#healthcare is expensive as fuck bc america sucks

[rollercoasterwords]

i just saw ur answer about the hospital bill (bc my tumblr sucks as notifs) and oh no :((((( i hope it works out okay sending best wishes and prayers

also what tf is up with america's healthcare??? how the fuck they can ask for a thousand dollars when they initially said it was covered with insurance + the country i'm living in doesn't have the best government either but for something to cost me a thousand dollars i'd probably need multiple surgeries or something like that. also i heard calling an ambulance cost money in us???? and inhalers are so expensive? so what, do they just leave poor ppl to die? and despite that shitty healthcare system "us is the best country in the world" propaganda still exists? how?????

anyways best of luck i hope you can deal with it without any worries and hiccups! have a good night or in ur case have a good evening ig <3

no yeah healthcare here sucks i forgot how bad it is….lived in a diff country for 2 years & healthcare there was really affordable, accessible, good quality, etc & it was one of the biggest culture shocks for me….like my coworkers would go 2 the doctor allllll the time i’d get sick w like a cold & they’d be like well why don’t u go to the doctor? and i’d be like what. r u crazy….like it’s so ingrained to only ever go to the doctor if u absolutely need to that it did not even occur 2 me. i had a week where i was losing my voice & my coworkers thought i was crazy they were like um. hey. see a doctor…. i was like losing my voice won’t kill me why would i see a doctor….

anyway. thanks 4 the thoughts & prayers lol the usa does in fact suck so 😃 i’ll take whatever good vibes i can get

[trickstarbrave]

I don’t have dental so expensive dental stuff is Even More Expensive and it’s piled up bc I’ve had like no money and still fucking have barely any money

Now one of my teeth is 1/3 gone, a front tooth has a hole in it, and another three teeth are fucked up and hurt

Because I don’t have money and hardly anyone around me has money bc the economy fucking sucks I’ll probably only be able to scrape by with getting my teeth ripped out before an infection spreads to my brain and maybe 1 filling and hope I can save up for implants later in the next SEVERAL YEARS. Which means I’ll have to figure out how to eat when I’m missing a bunch of teeth in the back. And the joys of missing teeth aren’t limited to eating is a bitch I’ll have bone loss and trouble eating and the rest of my teeth shifting around.

I’d apply for care credit and pay it off slowly but I don’t have a credit score. Even if I did it’d probably be shit. I could do a go fund me but I don’t expect it’ll earn money very fast, it’s not like I’ll say from not having teeth I’ll just be miserable and hate myself and want to die. It’s like a quarter of my paycheck anyways so I doubt they’d approve me even with all that. If I get married soon I’ll prob have to wait 6 months and save up and maybe I can afford 1 implant a year going forward assuming my gf stays there for 4-5 years.

Good thing America is a place of success and opportunity and teeth are a luxury with no baring on our lives ha ha wouldn’t it be fucked up if they were connected to our skulls and we needed them to eat and talk on the daily then it sure would be ducked up to charge thousands of dollars for what should be basic quality of life and healthcare.

Maybe if I’m lucky I’ll just go to Mexico. It’ll be a bitch yo take off work or work from a hotel room sore but we might get lucky and maybe the in laws will so graciously donate some money to the cause but I’m not counting on it from them in case I’m just let down

[bitterlemonwater]

Would you ever consider writing something with Stephen Strange and Peter? 🥺 The rarepair is truly lacking and I feel like you could make something perfectly smutty out of post-Endgame taking Peter under Stephen's (magical) wing, or doctor AU

Endg*me who? I don’t know her. Smutty non-powered doctor au (that’s much more of a club au than a proper doctor au) it is. I’ve only written Stephen x Peter once before so?? Hope you like it anon bby

Peter’s age is unspecified, Strange has post-Sorcerer Supreme facial hair bc I said so, hand jobs, non-graphic but explicitly mentioned violence (Peter gets mugged in the beginning), clubbing, inaccurate medical procedures?? i’m not a doctor and have never worked in a hospital lol. 5k

—-

Peter wakes up in a hospital bed. 

He remembers leaving his apartment. He remembers zipping his wallet into one jacket pocket and slipping his phone into the other, his hand wrapped around it. He remembers turning all the right corners and dodging a cyclist and sniffling in the chilly weather. 

He doesn’t remember why or how he—

Oh, no, wait. Yeah. He remembers that.

