#Neurology Practice

[stellerssong]

5 and 29 please?

5—what’s a fic idea you’ve had that you will never write?

having given the matter a great deal of thought, i’ve come to the conclusion that i have no interest in writing a corinthian/lucienne femdom hatesex on the beach fic, on the grounds that i’m personally not compelled by the fantasy it presents. apologies to everyone who read the middle section of that sentence and immediately went AWOOGA AWOOGA BARK BARK BARK BARK AWOOOOO like a cartoon character. i know you are out there and i heard you do it.

the real bummer of this whole affair, though, is the fact that “beg me to spare thee the back of my hand” would have been a kickass title. free to a good home, friends!

29—share a bit from a fic you’ll never post OR from a scene that was cut from an already posted fic.

i don’t work in drafts, so everything that’s been cut from existing fics has been sent to hell already. but what i CAN offer you is this (probably obnoxiously long) snippet from a portion of wereverse that i will probably never actually post about, lovingly nicknamed, “the bath time fic”:

The tub isn’t quite wide enough for them to sit side-by-side, and he moves toward the tap a little so Lucienne can lower herself into the water, angles himself so his cheek is to her, rather than his back. A dark glitter as his gaze flicks over her body. She knows it’s ridiculous to have an attack of modesty right now, but she brings her arms up to cover her breasts. “There,” she says, too cheerful even for her own ears. “Does that help?” Dream makes a small noise in his throat. Maybe assent. Hard to tell. But he does reach out with one hand and rest his knuckles gently against Lucienne’s knee. You can tell he’s getting keyed when he starts grabbing and clinging and clawing at you. Light touches are a good sign. They mean he’s present enough to be careful. (Well. They mean something’s present enough, says a voice in her head that sounds a lot like Cori. She ignores that, as best she can.) “Is the water warm enough?” A nod. Better and better. “Do you need me to soap you, or…?” Silence for a moment. Dream’s throat works, like there’s a reply stuck in there trying to get out, but in the end he just unfolds one slim arm and picks up the bar of soap himself. “All right. Well…” Lucienne settles herself a little uncomfortably against the back of the tub. “Just—let me know. If you need anything.” His white lashes go up like a pair of dove’s wings. Luminous dark underneath, whites visible only at the corners. A creature’s eyes, an animal’s eyes, for all that he’s being so good about holding onto his human shape. That’s going to be…difficult to explain to people not in the know about his condition, at some point, but Lucienne’s not thinking about that yet, she’s just thinking about immediate concerns, practicalities— He shifts position slightly so the tips of his toes are resting against hers. A faint line works its way in between his brows. He still doesn’t speak, but that expression is plain as black ink on white paper: is this okay? Lucienne has to smile at that. Her face aches, like she’s lost the muscle memory sometime in the past however-many weeks. Footsie. Aren’t the two of them fucking adorable.

[quantumcryptologist]

ass0ciative pr0sopagnosia is going to be the death of me i swear

[monster-noises]

Uuuhuhhhuh tried to doodle tonight, did successfully doodle a little guy, hands felt like shit the whole time

Really hard to express the fear i experience when i get down to draw and it feels like my hand has just Forgotten what it's supposed to do.

Wish i didn't have to experience it so often trying to do something i love

[harringrieve]

I feel so petty, but I’ve fully closed out of fics that have Steve’s dyslexia described as “letters moving/dancing around on the page”and nothing else.

Like VERY few dyslexic people experience that type of visual stress, and when they do it’s not even like what people are describing, which is more closely related to irlens syndrome than dyslexia (related, but not at all the same thing)

I fully didn’t even get diagnosed until WELL into my late 20s bc that’s how I always see it depicted or described in media, and I didn’t have that so OBVIOUSLY I’m not dyslexic. I feel like people just write it like how it was in the first percy Jackson movie or smth, the way they describe it in fics, and it’s really annoying ngl

And I say this as someone w ALL the damn comorbid disabilities and disorders people write this man with as a headcanon (adhd/asd/dyslexia/dysgraphia/ocd tendencies/etc)

[soup-spoonie]

Looking for advice on this ASAP

I am really, really dreading this brain MRI on Saturday. Not because a brain MRI is anything new for me or because I'm afraid we'll find something bad... I'm just dreading how much worse this is going to make the migraine.

These past 48 have been so much more bearable, except for one bad ramp-up this morning around 8am. I don't want to be set back several days like this is almost certainly going to do.

I asked about sedation but they only so that in one office far away and it would be weeks to get in there. So I just left a message with my neuro to see if there's anything he can prescribe to help me get through the MRI trigger-wise.

Like Xanax maybe? I've never taken it, certainly willing to try BUT he already has me on so many meds I'm worried he'll say it's not a great idea to add that on top. Benadryl, if nothing else?

Does anyone have any advice on this one? We'll certainly manage triggers as best we can physically but like... It's a brain MRI. It's gonna be loud and the headphones are going to trigger me too.

[well-of-loneliness]

Happy birthday to my flatmate who trained her brum accent out so hard she now has to watch clips of cillian murphy in peaky blinders to do it

[queerian]

the cool thing about practicing mindfulness or something approximate to it is that im getting better at noticing my own thoughts

so for example i almost reblogged a kink post i thought was cute and fun and in real time noticed my thoughts tick through 'i shouldnt reblog that, what if the universe sees me imply i like that and then does it to me'

there is SO much irony here i just wanna pin them under a microscope and get out the tweezers

[embodiedlistening]

The Basic Neurocellular Patterns (formerly called The Basic Neurological Patterns), or BNP, are potential patterns of movement inherent first in the movement of fluid through the cellular membranes and then recorded and organized in the nervous system. They exist, both phylogenetically in the animal kingdom and ontogenetically in the developmental stages of the human infant. The BNP are stimulated into existence through relationship and interaction with the environment. They are called forth based on the relative simplicity or complexity of their structure and function and the supporting and challenging conditions in the environment

>> Bonnie Bainbridge Cohen

[haztory]

where you are.

— continuation to bias. (yes, i am making a series. yes, i am making us work for it) — jack abbot x fellow f!reader; attending/fellow dynamic, age-gap (unspecified but reader is late 20s and up, jack is mid 40s), heavy plot, slow-burn, angst, mention of patient death, gore, medical descriptions, descriptions of c-sections and premature birth, medical inaccuracies, jack and city girl being a formidable unit together in the ER then a LONG stint of pining, yearning, and embracing of domesticity, these two taking care of each other without realizing, please heed the warnings there are descriptions of invasive and traumatic birth — word count: 4.5k — summary: The sight of you instills a relief akin to a cool splash of water on Abbot—something he notes and stores on the shelf of things to deal with later. A shelf that is starting to pile up these days with things he’s avoiding. Things that all, concerningly, relate to you.

masterlist

The night had been going fine up until this point. Maybe it was that faulty line of thinking that led to this. The sudden implosion, the shatter of the steady. 

