aching muscles…that kinda thing.” 

He squeezes at Steve’s shoulders and his biceps and his tiny waist; threads his hands up through Steve’s hair and slots a thigh between Steve’s to push their hips together. 

Steve’s skin is so warm, and slippery, and he smells like soap, and Bucky starts mentally calculating just how much time they have and how much energy he can feasibly expend before their respective work days start.

He’s not on stage tonight, but he is on shift for his day job at the community center, teaching a preschool ballet class at 10am, and then a seniors ballroom dancing session at midday before his contemporary classes in the afternoon. Steve’s working from home today, so hypothetically it wouldn’t matter if Bucky wore him out a little…

“Buck...” 

“Mm?” 

He rubs his whole self shamelessly against Steve, pressing in so the barbells spiked through his nipples drag across the wet expanse of Steve’s chest. He kisses Steve’s neck and his tits and his mouth, hungry and handsy and a little frantic, and Steve laughs softly against his lips as he turns them to push Bucky up against the slick tile of the shower wall.

“Your concern is deeply moving,” he deadpans, caging Bucky in with hands planted either side of his head, “but I think we need to talk about your bathroom etiquette...didn’t anybody ever teach you to knock?” 

He’s staring Bucky down with eyes lit up something wicked; his body so very nearly touching Bucky’s but not quite, and it hits Bucky all over again that his boyfriend is, physically speaking...really fucking imposing.

It’s easy to forget, when he’s being...well, Steve. Perpetually polite, kind-hearted, goofy...Bucky feels like when he looks at Steve, he sees the softness of his nature, the quiet goodness that radiates out of him. 

He sees the sensible shoes and the khaki pants, the careful artist hands and the way Steve still sometimes carries himself like the much-smaller man he claims to have once been. 

He’s Stevie, and Bucky wouldn’t have him any other way. 

But all of that also happens to be contained within a 6’2”, 200lb frame, and right now...Bucky kind of wants to suffocate under it. 

“I am so sorry, Steven,” he says, though it’s entirely negated by the raging hard on he’s sporting and the giddy, gratuitous manner in which he’s still feeling Steve up. 

He skates his fingertips down the rippled plain of Steve’s stomach, down to the trail of dusky blond hair leading south from his belly button, but Steve catches his hands and pins them up above his head. 

“I’m sure you are,” Steve hums, “but I don’t think you appreciate the gravity of the situation here. See, you caught me in a very private moment, one that I was very much enjoying, and now I’m all thrown off. You got me feelin’ shy.” 

...There’s some very compelling evidence to the contrary rubbing up against Bucky’s hip right now, but that’s beside the point. Steve’s teeth are scraping a line all the way down Bucky’s neck to nip at the ice fractals tattooed across his shoulder, and Bucky’s more than willing to play along.

“However can I make it up to you?” 

He arches into the press of Steve’s body, the hard line of Steve’s cock nestled into the crease of his hip.

If Steve shifted just slightly, he’d be rubbing up against Bucky’s dick. 

It’s not an accident that Steve isn’t making that shift. 

“You really want to?” Steve kisses the question against his skin, making his way slowly back up to Bucky’s mouth, and Bucky nods vehemently.

He’s already wetting his lips in preparation for all the ‘making up’ they’re about to do; signalling his knees to get ready to bend and pulling at Steve’s grip on his wrists, but Steve doesn’t release him.

Instead, he pulls back just far enough to look Bucky square in the eye, and smiles entirely too sweet for the authoritative edge that rumbles into his voice. “Go back to bed, Bucky.” 

Bucky has to blink a few times as the words circulate in his ears. His expression turns from I’m about to get some D!  to  oh god I’m being denied the D in about 0.2 seconds flat.

Bed is very far away from the dick that is currently in need of reparations, he can’t achieve anything from bed.

“But—you said—I was gonna—”

“Go. back. to bed.”  Steve tightens his grip on Bucky’s wrists and leans his whole weight against him, right up in his space so his lips catch against Bucky’s as he speaks, “...and wait for me.” 

Oh. 

Oh. 

A big, stupid, ‘bout-to-get-railed grin stretches across Bucky’s face. He wriggles free of Steve’s grasp and stumbles out of the shower, stopping himself just shy of a wildly enthusiastic ‘yes sir!’

He thinks he can hear Steve’s laughter as he takes off back down the hall toward the bedroom, but it might just be his own echoing back to him. He throws himself down onto the unmade bed, still warm from when he got up not ten minutes ago, and honestly who needs to sleep in anyway? Sleeping in is for people who don’t have absolute poundcake boyfriends to screw them into the sunrise.

He should have toweled off, he realizes as his damp skin rubs against the bedding, but he cannot be blamed for life choices made before six am, and there are far more important things afoot anyway. 

Things like the sound of the shower turning back on for approximately forty-five seconds, then the muted pass of a towel being scrubbed over hair, and footsteps on the hardwood growing ever closer to the bedroom.

God, this is gonna be a good day. What  a beautiful day to be greeting the dawn, making the most of his youth, seizing everything life throws at him!

