#Code Paralysis

[scriptingthewhy]

Breaking Coding Blocks: Small Steps to Boost Your Development Productivity

AI-generated image. “How am I ever going to get this done?” project = “Hello Stress” Picture this: you’re at your desk, the clock is ticking, and a looming deadline stares back at you from your screen. Your project feels like a tangled web of half-finished ideas, and your confidence is wavering. The thought of failure creeps in as you grapple with learning new concepts, managing expectations,…

[scaryspears]

Terry Silver + Daniel theory (essay)

(The only reason I actually watched Cobra Kai was for Terry Silver and the other chaos)

I believe Terry Silver is the real reason Daniel wanted Cobra Kai's extinction. Daniel was bullied by Johnny, but being bullied was nothing compared to what Terry did to him.

Daniel was being stalked, harassed and assaulted. To learn that Terry was the mastermind behind all of it must've been very frightening for him. From the very beginning, Terry's character is rooted in deception. Terry introduces himself as Kreese's old friend, but also portrays himself as someone Daniel can trust. He 'saves' Daniel from Mike Barnes. Meanwhile, he's breaking and entering into Mr Miyagi's home (while Daniel and Miyagi are there, that's bold), and shows up at the club while Daniel was hanging out with Jessica.

When Daniel tells Terry that he no longer wants any lessons once he realises what it's doing to him, Terry becomes chillingly cold. Daniel saw glimpses of this Terry during their training together, but now the mask has completely gone off. I cannot imagine how terrified Daniel must've felt.

Let's add Mike Barnes to the equation. Imagine some random boy shows up at your home and the store you're trying to build, vadalising property with his lackies, and beating you and your friend up, threatening you. You find out that your mentor and this boy were working with each other this entire time. To make things worse, you've been told that someone died. And then that person shows up and jump scares you.

It's pretty terrifying when you think about it.

Yes, Daniel was bullied by Johnny Lawrence, and it was bad. Being bullied isn't something people can easily move on from, especially with the different kinds of bullying people have experienced (physical, verbal ect.) On the other hand, being stalked is the sort of thing that makes you look over your shoulder for the rest of your life. Being deceived gives you trust issues. Daniel's problem wasn't Johnny Lawrence, it was Cobra Kai. Daniel found out that the reason Johnny was the way he was was because of Kreese. Not to mention, Kreese strangled Johnny in a fit of rage and smacked another student.

Going back to the 3rd film, Cobra Kai's teachings turned Daniel into someone he wasn't. Before Daniel was trained by Mr Miyagi he was a relatively decent person. Yes, he had a bad temper, but only because he was being provoked into behaving like that. We saw in the first film that Daniel's idea of revenge was sprinkling some water onto Johnny, which was nothing compared to what Johnny and his friends did to Daniel. When Daniel punched that guy at the club he immediately felt terrible, and tried to do the right thing. He went out of his way to call the police station so that he could apologise to the guy. He didn't enjoy what he did, he doesn't enjoy harming other people. Daniel's a hothead, but he's not a monster.

Fast forward to years later, and we see why Cobra Kai is bad. We saw it with Miguel. Yes, it teaches you confidence and what not, but it also teaches you to embrace your bad traits. With Johnny as the teacher it's not so bad, but when Kreese comes into the picture it's 10x worse. Hawk vandalised Miyagi-do. Tory started the school fight. They came to the LaRusso house to fight everyone there. (I haven't gotten over the fact that they threw a kid through a window).

Cobra Kai teaches you to become a bad person.

Terry Silver makes his return. The expression on Daniel's face isn't the same one he had when he re-meets Johnny. Terry gives Daniel a sincere apology, but Daniel rejects it. First of all, Terry shows up with Kreese, with the same hairstyle he had years ago. The fact that he showed up at all while there's a karate tournament that Daniel is involved in couldn't mean anything good.

The way Terry reacts to the rejection is concerning. It was as if he was entitled to it. If not entitled, then he expected his apology to be accepted. Like Mike's apology. Chozen's apology. Johnny's apology?

I firmly believe Daniel's rejection was the motive behind Terry's actions. Daniel tried to end Cobra Kai, only for Terry to come along and try to turn it into his legacy. Terry shows up to charity events that Daniel is involved in, and tries to break his marriage bit by bit.

Terry is obsessed with Daniel.

Both as a mentor and potentially something else. We know that Terry is a very capable mentor, as we've seen with his relationship with Kenny. It's kind of hinted that Terry himself was bullied, and we see glimpses of this in the war flashbacks. He's called 'Twig', and he didn't like that name. Mean nicknames are a version of name calling if you ask me.

Terry probably saw himself in Daniel, and felt like he could've shared a connection with Daniel were it not for the whole revenge thing. "There was always a little Cobra Kai in you." Whether he was correct doesn't matter, but the fact that he said it does.

Cobra Kai's philosophy is rooted in its origins. Master Kim used it to defend himself from Japanese soldiers during ww2. Knowing what the Japanese did during those times, I can see why he developed the whole "Strike first. Strike hard. No mercy."

Unlike Miyagi-do, which preaches inner peace and being a better version of yourself to defend yourself and others, Cobra Kai is the opposite. They turn your weakness (or gets rid of) into a weapon for destruction. To harm others before they can think of harming you. To intimidate other people so that they can never be comfortable. Cobra Kai is rooted in suffering. It's rooted in being angry at the world. The bullied becoming the bully.

Weakness is not allowed.

We saw this with Kenny. He went to Cobra Kai, and Kreese was anything but welcoming. Kenny had to prove himself before he could be trained. Even Robby was a little doubtful. Kenny is a mirror to Daniel. Terry's 'second chance'. Kenny wanted to learn self defense, but that turned into getting his lick back. Making Anthony's life a living hell. That could've become Daniel if it weren't for Miyagi and the fact that Daniel didn't enjoy hurting people.

I think that's what made Terry's mentorship with Kenny special. Kenny gave into the darkness, but Daniel rejected it. Daniel is the puppet who broke free.

I believe that's why Terry wanted (expected) his apology to be accepted. It not only showed that he became 'better', but it meant he still had some control over Daniel. After so many years (decades), Terry still refers to Daniel as 'Danny boy'. It implies that he still thinks he can easily access Daniel, or still shares an 'intimate' relationship even though they haven't seen each other for decades.

Terry was a competent teacher. If you remove the Cobra Kai cruelty and brainwashing, I think he would've been great. Yes, he came to the All Valley to become a sensei once again, but we all know he returned for the love of the game (Daniel). As stated before, Terry got upset from the fact that Daniel was forgiving everyone but him. Whenever he saw Daniel with anyone he would stare in rage. He was always pleased to show up unannounced to surprise Daniel.

We all know he hasn't changed, but going out of your way to wreak havoc just because someone rejected your apology is crazy work.

[subdigitals]

Feel free to leave essays in the tags, replies, and reblogs of this post. Tell me every thought you have!

[all-yourn]

Dean Winchester and Lot’s wife

Feeling Backward: Loss and the Politics of Queer History (2007), Heather Love / 11x21 / In the Dream House (2019), Carmen Maria Machado / Genesis 19:24-26 / 6x20 / The Dean Winchester Beat Sheet (2019), saltyfeathers / 15x18

[lemonjestercoffee]

for totally not projecting onto my blorbo reasons- i think when Vivia actually sleeps (as opposed to the false sleeping with his forte) he frequently gets sleep paralysis.

why? idk, maybe it's a side affect his forte creates due to his mind being use to being able to wander without the body, only for it to be held down when he's actually asleep. sleep paralysis comes from the brain being actively awake while the body isn't, and that's basically what Vivia's forte does but more- so when he's actually asleep and isn't using his forte sometimes shit gets a little weird

[lilacxquartz]

Are you going to continue more stories for your OC? 😊 I like the idea of a live in sleep paralysis demon who also seems awkward kind of, reads a bit like a webcomic which is something I have been enjoying

i have some ideas planned for him! there are a couple of writing/monthly challenges coming up that i’ll be including him in but also i’m waiting to be able to draw again so i can give my guy cover art again for my stories with him

thank you for liking the oc though, that means a lot 😭💜

[stormslullaby]

verlaine's not surprised when chuuya pulls away even though there is a certain look in pale eyes when he does. but there was one thing he achieved, at the very least. small victories were better than none.

hearing what's been said to him, verlaine straightens and bows his head briefly. "of course, sir." it felt foreign on his tongue. bitter. but the line had been firmly drawn and it wasn't like verlaine didn't know how to act in the eyes of authority.

he stays still for a beat before he moves to grab his gloves, slipping them back on and falling into step behind chuuya. even if it sounded like a victory, he himself couldn't rest until he was sure that his brother was actually asleep instead of doing god knows what.

he settles for leaning against a wall now, although he was likely to move to a chair later. he didn't quite plan on entirely leaving chuuya by himself. rimbaud and kouyou could handle any situation that arose for now. if by some chance that they couldn't handle it by themselves, rimbaud knew where to find him.

crossing his arms over his chest, he doesn't turn his attention away from his brother. he could get some kind of penalty for insubordination, he knows, but chuuya's wellbeing was above any punishment that could be dished out. verlaine knew how to endure anything that was tossed his way.

How many times had he heard something like that before?

Too many, but usually not from Verlaine. Ironically, it was usually from someone he hated even more.

Dazai.

It had never really mattered to him, the idea that other people were or weren't looking. Whether or not anyone else would know. The two of them would know, still. He would know, and he would think back on those moments where he let himself be something he didn't want to be around anyone.

Weak.