Jack isn’t one to brag much about himself. There’s no grand honor in being a doctor. Private practice, sure. Maybe. In the ED, it's shit work in shit situations where actual shit may or may not be involved. He’ll tell that to anyone who asks. When the inevitable question comes—are you any good at it?—he’ll shrug and tell them, depends on the day. 

He’s seen enough, done enough, worked with little more than two plastic straws and a boning knife to do a crike in the middle of a firefight in Afghanistan. He knows his way around the block, and can do more than the average ED can—that he will admit. But it's still a shit job sometimes. 

He hates all of the tragedy that rolls through the doors. They all eat away at the sinews of the mortal coil, but pregnant traumas? They get to him. It’s unsteady ground, the one type of call that he’s always shown a physical reticence to handling. 

There’s too much variability, too many unsuspecting errors, too much divided attention in the multidisciplinary approaches where focus has to be split for the sake of mom and baby. Crack open a body and you’re in for a world of hurt. Throw pregnancy into the mix, and now you’re one step away from God’s door asking what kind of games he’s playing. 

Aching despair is wedged in each part of an obstetric trauma that makes someone as battle tested and weathered as Dr. Jack Abbot sweat and cringe with a grief too profound for words. 

They wheel the young woman into Trauma One and the adrenaline surges through him like a needle straight to veins. His eyes, cold and hurried, press into Lisa. A terse instruction is barked out, your name in his lips.

“Get her in here now.”

Lisa is quick on her feet, stepping out of the OR to find you just as he cuts open the young girl’s shirt. In his survey of her body—the distended stomach dark with bruising from her injuries, blood staining every part of her body, most notably her inner thighs—his eyes find her face, shining a light in her eyes. 

The pupils remain unilaterally fixed in their dilation, non reactive. And it’s then that he notices how much of a child she looks. 

The sudden slam of the trauma doors welcomes you into the room, a rush in your step as you tie the surgical gown behind your back. A readied focus on your eye. The sight of you instills a relief akin to a cool splash of water on Abbot—something he notes and stores on the shelf of things to deal with later. A shelf that is starting to pile up these days with things he’s avoiding. Things that all, concerningly, relate to you. 

“Tell me.”

A resident presents with speedy construction as Jack oversees the tracheostomy. Young female ejected from an MVC, tachycardic, extensive blood loss and apparent extreme cardiovascular collapse and hypoxia. Non reactive pupils indicating neurological nerve damage. EMTs conducted an ultrasound to confirm pregnancy and baby’s length at 30 weeks. Dr. Hudson, the OB-GYN specialist, is on the phone, her own hands wrapped up in an emergency delivery upstairs, asking for details just as they’re presenting them to you. But there’s value in having you in the room—you’ve told Abbot enough about your New York residency. He knows just how much knowledge you have in obstetrics for this. 

The decision is made by you without further delay. Sure and serious. 

“We’re getting this baby out, now.” Your suggestion meets no rebuttal from Dr. Hudson over the line.

“CT has been ordered, we’re next in line.” Dr. Basu, the attending surgeon, speaks from the side of the bed.

“For it to confirm what we already know and waste more time?” You explain, not meanly. Just direct, intense. “We’ve got vaginal bleeding, likely dealing with placental abruption and the longer we wait, the longer the baby is not getting oxygen. We get this baby out now or we lose both of them.”

Dr. Hudson’s voice rings on the other end of the line, “I agree. Keep me updated.”

Abbot’s a good soldier, takes direction without problem. He’s heard your directive loud and clear, the specialist’s agreement is just icing on the cake. 

“You heard them. Let's move.”

You fall beside him in perfect time, meeting his movements quickly as skin is cut, hands move, and a baby—small, pink, and too pure for how he’s born—is introduced to the world. 

The baby is passed to a resident for care, a separate team filling up the connecting OR to secure baby boy before getting him up to NICU. Your attention remains fixed on attempting to stabilize mom, or at least getting her stable enough to be put on life support so that her family can see her and make the call. Jack is by your side, equally intent as you. Grounds his feet to the floor, keeps himself firm as you speak directions to one another, pass steady compliments at performance, grit out expletives of frustration.

Intent to share in the dread of this one. 

It’s not going well. The injuries are so severe, compounding on each other that right when you think you get something halfway resolved, another crash of vitals sounds through incessant beeping. 

He says your name softly, an hour and fifteen minutes into the procedure, after her pulse is lost for the third time and three units of O-Pos have been pumped through her. A gentle echo in the orchestra of chaotic beeps. You look at him, blood staining your forearms, sweat beading on both of your foreheads, the dismay creasing on your face mirrored on his own. 

“Anything else you want to try?” He asks. It’s not a test of knowledge, a sudden pop-quiz from your attending, but true deference. 

You hardly imagine he’s had to do many emergency c-sections on the floor, much less when he was on the field, but seeing the monolith of a man equally lost like you is hard hitting. You shake your head, tired.

“Call it.” He gently issues.

“Time of death, 3:07.” The words heave out of your mouth in a shuddered breath. It’s through shot nerves and sheer adrenaline that your hands shakily pull the bloodied gloves off of them. You toss them to the floor in defeat as the respiratory therapist stops her manually pumping of the bag valve mask and Lisa shuts off the monitors. 

It’s the same punch to the gut every time the words are uttered. You still struggle to get used to it.

“Thank you all for your work on this one.” Jack says to everyone in the room. The team seems to deflate at his words, solemnity a gaseous cloud that poisons the crowd. 

“Let’s take a moment and honor her and the life that was here.”

It’s a tense and desolate moment of silence. They always are. It’s broken by the sound of the sneakers in the hallway and the opening of the operating doors. 

“Dr. Abbot—” Bridget’s whisper stirs the room, “Your patient in two is vomiting.”

That’s all that can be afforded. The room breaks, everyone filtering out as the world continues to revolve beyond this room. As everyone makes out for the doors, he notices you stay. Staring. Reviewing. 

Going through it all over, and over, and over again. 

“We did everything we could.” He calls to you, ritualistically. Because it’s the right thing to say, not necessarily the one he believes.

“I know.” You tell him, because it’s true, but not because you believe it. You stay focused on the girl’s face, childlike features marred with contusions. “I just want a moment.”

“Course.” He offers quietly, “Anything you need.”

Your lips tilt at the shared mantra, a settled phrase that you find each other saying more often these days. You nod, appreciatively at him, your blessing for him to take his leave. Still, he hesitates. Holds. Waits. Staying close in case you voice a need—in case you say you need him. 