He has the good sense to snatch the lube out of the bedside drawer just as Steve walks into the room, eyeing him with amusement and hunger in equal measures. 

“You know what the problem is, with what just happened back there, Buck?” 

Steve saunters toward the bed with all the nonchalance of a man whose work day doesn’t start for another three hours. 

He wraps his sizable hands around Bucky’s ankles and yanks him down the bed a little - for no other purpose than to hear Bucky’s breath hitch at the unnecessary show of strength - and climbs up onto the mattress to straddle Bucky’s shins. 

“The problem is, I don’t like to make a spectacle of myself.” He plucks the lube from Bucky’s hand and pours some into his own, spreading it over his cock in lazy pulls. “Being the center of attention, having eyes on me...that’s more your speed.”

“Mhmm, yes, I am an attention whore,” Bucky nods, reaching grabby hands out at Steve who refuses to shift any further up his body, “and you are humble and handsome and have a big dick. Make out with me.” 

Steve tuts and shakes his head, reaching his unoccupied hand to flick at one of Bucky’s nipple piercings. 

“Oh, I don’t think you get to make requests right now. See, the worst part of you throwin’ me off back there? I was so fucking close.  So now what you get to do, James, is flip the fuck over, and let me finish what I started.” 

...Jesus, Bucky loves Post-run Steve.

He’s gonna marry Post-run Steve and have his hopped up little post-run babies, and make sure Steve never misses a single day of early morning exercise so he can bask in the glory of this magnificent bastard every goddamn day of his life.

Bucky flops over onto his front and gets his knees under himself, sticking his ass up in the air with a wiggle that’s probably a lot more comical than it is enticing. But the heat of Steve’s palms hook around the front of his thighs and pull them out from under him, sprawling him flat against the mattress.

There’s a sudden clamping of teeth on his ass cheek and the sharp swat of an open palm, and then Bucky’s being pressed firmly into the sheets by Steve’s weight settling high up on the backs of his thighs. 

“Here’s what’s gonna happen,” Steve sighs, planting his hands on the dip in Bucky’s spine, “I’m gonna use your ass to get off, and then I’m going to get back into bed, while you go make us some coffee.”

Bucky nods into the mess of blankets under his cheek, futilely trying to rock his hips up against Steve’s considerable weight. “Yes, agreed, punishment fits the cri-hi wow okay.” 

A wholly undignified sound is wrenched from Bucky’s chest as Steve skips all pretense of tease, and thrusts his slicked up cock into the crease of Bucky’s ass, rubbing off between his cheeks with a very singular purpose. 

Bucky scrabbles to grab hold of his pillow and drags it down, wedging it under his hips with as much success as can be expected when you’re being pinned by a 200lb adrenaline-testosterone cocktail. It’s enough though, to very favorably cushion the rub of his dick, and all things considered…this whole thing is working out pretty well for him.

He’s expending precisely zero effort, but the wet glide of Steve’s cock over his hole and the push of Steve’s hips rubbing him into the pillow is very much Doing It for him, and he lets his body go loose and pliant as Steve does all the work for the both of them.

And Steve is putting in work - rocking Bucky into the mattress with a fervor that knocks the breath out of him and sends the headboard careening rhythmically into the wall. 

“Y’hear that, Buck?” Steve pants, not for a second breaking his frankly devastating pace. “That’s what a fuckin’ knock sounds like.” 

“Oh my god.”   

This is exactly how every single day of Bucky’s life should begin. Naked, giddy, cocks enthusiastically rubbing up against holes, and Steve running his mouth like he won’t be turning ten shades of red about it later. 

If this is the payoff, Bucky will bust in on every single shower Steve has for the rest of his life.

“I love you,” he laughs a little breathlessly into the bedding, biting off a moan at the heat coiling low in his belly. 

It’s entirely sincere, and he says it because he means it...but if he also happens to know by now that those words are a direct hit to Steve’s prostate during sex?

That’s just a happy coincidence.

Steve makes a sound like he’s been punched, his thighs twitching and tensing where they’re clamped around Bucky’s hips. 

His breaths are coming sharp and shallow, his movements taking on a frantic edge that betrays exactly how close he is, and Bucky would ask him to slow down, except he really, really doesn’t want him to. 

“I love you, Stevie,” he says again, letting his own building climax bleed into his voice, “love you so much...come on, baby...” 

“Fuck,  Bucky, I...oh...” 

His weight falls forward over Bucky as he comes, and it’s all the shove Bucky needs to tip over the edge with him. 

He spills all over his pillow, burying a moan into the sheets and huffing under the weight of Steve’s body going lax on top of him.   

“Oh my god, Buck,” Steve groans, vaguely awed like it wasn’t his own efforts that just brought them both to sticky ruin, and Bucky reaches a hand back to swat weakly at him. 

“You said it, pal.” 

Steve nuzzles into the crook of his neck, planting breathless kisses against his skin and running his hands over every part of Bucky he can reach. 