It wasn't that he was incapable of leaning on anyone else when he needed to, but that was the key component of it all. When he needed to. He could stomach having to take someone's shoulder, or be carried back to headquarters, bruised and bleeding after using Corruption, in order to do what needed to be done and save lives. He could entrust an important task to a friend or a co-worker or subordinate when the optimal path was to rely on someone else to do better what he couldn't.

But being vulnerable and reliant just for the sake of it?

Chuuya had always struggled with that. It wasn't in his nature to do anything but stand firm on his own two feet, to push past his limits for his family - for the Port Mafia.

Even in the more peaceful nights he had shared with Dazai, at his most relaxed, there was always a wall there. A certain amount of distance he never closed, no matter how many times Dazai called him out on it and told him to get the stick out of his ass. They were never anything particularly special to one another. Hell, they couldn't even be called friends. Years into their reunion and Chuuya never stopped wanting to beat the shit out of him, sometimes just for the satisfaction of making him hurt, but sometimes they could almost be something resembling companions.

Regardless, whether anyone knew about it or not had been irrelevant, because Dazai would still know, and that never sat well with him, and just like all those dozens of times he had brushed off Dazai then, he brushed off Verlaine now.

"Why would I fucking care about that?" He finally breaks away from Verlaine's hold with a step away, but his eyes are hazy. Darkly clouded. The tiredness on his face is even more pronounced than before, a sense of defeat hanging over him.

He was so tired that he felt numb from his own body, adrift in empty space without limbs. Verlaine would probably continue to dog his steps with concern until he either snapped or quit, and he just didn't have the mental energy to fight with him about it.

So he supposed it was quit.

"I'm going to bed," he announced abruptly, starting to walk without looking back. He tried to ignore the shadow in the corner of his vision, watching him. He dared not look to see the expression that judged him, keeping his head down as he slunk away.

"Get me if there's anything big that needs my attention."

[nereidprinc3ss]

trolley problem

in which fem!reader has been gambling with her life and spencer reid is more than a little concerned

flangst, hurt/comfort warnings/tags: passive suicidal ideation from reader, she keeps risking her life, that really grinds Spencer’s gears, established relationship, existential dread, existential euphoria, lots of stuff about grief and death and self worth, not advocating for this, pretension from the author, blasphemy probably?, reader gets fuzzy from prescribed painkillers, arguing, hospital stuff, mention of sleep paralysis involving spiders, reader gets shot but she’s fineee, I pander to intro to philosophy takers, bau!reader, neurodivergent coded reader, if she’s not exactly like you I’m sorry, bean soup a/n: one day you’re in a writing slump literally the next you are in your notes app for six hours writing whatever the fuck this is but I think I love it even tho it’s weird and I hope u like it too!! btw this was gonna be called cotard's syndrome but then I never once talk abt cotard's but if u care that might be interesting context for the motif of not feeling human/alive, WC 3K

Spencer hasn’t spoken to you since the doctor left the room five minutes ago. 

The air is antiseptic as you take it deep into the hollows of your lungs and trap it there for a moment, trying to optimize oxygen intake without actually having to breathe very often. Hospital smell is as universal as it is suffocating. It reeks of everything but death—flowers, blood, bleach, vomit. A humiliating, desperate scramble to defy the very thing that defines mortality. It’s pathetic. It reminds you of the worst instances of failure and loss and denial in your life. It curdles your blood. Literally rots you from the inside out. 

You’ve had ample time to ponder that smell over the last few months because you keep ending up here, and some time ago you decided the institution of the hospital is inherently absurd. It’s stupid to think you could avoid the one absolute condition on your corporeal form: impermanence. It is the only thing that is promised, and people still waste their lives away running from it. It is the ultimate self-fulfilling prophecy. 

So around the time you acknowledged that hospitals are simply monuments to the self-importance of man, you gave up on trying too hard to preserve yourself. You’ve seen death too much and too often. You’ve tried staving it off with prayer and the miracles of modern medicine, and it never matters in the end because it’s all magical thinking anyway. All the wallowing and the bargaining and pleading never got you anywhere. 

You’ve accepted that from the moment you were born, you were marked for death. 

But you’re not a complete nihilist. You’re not even totally resigned to the abject certainty of death—because you’ve found a loophole.

Everyone has as many chances at escaping death as other people are willing to offer them at the cost of their own lives. Not many people are willing to make that trade—someone else’s life for their own—but you’ve decided you are. Because if not you, then who?

It’s not that you don’t see the value in your own life, as Spencer keeps making it sound. It’s just the opposite. You understand that you’ve got an extremely valuable resource, and you don’t just have to sit on it. There are things you can do. Choices you can make. Ways to defy death. 

Just… not yours. 

Or maybe you’re just in deep denial. 

Either way—this is a philosophy your boyfriend intentionally refuses to understand. He gets mad, or some kind of upset, every time you try to explain it. Usually he ends up leaving the room close to tears. You never feel good about it.

Right now he’s presumably trying to give you the silent treatment and not doing a very good job. 

“Stop holding your breath. Why are you—stop that.”

Spencer’s frowning, skin sallow and milk-blue under fluorescent lighting. Purple seeps from around his eyes like spilled wine on a white table cloth. Your stomach turns. 

“Sorry.”

He doesn’t tell you not to apologize. You don’t expect him to. 

“Why are you doing that? Does something hurt?”

Other than your entire bicep being on fire due to the 9 millimeter Luger it recently came into contact with?

“Not really. I just don’t like the smell of hospitals.”

At that, he gets stony again. Like, Medusa stony. You feel a tightening in your chest that has nothing to do with a lack of air. His arms are crossed. A silk lined blazer drapes over your lap, and you wonder if he’s cold in just that white button up. It’s translucent in this light, like onion skin, or maybe something less organic—the folds and wrinkles look like fabric, but lots of things look like something they aren’t. In the Pietá, Jesus lounges dead on his mother’s lap, his cheek pressed to her arm like either of them have warm flesh, and her skirts drape from her knees and fall to the ground in delicate folds just like Spencer’s jacket and looking at pictures of it you swear you could find comfort there too—but if you wanted to make space for yourself next to Jesus you’d have to do it with a chisel and mallet. You’re starting to think that’s what it’s going to take with Spencer, as well. 

“So stop walking into active gunfire. You’ll spend a lot less time here.”

Every deep sigh (of which there have been several) calcifies you further. Ironically, you never feel less alive than you do in a hospital. 

“I didn’t walk into active g—”

“I’m not debating it with you. It’s not a discussion.”

“So you’re just going to be pissed at me for the rest of forever? I mean, if it’s not a discussion—what are you gonna do? Break up with me?”

You feel yourself dripping poison in the well. Even as you say it. As his head tilts toward you slowly and intently from his spot against the wall, and his warning gaze is cold and unforgiving and weighs 3.35 tons.

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what? Talk?”

“Don’t try and manipulate me by implying that there are no options between permissiveness and dumping you!”

“I’m not manipulating you. And I don’t need your permission to do anything.” 

The first part is an incredulous scoff as well as a blatant lie. You are manipulating him. Chisel and all. At least, you were trying to. It clearly doesn’t work very well. His jaw clenches.  

“Is this worth it to you? Fighting with me like we’re children solely so you don’t have to take accountability?”

“Accountability for what? I made a choice. I don’t regret it. You’re upset because I did my job.”

A beat. 

Silence always makes you feel the gravity of your words. 

“Do you believe that?”

His voice softens so much, so quickly, it splinters down the middle. 

You’ve never been known for your light touch. For someone who sees eviscerated bodies nearly every day, and prides herself on her evolved understanding of mortality, you often forget other people are not, in fact, impenetrable marble—they are flesh and blood and bone, and you’ve splattered yourself in the evidence of that. 

“What?” You murmur. You easily turn timid, when you’re afraid you’ve been too heavy-handed. Spencer’s seen you sob over the birds who hit the windowpane and never reappeared from the shrubbery—their delicate wings, their little beaks—he didn’t mean to, Spencer, and now he’s dead! He’s seen you spend forty minutes catching a spider with a cup and an envelope rather than smush it, even though you have reoccurring episodes of sleep paralysis wherein a giant arachnid is sitting on your chest, hissing and clacking its pincers. He knows you are, at your core, kind and good. 

It’s a little scary for someone to know that about you. It’s a little scary when you see your own vulnerability reflected in their eyes and the way they speak to you, the way you see it in him now. 

“Do you believe that the choices you make regarding your safety don’t concern me at all?”

“They’re… my choices to make,” you whisper, but you’re less sure than you were a minute ago. 

“I’m not talking about that—I’m talking about how it feels like you are trying to kill yourself every time we’re in the field.” His voice shakes. You swallow. “You have been hospitalized for four serious injuries sustained on the job in the past five months. Every time I bring it up, you—you talk about life like it’s optional for you. Like you’re not only willing to give it up but are actively looking to throw yourself in harm’s way every chance you get. You think that doesn’t terrify me?”

There’s a small chip in the paint on the wall next to him roughly the shape of Africa. 

“It’s not like that. I’m… I’m just having an unlucky streak.”

He snaps. 

“Luck isn’t going to get between you and a bullet. Ever.”

“It’s my job, Spencer.”

“No. It is a risk of the job. Not a defining feature or requirement. But you keep running toward gunfire like you have a quota to meet.”

“Spencer, I’m not doing it at you. I’m not trying to get myself hurt.”

“Well it doesn’t really feel like you’re trying to avoid it, either,” he shoots back immediately, and you feel the anguish radiating from him until it lodges in your own chest, like it was always yours. Maybe it was. 

You want to make it better, but you don’t know how, and even if you did, he’s pushing off the wall and crossing the room toward the door. 

“Where are you going?” You call, a little too desperately for your liking. 

“You need to eat something.”