He forces himself out of the room before he makes a fool of himself. 

—

Abbot finds you in the aftermath. When a clean blanket is covering the girl's face, and she’s been wiped of the blood and fluids, and moved to an observation room waiting for her family’s arrival. After you both have moved forward through the night in other cases. He finds you outside of the vending machine, your gaze stuck flicking between the number of options.

“You’re supposed to put money into the machine in order to get something out.”

The sound of his voice hardly surprises you, even from behind. Almost like you anticipate him throughout the night, expect to find him somewhere nearby—these days, you practically hear him in the swirl of your own thoughts. Guiding you, teasing you, comforting you. 

“I’m fighting a battle against the urge to gorge on chocolate.” You tell him succinctly, eyeing the trail mix hesitantly.

“How’s that going?”

“I’m losing.”

He huffs a breath then pulls out his card from his wallet. He steps up behind you, close enough where his chest brushes your shoulder as he reaches around and taps it against the machine's card reader. You don’t move from the innocent meeting of your bodies, out of some curious interest in seeing if he will. 

He doesn’t. You shove the desire to lean into his subtle touch with a ten-foot pole, beating it until it's nonexistent. 

He punches in ‘B6’ on the keypad without hesitation and watches as a Snickers bar is dropped from the rack. He bends down, reaching his hand through the slot and raises back up with a grunt, handing the chocolate bar to you.

Your stare is scolding, but you take the bar anyway. Ripping the wrapper and taking a bite of the candy. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Cushion before the blow.” He warns. Your chewing slows, eyes widening in dread at him.

“Our pregnant mom’s parents are here.” Jack explains and you sigh heavily. “She was sixteen.”

Solemnly nodding, your eyes find comfort in fixating on the tile floor. “We have her name?”

“Kerina Jackson.”

“Okay. I’ll head over now.”

“You want me in there?”

“No. I made the call, I can do it.”

“I don’t mind.”

He watches you think for a moment. Weighing the pros and cons of it all, before you meet his gaze. Looking into him as if searching for any insincerity or any indication that he might take your acceptance as weakness. 

Finding nothing, you nod slowly. “Yeah, okay. Please.”

The walk to the observation room is harrowing. Your candy lays half eaten in your hand before you eventually tuck it into your pocket, appetite lost. You both convene one final look at each other at the door—a quick check-in, an agreement to step in before doing so. Jack moves, his hand on the handle of the door and holds it open for you, following in after you. 

You speak first, introducing the both of you to the parents as the doctors responsible for overseeing their daughter. They hang onto your words with fevered worry. You tell them the outcome as softly as you can. Life shatters for them in an instant. 

Through their heaves and sobs, you manage to croak out. “The baby is stable, for now. He’s been sent up to NICU for care. One of our nurses can take you to go see him.”

“And our daughter, where is she?” Her father asks. 

Jack speaks then, “We have her ready for you in an observation room. You can see her whenever you’d like.”

“I speak for Dr. Abbot and I when I say that we are so sorry that this has happened.” You continue. They ask a few questions—what killed her? Severe blood loss. Blunt force trauma. How long were you operating on her? An hour and fifteen minutes. Are you sure you did everything you could? No. But that part stays quiet. 

The room descends in a choked mood. Tempered by the soft sobs to two mourning parents who have no questions to ask but to the God that decided to take their child. 

“We will be here for any other questions you have or help you may need.” Jack speaks amidst the tears. There’s gratitude at his insertion as you find yourself at a loss of what else to say. But Jack knows. He always knows. “If you let one of our nurses know, they’ll come get us.” 

His hand rests on the small of your back as he guides you both out of the room. It’s a welcome feeling, a steady rock on shaky ground. As soon as the touch is there, it’s gone. He’s rounding on you, staring intently into you. 

“You good?”

“No.” You shrug. “You?”

He crosses his arms, tendons in his forearms stretching for a moment as he opens and closes his palms. For a moment you see the sliver of the man—the one that is becoming more and more familiar to you. That he’s revealing slowly, a new crack into the armor each time you happen to be around when these things happen. Weary and upset in a way that stretches beyond anger at the unfairness of life. Targeted almost in judgement, in disappointment at choices—his and beyond. 

It touches depths of sadness and hurt in ways that he doesn’t often let show. Visible only in the slow nod of his head and the downturn curl of the corner of his lips. 

A slew of questions sits in his mind—What was she doing out on the road so late? What did she run into? Why wasn’t she wearing her seatbelt? Why the fuck was she pregnant at sixteen? Each is more devastating than the last, sticking a knife into his back and drags down, down, down the seam of his skin until he feels like he’s split into two.

His leg aches, loudly, but admitting that is forsaking a life that this young girl doesn’t get to have anymore. 

“Gotta keep going.” He says, plainly. But his lips curl downward and his stare says more than he thinks it does.  

Your fingers itch to grab onto him and hold him tight.

—

The sun rises slowly and with it comes the harrowing end of the shift. It couldn’t have come sooner.

You should run—make for the streets of Pittsburgh and never turn back. Let your heart race in adrenaline from something other than tragic chaos. Run for nonexistent hills that whisper a promise of calm and levied bliss as you leave PTMC and all that it holds. It’s an amusing thought. If you were stronger, more committed, you would. But the clock ticks past your scheduled exit time, your bag slung over your shoulder and yet, your feet remain firmly planted to the ground at the loading bay. Stuck, held, waiting. For something.

A sign, maybe. A reminder of why you’re here. 

“I need a beer.” 

Much like he’s done all night, Jack sidles up beside you. Appearing out of thin air and standing next to you. You’re brows furrow in question, having thought he had made for the rooftop like he usually does after a long shift. 

“Isn’t it too early for that?” You ask. 

“Never too early for a good thing.” He shrugs. “Isn’t that a ‘city that never sleeps’ specialty?” 

“Touché.” You nod in concession. Silence befalls the two of you as the world sounds around you. Cars drive by as people wake up, sirens from an ambulance ring only a hair’s width away. The air is cool on your skin and you take the moment to breathe. The urge to run wanes, slightly. 

“I’ve got some beer at my place.” You offer, casually. “Wanna head that way?”

Jack turns to meet your gaze. It's an innocuous invitation, smeared with exhaustion and nonchalance. Nothing untoward. Like you wouldn’t be offended if he didn’t take you up on it, just as you wouldn’t make it a big deal if he did. Your thumb points south, gesturing to your apartment, the complete opposite direction of his home. 

He tilts his head after a thoughtful moment of consideration. “You take the train?”

“Bus.”

“Fuck that. I’ll drive us.”