The three thugs that had caught him by the hood of his jacket and yanked him into a murky alleyway between two run down hole-in-the-walls, both of which were closed for the night by the time Peter finally had time to run his errands. Milk and printer paper from a 24/7 Target hadn’t seemed like they would be a problem, but. That’s a sketchy neighborhood in New York, he supposes. 

He’d handed over his wallet without a fight (because contrary to popular belief, he doesn’t actually have a death wish) and was giving up his phone when May started calling him. 

Apparently the buzzing and loud ringtone (what? He has unfortunately selective hearing—sometimes it just gets tuned out and he needs volume to catch his attention) and potential red alert freaked the guys out, because one swatted his phone out of his grip and before he could raise his hands in surrender, someone decked him in the face.

And now he’s in a hospital bed. 

The window shades are half opened but there’s no light coming in, and the light in the room is off, only a dim lamp illuminating everything—so it must still be nighttime. Hopefully the same night, but Peter won’t push his luck. 

His head throbs like hell and he sits up slowly. The chair beside his bed keeps his shoes and jacket in reassuring view, but other than that, he’s been blessed to keep his regular clothes on. (Definitely the same night, then. Maybe he’ll only have been out for a few hours?)

For a few minutes, Peter just sits still on the bed, breathing, rubbing his temples. He really hopes he doesn’t have a concussion. This one hospital visit is going to suck to pay off—especially if he was brought in by an ambulance—and he’d rather not add follow up appointments to the bill. 

It’s not long before a nurse stops by. He turns on the lights and it makes Peter cringe, but not as awfully as he’s heard concussions usually make bright lights. There’s still hope, then.

The nurse asks him how he’s feeling and if he’s in any pain, then takes down his information, explains that he’s only been out for three hours and that it’s currently one in the morning. Peter tells him about getting mugged and he responds by saying they’ll have an officer come down to talk to him after he is released from care. 

The nurse finishes by asking if there’s anyone Peter would like to call. Peter debates saying no, but he can already hear May yelling at him if he tries to walk himself home after this, so he gives them Ned’s number and lays back down. 

“Alright. Doctor Strange will be here look you over in a moment.” The nurse says. Doctor Strange? Doctor, Strange. Strange. Why does that sound familiar?

While the nurse gives him two pills for the pain, Peter tries to recall where he’s heard that name before, wracking his brain and only coming up with incomplete thoughts and almost-resurrected memories. He knows he’s heard that before. He just can’t figure out where.

He’s already decided to awkwardly ask the doctor if they’ve met before when the door opens again.

In steps a man half turned away from him, tall and not quite broad but definitely fit and muscled under his white coat. He’s wearing pale blue scrubs and has a stethoscope around his neck, clipboard in his hands. His hair is brown with the slightest bit of grey, that much Peter can see, with killer cheekbones.

It’s not until the guy finishes whatever quiet conversation he was having and turns towards Peter, uncapping a pen and finally facing the younger that it clicks. 

Shit.

Three weeks earlier

Usually after a rough week of classes and work, Peter is exhausted. He’s tired and he just wants to sleep for fourteen hours, then have food delivered directly to his bed so he doesn’t have to get up for a full twenty four. 

This week it is the opposite. He’s keyed up and anxious to do something. He feels a little detached from himself, and he wants to do something outrageous. He wants an adrenaline rush that will take all his extra energy with it once it fades.

MJ suggests partaking in a protest somewhere, but a quick search tells him there aren’t any nearby that night, and not that Peter doesn’t feel just as passionate about good causes and taking action, but standing with a sign and chanting with a crowd isn’t really the thrill he’s looking for to vent how wound up he is. 

Ned suggests clubbing. Peter likes that idea a lot better. 

He loses his best friend within the first twenty minutes they spend at the bar. It’s not too high end that it actually requires an entrance fee, but it’s a respectable enough place that they definitely wouldn’t have been able to afford more than two drinks.

Which is why they got plenty tipsy before they went into the club. 

Which is why after attractive strangers keep buying Peter shots and sweet bubbly things (as if he can’t handle his liquor, but whatever, he won’t say no to free alcohol) he’s hammered. 

Not black-out wasted, of course. Peter knows his limits well enough to know exactly when he’s having fun, but not too clumsy or cloudy to get in real trouble. But he’s definitely drunk. Definitely, definitely drunk.

