#built-in casework

[alittleveggies]

Dining Room Los Angeles

Enclosed dining room - mid-sized contemporary travertine floor and beige floor enclosed dining room idea with white walls and no fireplace

[lilredbandit]

Toronto Transitional Entry Mid-sized transitional entryway design example with a black front door and white walls.

[manicpixiedreamedwins]

Some thoughts on Edwin tonight:

I’ve talked about how I think Edwin is so interesting because he goes against the grain of the very reserved and stiff Edwardian archetype, but something else I find interesting about him is he lets people know exactly where they stand with him. Here are some examples:

Niko:

This one is highly quoted. Admittedly, Edwin does not say this right to Niko because Niko could not see him at this point. To Edwin's knowledge she was not going to be able to see him. She is alive, and perhaps he did not anticipate the sprites a near death experience. All that being said, this was as close as he could get to expressing fondness to her at the moment.

Charles:

Edwin actually does a great job making sure Charles knows when he is doing well on cases, like when he praises Charles' quick thinking with the sprite jar. Even when Charles isn't present, Edwin identifies them as "best friends, if you must know". But of course, Charles is rattled after the Dead Dragon case for a lot of reasons. So Edwin reassures him that he is, in fact, the best person he knows (even after he has met many new faces).

Crystal:

Although they got off to a rocky start, Edwin lets Crystal know (tentatively perhaps, but earnestly still) that he does value having her around. He pushes back against the assertion that he did not want her on the case to find Monty's friend "Gladys" because he did- and he ultimately believes in Crystal and has built a relationship with her.

Monty:

This scene is really interesting to me because we tend to think of Charles as someone who fawns more out of these two (and Charles does-he'll be the first to put his feelings aside to try and smooth the group dynamic time and time again). But here we see that Edwin also has some capacity to fawn, especially with people he considers friends. He continues to try and smooth things over with Monty well into the evening.

Until Monty was revealed to be a crow, Edwin was still working on smoothing things over. Edwin tried to reassure him they were friends, even if his feelings were for Charles. He did seem a bit (or a lot) disappointed by being misled about the whole witch-familiar thing.

The Cat King:

I don’t think we talk nearly enough about this moment :

Their bond is a bracelet. Ultimately, Edwin probably would have left TCK behind in the cannery if not for the caging spell. Some often forget Edwin would not have entertained all of the harassment, taunting, and interruptions to his casework if he hadn’t been trapped in a caging spell- a spell which trapped him in Port Townsend, allowed him to be located by The Lost and Found Department, and ultimately led to him being sent back to Hell. As an aside, that trip back to Hell was the only reason the bracelet fell off- it was never removed intentionally. The Cat King even had his own final cat count wrong- whether by accident or on purpose is debatable (however, TCK did threaten to “stop playing nice” in this forest scene, so it is debatable if he ever would have given Edwin a clear answer).

Charles (again):

When Edwin realizes his feelings for Charles, he attempts a confession before he is sent to Hell- but is sadly interrupted by the giant spider made of babydoll heads. His second attempt on the stairway is much clearer.

Edwin makes it abundantly clear that his feelings for Charles are romantic- and he needs him to know, for better or worse. It's brave to lay a heart bare like that (and admittedly, Charles does his best to meet him where he can, while they are being chased by an eldritch horror).

In short, Edwin is someone who actually knows how he feels about the people in his life and articulates that more clearly than many give him credit for.

[gatheringbones]

[“Poverty is embarrassing, shame inducing. Misery (misère), the French sociologist Eugène Buret once remarked, “is poverty felt morally.”

You feel it in the degradation rituals of the welfare office, where you are made to wait half a day for a ten-minute appointment with a caseworker who seems annoyed you showed up. You feel it when you go home to an apartment with cracked windows and cupboards full of cockroaches, an infestation the landlord blames on you. You feel it in how effortlessly poor people are omitted from movies and television shows and popular music and children’s books, erasures reminding you of your own irrelevance to wider society. You may begin to believe, in the quieter moments, the lies told about you. You avoid public places—parks, beaches, shopping districts, sporting arenas—knowing they weren’t built for you.