It’s so tangible, that shift back to normalcy, back to  Steve.  It always hits Bucky square in the chest, the way he can feel Steve’s edges softening, feel that boisterous energy turn sweet and mellow in the aftermath. 

It’s kind of precious, actually, though Bucky would never phrase it like that to Steve’s face.  

He squirms beneath Steve’s weight, getting himself turned over until he’s on his back beneath him. “Good morning,” he smiles up at Steve softly, running his fingers through the still-damp tufts of his hair. 

Steve sighs happily, letting his eyes drift shut and tilting his head into Bucky’s hand. “Good morning, pervert.” 

“Hey, come on, you know I didn't do that on purpose!  ” Bucky laughs, cupping Steve’s face and kissing him all over his cheeks. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you, I’m sorry.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Steve rolls his eyes, though the smile on his face says Bucky’s doesn’t really have anything to be sorry about. “Guess I can forgive you this one  time.”

“You’re a gracious man.”

Bucky drags him down and kisses him right on his smile, sweet and lazy. When they pull apart, Steve’s got that dopey look on his face like he’s feeling a whole lot of something, and Bucky knows exactly what’s coming before Steve says it.

“Glad you love me, Bucky Barnes.” 

...He knew it was coming, but it still gets him every time. 

“Glad to love you, Steve Rogers.” He feels like he’s glowing a little as he leans up to peck Steve on the tip of his nose. “Now if I’m not mistaken, I owe you a cup of coffee...you’re gonna have to let me up if you want me to follow through on that.” 

“Mm, counter offer - we both go wash off, together, and then I’ll make us breakfast while you handle the coffee?” 

Bucky pretends to consider for a second before he nods, stretching his body out as Steve rolls his weight off him. 

“Agreed.” He waves a hand in the general direction of the door, shooting Steve a wink and a lopsided grin. “Lead the way, pal. I believe you are intimately familiar with where the shower is.”

#stucky fanfic #stucky au #steve/bucky #stripper!bucky #architect!steve #pwp #sexy shower antics #Post-run Steve can get it

[thebibliosphere]

Holy shit, I bought those Axon tinted glasses you were talking about to see if they help my wife's headaches any, but I just tried them on a whim and I can look at my computer screen without squinting, what is this sorcery? I didn't even know I was squinting.

Saaaame! I had no idea I was squinting so badly until I was sitting in my appointment, and the neuro-ophthalmologist plonked a pair of the Axon glasses on over my face because he noticed I was squinting.

I could feel my facial muscles relaxing. It was wild.

[heavenunderthemoon]

Doctor, Doctor- Luke Alvez x Reader

Summary: Luke gets injured on a case and you’re his doctor

warnings: mentions of assault

The team had found themselves on a rather hard case, harder than most. Those that were in their home territory tended to do that.

Cases at home meant that, suddenly, that tiny, invisible, practically none-existent barrier between them and the monsters was ripped away.  That fine layer of protection that seemed to encase them every time they got off the jet, stepped off that plane and hailed their cabs back home, back to their family, back to their safety, was gone. Every twig snap, shadow, and eerie noise had their senses on edge. Not only did it cause the team to become more tense but it also awakened a protective rage. Monsters weren't supposed to follow them home.

But this one did.

A man, of course, white and in his mid-forties, avenging a mistake his mother made long ago. The team had split up, attempting to cover as much ground as they could in the abandoned warehouse. That was how they had caught him, the unsub leading them to a rather dilapidated part of the building. The floorboards creaked under his weight, and the team had shuffled in to follow uneasily. Distracted by the seemingly unstable building, they hardly had time to react when a blur of movement halted them in their tracks.

Luke had been the unlucky one to be closest to it. The hammer in the unsub's hands rained upon his head with a sickening crack and he collapsed to the floor with a groan. Already, his head was pounding, eyes fluttering in an attempt to shut them but he forced himself awake. His survival instincts kicked in, ignoring the team handcuffing and escorting the unsub out, only focusing on his breathing.

The team had been worried, extremely so. They practically had to hang up on the technical analyst, the Garcia woman  screaming into the phone as the team forced the former ranger into the ambulance bay and shuttling him off to the hospital.

He had protested the entire way. Sure, his head hurt, but he wanted to go home. Besides, it was a tiny little cut, how bad could it be?

After hours of pacing the waiting room and too many cups of cheap, hospital coffee, the team was informed by a nurse that they could see the man once more. With spirits high and hopes higher, the group made their way into room, surprised to hear a familiar laugh roaring through the space.

Sitting up in a hospital bed, gown disheveled and far too small on his muscular body, Luke wore a large, woozy grin. His hands clutched two slender fingers, his eyes never quite leaving the y/e/c orbs before him.

The room smelled like most hospitals, like sterilization and freshly laundered beds. The walls were covered in a pastel green color, as if reflecting its patient's illness on the walls. The tv played a re-run of FRIENDS, but the volume was almost non-existent, closed captioning dancing across the screen.