Normally Peter isn’t the type to be comfortable in a crowded club full of sweaty bodies, everyone in short dresses and tight button ups that show off all the round and firm parts.

On that note, he hadn’t really had much for a “sexy” outfit other than a blush pink satin t-shirt that MJ said made him look “fuckable” and fitted black chinos. 

But normally Peter doesn’t feel like he’ll explode if he doesn’t find some way to work off pent up nerves. So when girls put their hands on his shoulders and roll and sway their hips, and random guys grab him by the waist and pull his ass flush to their fronts—he laughs and grinds back. 

He flits between partners for the better part of an hour, really only stopping to get free water from the bar or have various old fashioned, rocks, shot, and cocktail glasses slid his way—or to go to the bathroom.

He sees Ned a couple times, always across the room with a girl practically melting into him. Ned’s always had a better sense of rhythm than Peter, but that’s the nice thing about club music. 

You don’t really need rhythm. You just have to move and you’ll either fit the song anyways or someone else will help you along. 

He only takes a few sips of each drink he’s offered, and some he does refuse with a cheeky smile about not getting drunk, even though he’s very drunk already.

Peter’s just left a man (and a half empty glass) at the bar, one who’s already bought him two very sparkling blue drinks and who definitely watches his ass each time he walks away, when he runs into someone. Literally, bumps into them, and though they’re barely thrown off balance and Peter is mid not-sexy-at-all apology, the person steadies both hands on his waist. 

They’re nice hands. Firm but not uncomfortably possessive or rough, pliable enough to move with the way Peter shifts and sways without letting even an ounce of space get under his grip. 

“Hello there,” the man says. Peter looks up and sees a goddamn devilishly handsome face, well trimmed facial hair and piercing grey-green eyes. Probably mid 30’s. Sharply defined cheekbones and jaw. Hot. 

“Hi,” Peter giggles. Giggles like a ditzy idiot, but the man doesn’t seem to mind. 

“You’re a pretty little thing, aren’t you?” He says, and he rakes his gaze up and down Peter’s body in the most shameless way. Peter grins and bites his lip, not shying away from eye contact when the man looks up again. 

“You’re not too bad lookin’ yourself.” 

The man grins, then tugs Peter forward by the waist. Peter doesn’t hesitate to grind forward, one hand on the guy’s chest and the other rising to a tall shoulder, swaying and stepping into the man’s space. 

It earns him a pleased smirk, and the guy drags him closer, walks him back into the messy crowd so they can dance. 

He’s hot, ok, and Peter’s been getting groped and felt up for the last hour and a half, so when he feels a sizable bulge press against him and moves flush with the solid body in front of, beside, behind him—sue him, he gets hard. Really hard. 

Really, really fucking hard. 

As in, he needs to get off in the bathroom right fucking now. 

“Having fun, baby?” The guy asks. His mouth is right next to Peter’s ear, hips rubbing against Peter’s ass, and one hand reaches down to boldly cup Peter’s clothed dick. 

Peter whines and nods, pulling off the guy, fully intending to abandon ship and jerk off in a hopefully not too gross toilet stall. The man grabs his wrist as he steps away, but doesn’t drag him back or try to guide him elsewhere. He just follows Peter through the crowd, landing them both in the bathroom. 

When Peter turns around with the goal of seductively asking if the man wants to help him out or not, he’s met by plush lips rushing to his own. The guy tastes like hard alcohol, like whiskey and bourbon and nothing like the marshmallow vodka Peter and Ned used to get tipsy or the sweet bubbly things Peter’s been offered all night. 

The man walks them through the bathroom door and locks it behind them, as if there aren’t stalls they could easily slip into. For some reason the lights are actually dimmer inside the restroom and the music has no problem slipping through the crack under the door, deafening outside but loud enough to mostly cover up the wet sounds of their kissing.

Peter kisses him hard and messy, wrapping his arms around the guy’s neck and grinding forward, trying to get some friction on his aching cock. The man smirks into the kiss, nipping at Peter’s bottom lip and licking from the bottom of his chin back into his mouth, one hand venturing downwards to cup his erection again.

The man’s hands are so steady, nothing sloppy or uncoordinated about him. He doesn’t tremble or slip up at all, doesn’t hold too tight, doesn’t move to fast but he doesn’t slow down for a second to let Peter breathe. He rubs at Peter’s dick through his slacks, fingers mapping out the shape and digging his palm right where the tip is, making Peter keen into the kiss. 