— 

Your apartment is deep in the strongarm of the city, right at the crossing between loud and hectic, and just past the Allegheny River. The building is as quaint as it is quiet, which isn’t saying much. A big, tall eyesore and Jack can’t help but scoff. 

City girl staying close to what she knows.

He follows, woefully out of his element, as you guide him past the concierge and through the modern and minimalist decor of the lobby into golden elevators. You press twelve on the buttons and the elevator ascends in a quiet hum—lulled only by the whir of the machine. 

Comfortable silence emphasizes the line that’s been drawn in the sand. Work staying at the steps of the hospital, far from a desirable topic of conversation, even farther from being a worthy disruption of the tranquility. Rehashing the night, wondering what could have been done differently is a task you both save for personal time in the privacy of your spaces when no one else is looking. 

“Bienvenido a mi casita.” You sing, tired and a feeble attempt at jovial, as your keys unlock the apartment door. 1224, he notes. Puts it up on the crowded shelf with everything else about you he pretends he isn’t storing. He steps inside, eyes scanning the home with barely concealed interest. 

It’s a small space, clean—save for the mail you have scattered on the counter and the stray bottle of cleaner that you have yet to put away. The apartment is decorated modestly, color popping in the pillows on your couch, the rug you have in the living room, the dinner mats on your two-chaired dinner table. Photos of friends, family, your nieces hang on every wall in a pleasant array. It’s lived in, alive, warm, yours.

He doesn’t realize he’s studying the place until you call from behind him from the kitchen, your head deep in the pantry. “You still want that beer? I can make some coffee instead?”

“Coffee’s good. Bl—”

“Black. I know.” You look at him over your shoulder, a twinkle somehow emerging in your eyes. From the ash of a smoldering fire that burned all that was sane, you still rise—sparking anew.  He watches, curious. You grab coffee grounds and move through your kitchen, filling the machine and starting a brew. 

“You hungry?” You ask. 

“Are you?”

“I could eat.” 

He didn’t come here to eat breakfast. He’s not sure why he even came in the first place. But he nods despite the uncertainty that makes him feel idiotic. “Sure.”

He wades awkwardly into your apartment. Unsure where to stand, how to take up less space, if he should bid his goodbye now or later. His eyes fall to a box leaning against your living room wall, beside your television that sits pathetically on the floor. 

“What’s going on here?” He asks, gesturing to the cardboard with black lettering that has too many umlauts above them. 

“A TV stand that I’ve been procrastinating building.” You respond, the sound of eggs cracking on the counter and into a bowl ringing throughout the room. 

“How long?”

“‘bout a month.”

“Christ.” He scoffs. “You waiting for God to show up?

“Something like that.” He hums. His eyes narrow for a moment, before deciding resolutely. 

“Got a tool kit?”

The morning unfolds slowly, comfortably. Jack sitting in your living room, building your TV stand to create a reason as to why he’s here. He pauses only when you plate up some breakfast. Eggs, toast, and a cup of coffee. He eats in a steady quiet with you, unsure when the last time he had breakfast with someone was.

Conversations are interspersed infrequently. Mostly unimportant; something about this new hot sauce you got from the farmer’s market and the plans you have for redecorating. He tells a stupid story about the billboard outside your apartment window that used to have the picture of the two twin lawyers and their fish man.

(“Their fish man?”

“Shenderovich, Shenderovich, and Fishman. 1-888-98-Twins.”

“Shenderovich to the second power. God, that’s awful.”

“You’re telling me.”)

Quiet things, small delights that bring the slight quirk to his lips and the gentle huff of laughter from you. The small things the diffuse the tension of the night, that force the slow revival into becoming a human again.

You take both plates when you finish, humming at his quiet thanks and returning to the kitchen to clean while he returns his attention to the stand. And it’s normal—so pointedly normal and domestic it’s a wonder this hasn’t been a routine occurrence. Jack is sore thumb in his scrubs sitting on your living room floor, your measly excuse for a toolkit beside him as he fits wooden slabs together and builds. An entirely new sight, certainly not something the version of you a few months ago would’ve thought you’d ever see, but it's a welcome one. 

Weirdly, he fits. His figure, his presence, him. Makes your home feel whole, meaningful.

Time passes with little recognition. It’s a relatively simple stand—easy and mindless to put together. The Swedes are built off of functional efficiency and he sends a quiet hail mary to the Scandinavians. One moment, Jack is scanning the instructions, his eyes glancing to yours as you place a glass of water beside his mug on the coffee table next to him. Then he blinks and the stand is assembled, only the quiet hum of the morning news sounding from your television. 

It’s a welcome thing. He’s never able to fully turn his mind off but in the mundane, the easy turn of the screw and the pleasing click of pieces together, the turmoil dulls to a quiet chatter and he can breathe easily. Zoned in so readily that he lost touch with reality for a second. Forgot where he was, what he was doing, who he was doing it for. 

He pushes the stand into the place where your TV sits on the ground, then lifts the TV onto its surface. Settling the furniture into the place that he supposes you would want—the place he thinks it looks best. 

He’s turning, content at being useful and ready to ask for your approval. Then he realizes that he’s heard very little from you while he was building.

He finds you on the couch behind him. Eyes shut, mouth slightly open as your breaths are softly and evenly exhaled in your sleep. Your hair is released from the tie you had to hold it back throughout the shift, the strands messily framing your face as you lay against the pillow of the couch. Still clad in your scrubs, your face settles peacefully as you rest. Not scrunched in frustration or stony in your focus. 

Under the soft of the morning light, a sharp contrast to the fluorescents he’s always seen you under, exhaustion resounds on your face. Tamed only by the sweetened sighs of your slumber that remedy the ailment. You sleep, sweet and easy.

A stray strand of hair crosses over your nose, moving with the rhythmic rise and falls of your breaths. A twitch aches in his fingers. Spurned by need and the deep rooted ache of loneliness that craves the taste of tenderness. 

He brushes the strand away from your face, eyes focused on the action, watching your face remain peacefully asleep. Relishes in the brief moment of softness he’s been afforded. 

There’s a twinge of guilt as he has to disturb the solitude, yours and his, when he taps your leg gently. You stir in tired confusion.

“Lock the door behind me.”

“You’re going?” You ask, wiping your mouth, sounding disappointed at the notion. 

“Yeah. You need to sleep.”

“You sure? You can stay.”

The excuse is on his tongue fighting against the urge to read into that. There was hardly a reason for him to be here today, much less one for him to linger around. Insist and bore drill into the cracks of his thick skull that this shouldn’t happen again. That this is inappropriate. 

It’s pointedly not, though. He built a stand for you, you made him breakfast. That was all there was to it. That’s all that was being expected by you, because why would you expect anything further?