Which translates roughly to he’s pissed and upset and he needs to leave the room. You’ve done this song and dance before. 

However, food and an absence of him are contenders for the absolute last two things you want right now. 

“Spencer, please don’t—”

But the door is already whooshing closed. 

You stare at the grey and white checkered floor. Light bounces off the waxen reflection—some sort of parallel universe you can’t reach, perhaps. The whole room is desaturated. A mechanical humming threatens to drive you insane. It doesn’t feel like a place for living humans. You’re not convinced you are one. 

When he comes back, maybe ten minutes later, nothing’s moved at all. In fact you’re not even sure you’ve been breathing. 

The door closes as quietly as it opens. 

This time, wordlessly, Spencer comes to you. You see his shoes first—his serious adult shoes. You wish he was wearing his Converse. 

Then you see the bottle of apple juice he’s cracking open for you. Blue lid. Same kind you always get. 

“You didn’t bring food.”

“You wouldn’t have eaten it.”

Fair enough. 

You take the bottle with your good arm and sip shallowly—all that adrenaline and the subsequent interpersonal strife has left you nauseous. The drink is too sweet. It clashes with the tang of metal in your mouth. 

Still, you drink enough to satisfy him, and then you’re tossing his jacket aside before balancing the bottle between your thighs so you can screw the lid back on. He doesn’t go back to the couch or his spot on the wall. 

Spencer doesn’t pull away when you lean into him, but it does take him a moment to reciprocate. You’re still grateful all the same when he cradles the back of your head to his stomach like you’re made of porcelain. 

“I don’t think you understand how upset I am,” he says quietly. 

Only Spencer Reid could be furious with you and still hold you like this. 

“I’m sorry,” you murmur. 

“That’s not good enough. You need to stop risking your life like that.”

He doesn’t get it. Your brows flutter as they try to furrow but even holding that expression saps you. Maybe the pain meds are finally kicking in. 

“I just wanna help people.”

“That doesn’t explain to me or justify your urge to do it at the cost of your own life. We all want to help people, angel. The whole team. That’s why we do what we do. But we don’t run into shootouts. We don’t split off and provoke people with guns when we’re unarmed and unprepared.”

“But it worked. She got away.” You feel a spark of fulfillment at the memory of Gloria Sanchez in JJ’s arms just before the ambulance doors had slammed you into your first cage of the night. 

“We don’t know if he was going to kill her. He might not’ve fired at all if you didn’t go running toward him. That wasn’t strategic, it was reckless and irresponsible and you know that. I know you do. So something else is going on.”

The pressure in your nose that usually precipitates tears comes as a surprise. 

“I just—if that’s how I can save someone, why shouldn’t I, you know? Why do they have less of a right to live than I do just because they’ve been deprived of the choice? If I have a choice, and they don’t, I should choose to… to help them. That’s my job.”

For a long moment, you listen to your own breath, muffled by Spencer’s shirt, and the mechanical humming, and something dripping, and the low, buzzy chatter of nurses far down the hallway.

When Spencer next speaks you get the sense he’s holding a lot back. His voice is taut enough it wavers slightly. Taut enough that if he weren’t speaking so quietly he might be yelling. It’s like pinpricks all over your body—not enough to hurt, but enough to make sure you’re paying attention. 

“You can’t help anyone if you’re dead. Do you understand me?”

And yes, in theory, you do. But that doesn’t negate your original point. It only takes one life or death moment for you to utilize the most valuable resource you have. What happens after is no longer your concern. 

“On the psych evals you helped develop it asks if you think it’s appropriate to sacrifice the one to save the many. The answer is supposed to be no. If you say yes you get flagged. The FBI frowns upon… lever-pullers. And that’s exactly what I’m doing if I let one person die when I could’ve potentially saved them.”

“Protecting your own life is not pulling the lever. What you’re doing isn’t smart or morally righteous. You’re just throwing yourself across the tracks, too. If you were to fail a psych eval right now it would be because you’re passively suicidal. And you know what? The FBI also tends to frown upon self-immolative delusions of grandeur and girls who like to play sacrificial lamb.”

“’M not a… sacrificial lamb…”

“No,” Spencer agrees quietly, stroking your hair. “You’re not.”

And you can’t react to the fragility in his voice, or the content of his words, and the fact that when he says it he means something different—you can’t do anything about it. You can only catalogue it. You can only know that he loves you, and feel a little guilty about it.

Some time passes. You don’t know how long he remains standing so you can doze against him. He does not smell like the hospital. He’s the antidote for whatever grief they distill from widows and orphans before aerosolizing it through the whole place. 

“Baby?” He asks eventually. You know the lilt of it. He’s been thinking. 

“Hm?”

He hesitates. 

“Can we talk about you maybe taking some time off of work?”

“You heard the boss,” you mumble. “I can’t come in for at least a week.”

“I mean beyond that.”

You intend to respond, but by the time you open your mouth you’ve lost the prompt in all the brain fog. 

“You’re so comfy,” you murmur dreamily. “Thank you for being mad at me.”

If he responds, you miss it. 

You’re imagining the bed waiting for you at home, once the doctor is done observing you—warm, neatly made. Blankets woven with soft fibers. A mattress that will sink under your weight. You think of Spencer, who’s shaping himself to you, Spencer, who intentionally inhales when you exhale at night to make room for the rise and fall of your chest against his. You think of the imprint of his buttons on your cheek. You are both flesh and blood and bone. 

Strange, pill-induced half dreams and visions and memories take over. You’re in that alleyway again. That man fires. You don’t blink or scream or feel. 

Just before the bullet makes contact you’re standing in front of the Pietá. It’s massive. Spencer is there, too, holding your hand. 

You can’t actually see him, only, you know he’s there. You feel his warmth, his presence, when he leans over to whisper in your ear. The way you know him goes beyond sight. 

The Pietá—meaning the pity, in English—is 6’7” and six feet wide. It weighs 6,700 pounds. Michelangelo had to quarry the block of marble himself. He was only 25 when he finished. The Basilica keeps it behind bulletproof glass. 

Jesus and Mary behind bullet proof glass. 

God. Who’d try to kill Jesus a third time? He’s already dead. 

Besides—they’re both made of stone. Bullets would probably just ping right off of them. Or maybe they’d shatter just like you did. 

Probably not though. You’re not actually made of marble. You’ve no idea what it feels like to be a statue and get shot at. You sure know how it feels as a human, though—and it feels like shit. You don’t really know why you keep doing it. None of your reasons are good enough for Spencer, and he’s, generally speaking, pretty smart about some things. 

Maybe you’re tired of being human.

Maybe you’re tired of sleeping on your arm funny and waking up to a hand in your bed that doesn’t feel like yours and remembering all the hands you’ve held moments before they couldn’t hold yours back. Or tired of those moments where you are being held and it’s so unbelievably perfect and then someone has to let go, or when someone you love hugs you goodbye and you realize that there will always be a final I love you, or simply getting older and watching potential life paths fall away like rotten fruit to the ground. Maybe life is sometimes so good it hurts and you can’t bear it. So you tempt fate. You walk a tightrope because even if you fall and it can’t ever feel good again—at least it can’t hurt either. At least you won’t lose anymore. 

And yet. 

It does feel good, sometimes. Sort of often, actually. Even when it’s awful. 

Dead Jesus and Mary, with their marble skin and their bulletproof glass and their holiness and their virginity and all the other things they have that you don’t. Nobody can hurt them anymore. Not ever. 

Maybe that’s something you envy.

But you doubt they’ve ever been so terribly, wonderfully alive as you’ve been, or as comfortable as you are like this, leaning into Spencer’s warmth and his softness, in the hospital, or the Vatican, or your dreams. Your bicep was ruined but it’s healing. You are capable of ruin and rebirth in the same lifetime. In the same day, in the same hour. 

You doubt that in 520 years, behind bulletproof glass and unyielding, eternally flawless skin, they’ve ever felt as invincible as you do now. 

You doubt they ever could. 

[twohearts-hs]

Dove & Captain: 2 - Dr. Jack Abbot x Reader Series

Words in Total: 4.4k

Pairings: Dr. Jack Abbot x fem!reader

Synopsis: She's his Dove. The ER nurse who is the definition of chaos, trauma and humour in scrubs. He's her Captain, gruff, emotionally guarded war veteran with a prosthetic leg and completely in love with her. Six years together, a mortgage, four dogs and the ability to conquer anything. This is a story of their life in one day. He is 49, she's 30. This is one day of their life based on the 15 episodes of 'The Pitt'. There will be little imagines of their relationship over the years.

Warnings: Swearing, Age Gap, Trauma, Medical Language/Procedure, Pregnancy, etc.

A/N: This is a complete series of ~60k. I will post a few snapshots of their relationship over the six+ years they've been together.

Hope you enjoy :)

Series Masterlist

-

0800

Y/N was on it the minute she got out of the bathroom, grabbing gloves and walking straight to the next trauma.

            “Nick Bradley, 18, found unresponsive by parents. No meds, no allergies. On arrival, he was barely breathing with pinpoint pupils, bradycardic at 38. Pupils responded to Narcan, but we tubed him when his respirations didn’t pick up,” the paramedic said as they wheeled him into a trauma room.

            Robby was next to Y/N instantly and she glanced over.

            “Any drugs or alcohol on the scene?” Y/N asked as they began to prep him to move to the medical bed.

            “No.”

            “Signs of trauma?” she continued to ask.

            “Nothing.”

            Y/N grabbed hold of the bag, pumping oxygen into his lungs as other doctors joined the room.

            “On three. One, two, three,” Collins called out, as they moved the patient from gurney to bed.

            “Where was he found?” Robby asked.