It doesn’t take long for the guy to get tired with feeling him up over his pants. He unbuttons the chinos easily and tugs down the zipper, slipping his hand under Peter’s boxers too. 

His hand isn’t particularly cold or hot but god does it feel good, having smooth, solid skin to rub against. The man strokes him with purpose a few times, not teasing him or trying to draw out any more of the moans that Peter graciously supplies. Flicking his wrist over the head, cupping and squeezing his balls, tight but not too tight, easing the way with precome. 

And then he stops, just holding, and with a desperate moan Peter picks up where he left off, grinding into the man’s fist, thrusting his hips up and forward into the friction.

He gets close embarrassingly fast (or it would be embarrassing if he could care), his legs shaking and arms tense and abdominal clenched as pressure and pleasure quickly pool in the pit of his stomach.

Peter whimpers into the kiss, all tongue and want, threading his fingers in the older man’s brown (possibly black? It’s dark in here) hair while he’s squeezed tightly against hard muscle by an arm around his waist. 

“Gonna-”

“Do it. Come on, baby, wanna see your pretty face when you do,” the man cuts him off. Peter nods, just nods and bites his lip and lets his head fall back, baring his neck and face to the world (or, really, just to the man jerking him off) as he tips over the edge. 

He moans so loudly that if someone was waiting on the other side of the door they’d hear him over the music. He doesn’t care, though. It’s one of the best orgasms he’s ever had, the build up and being pushed over by such dexterous hands with that deep voice groaning and whispering praise in his ear. 

He soaks his already precome-ruined boxers with release and slumps against the man, needing a second to breathe and collect himself. The guy lets him lean for a few moments, but then turns him around, drawing Peter’s back against him and pinning the smaller man between himself and the counter. 

It’s probably a gross counter, classy bar or otherwise. Peter doesn’t care. He folds his arms on it and rests his forehead on the backs of his hands, letting the man behind him grind into his ass. 

Bare, if Peter picks that up right, the hardly audible shuffle of a belt and zipper, the much more defined feeling cock rubbing against him. He doesn’t care about that, either. If his ass gets stained by this gorgeous Greek god’s come, then he can just borrow Ned’s jacket to wrap around his waist when they leave. 

Will it be embarrassing? Yes. Will Ned let him live it down? Not likely.

Will it be worth it? Yes. 

And it’s not that he’s not present and interested, but he’s definitely a little floaty and the songs outside get caught swimming in his head, and he has a feeling it takes the man longer to come than Peter thinks it does.

Either way, when the guy does climax, he pulls away from Peter and catches it in his hands, washing it away in the sink beside the younger’s nearly collapsed body. 

“You ok there?” The man asks. Even shouting over the music, his voice sounds soft and gentle. Peter nods. 

“‘m fine. Better than fine. That felt great, erm, thanks,” he laughs, standing straight and looking at the guy again. The man smiles at him and pecks his cheeks, then his lips, then smirks. 

“Made a mess of your underwear, though,” he quips.

Peter groans and wiggles around the guy, stealing some paper towels to try and clean up inside his pants (which would have been awkward and a little confusing, as for how much modesty he should take, if the guy didn’t plaster himself to Peter’s back once more, hook his chin over Peter’s shoulder and watch so intently that Peter started to get hard again) before zipping and buttoning back up. 

“I’m Stephen, by the way. Doctor Stephen Strange.”

Peter raises an eyebrow. “Doctor? Wow, that’s really impressive,” he drawls, not really believing the man. One of the first guys to buy him a drink had also claimed to be a doctor, but a few minutes later when his girlfriend showed up, she happened to mention his job at a grocery store. 

Not that Peter has anything against grocery store employees. Ned worked at Walmart before getting into his field and Peter has probably worked at every convenience store and gas station in Queens. 

(And not because he couldn’t hold one down, but because he needed five jobs at once over the summer to be able to pay for his first year of room and board.)

The guy just smiles, not confessing to being a liar but not taking offense that Peter implies he is. “What’s your name, sweetheart?” 

Peter hums. “Peter. I’m a photographer,” he winks at the man and unlocks the bathroom door. Stephen guides him by the wrist (and it would almost be annoying that he doesn’t hold Peter’s hand properly or let him walk on his own, if it wasn’t hot as fuck) back to the bar.