Poverty might consume your life, but it’s rarely embraced as an identity. It’s more socially acceptable today to disclose a mental illness than to tell someone you’re broke. When politicians propose antipoverty legislation, they say it will help “the middle class.” When social movement organizers mobilize for higher wages or housing justice, they announce that they are fighting on behalf of “working people” or “families” or “tenants” or “the many.” When the poor take to the streets, it’s usually not under the banner of poverty. There is no flag for poor rights, after all.

Poverty is diminished life and personhood. It changes how you think and prevents you from realizing your full potential. It shrinks the mental energy you can dedicate to decisions, forcing you to focus on the latest stressor—an overdue gas bill, a lost job—at the expense of everything else. When someone is shot dead, the children who live on that block perform much worse on cognitive tests in the days following the murder. The violence captures their minds. Time passes, and the effect fades until someone else is dropped.

Poverty can cause anyone to make decisions that look ill-advised and even downright stupid to those of us unbothered by scarcity. Have you ever sat in a hospital waiting room, watching the clock and praying for good news? You are there, locked on the present emergency, next to which all other concerns and responsibilities feel (and are) trivial. That experience is something like living in poverty. Behavioral scientists Sendhil Mullainathan and Eldar Shafir call this “the bandwidth tax.” “Being poor,” they write, “reduces a person’s cognitive capacity more than going a full night without sleep.” When we are preoccupied by poverty, “we have less mind to give to the rest of life.” Poverty does not just deprive people of security and comfort; it siphons off their brainpower, too.”]

matthew desmond, from poverty: by america, 2023

[babyboyhotchner]

PRINCESS ⋆ CASEY NOVAK

YOUR HONOR, MY PRINCESS

description: casey loves calling you her princess. pairing: casey x fem!reader. wc: 3.8

The first time you met Casey Novak, it was in a courtroom - two opposing forces, both relentless, both unwilling to back down.

You had walked in late, not because you were unprepared, far from it - but because you understood the power of an entrance. The soft click of your designer stilettos echoed against the marble floors, drawing more than a few glances from the jury and even the judge. You were dressed in a blush-coloured, curve-hugging dress, the kind that some might have called inappropriate for a courtroom setting. But you knew better. It wasn’t just fabric - it was armour, a weapon, a carefully calculated statement.

Casey had looked up from her neatly organized legal pad, her emerald eyes narrowing slightly as she assessed you. She was the very picture of discipline, clad in a perfectly tailored charcoal suit, her auburn hair pinned back in a way that was both practical and devastatingly elegant. There was no reaction on her face, no raised brow or flicker of amusement - just sharp, professional scrutiny. And then, just for a second, something else. A flicker of intrigue, perhaps, before she quickly masked it with her usual stoic expression.

“Your Honor,” you said smoothly as you reached the plaintiff’s table, sliding into your chair with effortless grace. “Apologies for the delay. Traffic was murder.”

Judge Petrov barely spared you a glance over his reading glasses. He had seen your theatrics before. “Cut the dramatics, counsel. Proceed.”

From the defense table, Casey let out a barely audible scoff. “Glad to see your priorities are in order,” she murmured just loud enough for you to hear, eyes still fixed on her notes.

You turned your head slightly, a slow smirk creeping onto your lips. “Why, Casey, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were jealous of my grand entrance.”

She didn’t even look at you. “I’m just wondering if you plan to present a legal argument at any point today, or if we should just sit back and enjoy the performance.”

Oh, she was good.

The courtroom quickly became your battleground.

Casey was calculated and methodical, every argument laid out with impeccable logic and precision. She wielded legal precedent like a scalpel, dissecting opposing arguments with brutal efficiency. There was no room for theatrics in her world - only the unshakable foundation of the law.