Beside the bed sat a small table, a small clipboard of notes lay across it, and a pen scribbled against the paper before the hands were returning to Luke's face. Y/n's hands floated before Luke's eyes, her soft voice telling him to follow her fingers before she was nodding with a smile, scribbling down something else.

With a lopsided grin, the man was speaking again. "How am I doin', Doc? Are you gonna need to amputate?"

From the minute Luke had been wheeled into your examination room, the man hadn't quite stopped looking at you like that. The way he looked at you made you blush, which was rather juvenile and not entirely something you would admit aloud, but true all the same. He looked at you as if you were wearing designer clothing rather than the two day old scrubs you had on. The scrubs you hadn't had time to launder because you had been working for thirty four hours straight, ones that had a stain on the sleeve that you weren't entirely sure what it was from.

Your hair had been thrown into a messy bun, the fast paced environment not giving you time to do anything fancy. And your makeup- well, you weren't wearing any.

But still, he looked at you as if he couldn't quite take his eyes off you. And it wasn't in the creepy, stalker way you had experienced men doing so before. No, because Luke was different. Just the man's demeanor told you so. The way he talked, voice slow and steady (maybe that was just the pain meds), or the way his eyes, two pools of melted chocolate, reassured you that being around him was probably the safest you'd ever be. You didn't need to see his badge on his hip to know that.

At the man's words, you let out a chuckle, clicking your tongue and sliding your pen back into your pocket. "I don't believe we'll be needing any amputations today, but keep landing on the wrong end of a hammer and we might have a different story."

Turning to the large group walking into the room, you smiled warmly. They were a large bunch, the jackets they adorned matching the one Luke had worn before he had been forced to change into a hospital gown. 'FBI' the breast pocket read. Briefly, you wondered what they did, but realized it didn't quite matter. They were here because they needed you to do your job, not to learn about theirs.

Patting Luke on the shoulder to indicate he could sit back, you grabbed your chart, going to stand near the team. They stood adjacent to Luke, and the small room allowed everyone to be in talking distance.

"I'm assuming you're the family? I'm Doctor Y/F/N Y/L/N, head of Neuro." Your easy smile was enough to release the tension from the team. Seeing Luke crumple the way he had made them worry, but the bright smile on your face reassured them.

"When he came in, the wound was looking a bit nasty." They listened intently while you talked and they didn't seem to miss the way Luke's eyes never quite left you as you spoke. "The swelling went down with some cream, and we took a CT to clear him of anything internal. Now, there was a small hemorrhage-" You watched as the team's eyebrows furrowed in concern, and you brought you hands out, a gesture for them to calm. "But his symptoms were small. Once we got the scan we saw that the bleed was tiny. Most bleeds will actually resolve themselves, so no need for me to go in where I'm not needed."

"Doc, you're welcome in my brain any day." Luke smiled cheekily, and your lips quirked, eyes narrowing playfully.

"I'm who you call when you need the big guns, you don't want me in your brain, Agent Alvez." His lips twitched when his last name rolled off your tongue and you would be lying if you hadn't gained the tiniest bit of satisfaction at the reaction.

He clicked his tongue, playfully grabbing his chest. "How you wound me. We went over this, it's Luke." He corrected, and he realized how desperately he needed you to say his name. He needed to say his name whether you were angry or sad or happy or excited. He needed you to say anything at all to him because your voice was something he hadn't even realized he needed until he heard it and now that he had he wasn't sure he would be able to live without it.

His actions made you chuckle, shaking your head at his antics. "Alright, Luke," You conceded, going to hang back up the man's medical chart on the bed. The nurses would take over from here, the former ranger only needing to be discharged after the rest if the pain meds wore off. The ones you had given him weren't too strong anyways, it wouldn't take much longer. "Try not to piss off anymore toolboxes, your head isn't as hard as you think it is."

The man smiled and just the sheer brightness of it made you suck in a breath. "I don't know, the screwdrivers in my shed were giving me a funny look the other day, I may have to teach them a lesson." He quipped smoothly and you rolled your eyes despite the large grin that grew on your features.

When you turned back to the door, the large group of agents seemed to be split between giving knowing smirks to Luke and impish looks to you. A certain blonde adorned in extremely bright colors seemed to want to interject, but the only other blonde clasped her hand onto the woman's shoulder tightly, stopping her from whatever she was going to say.

"I suggest that he doesn't go in the field for at least three days, and I would like to see him in a week for a precautionary scan to check and see if the bleed resolved itself. Other than that, he's good to go.  If you all have anymore questions feel free to ask Nurse Cassidy, she'll be in in just a moment to help you with discharge paperwork and medical prescriptions."

They nodded and, before they could respond, your pager was chirping, signaling the need for your presence elsewhere. Your hand grabbed at the pager clipped onto your waistline, eyes scanning the message before your eyes were flickering back to the agents.

"Duty calls. It was nice meeting you all." You gave a final nod, moving to leave the room, but just as you were about to exit a voice stopped you.

"Hey, Doc!" Luke called out, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

You turned, one hand gripping the doorway as your head peeked out from the side. You hummed in response, eyebrows furrowing.