            “In bed by his mom.”

            “Pupils are six millimetres, non-reactive,” Collins announced.

            “Heart rate’s 64. BP is cycling,” Y/N called out as she switched with a nurse to grab gel for a ultrasound.

            “No response to pain. GCS 3,” Mohan explained before placing the ultrasound on the stomach of the patient.

            “Does that fit any toxidrome?” Robby called out.

            “No,” Y/N replied. “If it was just opiates with Narcan, he’d be breathing on his own.” Y/N was shaking her head. What the fuck happened with this kid?

            “Uh, beta blockers shouldn’t get pinpoint pupils,” Mohan muttered.

            “Maybe parents had some prescription meds in their bathroom,” Robby suggested.

The paramedic explained that the parents were on their way. However, the PA system was heard with a code trauma, tier 1 and coming in five minutes. It was a stand-up scooter rider versus a car door, which another nurse told them.

“No blood in the belly,” Mohan told them. “No pericardial effusion and lungs are up.”

“Hemocue’s good, at 15. BP 84 over 58,” Y/N added.

Robby stood, looking over at the monitors. “What’s your plan, Dr. Collins?” he asked.

“Um, push dose epi, 0.1 milligram. Foley for urine, stabilise for CT, and throw a wide net,” Collins said, turning around from the computer to look at them.

Y/N nodded. They continued to work as she grabbed the supplies that Collins asked for.

“Systolic back down to 90,” Y/N said, looking over at the monitor.

“Another 0.1 of epi,” Collins suggested.

“Flaccid paralysis of all four extremities,” Mohan added.

“No eye movement with ice water,” Collins stated.

Y/N glanced around, but when her eyes landed on Robby, he was just staring at her. “There’s no brainstem function then,” Y/N mumbled, looking at him before shifting her eyes to the team.

“Due to?” Robby added, breaking his eye contact with her, voice loud.

“Hypoxic injury, massive haemorrhage,” Y/N muttered. “He’s gone,” she continued to whisper before nodding. “He’s gone.”

“Samira, escort him to CT,” Collins suggested. “Take the drug box with you.”

Y/N nodded, following the team to take the patient to CT. The CT came back normal, and they brought the patient back. She continued to work, figuring out what was happening. When Y/N did the urine test, she sighed. Everyone looked up to see her.

“Fentanyl,” she whispered. “The kid OD-ed on fentanyl.”

The way everyone looked at Y/N, pity in their eyes. She walked to the door, opening it to see Robby with the parents. His eyes glanced to Y/N.

“Dr. Robby,” Y/N whispered, holding the test strip up, “urine test.” Robby just sent a curt nod to Y/N before turning back to the parents of the kid. She continued to do her workups. Then she went to check on her patients.

The nausea was gone. She was back to normal, and no one blinked a eye that something was happening underneath it all.

-

Y/N walked into one of the rooms and saw Robby standing there while Whitaker, one of the medical students, continued to perform CPR. Y/N glanced over to Robby.

            “How long has he been down?” Y/N whispered, leaning into Robby, arms crossed.

            Robby glanced over to her. “Too long,” he replied quietly. Y/N just nodded.

            “Should we shock him?” Whitaker asked, looking up to see Robby and one of his favourite nurses.

            “You don’t shock asystole,” Y/N replied.

            “It could be fine-v-fib,” Whitaker pressed, continuing to do chest compressions.

            “Not a chance,” Robby muttered, glancing down.

            “Ok, uh, when was his last epi?” Whitaker asked, trying to figure out what to do.             “Three minutes ago,” Robby replied.

            “Ok. Well, ACLS says every three to five minutes, right? So, let’s push another round,” Whitaker suggested, looking over to his mentor with a hopeful look.

            Y/N sighed, looking between them, trying to not to show emotion. She knew what this meant.

            “Fine,” Robby breathed.

            Dana walked up behind them. “Robby, Mr. Spencer’s adult children are asking for you. And the parents of Nick Bradley, the fentanyl overdose, also want to speak with you,” Dana said, looking over to him and Y/N.

            Robby nodded. “Ok,” he breathed before looking over at Whitaker. “Three rounds of epi and then call it. Y/N, do your thing,” he said, patting her on her back before walking away.

            Y/N watched the more med student do his best to resuscitate the patient he had lost. She stayed there for a moment, arms crossed, watching as he administered the epi, but there were no signs.

            “No pericardial effusion. No tension pneumothorax, no cardiac activity,” Mel said.

            Whitaker shook his head before going back to chest compressions. “Try calcium. Could be hyperkalaemia.”

            Y/N took a step and placed her hands on his who were locked doing compressions. “No, his potassium was normal,” Y/N replied. “You need to call this, Whitaker,” she whispered. “It’s ok.”

            Whitaker shook his head. “No. Not yet. Dr. Robby said three rounds of epi,” he replied. “It’s time. Let’s push another amp. This one could do it.”

            Y/N slowly nodded. “Ok,” she whispered, though knowing the truth. She turned to prepare the drug.

-

0900

Y/N administered the epi into his IV before watching Whitaker continue his chest compressions. A crack was heard, and Y/N sighed, knowing exactly what this was.

            “Oh shit,” Whitaker muttered, looking up.

            “What?” Mel asked.

            “I think I just broke some ribs,” he muttered.

            “It means you’re doing it right,” Langdon said from behind them.

            Y/N glanced over to see the resident. Their eyes locked, sharing the same knowing feeling and complete answer to this.

            “Third amp of epi is in,” Y/N replied, looking over to Whitaker.

            “Oh, come on,” he whispered, continuing to try to bring him back to life.

            Langdon looked at Y/N before Whitaker. “Call me if there’s a resurrection,” he stated, turning away.

            Y/N looked back at Whitaker. “Kid, please,” she whispered.

            “No, no, no,” he whispered back. “He was fine. Gallstone. It was just a gallstone,” he muttered. Y/N nodded, understanding how hard it is to lose a patient.

            Y/N stepped closer, soft but steady, her hand finding his wrist and stilling his compressions. “Kid…he’s gone.”

            “No,” he whispered, shaking his head. “He was joking with me this morning. Telling me about his wife’s birthday, and that they went out for dinner.”

            Y/N swallowed, her own throat tightening. “I know. It’s hard.”

            Whitaker looked at her, and the panic behind his eyes hit her hard. “He was fine. I told him he was going to be fine and now,” he said again, but this time it wasn’t defiance, but disbelief. Desperation. “I don’t understand.”

            Y/N nodded slowly. “Sometimes we don’t. Sometimes it doesn’t matter how stable they were, or how minor the diagnosis seemed. Sometimes the body…it just quits. We don’t always get the answers. Not one that feels fair.”

            He stared down at his patient’s chest, his hands trembling just slightly above it, unsure whether to resume or retreat. “I don’t know how to stop.”

            Y/N gently placed her hand over his. “You don’t stop because you gave up. You stop because you did everything you could. You honoured code. You followed protocol. You gave him a chance. In this job we do everything, but sometimes shit happens,” she whispered. “You did your best. However, nature won, and its ok to accept defeat.”

            Whitaker blinked rapidly, eye shining now. “But he’s dead.”

            “He is,” Y/N said quietly, her voice steady. “And now its time to say that out loud. You need to call it.”

            He glanced over. “I never…can you?”

            She shook her head. “I can’t. You must.” Robby came over. “Third epi given three minutes ago,” Y/N said, glancing over to the attending.

            “How long has he been going at it?” Robby asked.

            Mel looked up. “Ten minutes in here, possibly thirty minutes of prior downtime,” she said.

            Santos was there now too. “Don’t suppose you’d let me try a pericardiocentesis?” she asked, raising a brow.

            Y/N scoffed lightly under her breath as she looked over to the driven intern. Shaking her head, she glanced over to Robby. “Seriously?”

            “For what?” he asked, looking over at the intern.

            “For practice,” she replied, shrugging. “In case it’s tamponade.”

            “None seen on ultrasound,” Whitaker responded, continuing to do chest compressions.

            “This is a teaching hospital,” Santos nudged, suggesting.

            “Indeed, a teaching hospital,” Y/N muttered, “but not a damn cadaver lab. If you would like to perform one, I suggest medical school.”

            Santos looked at her and raised a brow. “Last time I checked, you’re a nurse, so maybe stay in your lane and let the doctors do their job,” she fired at Y/N.

            The air in the room shifted, and everyone noticed.

            Y/N didn’t flinch. She didn’t raise her voice. She simply tilted her head, the corner of her mouth twitching into a tired, dangerous smile. “My lane?” she scoffed. “Believe me, I can do more and I know a lot more than you do, Dr. Santos. So, please, stay in your lane. Last time I checked, you’ve been a doctor for what? A month?”

            A beat passed.

            Robby stepped in them, quiet, controlled, but his tone carried like thunder. “That’s enough.”

            “Do you even know how to perform a pericardiocentesis? They don’t teach them in nursing school.” Santos asked, ignoring Robby’s comment.

            Y/N rose a brow. “Of fucking hell, I can. May not be taught in nursing school, but I’ve been with an attending for six years who taught me how to,” she barked back. “Date night. Learning medical procedures,” she quirked.

            Santos opened her mouth again, but Robby took a deliberate step forward. “I said enough,” he stated before looking over to Santos. “Dr. Santos, one more comment like that and I will personally make you be stuck in triage. We do not perform medical procedures unless they are necessary. Additionally, you were disrespecting one of my best nurses who has way more field experience, intelligence higher than most doctors and the ability to think quickly on her feet. She’s been here longer than you’ve had a stethoscope. And if you can’t recognise that we’re team in this room, then you don’t belong in this room.” Then he glanced to Y/N. “Y/N, behave.”

