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Ok so ap stats testing time !! I’m cooking this is going to go great genuinely !!

#apollos ramblings #I love stats and i love math #i did read the almost entire textbook last night the #btw. did Chi squares this morning I’m cooking

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Height gap romance except the shorter one is frequently depicted in situations where they are contextually taller. The taller one sitting while the shorter one looms over them. Both of them lying in bed with the taller one’s head pressed to the shorter one’s chest. The shorter one straddling the taller one’s lap and leaning down for a kiss. The taller one on their knees as the shorter one tilts their head up. Please, it makes me go feral

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Punisher / Daredevil

it’s (kind of) canon, all right? x

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average episode of d20 but an hour and a half in sam walks in "Get ready for a game changer!"

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Shoutout to the stats I was doing in my sleep except none of it was right because you can’t read in your slee

#I was so frustrated trying to do a two sample t test I woke up

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SCREAMS

#shameless #this is so fuckinf funny #‘hey what’s a faggy faggot…?’

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i cant find the original picture but i had a vision

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#don’t give a fuck + razors terrify me #like genuine fear probably borderline phobia cannot do it

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I don’t even care who fucking wins the presidency this year look at this

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Here's a little self-indulgent whump fic I wrote today 🫣

This is just part one. I'm not sure if I'll end up making another part but I do have one in mind!

AU . kind of meet ugly . EMT Ian . set about s8 . whump . medical whump . description of medical practices . if you don't like whump or description of such don't read lol that's all this fic is . it's fate pulling them together wink wink .

tagging @deathclassic and @sleepyheadgallavich cos they expressed interest in my post earlier hi guys ily i hope you enjoy <3

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He's eager for a drink, even if it's just a nice tall glass of lemonade. Last call he had was a whirlwind of vomit and he couldn't feel less clean. To just sit on a stool and swirl some ice in his mouth. There's a few sirens in the distance, glad he isn't the one on the scene.

Scuffing his shoes along the pavement, he walks past the alley beside the Alibi. Aside from scattered trash and old cardboard boxes, it's empty. Until he notices someone slumped against a wall a couple meters down.

It stops him in his tracks, for some reason.

He can't see their face from where his standing, only jet black hair and nice, clean clothes.

A pull in his stomach leads him to check on the person, be it EMT training drilled into him or fate, it's a gut feeling.

Rolling his shoulders in his jacket, he carefully inspects the alley as he walks over, hands in pockets, now able to see the man's face and recognising exactly who it is.

Ian never had much to do with Mickey Milkovich.

Did school together and little league as kids, but he's only seen him a handful of times since. Mandy would talk about him sometimes, how he's out of town with their dad or how she has to visit him in juvy. When things were really bad Mickey dropped off of lithium for him when Mandy couldn't.

Mandy never let Ian go to her house, sleepovers were always at the Gallaghers. Ian was smart enough as a kid to know that's a good thing. He's only ever been there once, a few years ago when Mandy called him crying and covered in blood. Mickey had looked equally as bad from where Ian saw him standing against the kitchen bench, Terry had been hauled off in a cop car minutes prior. Ian hasn't seen him since that day.

Now, Ian can see the dark bruises on Mickey's neck, a swollen black eye and a bloody lip on freakishly pale skin.

There's a twist in his stomach.

Gently, he toes at Mickey's forearm with his shoe, "Aye, you okay?" he asks. With no response he crouches down, shakes his shoulder, "Mickey, can you hear me?"

No response. Ian utters curses under his breath, grabbing the radio on his collar and calls a rig for an unresponsive patient.

Mickey can't hear a thing. Whole body aching so much everything else is drowned out. There's hands on him, touching his neck; which forces what little consious he has to kick into fight or flight. Dazed, he squints open his eyes and can only make out a blob of red hair and a blue shirt.

With his fingers on Mickey's pulse, Ian looks down when he heres Mickey take a harsh breath, sees him barely looking back up at him. Ian tells him his name, what he's doing that there's help on the way. Mickey's eyebrows slightly scrunch to that before his eyes roll back and he's out again. Ian attempts to stir him again to see that sliver of blue eyes again but it's futile.

Once Ian finishes his assessment on the patient he relays infomation of Mickey's fast pulse, shallow breathing, inability to stay consious along with swelling and brusies and possibly drugged to the radio, whilst continuing to monitor his condition by rolling him into recovery position, as he does, though, Mickey stops breathing all together.

Ian curses aloud, wondering how he got this draw of the stick.

He quickly reports to radio whilst laying Mickey flat. He carefully tilts his head back and starts mouth to mouth, keeping his breaths timed and measured and devoted to Mickey's lungs, hoping his backup comes quickly.

Regardless of the countless bruises painting his face or the blood Ian can taste against his lips, or even the fact that Ian is breathing for Mickey fucking Milkovich, it feels colossal.

He never thought those fleeting thoughts of his best friend's hot, older brother stuck with him much.

Shit, he has to bring Mickey back.

It's about three minutes later when the ambulance arrives, parking itself right outside the alley. Ian assists in getting Mickey strapped into the stretcher and into the rig, following it in to continue working on him as his coworker continues to drive.

With two years of practice he sizes an oral airway and sends it down Mickey's throat, connecting the oxygentated bag so that Mickey finally gets a full breath.

Undoing the strap over Mickey's chest, he pulls off his big coat and rips open the black button down shirt underneath, revealing a smooth, pale chest and a large tattoo on his stomach.

Ian sways going fast around a corner as he places leads to each pulse point on Mickey's chest, hearing the monitor trace a fibrillation rhythm as he squeezes air into Mickey's lungs.