"See you next week!"

Maybe it was childish, or unprofessional, or wildly inappropriate. Perhaps it was the fact that you were sleep deprived, hungry, and running on fumes, or maybe it was just the charming nature of the Alvez man, a gravitational pull toward the comfort he naturally exuded, but you found yourself smiling widely, a pink tint covering your cheeks.

"See you next week." You nodded in confirmation, leaving before you could say anything else.

#luke alvez x reader #luke alvez #spencer reid x reader #criminal minds x reader #Criminal Minds #Spencer Reid fic

[musicalluna]

panning for gold

@bardingbeedle here is your birthday fic!!!!! ily, i hope you enjoy <3

--

Tony is not a stupid man. So when Captain America asks him if he wants to “step out” with him, of course he says yes.

He’s amused because Steve plans the date and picks him up at six o’clock on the dot. His amusement must be written on his face because Steve ducks his head like he’s embarrassed and says, “Ah, I know this isn’t exactly how things are done anymore, but it took it out of me just to ask, so...”

He’s sweet, painfully so, and Tony couldn’t stop himself from smiling if he wanted to. “Hey, who’s complaining?”

Steve smiles back, his shoulders relaxing a little, sweet and appreciative. He’s really something else and if Tony’s not careful he’ll be in trouble. Steve’s a good guy—the best, really, but there’s no way Steve is interested in dating Tony long term. It’s probably not conscious, but he’s interested in the experiences Tony can provide. Fancy dinners, lavish vacations, expensive presents. Sure, maybe there’s some attraction there, some connection, they’re friends, aren’t they? But it always comes down to Tony’s money. He’s not about to hold that against Steve. They can have a little fun. “Come on,” he says, slipping his arm through Steve’s. “Take me out on the town.”

Steve beams, hand curling around Tony’s on his elbow.

–

They go to a place called “The Big Gay Ice Cream Shop” and Tony barks out a laugh. Steve smiles, glancing at him slyly out of the corner of his eye. “I thought it seemed appropriate.”

“You aren’t wrong.”

Steve holds the door open for him, which is another charming gesture. They spend a little while at the counter sampling flavors and leave twenty minutes later with waffle cones the size of their heads. Tony automatically goes for his wallet at the register, but Steve catches his hand and pushes it back into his jacket.

“My treat.”

Tony blinks, surprised. “Oh.” He shrugs after a moment and grins. “Okay, then.”

He can’t remember the last time someone paid for him for...anything. It may have never happened. He’s always been the one with more means than sense. The experience is novel and he can’t help the way it lingers in the back of his mind through the rest of the date, which is a long walk back to the Tower.

Steve is funny in the driest way and smart as hell in a way that’s unlike Tony’s own intellect, but that just makes it all the more fascinating to talk to him.

Plus, he’s gorgeous, which Tony is reminded of when they finally meander up to the Tower and into the elevator. Steve leans back against the elevator wall, hands in his pockets, his head angled toward the floor, and he smiles at Tony, looking at him through his sandy eyelashes.

It knocks Tony for a loop.

He still hasn’t quite figured out how to breathe again when Steve says in a low voice, “I had a really good time tonight, Tony. Can we do this again?”

Tony works his tongue around his mouth for a second, trying to get some moisture back into it. “Yeah,” he says faintly, “me too. This was fun. How’s, uh, next Tuesday?”

Steve glows at him. That’s the only way to describe it. Tony’s stomach swoops like he’s pushing Mach 5 in the suit. “Six?”

“Yeah,” Tony rasps.

Steve pushes off the wall as they arrive at the floor that holds his apartment and Tony feels his passing like electricity over his skin. “Okay. See you then.”

Oh, Tony thinks as the doors close, yeah, I’m in trouble.

–

“IFC is playing The Shining,” Steve says while he and Tony head downstairs on Tuesday. “I thought we could go see it?”

“You’re into horror?”

Steve shrugs. “I don’t know, but I hear it’s a classic. One of the best of all time?”

“I saw it when I was ten so I can’t comment on anything other than the fact that it scarred me.”

“You were ten?” Steve says with a look somewhere between incredulity and amused of-course-you-did, which is a look Tony is used to getting.

“Dad kept telling me I was a baby and I wanted to prove him wrong. I snuck into the theater. I couldn’t sleep for a week.”

“Well, now I’m really curious.”

“Wow, asshole,” Tony says.

Steve shrugs, hands in his pockets again. It’s like he thinks he’s too big—taking up too much room. “I keep tryin’ to tell people...”

It feels like Tony’s heart grows in his chest. God, he’s so fond of Rogers. He’s a shit.

–

Steve pays for the movie and their concessions, too.

Tony thinks about saying something, but he’s not sure what exactly he’d say. Stop it? I have money (obviously)? He can’t come up with anything that doesn’t sound ridiculous. So he just keeps his mouth shut and watches the movie.

It’s definitely not as scary as he remembers, but there are still some creepy moments. Some of it just gets him because of how much it reminds him of Howard.