            Y/N looked at Robby, sent him a small smile before looking over to Whitaker. Mel added to the conversation, “Do you want me to take over?”

            “No. I’m fine.”

            Y/N shook her head. “Kid, you aren’t fine. You don’t look fine.”

            Robby sighed. “Hold compressions.”

            Whitaker stopped compressions, and they all glanced over to the monitor. The monitor showed what they needed to know.

            “Still no rhythm,” Y/N muttered.

            Robby sighed and nodded, glancing down to the patient. “Ok, Whitaker. I think that’s enough.”

            “It’s been four minutes since the last epi,” he muttered, continuing chest compressions. “One more minute, please,” he begged, looking over to Robby.

            Robby nodded, checking his watch. They all waited for that minute to be over.

            “Five minutes since the last epi,” Y/N stated, looking over to Robby.

            Robby nodded, checking his watch. “Ok, that’s it. Hold compressions.” Whitaker stopped, the beeping persistent. Y/N moved to turn the monitor off before covering the body with a blanket.

            “He took his wife out for dinner last night,” Whitaker muttered, looking over to the team. He was in shock. She realised it. “For her birthday.” His voice was shaky, confused but also shocked by it all.

            Y/N crossed her arms over her chest, placing her palms over her stomach as if she was protecting what was inside of it. Robby noticed before glancing around.

            “Ok, why doesn’t everybody take a minute?” Robby suggested. “Go check on your other patients. We’ll meet back here to debrief with Kiara.”

            People left the room, leaving Y/N, Mel and Whitaker behind. She glanced at him. “Kid, take a break. Let’s go grab a coffee. We can chat,” she suggested, sending him a small smile before reaching out and squeezing his arm.

            Whitaker shook his head. “No, I’m fine. Thank you.”

            Y/N nodded, looking around the room before walking away. Y/N walked up to Robby, finding him, her fingers grazed his elbow, and he turned around. Glasses perched on his nose, he raised a brow at her.

            “You know I love you,” she began, and he slowly nodded, “and I’m thankful for everything you do…” she continued, and Robby slowly nodded. “But I don’t need a knight in shining armour.” Robby was silent for a moment, just staring at the nurse. “You didn’t need to do that; I could’ve held my own battle.”

            Robby shook his head and chuckled. “I did it because you are having a rough day and I don’t want you swinging at my new intern,” he muttered, standing in front of a computer.

            Y/N’s brows furrowed as she scoffed. “Me…swing at an intern?”

            He glanced at her, eyes linked as he raised a brow. “I know.”

            “Know what?” she whispered, brows furrowing, confused.

            His eyes darted to her stomach, where she was still holding. Instantly, Y/N dropped her hands. “Fucking Dana,” she muttered, shaking her head.

            “Oh…” he chuckled, shaking his head, “not Dana. Just a great friend, observer and doctor. How far along are you?” he asked.

            Y/N just stared at him. “This is where you don’t know anything,” she stated. “You. Know. Nothing.” She held her finger up, eyes locked with him. “Nothing. Nothing at all. Because the only person who has the right to know right now is that man who impregnated me. So, please. Hush. He’ll know tonight.”

            He then smirked. “So, you are pregnant?” he whispered. “I knew it.” However, the way he smirked, his eyes lightened up.

            She just stared at him, mouth dropping. “You are a fucking asshole,” she scoffed. “You are a little manipulative piece of shit,” she whispered shaking her head.

            “Not nice calling your coworkers that, Miss. Y/L/N. Let alone your very good friend and best friend to your partner,” he smirked, winking. “And boss. Should I complain to HR? My best nurse calling me heinous names? Toxic work environment.”

            Y/N shook her head. “One, you’re not my boss. Two, fuck off, Michael,” she whispered, shaking her head and walking away.  

            “You love me!” he called out.

            She shook her head. “I fucking do,” she muttered more to herself.

            Y/N settled down next to Dana, opening her computer to write her patient notes. Dana stared at her for a moment, raising a brow. “Heard you dropped a bomb back there,” Dana said, casually sipping her coffee. “Something about being with an attending for six years and learning medical procedures as date night. You two order takeout and he teaches you trauma procedures?” she asked, smirking.

            Y/N groaned, dragging a hand down her face. “Oh my God, it wasn’t even like that. That new intern got under my skin, got cocky and is insufferable.” Y/N shook her head. “Greenies. They are aching for chaos.”

            Dana smirked, tapping her pen on the desk. “Well, congrats, sweetheart. Rumour has it that you’re secretly with Robby now, well, that’s what the greenies think.”

            Y/N raised a brow. “Well, let them be detectives. They’ll eventually change their theories when they see Jack and me in the same room.”

            Dana scoffed. “No, you two are way too professional when working together. Never would’ve thought you and Jack were romantically, intimately together for six years. Sure, banter happens between the two of you and rivalry as well. But he acts more like a mentor with you than your partner of how many years.”     

            Y/N rolled her eyes. “Every good ER has gossip.”

            “And they think you’re sleeping with the boss,” Dana hummed, chuckling.

            “Let them.” Dana rose a brow. “Actually, don’t,” she muttered back, “if Jack catches wind of this…” Then Y/N scoffed. “Technically, I am sleeping with the boss. Night shift head attending. I used to work as a night shift nurse, in fact, I was a charge nurse, but then they moved me to days to cover Cassidy because she selfishly decided to get knocked up and birth a child out of her vagina,” Y/N rambled as she typed at the computer.

            Dana smirked. “That’ll be you in thirty-three weeks,” she replied with a smirk.

            Y/N looked over, raising a brow.

            “Just saying the truth,” Dana whispered, throwing her hands up.

            “Robby knows,” Y/N replied, running a hand through her hair. “Everyone fucking knows.”

            Dana heard her. “About the little fetus?” she whispered. Y/N nodded. “Yeah, he figured that out on his own,” she replied. “That man sees, hears, figures out everything.”

            Y/N scoffed. “I just,” she sighed. “Jack will be the third person to know. If the doesn’t fire continues to spread. That’s not fair on him. Especially, his best mate knows before him. He is at home right now, still probably sleeping then he’ll listen to the police scanner, read a medical journal, watch or read the news and even play with dogs and has no fucking idea. Though he knows something is up, and his mind is probably going in circles trying to figure it out.”

            Dana nodded. “It’s going to be ok, sweetheart,” she responded, squeezing her arm for a moment. “All good.”

            Y/N nodded. “You should’ve seen Robby’s face? He smirked and admitted it. Like a smug little shit…”

            Dana laughed. “Oh, he’s going to be insufferable for weeks.”

            “I told him to fuck off. He said he was filing an HR complaint.”

            “Classic,” Dana grinned.

            Then they went back to their jobs. Y/N debriefed with the team, Kiara and the new kids.

-

Y/N was at the nurses’ station writing her patient notes. On her third cup of coffee that morning, she tried not let death get in her way. Several patients already gone and it was just barely ten in the morning.

            Whitaker came up, standing in front of her as he stared at the board.

            “Talk to me, kid,” Y/N stated, looking up to the med student. “What’s going on in that young brain of yours?” she asked.

            Whitaker looked at Y/N who continued to type on the computer. “Um, I just,” he tried, “just trying to pick a case that will not end up with the patient dying.”

            Y/N looked back up to him. “Can’t be cherry-picking. Robby will be mad,” she stated. “You’re the doctor. You treat everyone the same.”

            He nodded. “I know, but–“

            “Kid, it’s ok,” she said. “The first is the hardest. Each one after will be hard as well. There are perks to the job and this isn’t one of them. But we chose medicine to help people, and sometimes we can’t always win,” Y/N told him, sending him a small reassuring smile. “However, the perks will always outweigh the negatives here. Don’t let one thing hold you back. You’re good.”

            He nodded again. “Right, thanks,” he muttered. “Uh, how long have you been a nurse?” he asked, fidgeting with his hands.

            “Eight years,” Y/N said.

            “And as an ER nurse?” he asked.

            “Eight years,” she repeated.

            He nodded. “What did you do before this?” he asked.

            Y/N looked at him for a moment. “I’m not much older than you, Whitaker. I was in university,” she responded.

            He nodded again. “Right, I didn’t mean to like offend. I just… You’re really good,” he mumbled.

            “Perks of being in this field forever and also being practically married to an attending where I learn a lot from him,” she replied with a smile. “Don’t let the BSN fool you. I could d a crike,” she hummed, winking.

            Whitaker nodded again. “Right,” he breathed.

            Y/N stared at him for a moment and sighed. “I worked in mental health for four years while in university. Double majored in nursing and psychology.”

            Whitaker blinked. “Wait, seriously? Both degrees at once?”

            Y/N gave a tired shrug. “Yeah. That’s what happens when you have an IQ of 178 and an eidetic memory. You get bored easily. That’s why I am in ER because no day is the same,” she explained with an smile.

            He let out a breathy laugh. “Jesus. Wish I am that smart.”

            She tilted her head at him. “You are. I can tell. Intelligence is a scale and a measurement that’s hard to define. Rather, actually, IQ is a measurement that can be argued does not define intelligence. Intelligence is being studied in a series of different versions. Sure, most people believe intelligence is the way to remember, memorise, understand, learn and adapt to situations. However, intelligence can be more than just remembering the facts and performing things. Rather, intelligence can be music, interpersonal, existential, mathematical, linguistic, etc.” She mumbled, looking at him. He just stared at him lost and she then chuckled. “You are smart, kid. That’s my compliment.”

            Whitaker flushed slightly at the complimenting, rubbing the back of his neck.

            “Thanks,” he muttered. “No one’s ever really said that to me before.”