In place of ordering, Stephen just holds up two fingers towards the bartender. She nods at him and turns to grab two shot glasses, and Peter doesn’t have time to unpack why she knows what he wants. 

“Photography, huh?”

“Yup.”

“Sounds riveting.”

“Oh, it is. Nothing as exciting as taking pictures of other people doing exciting things.”

“Oh, I’m sure.”

“Doctor, huh?”

“Mhm.”

“Are you a real doctor?”

“I am.”

Peter swivels on his bar stool, staring the man down. It would be more interrogating and honest to his attempt to read the man if simply looking at Stephen didn’t make his lips twitch in a smile. “Where’d you go to school?” 

“Pre-med in NYU. The rest is a secret.” Stephen winks. Peter narrows his eyes but doesn’t say anything else. 

“So, is that Peter with a last name?” Stephen adds as the drinks are delivered to them. Honey colored with no bubbles and perfect circles of ice in each. Peter takes a sip and lets it roll around his mouth.

“How do I know you’re not a serial killer?”

“I told you I’m a doctor.”

“Perfect cover story,” Peter raises, making an exaggeratedly suspicious face. Stephen laughs at him, probably not because he’s actually amusing but because the man is also drunk. 

“Ok, what about Peter with a phone number?”

Peter can’t stop from smiling. A phone number? Like, a ‘we could totally hook up again and get further than a hand job in a bathroom’ kind of phone number? He tries to keep up the game of not acting as enthusiastic as he is, though. “Well, since I still don’t know if you’re a serial killer, maybe you should give me your number.”

“Really? After I got you off like that?”

“Well, actually I got me off, thanks,” Peter muses cheekily, “but… yep. Precautions.”

That earns him a fond laugh. “Alright, alright. ‘Precautions’. Here,” Stephen snatches a napkin from under his drink and a pen from over the counter of the bar, confirming Peter’s theory that they man is definitely a regular. 

“So you come here often?” Peter says. He realizes the joke a second later than Stephen does and blushes at his own cheesiness while the man shakes his head and laughs. 

“I do, yes.” 

“Hmm. Doctor’s salary and you go to bars that don’t overcharge you for everything? Sounds sketchy.” Peter quips. Stephen rolls his eyes and hands over the napkin, ten numbers in way too nice handwriting bleeding through.

“A friend of mine owns the place. I like to support her now and again.” He explains. Peter nods, accepting the reasoning. 

“That doesn’t explain why you have nice handwriting, though.” He continues, examining the napkin. Stephen laughs at him. 

“I’m taking that as a compliment.” 

Peter grins back.

They talk for almost an hour, broken up by breaks to dance or get more drinks—which are just water, for Peter. He knows when he’s hit his limit, thankfully—and by the time Ned is falling over Peter’s shoulder, leaning against the counter and saying he’s ready to go home and lament about the girl he’s just fallen in love with, Peter thinks he likes Stephen Strange quite a lot. 

He says so, as he’s leaving, and waves the napkin with the man’s number for emphasis. Stephen just grins, tilts his head and raises his glass and shouts over the crowd that he expects to hear from Peter soon.

It’s only when Peter decides “soon” can totally be three in the morning of that same night that he realizes he somehow managed to lose the napkin. 

He’s upset, but not devastated. Just disappointed. Ned tells him they can both get over their narrowly claimed soulmates (i.e. the girl he danced with all night who was leaving to go back to Germany the next morning) by having a star wars marathon and ordering take-out. 

Which, yeah. Was a pretty good remedy, and after a few days, Peter completely (or, mostly completely) forgot about Stephen Strange.

Present time

Peter’s brain stops processing. God, just the sight of the other man makes him antsy to move, having to consciously stop his hips from shifting. He wants to kill the awkwardness. “Uh-”“Peter.” Stephen beats him to it. He cringes slightly.

“Um, h-hi. Hi? How, uh, how are you?” 

That gets him a slightly confused, if amused, eyebrow raise. (Killer cheekbones and those lips Peter assumed he’d never see again) “The question is actually how are you, seeing as you’re the one in the hospital bed.” 

“Oh! Right, right. I’m good. Fine.” This is too awkward. This is kind of painful, actually. 