When they leave the theater, Steve is in a somber mood.

“That was...interesting,” he says, obviously struggling for words. “They implied that Jack was in the hotel in the past, too.”

“Yeah.”

Steve goes quiet, mind obviously churning.

They walk in silence for nearly a block before Steve finally shakes his head. “Sorry, that was… I wasn’t expecting that.”

He’s unsettled Tony realizes. “Are you okay?”

Steve looks over at him, a flush creeping over his cheeks. “Yeah, uh,” he scrubs a hand over the back of his head. “It’s just—the way he lost control…”

“Reminds me of my dad,” Tony says, before he can think better of it and he only just manages to stifle a wince when Steve looks over at him, eyes wide.

“Howard was like that?”

“I mean he never tried to axe me, but—” Tony shakes his head, brushing that all away. “He was your friend, let’s not get into that—”

Steve grasps Tony by the wrist, bringing him to a stop on the sidewalk with barely any pressure at all. Tony gets the sudden urge to shake him off, but he mashes it down. Steve’s face is serious, tinted orange in the sodium vapor lights. “You and I are better friends than we ever were, Tony. If he ever did anything like that to you—” His mouth goes tight. “You didn’t deserve that.”

Tony stares at him, feeling strangely overwhelmed, so much so that he can’t speak. He can’t find the words for—anything.

Steve’s face softens and he puts a hand very lightly in the small of Tony’s back. “C’mon. Ice cream?”

Tony nods and lets himself be led.

–

He’s doing it deliberately, Tony realizes after they’ve gone on three more dates. On their fourth date, Tony pulls out his wallet early trying to beat Steve to the payment, but Steve says, “That’s okay, Tony. I’ve got it.”

“You’ve gotten it every time so far,” Tony says.

“Yeah,” Steve says mildly, handing over his credit card, “what’s your point? I want to.”

Tony doesn’t actually have a good argument to counter that, so he lets his hand drop. Steve smiles at him and it’s like Tony can feel the Pavlovian neuro-paths forming in his brain. Jesus, he’s a sucker. This was supposed to be a fun little fling because when you’re offered the chance to date Captain America you don’t say no, but Steve keeps asking him and Tony keeps saying yes. And Steve’s sticking around even though he’s the one paying for everything. It doesn’t track at all.

Coney Island is a blast, partly because of the attractions, but mostly because of all the stories Steve tells him about what a scrappy little cuss he was. He even tells Tony about a time when Bucky made him go on the Cyclone and he threw up and he actually manages to smile during the story. It’s the first time Tony’s heard him talk about Bucky without a thread of raw agony in his voice. It sounds stupid, but he’s honored. It’s taken the team two years to start cracking through Steve’s walls and it’s humbling to realize Steve feels like he can say these things to Tony and that it’s helping.

They stay until well after sundown and Tony can’t stop looking at Steve under the kaleidoscope of multicolored lights. He’s relaxed, happy, and it’s beautiful.

“Let’s ride the Ferris wheel,” Steve suggests, and Tony just says okay. He’d say yes to just about anything Steve suggested at this point.

It’s a warm night with a cool breeze—pretty much perfect as far as nights go. Despite the fact that the line is fairly lengthy, they end up in one of the fixed cars alone. Tony’s stomach flips when Steve sits and pulls Tony down next to him, wrapping his arm around Tony’s waist. The midway is all lit up below them, backed by the beach and the dark water beyond. This is the first time Tony’s been on a Ferris wheel in years and it’s making him feel like a kid again. It’s goofy, but there’s something magic about it.

“It’s pretty amazing this is still around,” Steve says, and Tony drags his gaze away from the view. “There was a big fuss when it opened. It was called the Dip-the-Dip back then, but it was just like this.”

“People do some incredible things,” Tony says, and Steve meets his eyes.

“They sure do.”

Their car reaches the apex of the wheel and rocks slowly to a stop as the wheel pauses. The breeze is cool, blowing Tony’s hair in his eyes and he reaches up to push it back. When he can see again, Steve is close enough Tony can feel the heat of his skin against his cheek and he sucks in a breath, heart breaking into a sprint.

“Gonna kiss you now,” Steve says, voice low. Then he cups Tony’s face in both his big hands and kisses him so gently it feels like his thoughts go spiraling away on the breeze.

The blood roars in his ears and he only realizes he was holding his breath when Steve draws back and Tony sucks in a gasp, his hands clutching at Steve’s leather jacket. Steve is warm underneath it, but the lining is cool and smooth against the back of his knuckles.

Steve smiles at him, sucking Tony’s stomach right back out of his body, and then leans in again and presses another featherlight kiss to his mouth. “Been wanting to do that for weeks.”

Tony makes an inarticulate noise and shifts impossibly closer to Steve, the heat of his thigh like fire against his leg. “Well, don’t stop now,” he rasps.

Steve lights up, his eyes reflecting back all the colors of the lights as they go by, and then he’s kissing Tony again, tongue easing into Tony’s mouth and sending sparks through his scalp. He moans, blown away by how good it feels to kiss Steve. Oh, god, he’s supposed to give this up? Like hell.