You, on the other hand, thrived in the unpredictable. You spoke to the jury like they were old friends, weaving emotion and narrative into your arguments in a way that made them forget they were even listening to a legal proceeding. Where Casey relied on hard facts, you built stories, turning cases into living, breathing things.

“You can’t seriously expect the court to entertain this,” Casey said one afternoon, irritation evident in the slight crease between her brows. The case was a heated one, and you had just made a rather unexpected move, throwing in an argument that wasn’t in any of your filings.

“Why not?” You tilted your head, the picture of innocence. “Afraid they might agree with me?”

She let out a slow exhale, her lips pressing together in a way that told you she was trying very hard not to lose her temper. “I’m afraid they might mistake your performance for substance.”

You feigned a wounded expression, placing a delicate hand over your chest. “Ouch, counselor. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re trying to hurt my feelings.”

The judge cleared his throat, clearly unimpressed with your back-and-forth, but the jury? They were eating it up. And, if you weren’t mistaken, so was Casey - whether she wanted to admit it or not.

Outside the courtroom, the tension only grew stronger.

Your paths crossed constantly—at depositions, in courthouse hallways, at late-night coffee shops where you both stopped to refuel after hours of casework. At first, your conversations were all barbed wire and sharp edges, each of you poking at the other’s weak spots, testing limits. But slowly, something shifted. The teasing became less about cutting each other down and more about… something else.

One evening, after a particularly brutal case, you found yourselves alone in the courthouse hallway. The trial had been grueling, and though Casey had technically won, you had made her fight for every inch.

“You fought hard today,” she admitted, surprising you.

You turned to her, watching as she leaned back against the cold marble wall, arms crossed but not in a defensive way. She looked tired, her usual perfectly polished demeanor slightly frayed at the edges.

“Well, I had to give you a challenge,” you said, offering her a small smirk. “Wouldn’t want you getting bored.”

She exhaled a quiet laugh, shaking her head. “You’re exhausting.”

“Yet you keep showing up.”

Casey glanced at you then, her green eyes lingering just a little too long. Something unspoken passed between you, something charged and dangerous and completely inevitable.

She looked like she wanted to say something else, but instead, she just sighed, pushing herself off the wall. “Don’t stay too late,” she murmured before walking away.

But you both knew that wasn’t the end of it.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The room felt suffocating with heat, the heavy scent of leather-bound law books and aged whiskey mixing with the intoxicating aroma of her presence. The golden glow from her desk lamp cast long shadows, emphasizing the sharp angles of Casey’s face, the way her lips curled in that dangerous smirk.

"You really shouldn’t look at me like that," she murmured, her voice low, warning-laced, but still with that signature authority. She leaned back against the desk, arms crossed, her loosened tie hanging carelessly, enticingly, around her neck.

"Like what?" You took a step closer, smirking, the air between you thick with unspoken tension. The subtle, yet unmistakable scent of your perfume curled around both of you, only amplifying the growing heat.

"Like you want something from me."

Your fingers brushed over the edge of her tie, trailing deliberately down its length. "And if I do?"

Her breath caught for just a moment. You saw it in the way her eyes narrowed, how the composure she worked so hard to maintain cracked just a little, revealing the smouldering hunger beneath.

Casey’s voice dropped, thick and rough. "You’re such a goddamn tease." Her grip tightened on your wrist - not rough, but firm - holding you in place. Her thumb ran circles against your pulse, each movement sending a shockwave of heat through your body.

"You like it," you whispered, eyes locking onto hers.

A wicked chuckle escaped her lips, low and dark, and she pulled you in closer, her body just a breath away from yours.

"I fucking love it," she confessed, the words rougher now, heavy with need. There was no distance anymore between you, only heat, the kind that burned, the kind that could never be sated by anything but each other.

"But you’re not in control here, Princess."

The nickname fell from her lips like a challenge, a command - a reminder.