“Mhm,” the doctor couldn’t sound less convinced, “How’s your head? I’m sure the nurse told you, they did an emergency CT scan when you were first brought in, and you don’t seem to have any injuries beyond the couple of scrapes on your face and side. Let you keep your clothes on since the worst of it might be a minor concussion. Let’s check that over though, yeah?”

Peter just nods slowly. Stephen comes to sit beside him, using another chair opposite the one housing his jacket and shoes. 

He watches as Stephen writes in a few boxes on the paper on his clipboard, but all Peter can think about is that those careful, nimble hands had given him one of the best orgasms ever. 

“Are you in any pain? Any sensitivity to light, headache, confusion, dizziness? Are you nauseous at all? Any memory loss?” 

Peter responds dutifully to the questions. He has a slight headache, and the lights bothered him when they first turned on but overall he’s feeling a lot better. An ache on his whole left side, but he assumes that’s from how he fell and landed when he got knocked out. 

Stephen writes down all of his answers, checking and marking boxes. When he’s done, he sets the clipboard down and beckons Peter closer. He listens to the younger man’s heart, checks his eyes with a light, and peels off some bandages that Peter hadn’t even noticed on his cheek, reapplying fresh gauze and tape with a new layer of antibiotic cream. 

“Well, I’d say you’re in the clear for a concussion, but you’ll definitely need to take it easy for a week or so. Lots of fluids, lots of rest, as low stress as you can manage. No rigorous physical activity. You’re a lucky kid, Peter Parker.” 

Peter cringes, then lets his head loll to the side. He’s tired and the pain medication is making him a little loopy and he’d rather think about anything else than what his bill is going to be for all of this. 

“Well shit. You know my last name now. Hope you don’t serial murder me.” He hums. He reaches for his jacket and slips it on. Stephen has the decency (especially impressive considering he probably thinks Peter ditched him) to humor him.

“Still on about that? I thought you’d be convinced of my authenticity by now. I’ve got a white lab coat and everything. I’m wearing scrubs.” The man says, whispering scandalized at the end. It makes Peter giggle. He’s a little amazed, actually.

The man he met at the bar was nice, sure, but he’d also very clearly had the goal of getting into Peter’s pants. It’s odd to see the same man, who’d later taken such a serious, confident tone at the club still being playful.

“Speaking of, I thought you said you were a surgeon? Very impressive, very renowned, etcetera. Why are you giving me a… non, surgical check up?” Peter asks. He looks longingly at his shoes, kind of wishing they would just float over to his feet without him having to put them on.

Stephen doesn’t seem off put by Peter’s phrasing. “All of our neurologists are swamped at the moment. They called in some off duty general practitioners to cover, but a personal friend of mine, Christine, was supposed to see you and couldn’t, so she asked me.” He leans back in his chair, then, studying Peter in the same shameless, confident way (albeit, not in the lustful way) he had at the bar. 

“I must say, I certainly wasn’t expecting to see you here. Or again, at all.” His tone lilts, pressing Peter to explain why he never called after they hit it off (and got off). 

“Yeah, about that,” Peter mumbles. He grabs his sneakers but doesn’t put them on yet, figuring it would be rude to get up or turn his back while he’s explaining. “I’m sorry. I was honestly going to call you but, I uhm..” 

“Lost the napkin?”

Peter winces, then nods and hangs his head in defeat. “I lost the napkin.”

Stephen laughs, sitting forward again, and it surprises Peter. On the rare occasion he’s seen someone he’s (intentionally) turned down again, they’ve usually been… a lot more aggressive and unhappy. 

His confusion must show, because Stephen looks at him, all sharp features and unapologetically confident and somehow just soft enough to be sincere. “I figured it was something like that, considering you had a pretty good incentive to contact me.” 

Peter narrows his eyes, but it’s not real heat. “‘Pretty good incentive’ he says. My, you’re just full of yourself, huh? That’s gotta be some kind of doctor syndrome or something. There was a Criminal Minds episode like that.” Stephen groans at his response. 

“Criminal minds?”

“What? It’s a good show!” 

“It’s completely unrealistic. Every episode has the exact same plot.”

Peter gasps, offended. “They do not!” Stephen looks unimpressed.

“There’s a bad guy, he’s killed people in a particularly gruesome way and now he’s kidnapped some poor girl. Time crunch. He’s a white man between his 20’s and 40’s, one of the ‘agents’ has some dramatic personal tie, there are hints at a subplot, Reed says something quirky and beats them all at cards on the plane. Sound familiar?” 