(You wouldn’t. Because there’s nothing going on. Despite the stares from the nurses, and the whispers of a rumored bet, and the lingering glances that get sent between you two—nothing is going on.

He’s sure of it.)

But, Jack doesn’t do things flippantly, without purpose. And walls don’t get torn down, softened, for just any reason. In the ingrained pattern that Dr. Mott insists is a defense mechanism and that Jack believes is just normal human condition, he feels the walls so carefully erected find their place once more. Fortified to shut out the possibility of some inane want for something burn without restraint within him. 

The armor that’s been slowly cracking back settles onto him and he aims for a neutral expression. Curt, succinct. No room for error. “Thanks for breakfast.” 

“Thanks for the stand, you didn’t have to do that. But it looks great.” You trail behind him slowly as he walks towards your front door. “I’ll be calling you for all of my furniture builds. I’m spoiled now, old man.”

Here’s the chance. Stop it here, smother the budding growth of a tender seed before it takes root and spreads into his lungs. Prevent the tendons from reaching up his throat, crawling into his brain, and mold the perfect image of you into the grey matter. 

He should tell you, firmly, that this will not happen again. Throw in a degrading tease, diffuse the sincerity of the moment. Get you to stop looking at him like he means something.

“Anytime, city girl.” He says, instead. 

You smile— warm, relaxed, gentle and he’s ready to aim gun to temple at the realization of how much he likes it. He can only do what he knows best, what he does with everything else he stupidly seems to notice and grab onto with you, and puts it on the shelf. Half ready to lock it in a chest deep in his mind and toss the key into a cavernous abyss. 

“I’ll hold you to it.” You say, content. And he nods.

He drives back in silence and the promise forged in tired smiles and quiet closeness chokes him all the way home.

a/n: i would like it known, this is the fastest i have ever put out work in a series. im just so bewitched by this middle aged man, i want him inside me.

know this is a quick one and not much happens but i'm a true believer in slow burn being both slow and burning :)

next one will be fun, promise!

[eternlmoonshine]

theoretical knowledge vs. practical application ☆ spencer reid

summary: spencer studies intimacy like any other subject, but nothing prepares him for the reality of being with you. in your arms, he finally learns that some things can’t be understood- only experienced. pairing: inexperienced!spencer reid x reader warnings: fluff galore, lots of kissing (practically making out), intimacy, but no explicit sexual content! wc: 1.1k masterlist. a/n: this brilliant idea came from my very lovely moot @/jackiesistired over on twitter <33

Spencer had read five books about kissing.

Not just any books, no. They were scientific, psychology-based books that broke down the act of kissing into its most basic neurological, physiological, and psychological components. He’d also skipped numerous peer-reviewed journal articles, and, at some point, had managed to venture into less scientific territory- modern dating guides that made his skin crawl but ultimately did provide insight into what people expected in relationships.

And then, there was the… other research.

The kind that led to him sitting in front of his laptop at 3 a.m., his ears burning as he read about intimacy in ways he hadn’t yet experienced. He took notes. Intricate organized, handwritten notes in which he annotated his key findings, storing them away like highly classified information.

But all of it- all of the extensive research- meant absolutely nothing the moment your lips crashed against his.

⊱ ───────── {⋅. ✯ .⋅} ───────── ⊰

You and Spencer had been dating for a few months now, and while things had been progressing steadily, he hadn’t made any major moves beyond gentle, lingering kisses and hesitant, shaky touches. 

He was shy about it- not because he didn’t want you to know, but because he was terrified of messing up. He’d told you early on about his utter lack of experience, and you had reassured him earnestly that there was no pressure.

But he wanted more. He wanted to touch you the way you touched him. He wanted to kiss you until you were both breathless, and he wanted to see if reality could really live up to things he had spent so long reading about. He wanted to know if he was capable of making you feel good.

Most of all, he desperately wanted to stop overthinking.

Which is how he found himself here.

Spencer hadn’t realised just how sensitive he was until he was beneath your hands, beneath your lips, and was trying (and failing) to stay coherent.

You had started slow and gentle, kissing him with a sweet, lingering tenderness, but the moment he responded- the moment he made the quiet, needy sound in the back of his throat- you deepened it. Suddenly, he wasn’t sure if he could survive this.

Your fingers tangled in his curls, tugging softly, and the delicious whine that escaped him was so involuntary, so desperate, that you felt him tense in embarrassment.

You pulled back just enough to whisper against his lips, “Don’t hold back.”

His breath hitched. His head spun as his grip on your waist tightened, unsure whether to pull you closer until there was no air between you or to push you away before he completely unraveled under your touch.

“I- I don’t-” He swallowed harshly as your lips gently brushed across his jaw. “I didn’t know I was this-”

“Sensitive?” you supplied graciously, dragging your lips down his neck.

Spencer shuddered. “Y-yeah,” he admitted, voice wrecked already.

You smiled against his soft skin. “I like it.”

He let out a ragged breath, his eyes fluttering shut as you pressed kisses down the column of his throat. “I- I think I do too.”

You laughed softly as you trailed lower, and Spencer actually whimpered.

You’d never heard a sound quite like that from him before- so high and desperate- a noise that he clearly hadn’t intended to make. His whole body twitched beneath your teasing touch, and he was gripping the couch cushions like they were his sole tether to reality. 

“Oh, God-” His voice cracked as your teeth grazed over his pulse point, his hips shifting instinctively beneath you.

He inhaled sharply as you went back up and pressed a kiss just beneath his jaw. Suddenly, his brain kicked into overdrive. "Did you know that the skin along the neck has an increased concentration of sensory receptors? It’s why-" His words cut off with a sharp inhale when your lips gently caressed the skin where his neck met his shoulder.

"Why what?" you teased, brushing your lips lightly over his neck.

"Why- it’s- um- " His breath hitched. "It’s a- an erogenous zone- highly sensitive- oh-" 

"You were saying?" you murmured, dragging your lips up the column of his throat.    

"I-" He tried again, but when you nipped lightly at his jaw, his thoughts crumbled.    

You pulled back to take in the sight of him. He was flushed, panting, his pupils blown wide with something akin to pleading.

“Spencer,” you murmured, running your fingers through his tousled curls, reveling in how he leaned into your touch like he was starving for it.

He looked up at you in a daze, his lips parted like he was trying to form words, but he failed to find them.

“I-” He swallowed hard. “I did research on this.”

You tilted your head slightly and bit your lip, amused. “Uh-huh?”

“Very extensive research,” he admitted, his voice hoarse. “A lot of it.”

“And what did your research tell you?” You hummed softly as you trailed your fingers lightly down his chest.

He inhaled sharply as he tried not to react to your touch. “That, uh- physical contact increases oxytocin, which promotes bonding, and- oh-” His voice broke when you pressed a kiss just below his ear, his whole body trembling beneath yours.