Her hands slid down your dress, slow and deliberate, as if to savor the fabric beneath her fingertips, as if she wanted to leave a mark, to claim you.

"You wear this just to drive me insane, don’t you?" Her voice was barely a whisper against your ear. "Wearing my favorite color, knowing exactly how to make me lose control."

The air around you felt charged, every word heavy, every gesture deliberate. The tension that had been building between you for months was finally snapping.

"You should have better self-control," you teased, but your voice betrayed you - thin, breathless, caught in the web of her pull.

Casey’s smirk was dark, knowing. "Oh, sweetheart. You’re the one who’s going to be begging me soon."

Her hands gripped your hips, pulling you hard against her, the edge of the desk digging into your thighs as she closed the remaining space between you, her thigh pressing firmly between yours.

"I’ve been patient for months," she growled, her voice a low rasp as her lips brushed against your ear. "Watching you parade around, flaunting yourself, taunting me in front of everyone." Her breath was hot against your skin. "Flirting with me in front of the whole damn courtroom, just to see if I’d crack."

Her grip on your throat was sudden, firm, but not enough to choke, just enough to remind you of her power.

You gasped, the weight of her touch sending a thrill racing through your veins.

"Guess what, Princess?" she murmured, her lips hovering just over your ear. "You win."

And then, suddenly, urgently, her lips crashed into yours. There was nothing soft about it. Her kiss was a demand, taking everything from you, claiming you, pulling you deeper and deeper under her spell. Her teeth grazed your lips, nipping, pulling, urging you to respond, to surrender, to melt.

And you did.

You didn’t just kiss her back - you submitted.

When she pulled back, there was a brief moment of clarity. Her eyes were molten with desire, a cruel, predatory hunger dancing in the depths. Her fingers found your jaw, tilting your face up, forcing you to look at her.

Her thumb brushed over your lips, her gaze locking with yours.

"Pathetic," she muttered under her breath, a slight shake of her head as she looked down at you.

Before you could react, she gripped your chin, forcing your mouth open with surprising force. Your pulse quickened, heart hammering in your chest, breath caught in your throat. You stared at her, wide-eyed, and before you could fully comprehend what was happening, she leaned in - slowly, deliberately - and spit into your waiting mouth.

It was warm, slick, and thick, a tangible mark of her ownership, her control over you.

For a heartbeat, you froze.

Her eyes gleamed with satisfaction as she waited, her grip still tight on your jaw, forcing you to swallow.

"Swallow," she commanded, the word sharp, final.

You obeyed.

A thrill ran through you as the taste lingered in your mouth, a reminder of who you were with. Who you belonged to.

"Good girl," Casey murmured, her voice low and rough as she leaned in to kiss you again - this time softer, slower, savouring the moment. But there was nothing gentle in it. It was a reminder, a claim, marking you as hers.

You were breathless, your knees weak beneath you. The sensation of her lips on yours was dizzying, overwhelming.

Her voice dropped even lower, the words curling in your mind, leaving an imprint.

"By the time I’m done with you, you won’t remember how to stand, let alone how to breathe."

Her fingers slid back to your throat, pressing, not hard enough to crush, but enough to make your pulse flutter, enough to steal your breath.

"You’re mine now, Princess."

And you knew, deep down, that tonight - Casey Novak would ruin you.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The drive to her penthouse was suffocating in its silence, every second dragging out in unbearable tension. The atmosphere in the car was thick with unspoken words, heated glances, and the lingering electricity of what had happened in her office earlier. You could still feel the imprint of her touch on your skin, the way her voice had dropped low and dangerous as she’d leaned in close, her presence leaving you breathless. Now, as you sat beside her, the soft fabric of your dress brushing against your thighs, you couldn’t stop the restless movement of your fingers in your lap. Each stolen glance at her - the tight set of her jaw, the way her knuckles whitened against the steering wheel - only made the ache between your legs worse.