Peter gapes at him for a solid three seconds before composing himself, crossing his arms and huffing. “It’s still entertaining..” he pouts, petulant. Stephan rolls his eyes but chuckles at the display. 

“Well, I’m sure it will keep you plenty entertained while you get your rest. And hydration. But try to steer clear of the strawberry daiquiris.” He says, smirking as he reorders the papers on his clipboard. Peter relents, sighing, and turns to put on his shoes.

“‘s not like I picked ‘em out and bought them all..” he grumbles quietly.

When he slowly rises from the bed, Stephen is still there. Standing on the opposite side of the cot, staring at him. Peter feels his cheeks flush and dear god, he cannot get hard thinking about the last time they were alone in a room together. 

He’s trying to think of some way to diffuse the tension, ask about leaving or paperwork (or the bill, dear god), the police report he needs to file or about his friend picking him up—but Stephen beats him to it. 

“Would you like to have dinner?” 

Peter stares. What was that?

“Huh?”

“I said, would you like to have dinner?” Stephen repeats, patient and unflinching, nothing modest or humorous to lighten the air. 

Peter stutters, then wets his lip and bites it, then shifts from foot to foot before nodding. 

“Yes. I’d like to have dinner with you.”

Stephen smiles. “Great.” He steps around the bed just as Peter does, bringing them closer together. “Now, technically I have your whole file right here, and I could just get your phone number off of that. But that’d be wholly unprofessional of me.”

Peter snorts, having to step back and cover his mouth so he can laugh at the man’s utter brashness. “Yeah, you’re completely correct. That would be very unprofessional. And probably illegal, I think.”

“Oh, definitely illegal.” 

Peter giggles, but then Stephen is handing him the pen he’d been writing with. Peter takes it, still grinning, yet furrows his brows in confusion. “I don’t have any paper.” 

Stephen smirks. Then he holds out his hand, palm up. When it clicks what he’s requesting and Peter snaps up to look at him, there’s a very calm, controlled smile, carefully containing a wild amount of self-satisfaction on Stephen’s face. 

“So I don’t lose it.” 

Peter rolls his eyes so dramatically it hurts, but he takes Stephen’s hand, reluctantly flattered, holding it steady in one of his own and writing with the other. Though it’s more like the older man’s one palm holds both of his stable with how unwavering it is. 

When he’s finished writing his number, he hands the pen back. “Make sure you don’t wash that hand,” he quips. Stephen hums, waving an arm past to guide Peter out of the room. 

“I promise I’ll take good care of it. The nurse will deliver your paperwork to the waiting room, and there will be an officer there as well. You’re very welcome to stay until your ride arrives.” He says. Before Peter can answer, the man is swooping down, planting a gentle kiss to his temple, and then before he can react, Stephen is disappearing down the hallway. 

Peter waits in a mildly comfortable chair and picks up his packet, report and bills and prescription of rest, all in a daze. He’s still in it when he files his report with officer Rogers and when he gets in Ned’s car around two thirty in the morning, answering a million questions and finally tipping his head back against the seat, relishing the dark and the busy quiet of New York late at night.

Two days later, after he’s got a new phone and a new wallet (and a loan in May’s good credit name to pay for his hospital visit), he gets a text that threatens to buzz out of the pocket which barely manages to muffle it.

Unknown: Dinner, Thursday. 8 o’clock. I’ll pick you up. Sound good?

Peter grins and makes a new contact.

You don’t know my address though?

Stephen: I’m sure you’ll tell me.

Fair enough. I can do Thursday at 8.

Stephen: Perfect.

Then, a moment later:

Stephen: Wear that pink shirt again, and I’ll let you pick the venue. Deal?

Peter blushes even though there’s no one there to see it, biting the inside of his cheek not to smile dumbly at his phone. 

Deal.

[uh-oh-its-bird]

Me : hey Google how much the average cost of anxiety meds are

Sibling : oh sure

Sibling : that can't be right, it says its like 10$--?