            Y/N sipped her coffee. “Well, maybe you’ve been around the wrong people. It’s ok, we’re a family here.”

            He gave her a small smile and glanced down at his shoes. “Right, I can tell.” Y/N nodded. Then he looked back at her. “Do you ever get used to it? The dying, I mean.”

            Y/N leaned back in her chair, letting the question sit for a moment. “No, I don’t think so,” she finally said. “You don’t get used to it. You just learn how to live with it.”

            Whitaker stared at her for a moment, waiting.

            “It doesn’t stop hurting,” she continued, her voice softer now. “You just compartmentalise better. The first death I saw, I dealt with, and I didn’t sleep for two days. I was a new grad nurse and needed to impress my peers and my attending sent me home because I was too emotional. The second, I cried in the bathroom because I didn’t want him to see me breaking. Then, after the tenth, my attending, who is now my partner, taught me to write letters to their family, to them. Just to get it out.”

            “Letters?”

            She nodded. “They help. Especially with the guilt. You don’t have to give them to the patient’s family, but it’s a version of therapy. Therapeutic journaling it’s called. I can argue it links to Pennebaker’s theory. It’s about how when we express our deeper thoughts and feelings, it can lead to better benefits for our health, especially coping.”

            Whitaker leaned his elbows on the counter, clearly soaking in every word. “That makes sense,” he said quietly. “I’ve been trying to act like it doesn’t get to me. That I’m built for this. But I just feel–“

            “That’s medicine, kid. Especially trauma. Either ages you more or keeps you young,” Y/N replied. “However, you’re human. Made of neurons, tissue and if you’re like me, too much caffeine. You’re supposed to feel. It’s ok to grieve, but remember you may have lost one, but you helped how many?” she explained, smiling at him.

            He nodded.

            “Kid, medicine is two lives. You have the outside world where you can be who you want to be, but in this hospital, in this ward, you have a purpose. Your duty to serve. Someone codes, you know what to do. If a teenager has a panic attack, and it’s my voice that calms them down, then it’s me. Because we are superheroes that are never praised enough,” Y/N explained. “However, you are going to get paid significantly more than me because I’m just a nurse,” Y/N joked with a chuckle. “But we don’t do it for the money. We do it cause its what we know, what we are bred for and it’s definitely in our DNA. It is us that makes the difference. We are the medical professionals.”

            Whitaker gave a slow nod, then after a pause. “You talk about it like you live it.”

            Y/N chuckled. “Well, I made it my identity. You don’t have to. However, I have a life outside of these walls. I’m with a man who I love so much. We have four dogs. We have a house outside the city with a big plot of land. We travel a lot, when we can, if we can. I am a sister, a partner, a friend and a daughter.” Then she chuckled. “You’re young, my advice is to stay in medicine, just don’t marry medicine. I made the mistake and married it, but don’t regret it at all.”

            He nodded.

            “There is so much you can do with a medical degree, Whitaker. You don’t always have to go with the most gruesome, highest prone to death, chaotic form of work,” she said and looked back up from the computer. “Family medicine exists.”

            He just stared at her. “I don’t know if that was a jab or a joke,” he muttered.

            Y/N chuckled, shrugging. “Just being honest. You new kids are dropping like flies. One fainted, you,” she looked at him, “had your first death. Emergency medicine is not for the faint of heart.” Then she sent him a smirk, and he just stared at her. “You’re great, Whitaker. Doing great,” she added, sending him a thumbs-up. “Don’t tell Robby that I’m scaring you away. I like my job,” she joked. “Though I prefer nights.”

            “Why?” he asked, confused.

            “The darkness calms me,” she whispered. “Also, better cases. More chaos, blood and higher prone to death. Plus, the premium rates are great.” He just stared at her, wide eyed. “I know, psycho. Now, go rookie, go get them tiger and don’t hesitate to holler if you need a little push, pull and guidance. Like I said, I can do cricothyroidotomy and a chest tube. I could probably due heart surgery too,” she hummed, smirking. “Go, show me you deserve the darker coloured scrubs.”

-

taglist:

@bubbleraccoon00

@beebeechaos

@travelingmypassion

@kaisanpoint

@sweetwanderlust05

-

Hope you enjoyed. xoxo

Ava <3

[ruloaapaul]

STORYTIME BITCHES — HOW I ACCIDENTALLY SLEEP PARALYZED MYSELF INTO THE VOID STATE.

you wanna hear a little story time about how i fucking slid into the void state like it was my DMs at 2 AM? well, grab a snack and buckle the fuck up, because this is about to be the most chaotic, unhinged, and ICONIC void state experience you’ll ever hear. and yes, it all started with fucking sleep paralysis.

***

i was minding my damn business, trying to fall asleep like a normal human being. except—plot twist, bitch—i woke up, but my body DIDN’T. now, I’m no stranger to sleep paralysis. this wasn’t my first rodeo. but usually, i’d get all dramatic, start internally screaming, panicking, and trying to force my body to wake up like i was trapped in a horror movie. not today, satan. this time, i thought, “you know what? fuck it. let’s roll with it.” and baby, that was the best decision I EVER made.

***

so im lying there, completely frozen, staring at the ceiling, unable to even wiggle a toe. normally, this is where people start panicking. but i said, “NOPE. we’re gonna turn this sht into a spiritual awakening.” instead of fighting it, i just relaxed into it. And that’s when things got weird as fuck.

***

all of a sudden, my body started feeling weightless. like, full-on “i just smoked something illegal” type of floating. my arms? gone. my legs? didn’t know her. my entire physical body? irrelevant. it felt like i was sinking and floating at the same time, like my consciousness just detached from my body. and at this point, i had two options:

1. freak out and fuck it all up.

2. stay calm and become the baddest void-state diva alive.

so, obviously, i chose option 2.

***

the next thing i knew, i was in a space of pure blackness. no thoughts, no body, no sense of time—just infinite stillness. it wasn’t scary. it wasn’t boring. it was just… nothingness. and bitch, let me tell you, it was the most peaceful thing i’ve ever felt. this was it. this was the VOID STATE. now, you know me—i wasn’t about to waste this golden opportunity just floating around like some lost soul. i had shit to manifest.

***

once i realized i was in the void, i got straight to work. i didn’t waste time asking questions. i didn’t overthink it. i just stated my desires like the main character that I am.

“i have unlimited confidence.” boom, felt it sink in immediately.

“i manifest money effortlessly.” boom, i could feel abundance already flowing my way.

“my life is a fucking dream.” boom, reality bent to my will.

i wasn’t asking for these things. i wasn’t hoping for them. i just said it, felt it, and it was done. and that, my friends, is the real power of the void state. no resistance. no effort. just instant manifestation.

***

at some point, my body decided it was done being paralyzed, and i snapped right the fuck back into my bed. one second, i was vibing in the void, the next? i was staring at my ceiling like i just got hit by a cosmic bus.

and let me tell you, i felt DIFFERENT. i felt powerful. like i had just hacked the universe and came back with all the cheat codes. my energy was unmatched. and here’s the wildest part—everything i affirmed in the void started showing up in my real life.

my confidence? next level.

opportunities? popping up out of nowhere.

money? rolling in like the universe was throwing me a fucking parade.

and all i did was lay there, accept the void, and state what I wanted.

***

[starrysunbeam]

observations 10₊˚｡⋆❆⋆｡˚₊

(numerology edition)

•in numerology, 9 energy is about the end of a cycle. you can expect leaving a lot behind in a 9 personal year, intentionally or not. however, 8 is often overlooked as encompassing completion as well. think of the infinity symbol on the world card in tarot. you will wrap up loose ends and karmic cycles in an 8 personal year. 9 is utilizing the lessons learned and reflecting on the past 9 years, non-judgementally and honestly. your spirit guides will be close by.

•speaking of tarot - a life path 16/7 is associated with the tower card. 7 is very spiritual, and 16 challenges you to take on many soul lessons. this is actually a beautiful opportunity to transform over and over and recognizing your power to shed skin.

•a soul urge 7 will forever be students of spirit itself. they long for solitude because, whether they realize it or not, they are receptive to a lot of energy and need the space to listen, process, and analyze. they see synchrinocities as well as chase the unknown, because they are connected to the other side. they also have the willpower to challenge themselves and grow.

•if you're into angel numbers, always pay attention to what's happening when you see one. where are you? are you listening to music, does the song possibly have meaning? do you see this number consistently, or sporadically? this can help you receive more guidance from spirit.

•if i bought a custom license plate, angel number 444 would be on it. it would protect you from road rage or accidents. a black car increases that protection as it's associated with it as well. (edit: idk anything about cars and someone corrected me, this isn’t true. black symbolizes protection in general but black cars are actually more likely to get in accidents.)

•get in the habit of reducing numbers. example, 19 reduces to 10 which reduces to 1. recognizing the core numbers in your daily life or the collective can help you understand energies around you better.

•lastly, be careful to not get analysis paralysis. as someone with anxiety and some ocd behaviors, it can be easy to go past our intuition and acknowledgement of different energies to overload ourselves with it. it's exhausting to interpret messages, we're not meant to crack the code of the universe - we're spiritual beings having a human experience, and being in the present moment is what's most important.