–

After that he’s plunged from “getting in over his head” to “in way over his head”. He tries so goddamn hard to protect himself from the inevitable heartbreak caused by people who don’t realize they’re in love with his money and not him, but he wasn’t ready for Steve Rogers.

Steve who hasn’t let him pay for a single thing in the three months they’ve been dating. Not so much as a coffee. What is he supposed to do with that? What is Steve getting out of this if he won’t take Tony’s money?

“STOP,” Tony bursts as Steve takes the check holder, “Stop. I can’t take it anymore. What is this, the world’s longest con?”

Steve blinks at him and the waiter slowly backs away from the table and disappears. “What?” Steve finally says.

“You won’t let me pay for anything! But people date me for my money. So I don’t understand what’s going on here. Are you trying to lull me into a false sense of security? Because, if I’m being honest, I’m already fucked. I’m into you. Way into you. So even if you are, you can just cut it out. You can have whatever you want.”

Steve’s face pinches and he puts a crease in the check holder, his fingers are gripping it so hard. “No, Tony. It’s not...it’s not a con. I didn’t want you to think that I even might be interested in you for your money.”

Tony shrugs, feeling small. “Everyone is.”

“I’m not,” Steve says firmly. “And I’ll keep paying for things as long as it takes you to believe that. I don’t need or want your money. I want you.”

Tony swallows, shoulders hunching and his fingers curling reflexively when Steve reaches across the table to put his hand over Tony’s. “You’d...pay for stuff forever? Even though I can afford—basically anything?”

“I’m dating you to spend time with you, Tony, not so you can buy me things. And I don’t want you to feel like it’s unfair or I’m coddling you or something. If you want to pay for your share, that’s fine. But I don’t need you to pay for mine. And I’ll never expect you to.”

Steve really is unbelievable, Tony thinks, staring at him across the table. “You would,” he says, knowing it’s true even as he says it.

“I will,” Steve says, like a vow. A shiver goes down Tony’s spine.

He curls his fingers around Steve’s and looks down at the tabletop, flicking aside a crumb. “And what if I wanted to buy you things?”

Steve is quiet for a long moment. “We can talk about it. The idea makes me uncomfortable, I won’t lie.”

“Because you feel like you’d be taking advantage.”

Steve smiles crookedly at him. “You thought I was running a con on you.”

Tony huffs and digs his fingers into the corners of his eyes. “Okay, fair. I’ve...I’ve never dated anyone like you, Steve.”

Steve’s eyes soften into something almost like sadness. “Maybe after awhile then, Tony. We can start with splitting the bill and see from there.”

Tony nods jerkily. “Yeah. Okay.” After a beat, he blurts, “Thank you.”

Steve sighs and smiles ruefully. “You don’t have to thank me for caring about you as a person. But you’re welcome.” He kisses Tony’s knuckles and it sends a chill up Tony’s arm. “Now can I pay for dinner?”

“Please do,” Tony says, hooking his ankle around Steve’s under the table. “I’m ready to go home and give you a very...thorough thank you.” To his delight, Steve’s eyes go dark. He pulls a stack of bills out of his wallet and tosses them into the check holder without looking.

“Let’s go.”

Tony laughs all the way out of the restaurant. Maybe this is going to work out after all.

#stevextony #musicalluna writes #steve rogers #tony stark #iron man #captain america #bardingbeedle #fluff #get together #money #tony stark has issues

[lemon-boy-stan]

mirror room - e.h

evan and his girlfriend are dragged along by zoe, alanna and jared to an escape room course that has a theme of optical illusions. there are four rooms and three hours. each room has it's own task that will eventually lead to the occupants' escape. if you do not solve the task you will "blow up". amidst jared and the clock's pressure, supposedly neuro-typical y/n suffers from what she's normally calming her boyfriend down from.

tw: anxiety attack. pressure. mentions of distortion.

Y/N

we were supposed to go on a date but it's alana's birthday tomorrow so i guess that alana gets what she wants.

evan didn't seen too disappointed about our date's cancellation.

thankfully, he didn't appear to look relieved about it either.

he just seemed... worried. but then again, evan had anxiety.

so him being worried about our date having been cancelled wasn't worrying enough for me to text his mum in secret.

we'd even made it to the fourth room without anything distantly related to anxiety occuring.

even with all of the distortion, evan seemed to be enjoying today.

i couldn't really say the same thing about myself.

i mean, i was pretty sure that i was calm.

because otherwise evan would notice immeadietly.

i just... the lights... the noises... the fear of our fictional death...

every noise possible in the room was piling over each other in loud groans over the previous sound.

evan's sleeve.

the strap of zoe's backpack.

jared, adjusting his glasses.

the ticking of the clock.

alana's breathing.

even the colours...

the pinks and blues and greens of the neon projectors popping against the black tinted mirrors...