You grinned. “Go on, Spencer.”

“I- I-” His fingers clenched at your hips as you shifted, his breath stuttering. “Oh, my God-”

You kissed him again, slow and deep, and he let out the softest moan against your lips, feeling utterly helpless.

His hands trembled where they held you, like he was overwhelmed and he didn’t know where to move them. Like he was afraid that if he moved too much, or breathed too much, he might just lose control completely.

“You are adorable,” you whispered against his lips, dragging your nails lightly down his back.

He exhaled shakily. "I- um- "

Your smile softened, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Let’s practice more.”

Spencer’s hands tightened on your waist, and for once, he didn’t overthink.

He just felt.

And it was so much better than anything he had ever read.

⊱ ───────── {⋅. ✯ .⋅} ───────── ⊰

Later, when you were curled up against him, fingers tracing lazy circles on his chest, he let out a quiet, disbelieving laugh.

You lifted your head. “What?”

He shook his head, cheeks still tinged pink. “I spent weeks preparing. Studying. Making sure I knew everything I could possibly know. And yet…” He looked down at you, still dazed. “Nothing I read could have prepared me for you.”

You smiled, pressing a lingering kiss to his jaw.

“That’s because,” you murmured, “some things you just have to experience.”

Spencer exhaled shakily, pulling you closer.

“Then I think I still have a lot to learn.”

You grinned, playing with the curls at the nape of his neck. “Good thing I loved teaching you.”

And when you kissed him again, he decided that practical application was his new favorite subject.

[literaturepublishersjournal]

Clinical Images and Case Reports Journal 

About Journal

Clinical Images and Case Reports Journal (CICRJ) is a peer-reviewed indexed medical journal established Internationally which provides a platform to publish Clinical Images, Medical Case Reports, Clinical Case Reports, Case Series (series of 2 to 6 cases), Research and Clinical Videos in Medicine. Clinical image journal is a indexed journal accepting clinical images submission, journal of clinical images, journals publishing clinical images in medicine, clinical imaging submission journal and medical illustrations etc. Journal of clinical case reports publishes case reports in clinical medicine, clinical reports, journals accepting clinical case reports submission and journal of clinical cases. Journal of medical case reports publishing medical case reports, journals accepting medical case reports submission etc.

[plusdoctor-blog]

Neurology EMR Software programs to find the right system for your ... Practice EHR. A comprehensive overview of your chronic patients. See their past visits, lab & vital trends and medical records in a single view.

[torusdove]

Med-student!Satoru who comes home late after spending the entire day cramming for his upcoming exam.

Don't get me wrong; he is insanely smart, and he doesn't need a lot of time to progress and understand the given material. He does, however, want to get to the bottom of things, understanding them beyond whatever the professor had taught them.

He took pleasure into understanding and getting down to a t about the different concepts. It's no surprise that he loves the complexity of neurology, neoplasia and the immune system.

However, something as simple as anatomy has had his heart ever since the beginning of his degree. Especially because it was something he could share with you.

—

"Nd this," he had whispered out, index finger softly pushing down on the little slope that was right between your collarbones, "this is what we call the manubrium. It's the first part of your sternum."

Satoru had learnt this in his first year, remembering the very few classes he had gotten about anatomy in the first quarter. How he had practiced on Suguru's chest to find the manubriosternal joint.

Now, he was trying to find it on you.

His finger trailed a little more downwards, just above the cleavage of your breasts, "then there is a thin line in between the first part, the manubrium, and the middle part, which we call the corpus of the sternum."

This wasn't the first time Satoru had laid in your sheets, hand resting in the palm of his hand, which he held up by leaning on his elbow in bed, half his body turned to you. You had loved it from the very first time he had started doing it. It felt intimate, and yet so meaningful.

Satoru chose your body to describe something he had an interest in, something he wanted to pursue a career in. He explained it in simple terms, making sure you could always follow along and understand what he was saying or illustrating.

"The thin line is known as the manubriosternal joint, an identification mark for doctors to find the second costa, which is latin for rib, as it is immediately attached to the manubriosternal joint." You could feel how his finger would move a little more tot the right, in search of your second rib. Once he could feel the bone underneath his fingertip, he smiled softly before going back to the very middle, trailing downwards in between your breasts.

When it fell right underneath your costal arch, you felt your breath hitch in your throat, eying his face, only to find his eyes completely focused on his fingertip, "The xiphoid process is the last part of your sternum, divided from the corpus by the xiphisternal joint."

You knew exactly what would happen next, already opening your arms widely to let him settle his head on top of your chest, right on the apex of your heart.

"To listen to your heartbeat," he had admitted once, after a very long day at his univeristy.

So, without keeping him up any longer to make sure he'd be rested for tomorrow, you had placed your lips against his temple, murmuring his favourite sentence against his soft skin, "I love you, 'toru."

[kisses4themissus]

What is this feeling? | M.R x Reader

a/n: yess i'm posting pt2 already, i was excited and this is a bit of story set up for the next upcoming parts! Tysm for all the support and nice comments!! pairing: Michael "Robby" Robinavitch X Single Mom!Reader wc : 2.7k

Previous | Requests are open for dr. robby! | masterlist | Next

The sound of a notification catches your attention during a conversation with another doctor about a patient. You ignored it at first but had to excuse yourself as it dinged once more.

You pulled out your phone, worried it was about your daughter but was relived to see the words.

Floor checks.

Every few months gloria would be forced to do checks of each active hospital floor; you sighed before turning to find the nearest nurse to make her aware of the situation.

Once it had gotten out floor checks would be that day, you watched as nurses and a few doctors help label medication, place caps on all IVs, clean up their stations. Thankfully your departments knew how to work together to get the cleanest result possible.

You walked around the floor, checking with your own eyes.

Noticing when something was missing or wrong, you’d quickly having a nurse fix it. It was a joke among ICU staff you had run them tighter than the navy. “Someone get more green caps for the IVs…and me a redbull please.” You added making some of the nurses chuckle.

“Cafeteria ran out.” One of the nursing assistants infomed you all. “I’ll order some coffee after we’re cleared of gloria.” You waved it off as you resumed your own sweep of the floor.

 - - - - - - - -

“Everything seems to be in order, so it’s gonna be an eight.” Gloria smiled as you beamed at the score. “Thank you gloria!” You smiled and walked with her to the elevators.

“ED’s the last floor this year?” You asked, pressing the elevator’s button. “Yes, thought i’d save the worse for last.” She sighed, shaking her head.

“It wasn’t so bad down there.” You chuckled. 

“And how long ago was that?” She smiled at you before turning to step into the elevator. “Are you calling me old?” You both laughed as you acted flattered.