[formulaonecrumbs]

thirteen days and my thirteenth reason ✍️

Lando Norris x depressed!reader

summary: she’s drowning under exam pressure, but lando stays beside her through it all.

warnings: established relationship, depression, burnout, academic pressure, comfort

A/N: this is the most self-indulgent fic i have EVER written. it’s based off my exact situation so if it seems specific uhhh that’s why. i literally only have 12 days till these exams start (most imp of my life i think) and i haven’t began studying for a single subject KILL ME. ADHD paralysis is real asf 😔😔 i originally wrote this only so i’d feel motivated to actually study but it didn’t work so now i’m posting it so it doesn’t go to waste ☺️ embarrassing to say but i will be coming back to read my own fic. i need it rn 😕 anyways enjoy lovies!! ❤️

୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ

the curtains hadn’t been opened in three days.

the floor was a mess—scattered notebooks, a few balled-up tissues, a hoodie half-hanging off the edge of the bed. her laptop sat untouched on the desk, still open to a study schedule she’d typed up with shaky hands three weeks ago. color-coded. hopeful. delusional.

it was thirteen days until her final exams. the most important ones of her life. everyone kept saying that. like she didn’t already know. like the weight of it wasn’t the reason she could barely lift her head off the pillow.

she’d meant to start studying two weeks ago. then one week ago. then yesterday. then this morning.

and now the sun was setting again, and she’d done nothing. absolutely nothing. just stared at the ceiling and tried not to cry. or did cry. she honestly couldn’t remember. it all blurred together now—hours and hours of feeling like she was stuck underwater while the world kept going on without her.

the front door opened.

she didn’t move.

“baby?”

lando’s voice was gentle. careful. like he already knew what kind of day it had been.

he was home earlier than she expected. that or her time perception was fairly off (it was. she thought it was sunday, it was tuesday). she heard the shuffle of his sneakers being kicked off, the clink of his keys on the counter, and then quiet footsteps down the hallway. the bedroom door creaked open slowly.

there was a pause.

then the bed dipped beside her.

she didn’t look at him.

lando didn’t say anything at first. he just lay there beside her, head propped up on his hand, eyes studying her profile in the dim light. she looked so small. in a pathetic i-can-barely-hold-myself-up kind of way. like the duvet was the only thing keeping her together.

finally, he spoke. “have you eaten?”

she shook her head. barely.

“studied?”

another shake.

lando sighed softly, but not in a disappointed way. more like it physically hurt him to see her like this. like the girl he loved—his girl, the one who once made him laugh so hard he spilled water out his nose—had been replaced by this quiet, heavy version of herself who barely spoke anymore.

he reached out, brushing a strand of hair from her face. his fingers lingered against her cheek.

“talk to me,” he whispered. “please.”

her throat tightened.

“i can’t,” she said hoarsely. “i don’t know what to say.”

“say anything.”

“i feel like a failure.”

lando’s chest ached.

she blinked up at the ceiling, eyes glassy. “i have thirteen days. and i’ve done nothing. nothing. i’m so behind. i’m going to fail. and i don’t even care. that’s the worst part. i don’t care. i should care, but i just… don’t. and then i hate myself for not caring. and then i just lie here and do nothing again.”

her voice cracked on the last word.

lando didn’t try to fix it. not yet. he didn’t offer solutions or motivation or some inspirational quote he found online.

he just reached for her hand under the covers and held it tightly.

“you’re not a failure,” he said quietly.

she shook her head, tears slipping down her temples.

“you’re not,” he said again. “you’re burnt out. you’re exhausted. you’re scared. you’re human.”

she didn’t respond. just squeezed his hand tighter.

“you don’t have to pretend with me,” he murmured. “you don’t have to be okay.”

“i’m not.”

“i know.”

they lay there for a long time. eventually, he shifted closer, wrapping an arm around her waist and pulling her into his chest. she didn’t resist. just let herself fall into him, cheek pressed against his hoodie, fingers gripping the fabric like it might anchor her back to the world.

“i’ll help you,” he said into her hair. “we’ll figure it out. we’ll make a plan. we’ll break it into little pieces. you don’t have to do it all at once.”

she shook her head weakly. “i don’t think i can.”

“then we’ll start with something small. just one thing.”

she didn’t say anything.

“we’ll do it together,” he promised. “and if all you can do today is brush your teeth or drink some water, that’s enough. you’re enough.”

she exhaled a shaky breath.

“i’m so tired,” she whispered.

“then rest,” he said. “you’re allowed to rest.”

he didn’t leave her side. not for the rest of the night. he ordered takeout—her favorite. he brought her a glass of water and sat beside her while she drank it slowly, like every sip was a mountain climbed. he helped her brush her hair when she couldn’t lift her arms without trembling. and when she finally crawled out from under the covers to shower, he waited outside the bathroom just in case.

the next morning, he woke her with a soft kiss to her forehead and a sticky note stuck to the lamp that said:

baby steps.

she sat up.

she opened her laptop.

and for the first time in weeks, she tried.

୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ

four days in, she was already starting to fray at the edges.

it wasn’t that she wasn’t trying. for the first time in a while she was. she’d stuck to the plan—lando’s plan, the one he’d helped her make with gentle hands and sleepy morning kisses and a color-coded spreadsheet that didn’t feel like it was out to kill her. one subject per day. built-in breaks. kind reminders written on sticky notes in his handwriting like: you’re doing amazing and five minutes of dancing > five minutes of crying.

but trying didn’t mean it was easy.

especially not tonight.

she’d been sitting at the kitchen table for two hours now, blinking at the same paragraph in her textbook without actually reading a word. her brain was buzzing, her back ached, and the weight of everything—every page she hadn’t read, every topic she didn’t understand, every second slipping by too fast—was pressing against her chest like a vice.

her eyes burned.

her fingers curled into fists in her lap.

and then, just like that, it snapped.

a single sob cracked out of her like a warning shot, and then the floodgates opened.

she pushed the textbook away with trembling hands and dropped her head onto the table, tears slipping fast and hot down her cheeks, shoulders shaking. she didn’t even try to stop it. she couldn’t. all the pressure she’d been holding in for days, weeks—it came pouring out like it had been waiting for this exact moment to break her.

“fuck,” she whispered. “fuck, fuck, fuck—”

“hey—hey, hey.”

lando’s voice was soft but immediate.

she hadn’t even heard him come in.

he crossed the room in two seconds, dropping to his knees beside her chair and cupping her face in his hands, thumbs brushing away the tears even as more fell.

“what happened?” he whispered.

she tried to talk, but it came out in a choked sob.

“breathe,” he said, gently. “deep breath. c’mon, baby. with me.”

he inhaled slow and deep. she tried to follow. couldn’t quite get there. tried again.

“that’s it. good girl. again.”

a few breaths later, her chest started to ease—just a little.

“i can’t do it,” she whispered, voice shaking. “i can’t—i don’t know anything, i’m so behind—“

“hey,” he interrupted, rubbing her arm. “no. don’t say that. you’ve been doing so well. i’ve seen you.”

“but it’s not enough—there’s too much—and i’m so tired, lando. i can’t think straight. i feel like my brain is broken—”

“it’s not,” he said immediately. “you’re not broken. you’re overwhelmed. you’re exhausted. and you’ve been pushing through it like a fucking warrior.”

she sniffled.

“you don’t have to prove anything to anyone,” he added. “not to me. not to anyone else. not even to yourself. you’re already enough, just like this.”

“but the exams—”

“will come. and we’ll face them. one question at a time. one hour at a time. but not like this. not when you’re this close to burning out.”

he pulled her into a hug—tight, grounding, real. she clung to him like a lifeline.

“you’re not alone, okay?” he murmured into her hair. “you’ve got me. always.”

they stayed like that for a while, her tears slowly soaking into the shoulder of his hoodie.

eventually, she pulled back just enough to whisper, “i’m sorry.”

he frowned. “for what?”

“for falling apart.”

“baby,” he said, brushing his nose against hers. “falling apart doesn’t scare me. not when it’s you. not when i love you.”

her lip trembled.

“you don’t have to be strong all the time,” he whispered. “sometimes being strong is letting yourself break and asking someone else to help you pick up the pieces.”

she nodded, barely.

“come on,” he said softly, standing and tugging her up with him. “no more tonight. you need rest.”

“but—”

“i’ll quiz you in the morning,” he promised. “i’ll make flashcards and everything. but right now, you need to lie down. cuddle quota’s running low.”

she cracked the tiniest smile through the tears. “that’s not a real thing.”

“sure it is,” he said, leading her to the couch and pulling a blanket over the both of them. “mandatory. doctor’s orders.”

she curled into his chest, still aching, still overwhelmed—but held. safe.

and for the first time in hours, her breathing slowed.

lando pressed a kiss to her temple. “we’ll get through it, baby. together.”

THE END :>

[artcinemas]

i am so normal about them (lies) i don’t think about them at random times (lies) and how it is not evident that friends to lovers peaked in itv period drama (lies) no i don’t think they’re peraltiago coded (lies)

mother help, your daughter is watching that purulaachi scene for the 2687643876th time

[karikarasuno]

part one | part two | wc: 2.2k

There’s a noise that startles you out of your sleep coming from downstairs. This house is old and it makes its age known by the constant creaking or thumping that travels down its lonely halls. It’s terrifying. But not as terrifying as the very obvious sounds of someone rummaging around downstairs. Who the hell would break into your house? It's not like your grandfather has anything of real value. So what was there to even sell once it was stolen?

Either way you have to do something about it. You refuse to be robbed and you refuse to be known as the woman who lives alone who cannot defend herself. Fuck that. So, you grab the rifle that’s stored in the safe your grandfather kept in his closet. The code is your birthday. You laughed when you found that out. 

As you creep downstairs– careful to avoid the loose step near the base– you prop the gun up on your shoulder and release the safety catch. You ignore the fear that pulses violently in your chest. You’ve never actually shot a gun before. 

The noises are coming from the kitchen. The space is illuminated by the light of the open fridge. You can’t see who is there or what they are doing and confusion begins to intertwine with your fear. What the hell?