"our life depends on you, y/n! there's a number left! come on, seriously?" this was jared. he sounded like he was underwater.

i tried to compose myself. i knew this code pattern, i'd done it before when i was little.

i couldn't let my friends down... everyone was taking things so seriously...

tick, tick, tick...

evan's sleeve.

zoe's backpack.

jared's glasses.

alana's breathing.

tick, tick, tick...

evan uncaps his bottle from a thousand miles away...

it's so fucking loud...

tick, tick, tick...

"we have like, fifteen minutes left..." jared again.

evan sighs loudly.

"fellow agents," the robotic woman added to jared's banter, "we have fifteen minutes left to solve this case! we must get out before the enterprise explodes!"

tick, tick, tick...

"see? she totally agrees with me!" howled jared, still underwater.

"shut up, jared," said evan, his voice dangerously leveled.

they were all underwater...

the numbers in front of me on the lock started to blur.

more neon blobs...

"fellow agents, there are ten minutes left!"

"why is she so energetic about us blowing up?" asked zoe.

"no idea..." said alanna.

"hansen, if we were on an island with codes we would all be dead..."

"shut up, jared..." evan sounded both underwater and pleading.

"fourtern minutes to get that door open! would you like to use your last hint?"

"yes!" shouted jared.

"no!" yelled zoe, "no, we wouldn't! come on, n/n!"

"she's trying..." said evan quietly, making me feel a whole lot worse than he intended to.

"very well..." said the lady through the hidden speakers, "there are thirteen minutes left..."

tick, tick, tick...

"eleven minutes!"

tick, tick, tick...

"oh my god, come on!"

"i said, shut up, jared..."

tick, tick, tick...

"ten minutes to go!"

"we're literally already dead!"

"jared, seriously, shut up."

tick, tick, tick...

"you can do it n/n!"

tick, tick, tick.

"nine minutes to go!" tick, tick, tick... "oh my god... this is taking so fucking long..." tick, tick, tick... "shut up, jared..." tick... "eight minutes..." tick, tick, tick... "i give up..." tick, tick, tick, tickticktickticktick... "shut up..." hurryupshutuphurryupshutuptickticktick...

"SHUT THE FUCK UP!"

my hands shook and everything finally, finally went quiet.

the waves dragged me down.

tick, tick, tick...

"look, i'm sorry, i didn't mean to..."

"jared, seriously, shut up." this was not evan but alana this time.

tick. tick. tick. tick. tick. tick. tick. tick.

"evan, evan, i - i c - i can't - i can't - " tears began to form.

"hey. hey. talk to me..." evan wasn't faraway. everyone else still was but it was okay. "what can't you do?"

i exhaled but nothing came out.

"hey, babe. listen to me. what can't you do, beautiful girl?"

"i can't... i can't..."

he held me. evan hansen, held me.

and that made me feel a little bit safe.

"b - i can't - i don't know how - it won't - they won't let me breathe... evan... i can't breathe... the air, it's not... i can't breathe, why can't i fucking breathe!"

EVAN

i had no idea what to do. it was normally me who had an anxiety or panic attack.

she was normally the one comrorting me.

i took moment to think. just a second.

i went with what my gut told me (for once).

when my attacks were really bad y/n would hold me close.

she would whisper things in my hair and tell me it would be okay....

so that was what i did.

"hey," i said softly, trying my best not to freak out too, "you're okay. it's fine if you didn't solve it, you got most of it and that's all that matters. no, baby, don't listen to jared, he's talking bullshit..." i glared at him. "just... go to that place. remember?" when we were kids... the tent... the fairy lights you made me put..."

she nodded. thank god. thank fucking god.

"it's okay, baby, it's just a game..."

"yeah, we don't mind! it was still fun!" added zoe. alanna nodded.

"are you sure?" said y/n, still trembling but just a little bit.

"of course i'm sure," i replied softly. "i'll always be sure..."

calm was finally, finally restored. y/n cried into my shirt.

"i'm sorry..." she wiped the last of her tears with a sniff, "i'm sorry i couldn't do it... jared. guys... i'm really sorry..."

an explosion went off over the speakers.

"nah, it was my fault, remember? i took forever to figure out the hidden number in the css code... zoe rolled her eyes. "besides. who cares! we had fun!"

"you didn't do anything wrong..." i whispered. "i love you..." fuck, i loved her so much...

"i love you too..."

"get a room!"

so as you can probably tell deh is my new obsession (i'm reading the book and listening to the soundtrack) so requests for evan are open and i'll make a spot on my masterlist.

MASTERLIST

#evan hansen #dear evan hansen #deh #deh imagine #evan hansen x reader #tw anxiety #evan hansen x female reader #evan hansen x you #evan hansen imagine angst #deh angst #deh x reader #evan hansen x reader smut #evan hansen x reader panic attack #evan hansen fluff imagine #evan hansen angst imagine #deh angst imagine

[tinted-neuro]

It’s the weekend and I’m in the office and after having a sort of breakdown yesterday + driving so much in the morning, orange tea is soothing my soul

#studyspo #tinted-neuro #studyblr #gradblr #phdblr #phd life