Me : Google 'in the USA'

Sibling : Yeah it says it's like 100$ for 30 days

Me : there we go

[gr0veyard]

Ooc.; also other stuff im giving my 2 Cents to, so skip if you dont care

[[MORE]]

Puberty blockers:

PBs are not irreversible lmao. They don't mutilate a minors body. They merely keep puberty on hold long enough for the minor in question to have time to make sure they want to transition. PUBERTY is what is irreversible. Imagine going thru puberty and growing into a body that at worst will make you wanna KYS and at best hate looking at yourself in the mirror. Do you know how expensive transition can be after puberty? PLEASE do more research before making asinine statements like PBs being comparable to mutilation. PBs only hold puberty as long as theyre being taken, meaning that if you stop taking em puberty will set in just as it usually would.

"Even hormone blockers and transitional hormones are largely untested when it comes to long term effects" is a baseless claim which a little googling can be disproven.

"One of my friends in high school medically transitioned, and it did nothing to help their dysphoria. It just made them even more depressed, and they later killed themselves." I'm sorry for your loss, genuinly. That really sucks. But as much it makes me look like an asshole for saying this, this is an appeal to emotion (aka not factually backing your other claims) and also circumstancial. If your friend's suicide was tied to their transition, their case is just that: theirs. One of the biggest contributors to trans suicude rates is the unattainability of affordable transition and dysphoria caused by the changes made by puberty, only topped by abuse from people towards trans people. By advocating for PBs to be prohibited or limited, you don't help. You make the problem worse.

Communism:

"I’m against Communist and Fascism as they’re both extremely Authoritarian systems that give the government complete control over how you live your life." Since I'm a socialist and not a communist I cant speak for communism, but most allegedly communist states today still basically operate on a capitalist core, where they have communist parties etc., but still have a free market for instance. China for example, but Russia too.

Capitalism amasses copious amounts of wealth on the backs of the lower class in a short amount of time but is ultimately unsustainable. Vaush on youtube has a number of videos on this I recommend you to check out.

Healthcare:

"You can’t have a right to the services and labor of another person, their own freedom is taken away by that." No one is saying that should happen. Ideally, the state pays for this healthcare and before you say anything about that: I'm from a country without america's privatized healthcare. It's never been an issue here, people aren't fucking terrified shitless to go to the doctor bc they could go into crippling debt. Sure, you gotta wait a lil longer than someone w a private insurance company (which still exists but isnt necessary to live) in the waitingroom but that's annoying at worst.

I went to america end of 2019 to visit my gf and I fell really ill there. I had to go to the doctor there and I nearly felt my soul leave my body when I had to pay 100 FUCKING DOLLARS HOLY SHIT. thats nearly a fourth of my monthly income bro, how can you claim this to be okay? Ofc medstaff still need to be paid but oh my gods this is not okay. If I had to live with this system for the rest of my life it's fair to say I'd never go to the fucking doctor. And that'd be worse for the docs AND FOR ME.

"If you die or develop incurable illness awaiting treatment for months, there’s nothing anyone can do. If you’re treated right away and unfortunately end up with loads of medial debt, it’s unfortunate, but you’re still alive. You can still try to fundraise money, get donations, or if you’re skilled, work it off. It’s really shitty, but necessary." N- no????? It reaLLY ISNT THOUGH??? As I've stated before, this is not an issue w public healthcare. It's smth that's an issue in general and it DOES happen in america right now. Where I live this doesnt happen to my knowledge. Why should it? The gov is gonna pay anyway so might as well get it done and get the next patient. You shouldnt have to go into debt to live. That's not humane.

"I don’t think the poor should die, I don’t want the suffering to be left to their fate." Contradictory to the part where you think going into debt is necessary. Being in debt IS suffering. *I* am in debt, and I suffer because of it everyday. And it's not because of healthcare.

When going into debt to heal is your only option as an alternative to possibly dying or suffering on, then making that choice is like having to choose between the black plague and cholera.

"Buy a gun, grow a garden, learn to build shelter, and make plans to invade a neighboring territory and become it’s technocratic warlord after your country collapses into an unlivable hellscape." Making a joke like this at the end of a post about serious topics like this is kind of trivializing the entire issue and a little disrespectful. Don't do that please. It's like you're comparing to Fallout 4 and I shouldn't need to point out why that's bad.

At the end of the day, Im not trying to change your mind bc thats futile and not my job. But I do absolutely intend to fact check claims I know for a fact are BS, or educate myself to make my own judgement, and so should you. If you want to know how truthful smth is, listen to multiple scources (centrist AND leftist) and crosscompare wether what you hear abt certain leftist ideas is in fact true or not.

Or dont and continue living in an echochamber. Your call.

Have a nice day.