When she finally pulled into the parking garage, the tension between you was palpable, like a coiled spring ready to snap. She didn’t say a word as she stepped out of the car, her heels clicking sharply against the concrete floor. You followed her lead, your heart hammering in your chest as you hurried to keep up with her determined strides. The elevator ride to her penthouse was no better, the enclosed space amplifying every subtle shift in her stance. You could feel her heat, her restrained power, as she stood beside you, her lips pressed into a thin line.

By the time you stepped inside her penthouse, the heavy click of the door shutting felt like the finality of a lock snapping into place. The second the sound echoed through the space, she turned to you, her eyes blazing with intensity. Her lips were on yours in an instant, her kiss hot, demanding, and utterly consuming. There was nothing soft about it - her teeth tugged at your bottom lip, her tongue invading your mouth with a ferocity that left you gasping. Her hands gripped your hips, pulling you flush against her, the cool leather of her jacket pressing against your arms as her knee slid between your legs. The pressure against your core was enough to make you whimper, the sound swallowed by her relentless kiss.

When she finally pulled back, her lips were red and swollen, her breath coming in heavy pants. Her hands didn’t loosen their hold on you, her nails digging into your skin just hard enough to send a delicious shiver down your spine. “You’ve been teasing me all fucking night,” she growled, her voice low and dangerous, each word vibrating against your lips. “That little dress, the way you crossed your legs in front of me like you didn’t know exactly what you were doing. But it’s over now. You’re mine.”

Her grip on your wrist was firm as she led you toward the bedroom, the pace of her steps leaving no room for hesitation. The fabric of your dress brushed against your thighs as you stumbled after her, your heels clicking against the hardwood floor. You barely had time to take in the room - the sleek lines of the furniture, the muted tones of the décor—before she spun you around, her hands gripping your shoulders as she backed you up against the wall.

“Strip,” she ordered, her voice slicing through the charged silence like a whip.

You hesitated for a fraction of a second, caught off guard by the raw authority in her tone. But the look in her eyes - sharp and unyielding - left no room for defiance. Your fingers moved to the zipper at the back of your dress, the soft hiss of the fabric splitting filling the room. The dress slipped from your shoulders and pooled at your feet, leaving you in nothing but the lace panties and heels you’d chosen that morning without realizing just how much they’d matter now.

“Faster,” she snapped, her gaze fixed on you like a predator sizing up its prey. “I don’t have all night.”

You hurried to obey, kicking off your heels and peeling the delicate lace down your legs until you were completely bare before her. The weight of her stare was almost unbearable, her eyes raking over you with a hunger that made your skin burn.

“Good girl,” she murmured finally, a slow, predatory smile curling her lips. “So fucking perfect. But not nearly perfect enough. You’ll look better covered in my marks.”

Before you could respond, she was on you again, her hand gripping your chin and tilting your head back to meet her gaze. “You don’t speak unless I tell you to,” she said, her voice a low growl. “Understand?”

“Yes, Casey,” you whispered, the words trembling on your lips.

Her smirk widened, and she leaned in closer, her breath hot against your ear. “That’s what I like to hear.”

She pushed you back toward the bed with an unrelenting force, her hands rough and purposeful. When the backs of your knees hit the mattress, she shoved you down, her strength undeniable.

“Lie back,” she commanded, her voice brooking no argument. “Hands above your head.”

Your heart pounded as you complied, your body trembling with anticipation as you stretched out beneath her. The cool air brushed against your skin, making every nerve ending come alive.

She climbed onto the bed, her knees bracketing your hips, her hands gripping your wrists and pinning them above your head. The weight of her body against yours was intoxicating, her power undeniable as she leaned down, her lips brushing against your ear.

“You don’t get to decide anything tonight,” she whispered, her voice a dark promise. “Not how hard, not how fast. You’ll take whatever I give you, and you’ll fucking love it.”