“Where’s all the meat?” Someone grumbles. And your brow furrows because seriously who breaks into someone’s house to raid their fridge. Someone obviously deranged and unfamiliar to you when he pops up from behind the open door, a shadow casting over his face. 

“Excuse me,” you say, but you scare him half to death. He jumps and yelps which in turn frightens you. Your finger slips, pulling the trigger, and a gunshot rings out in the silence of the early morning. You scream when you hear an explosive shatter as you squeeze your eyes shut, praying to whoever will listen that you did not just kill someone.

“What was that for?!”

“Oh my god, I could have killed you!” You shout when you see him standing there, unharmed and clutching about half of the contents in your fridge in his arms.

“Not with that aim.” And he has the nerve to laugh. When absolutely nothing is funny. 

“Who are you?” You ask, your ears still ringing from the gunshot, and you briefly grieve the ceramic kettle you just shattered.

“Who are you?” He repeats, narrowing his eyes at you. 

“The person who lives here,” you say, annoyed that he has the audacity to question you when you know for a fact he doesn’t live here. Last time you checked you don’t have a roommate. But he could pass for a squatter if you looked at him hard enough.

“Oh!” He nods excitedly, something dawning on him that you can’t see. “You’re Jinbe’s granddaughter. He told me about you.”

“That still doesn’t answer my question,” you respond, placing the gun down on your dining room table. Your heart still skips frantically in your chest. 

“I can’t believe I didn’t recognize you,” he laughs again, gracelessly putting down all the food he was attempting to steal on the counter. “You look just like him.”

“I literally don’t.” You’re going crazy. This is a sign of you finally entering psychosis. This kid has to be your own unique sleep paralysis demon. Maybe you’re actually still in bed. You pinch your arm. No. He’s real. And you still feel insane. 

“Mhm, yeah. You have the same big head.”

You blink at him. As if you have something in your eye. Well maybe the blink is more of a twitch. “Why are you in my house?”

“I got hungry.”

“I see that, but I don’t know who you are and so I think it’s a little creepy that you’re eating my food in the dark at six o’clock in the morning,” you explain slowly, like he’s an idiot. But he’s somehow looking at you like you’re the one with two heads.

“I’m Luffy,” he finally introduces himself, adjusting his posture to stand up straighter and his grin is so big, so wide, that it takes up half of his face. “I’ve been helping out Jinbe with the farm since he was really old.”

“Got it.” He’s a farmhand. You’ve met some of the other guys that work the farm, but they never mentioned Luffy. “And how did you get in?”

He points to the key that’s dangling from his necklace. “Jinbe gave me a key and after he died I figured I would keep it. He always said I could help myself since I was workin’ for him.”

“Well, that’s rather kind of you, but now that I’m here just text me before you let yourself in. I wouldn’t wanna shoot at you again.”

“You betcha.” He salutes you goofily and now that your heart rate has returned to normal, you have to laugh. What a weirdo. “Wanna come feed the horses with me?”

You think about it. You have work in a few hours and you really wanted to get that extra hour or two of sleep, but honestly he looks kinda sweet standing there and waiting for your response. He’s so eager, energetic. Jeez, why can’t you say no to anyone in this town?

“Yeah.” You throw your hands up. “Why not?”

You move to follow Luffy, but he holds his hands up and you stop, bewildered. “You might wanna put on some pants first.”

“Oh!” You look down at your bare legs. Thankfully the shirt is long enough to cover your ass. Because otherwise this would have been very embarrassing for you. “I’ll be right back.”

****

The horses are stunning. They make you a little nervous, though, since you’re not used to being near animals this large. But Luffy is a natural around them. It almost makes you jealous the way he waltzes up and speaks to them. Like they understand him. 

“Here.” He hands you a basket full of carrots. “Start at the back of the stables and they’re supposed to get one each, but sometimes I sneak ‘em an extra when no one’s lookin’.” 

He says that last part behind his hand like he’s sharing a secret with you, but the volume of his voice doesn’t get lower. But lucky for him, no one’s around to hear him. There never really is anyone around anymore. 

“If I’m feeling charitable maybe I will too,” you whisper to him and he nods enthusiastically. He’s cute in an innocent way and you almost forget how you met. Pantsless and pointing a gun at his head. 

After you individually introduce yourself to each horse, feeding them exactly one carrot before looping back around to feed them another, Luffy comes running back holding a saddle. 

“Let’s ride!” Your eyes widen because no, you will not be riding a horse today.

“I really can’t,” you say, dropping the basket and waving your hands no in front of your body.

“Aw, come on! It’s fun,” he urges, unlocking one of the stalls to lead out one of the larger horses. 

“I’m sure it is, but I’ve gotta get ready for work,” you insist, stepping away from him and the horse and closer to the exit. 

“Only a few minutes! We can go on a run, it’s such a nice day out.” Luffy tosses the saddle onto the horse and begins cinching the straps around him. But you start panicking. The horses start to sense it because the one closest to you whines. 

“Really, it’s okay,” you shake your head again. “I don’t-”

“I won’t take no for an answer,” he says emphatically as he approaches you. And he’s being nice, you’re more than aware of this. But the idea of getting on that horse makes you nauseous. Your knee throbs with the memory of an injury that you’re still healing from. 

“Luffy, no!” You hold up your hands and he stops abruptly. His face falls at your tone and a pang of pity pierces your chest. “I’m sorry. I’ve just never ridden a horse before and after my injury the idea of horse riding kinda scares the shit outta me.”

“What injury?” He cocks his head to the side inquisitively. His eyes soften with genuine interest. With ardent curiosity. Ugh, why is it so impossible to stonewall people in this place?

“I used to be a professional ballroom dancer,” you sigh, reliving memories you really did not feel like unboxing before you’ve even had your coffee. “And almost a year ago during a competition I tore my ACL. I can handle most dances now, especially if I’m just choreographing, but I’m really not up to all this.”

You toss your hands in the air and gesture to the horses. Luffy is the last person in the world you would’ve ever expected spilling your guts to. Especially considering you’ve known him for all of an hour. But looking at him as he wears the dopiest, most sincere expression on his face, it’s hard not to. 

“I can teach you,” he replies simply. “Or we can ride together for your first time.”

“I don’t know.” His solutions still make you uneasy. 

“Or!” He jumps. “You can just watch! I’m trying to teach him how to jump over hurdles.” He points to the horse behind him. “And then next time I’ll help you bond with one of the girls. They’re usually better around kids.”

“But I’m not a child,” you argue. Obviously.

“Well, duh, but you’re scared like one. And that’s ok! We just gotta work on it and in no time you’ll be ridin’ like a pro.”

He steps back, but he’s not paying attention and he trips over a bale of hay. But the sudden movement and the flailing of his arms startles the horse. And in a singular blink of an eye, the horse is rearing back, hooves in the air dramatically before one of them knocks Luffy in the head. The horse rushes out of the stables and Luffy crumples to the ground. His argument is now null and void as you rush to his side frantically. You’re never riding a horse. 

****

“He’ll be okay,” Marco says. You learned quickly upon your arrival to the hospital that Marco isn’t just a fill-in bartender, but he’s actually one of the doctors in town. It isn’t even nine a.m. and you’re already over your day. And you have to be at work in an hour. You don’t know if you can handle any more surprises. 

“But as a precaution, I’ll give his emergency contact a call to come scoop him up,” he assures you, sending Luffy a knowing look. 

“Thanks, Dr. Marco?” You say stupidly, not too sure how to refer to him right now. 

“Marco’s fine,” he laughs. “It’s what everyone calls me anyway.”

He leaves the room and you deflate from exhaustion. You’ve known Luffy for three hours and he’s managed to give you a heart attack from worry and a headache from stress. But he’s sitting on the hospital bed holding a bag of ice to his head as if he wasn’t just trampled by a horse. His feet are even swinging as he waits. He’s literally smiling at you.

“You really don’t have to worry about me,” he says, beaming. “Happens all the time.”

“What the hell do you mean this happens all the time? How often are the horses kicking you in the head?”

“I just get hurt every now and again,” he dismisses you lightly. “But I always bounce back! Marco says I’m made of rubber.”

He winks at you. Like he’s letting you in on some inside joke. Meanwhile you’re starting to grow increasingly concerned about his wellbeing. How many times has he gotten kicked in the head?

“I’m sure you are, bud,” you agreed solemnly, not having the capacity to argue with him anymore. You’re just relieved that he’s seemingly fine. “But I’ll wait until your emergency contact gets here just in case.”

“He’s gonna yell at me again for being reckless,” Luffy rolls his eyes, taking the ice pack off of his head.

“To be fair, it wasn’t entirely your fault. That hay bale came outta nowhere,” you tease, sitting down next to him on the bed. Might as well get comfortable while you wait. 

“That’s what I’m sayin’,” he chuckles with his shoulders and you smile despite all of the turmoil he’s put you through. You feel bad for whoever’s on their way to come and get him. He seems like a handful based off of the few hours you’ve spent with him just today. But you guess he’s an easily forgivable handful with the way he sits rambling beside you updating you on whatever small town gossip he’s managed to hear. 

“Thanks for patchin’ him up.” A familiar voice drifts from down the hall. “Again.”

Your mind takes a second to register who the voice belongs to. But your body remembers. You completely tense up beside Luffy. A flush, hot and stunned, washes over you. 

Ace rounds the corner. As gorgeous as ever as he smiles at Marco. Appreciation and exasperation on his face. This really cannot be happening. 

“Oh, shit,” you mutter. Your morning really couldn’t get any worse.

part three

taglist: @a-girl-cant-decide-on-a-name @nico-ith @chillerkiller @jozhenji @starchild-unnamed @certain-tragedies