Quickly drawing an IV he inserts it into Mickey's forearm, right above the tattoo he has, then places pads to Mickey's sternal and apex points and charges the defibrillator.

Mickey's body twitches on the gurney, and Ian exhales in relief reading the correction on the monitor, his patient's pulse returning to a slightly high, but stable sinus pace and Ian continues to work his way around the rig.

Mickey's barely lucid once more, only feeling all the bumps in the road and hands on his skin, only hearing the fitful beeps echoeing in the cabin.

Ian notices Mickey's pulse climbing again, rapidly approaching 200bpm. "Shit." Ian curses aloud, reaching for his radio, "Prepare for cardiac arrest and intubation."

Hearing that, Mickey tries hard to open his eyes, blurring vision looking down and finding freckled hands findling with something on his own arm, the beeping in his ears becomes ear-splitting.

As quickly as Ian injects drugs into his tattooed arm and throws away the needle, Mickey flatlines.

"Fuck." Ian exclaims, immediately jumping on his chest.

It's his job. He does this multiple times a week and has for a few years now. You learn to not take this stuff to heart, everyone dies. Doesn't make it much easier but it doesn't cut Ian up so much anymore, ability to switch off his brain and harrowing in on the job at hand.

But, as he compresses Mickey's chest inwards, able to feel the give of his ribs against his hands, and to see his face bruised and bloody in the same way it was the last time he saw him, Ian can't help but feel some kind of kismet has lead him here.

That pull in his stomach almost sending him dizzy.

Fuck, he has to bring him back.

He performs multiple rounds of CPR before he gets a fibbed rhythm, taking his hands off of Mickey's chest and glancing at the harsh red splotches littering his skin before bringing down the paddles.

Rhythm doesn't change.

Now one hand holding the two defibrillator paddles while the other beats Mickey's heart.

Ian tries again.

Flatline.

Ian grunts in frustration, resuming position over Mickey's chest and forces his tired arms to continue.

He doesn't manage to get a pulse before they pull up to the hospital, not even when he straddles the gurney and hounds in on chest compressions whilst doctors and nurses rush them to a room under flourescent lights. Ian can barely hear a thing, staring down at his own gloved hands bending Mickey's ribcage in on itself, the beeping of the monitor that denotes he's pushing down hard enough to beat his heart effectively.

He's briskly brought to a stop, Mickey now in the hospital's hands.

Ian's done all he can do.

He now has to go back to work like nothing happened, his lunch break spent attempting to revive his best friend's brother. Left with that sinking, pulling feeling in his stomach and he just has to pretend that this hasn't changed the trajectory of his life. He's sure it has. If Mickey even survives, that is.

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The wind seems to be calling his name, blowing against his left cheek so hard it's basically slapping him in the face. His feet won't move. He needs to turn right out of this parking lot and go home, he needs a shower and needs food and.....

He needs to see Mickey.

His feet take him left, instead.

The only explanation for this feeling in his chest is Mandy, fuck he still has to tell Mandy.

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Suprised the hospital even allows visitors at this hour, he's led towards Mickey's room. Ian realises that Mickey probably hasn't had any visitors at all. Realises that he's the only person who knows what's happened to him.

There's that pull again, standing there in the doorway. Mickey's looking much better than he was six hours ago. Bruises still litter his face, the cut on his lip still there, but there's colour back in his skin, hair has been brushed back, he's cleaned up and in a gown, a drip in his arm and a small monitor beside him.

He's alive.

Ian's not sure why he's here. He hasn't heen sure about anything since walking into that alley. All he wanted was confirmation that Mickey's okay.

And here it is.

Mickey probably doesn't remember him at all for all he knows.

He ignores that gut feeling, and turns around.

Spends two dollars on a lemonade from the vending machine in the lobby and skulls it on the walk home.

#shameless #fanworks #I’m losing my mind I’m obsessed with this #I live emt Ian anything involving rhat automatically goes in my favorites #and well. I like jt when Mickey gets fucked up. and beaten. sue me.

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I May or May not be cooked for this test I haven’t decided yet. At the point where it feels like common sense. I hate that it’s senior year bc I can’t brag if I get a good score. Well. Less bragging but enjoying knowing other people will be frustrated I got a good or better score than them through possibly less work. Depends how you view it I guess. Cramming six hours the night before is much better to me than a couple hours for a week before. Too spread out for me. Might have to fight my teacher abt studying methods I did not watch the videos she assigned I hate videos. I have my own studying methods. I’m at the point where I’m just mildly delirious from the meds. Losing it !!

#apollos ramblings #vent tw #kinda #I Day im going to sleep now but that very well might not happen for a while I cannot explain it #I’m tired and want to sleep but there’s like a second motor in my brain that keeps yelling gogogo and it’s sooo annoying let me rest PLEASE #anyways

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“i can’t do this anymore” says a girl who is not only going to do it but do it well

#academ burnout #I’m dying

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Sometimes I wonder how people survive without obsessively thinking about fictional realities. Could not be me. Thinking only Real Life stuff for a whole day???? I would be dead.

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“You can’t cram all of stats in one night before the test!!!” Fuckinf watch me. We’ll say six hours, over estimating and including breaks, did probably four or five units, only have one and a half left

#I did for every test all year which is probably why I’m so good at it lbr #I’ve learned it genuinely two years before the test and got a 95 bffr #the hardest part of stats is remembering the proper terminology for everything

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ill be sappy whenever i want. i dont give a shit. i love you. fuck off

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#i keep seeing TikTok’s of like ‘we should castrate rapists!’ and shit like this and I’ll think about this post and concept #I don’t argue in the comments bc it’ll just be a waste of my time and energy but. it pisses me off. so much.