It was a hidden fact that you were cross trained, between emergency medicine and intensive care. Rarely anyone at the hospital knew of it. Jack was your attending when you worked in the ED.

 - - - - - - - -

Stepping out of the elevator you bounced over to central where around it, all of the ED ran around, trying their best to clean up for floor checks.

“How’d it go?” Langdon asked, making you grin. “Like always…eight!” You watched as langdon playful roll his eyes at you.

“Eight?” Santos asked, sitting away from you both. 

You nod at her tone. “Ten is impossible, like none of the patients are sick, and nine is also insanely ridiculous for example there can’t be any trash in the trashcans kind of ridiculous.” You summarized. 

“So eight is the most realistic?” She finished making you nod with a smile. “Yep, the ICU and neurological are always tied.” You chuckled, langdon just groaned as he walked away and towards a patient’s room.

“What does the pitt always get?” She asked, making you chuckle as robby ran across the ED, helping out his other interns. “Three, or if it’s a miracle than a four.” 

Santos nodded before being pulled away by a patient’s parent.

You stood by central and smiled as you pulled out your phone, your heart began melting as your dad sent you a video of lovebug at soccer practice.

Her tiny pigtails flew behind her as she ran with the ball, laughing as her and her friend bump into each other. 

“With that kind of smile you must have a hot lover?” A voice asked from behind you, making you close your phone and turn back with a grin.

“Hi myrna.” You greeted the older woman, who smirked at you. “No one’s got me hooked yet.” You chuckled, squatting down beside her. “How did you do it this time?” You asked, earning a proud look on myrna’s face, she sat up a bit more in the wheelchair.

“Meat grinder.” She beamed.

You nodded slowly, getting up as you heard the staff elevators open and the familiar clicking of kitten heels. “Well next time, make sure to get one of the automatic ones ok; don’t need you getting arthritis from that meat grinder!” You playfully pointed at the blond who nodded.

She quickly wheeled herself away, leaving you to turn to see robby getting caught by gloria as he tried to sneak past.

Robby groaned, slipping off his glasses before motioning for gloria to follow him. Quickly running up to the pair, robby held in a obnoxious sigh at the sight of your cheeky face. “May I join you both, i mean the ICU is one of the higher scoring departments..” You said, your arms tucked behind your back as you bounced on your heels.

Robby turned to you with a look of distaste. He shook his head no at your request.

Gloria looked around the pitt before nodding at you. “I think a new pair of eyes would do good.” Gloria agreed and began walking ahead.

Like the cheshire cat, your smile grew as you tilted your head at robby and shrugged before walking to catch up with gloria.

 - - - - - - - -

You hadn’t spoken since you had joined the pair in the check, quietly making observations.

As you three entered the last room before the final score, you had spotted a disconnected feeding tube, quickly noticing before robby or gloria. You ran by the monitor and began looking around, using your body to cover the feeding tube.

“I think this is the most decent room i’ve seen so far.” You smiled at the pair, robby raised an eyebrow at your stiff body movement but moved on as gloria exited and walked back to central.

You waited for them to be a bit further before stepping to the door of the room, whitaker stopped as you motioned for him to come into the room with the intubated patient. “You need to change the feeding tube, somehow it got disconnected, now luckily i don’t think gloria or dr. robinavitch noticed.” You softly explained, motions to the tiny puddle of liquid on the ground.

“Oh um, thank you we had to move him on his side, it must’ve disconnected.” He explained, nervous as to why you weren’t yelling at him for the mistake.

“Things happen, just watch for it next time ok, now go get that tube.” You smiled and stepped out of the room.

Whitaker just nodded at your words and made his way to the supply closet for another tube. How could robby not like you? You seemed nice, you had even brought treats for the ED the week before.

 - - - - - - - -

As you approached central, you watched robby throw his hands up both clenched before he stormed off towards the ambulance bay. Dana sighed, her glasses now at the bridge of her nose.

“How low?” You asked dana who sighed, placing her hands on the desk. “...Two, and now robby’s all in a mood so god help us all it’s gonna be hell.” Dana took off her glasses and tossed them aside.

You sucked in a breath, eyeing the ambulance bay. With a swift movement you patted the desk and walked outside, luckily it hadn’t been too busy.

Stopping in your tracks as robby paced outside, his hands behind his head as he muttered curses under his breath. “You doing ok?” You asked cautiously.

Robby let out groan at your voice. “Go back to your uppity tower alright, some of us actually have to work down here.” He barked at you, with a shocked expression you scoffed at him. 

“Excuse you?!” You walked closer to him.

“I’ve covered for your lazy ass so much during this whole floor check!” You laughed at his audacity. “I kept my mouth shut about the amount of wrong labeled medication– Or, or about a leaking feeding tube on the ground!” You began to list off the amount of mistakes you hadn’t brought up to gloria.

“Oh or–or that poor old lady with h.i.t upstairs not a peep, you should be kissing my ass by the way, i managed to persuade her children from a lawsuit!” You scoffed, not caring about the looks you both were getting from the EMTs.

“Oh congratulation on being a manipulator.” Robby scoffed, shaking his head at you.

“I may not save as many lives as you but I sure am saving your ass a lot robinavitch!” You scoffed, walking away from robby and back towards the elevators. 

Robby scoffed and shook his head as you walked away.

Dana quickly walked out on to the ambulance bay and placed her hands on her hips. “Robby, we have an incoming car crash victims, ETA is ten minutes.” She informed him, noticing as robby rubbed his face before nodding.

 - - - - - - - -

After your argument with robby, you had thrown yourself back into your work, checking over patients and their treatment.

Finally you had gotten to sit down at your desk, throwing your head back you sighed. It had only been the late afternoon, few more hours before you could cuddle your lovebug and fall asleep on the couch after a few episodes of my little pony with lovebug.

Buzzing of your phone dragged you back to reality, you quickly picked up, not noticing the contact.

“Hello?” You answered.

“Hi sweetie, listen i justed wanted to call to see if you or lovebuggie wanted to join us for a small dinner tonight for his um- uh anniversary.” 

You heart dropped at the other voice. “Hi lauren, um i’m kind of stuck at work but um, you could call my parents they have her right now..” You faked a happy tone. “Oh alrighty then, get home safe then honey.” 

The line disconnected, looking at the date on your phone made you sigh heavily, quickly standing up and walking out of the ICU.

 - - - - - - - -

Walking into the hospital’s small church felt off, you had noticed one other person in there as well, a younger boy, he had his arms resting on the pew in front of him, his eyes staring at the fake stained window.

You sighed and sat down on the pew a few in front of him, you fidgeted with something inside your jacket pocket before pulling out a small wooden heart charm.

Rubbing the heart made you bust into tears.

Shuffling was heard behind you for a moment, as you leaned your head into your palms as tears fell. “Can i sit here ma’am?” A voice asked beside you, picking up your head you nodded and scooted over to make room for the younger boy and handed you a tissue.

“Thanks.” 

The boy wordlessly nodded and continued to stare at the glass.

“I lost my girlfriend a few months back..” He explained, his own tears falling. You nod at him to continue.

“We were at pittfest, she got shot, the doctors couldn’t even save her.” He sighed, tears now flowing. “She was so young..” He added, now holding his head in his palms.

You nodded and began rubbing his back in comfort, “I know the pain, my boyfriend passed six years ago, he had just moved to his first apartment, i remember how excited he was..” You sighed, wiping your tears away.

“He was at the wrong place at the wrong time, he had gotten into an accident, the guys who hit his car jumped him, he wasn’t recognizable when he was brought in..” You paused, trying to stop your tears.

“I was so upset, angry, confused at the doctor, he would save lives constantly but yet he couldn’t save my boyfriend..” 

Jake looked up from his palms to see you taking deep breaths. 

“Does it get easier?” He asked, glancing over at you.

With a tearful shrug you chuckled. “Over time you realize there was nothing that could stop the inevitable from happing, he alway would say that, annoyed me to death.” You laughed, earning a small chuckle from jake.

“Do you wish you had more time?” Jake asked, earning a nod. “Always, i could imagine what our future could’ve been, he loved kids, told me how he had wanted a big family, scared me half to death.” You both laughed, wiping away tears.

“I wish i could take back what i told the doctor, i was a resident, i said things i never meant..i never got to tell him how sorry i was; a year later Covid happened, he had sent a letter before he passed, telling me how he knew deep down i didn’t mean any of it..” You sniffled, jake tiled his head. 

“What doctor?” He asked, You sighed and sat up straighter.

“Doctor adamson; I transferred to ICU not long after, i couldn’t work in the place where i said some bad things.” You motioned for your ICU badge.

Jake sat there and pondered everything with robby.

“I- I did the same with the doctor who treated my girlfriend; would he forgive me after all this time?” Jake asked honestly, making you nod.

“What doctor treated your girlfriend?” You asked, wiping the tears away for a final time.

“Um, dr. robby; he’s sort of been my father figure majority of my life..” Jake explained, looking as you sighed and nodded.

“Robinavitch is a good man, too much like adamson in my opinion.” You both laughed.

“I’m certain he would forgive you in a heartbeat, just if you apologize, don’t be a pussy, hug him; he always looks too grumpy.” You added.

“I think that’s just his face.” Jake joked, earning a laugh from you.

 - - - - - - - -

Robby had grown tired of the day, thankful only two more hours before he’d go home once more.

As he sat at central, a tap on his shoulder, he turned expecting an intern or langdon but was surprised to see jake standing behind him with a neutral face.

“Jake, what are you doing here? Is your mom alright?” Robby hopped up, his mind flying fast, jake only shook his head at robby and looked down at his shoes.

“I- i never meant what i said months ago, about not being your friend or my father..” Jake’s words made the central quiet down around the pair.

“Mom had me go to therapy and it wasn’t really working but i talked to someone and they went through the same thing and she never got to tell the doctor how sorry she was and who she never meant any of her words, and i don’t want that to be us...I’m sorry, robby.” Jake apologized.

Robby nodded, his eyes teared up at jake. The two hugged, a feeling of warmth fell over the pair, their relationship now repaired.

“Who did you talk too that made me cry from that?” Robby asked, laughing as he wiped his eyes.

“Someone from ICU, she had a black jacket on.” Jake answered mindlessly.

You had been right about saving robby a bunch of times.

 - - - - - - - -

Entering the ICU pod once more you noticed the cluster of workers in the nursing station, you chuckled and walked over.

“What are you all hiding over here?” You asked, another ICU doctor handed you a cup of coffee, your name scribbled on the top.

“Who got the coffee?” You asked, noticing as the staff now were returning to their desks.

“I thought you bought it.” One of the nurses said, sipping on her coffee, letting out a squeal. You tilted your head and placed the coffee down and searched for a note but came up empty handed.

With a sigh, you shrugged and went on about your evening, smiling as night shift began to shuffle in over the hours.

You had finished up in a patient’s room as you walked to your desk to collect your bag, stopping as your tupperware sat on your desk, a post it on the lid.

For always saving my ass, enjoy with the decaf coffee - Dr. Robby

Inside sat store bought cookies, you chuckled at the note and collected your things before exiting through the park.

As you walked through, you saw robby from a far, he had also spotted you by your car, he raised his beer can your way; with a quick glance around and held up your cup before getting into your car.

You shook off the weird fluttering in your stomach and placed the car into drive.

As you drove to your parents you couldn’t help but laugh as wicked played on the radio, maybe you and robby were like glinda and elphaba.

next!!

single mom! taglist: @nerdgirljen @whatdoesntkillyoumakesyoustrange @snowflames-world

[holychopshopgalaxy]

flint gifting miranda la galatea - a story involving two friends in love with the same person who agree to not let it interfere with their friendship, and more broadly as a whole, an examination of how different lives intertwine - as a means of apologizing is so impactful it literally gave me new brain circuitry undiscovered by science. just the quiet understanding between them of how much thomas meant to the other, even though their relationships with him were very different. we don't see alot of miranda and thomas together in the flashbacks but from what we do see, it tells us what we need to grasp the depths of her loss and why she misses her life back then so badly.

truly like... he was her twin. they shared such an open, playful affection. there was an abundance of free-flowing admiration in the way they talked to or about each other, they trusted each other completely with their personal lives without reservation, and their mutual happiness together was so transparent and palpable. when miranda walked into the study and they joked around together the room practically lit up (can we blame james for acting like a deer in headlights there). like their free-spirit bestie bohemian vibe was radiant. regardless of whether you interpret their arrangement as a lavender marriage or a romantic/sexual one, it would have been rare for a man and a woman in that era to find a genuinely happy partnership of equals the way they did.

so the few times we see when james oversteps a bit and acts like his grief and anger are more important than hers and miranda snaps back... miranda truly a better woman than i am because i think it would've been valid for her to hit back a little more severely. james was with thomas for ~9(?) months, but what miranda had with him was presumably years.

so when flint gives her la galatea with the inscription "i'm sorry"... yes, that's a well-deserved apology indeed, and now my neurological functioning will never be the same again

[ryanthedemiboy]

Hi, anon here! To those asking:

Yes I have POTS, which is under control. I never considered it could be a related problem though. I have quite some time before my next appt, I might send him a message.

Does a really big yawn and stretch ever make you pass out or go into the beginning stages of shock?