Her words sent a shiver down your spine, your body arching beneath her as her hands trailed down your arms and over your chest. When her fingers reached your throat, she wrapped them around it, squeezing just enough to make your breath hitch. The sensation was heady, the mix of pleasure and control making your pulse race.

“You like this,” she murmured, her lips ghosting over your jaw. “Being at my mercy. Knowing you’re completely mine.”

Her hand slid lower, her nails dragging over your skin and leaving faint red trails in their wake. When her fingers finally slipped between your thighs, you gasped, your hips bucking involuntarily against her touch.

“Pathetic,” she sneered, her voice laced with mockery. “So fucking desperate. You’ll beg for it, won’t you?”

“Yes, Casey,” you moaned, your voice barely audible as she pressed her fingers against your slick heat.

Her smirk widened, and she leaned down, her lips brushing against your ear as she whispered, “Good. Now, let’s see how much you can take.”

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Casey’s fingers slid between your thighs, unapologetically exploring the wet heat there, her touch firm and unrelenting. She didn’t hesitate, parting your folds with an ease that had your back arching off the bed. Her lips curled into a smug smile as she felt how soaked you were, the evidence of your need coating her fingertips.

"Look at you," she murmured, her voice dripping with condescension. "So fucking wet already, and I’ve barely touched you. You’re practically begging for me to ruin you."

You whimpered, your legs trembling as she pressed her fingers deeper, teasing your entrance but not giving you the satisfaction of her full touch. She was deliberate, controlled, and maddeningly slow, her fingers circling your clit with just enough pressure to make your hips jerk, but not enough to send you over the edge.

"You’re such a needy little slut," she growled, her free hand sliding up your body to cup your breast, her thumb brushing over your hardened nipple. "I bet you’ve been dripping for me since the moment I told you to strip. Haven’t you?"

"Yes," you gasped, your voice shaking as her teeth grazed your neck, biting down just hard enough to make you cry out.

"That’s right," she hissed against your skin, her lips pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses along your throat. "You fucking love being at my mercy. You’d let me do anything to you, wouldn’t you?"

"Yes, Casey," you moaned, your voice breaking as she slid a single finger inside you, the intrusion making your breath hitch.

"God, you’re so tight," she muttered, her tone rough with desire. "I could fuck you with my fingers all night and still never get enough of the way you squeeze me."

Her pace quickened, her finger pumping into you with an unrelenting rhythm, curling just right to hit that spot inside you that made your vision blur. When she added a second finger, you couldn’t stop the shameless moan that tore from your throat, your body writhing beneath her as she fucked you deeper.

"That’s it," she purred, her thumb pressing against your clit in perfect tandem with her thrusts. "Take it like the good little whore you are. Don’t you dare hold back - I want to hear every filthy sound that comes out of your mouth."

Your head fell back against the mattress, your hands still pinned above you as she worked you with ruthless precision. Her mouth was everywhere - biting, licking, sucking - leaving marks in her wake that you knew would linger for days.

"Look at you," she sneered, her voice filled with mockery as she pulled back just enough to meet your gaze. "So fucking desperate for me. You’re a mess, you know that? Pathetic and perfect, all at the same time."

Her free hand gripped your jaw, forcing you to look at her as she increased the pace of her fingers, the slick sounds of her movements filling the room. "You’re mine," she growled, her breath hot against your lips. "Every inch of you. Your body, your mind, your fucking soul - every part of you belongs to me now."

Her words sent you hurtling toward the edge, your body trembling as the pressure built inside you, threatening to break. You could barely think, barely breathe, every nerve ending focused on her and the way she was unraveling you piece by piece.

But just as you felt yourself tip over the edge, her hand stilled, her fingers pulling out of you entirely.

You whimpered in protest, your hips bucking in search of relief, but she only smirked, shaking her head. "Oh no, Princess," she said, her tone dangerously low. "You don’t get to come until I say so. Beg for it."

"Please," you gasped, your voice desperate as tears pricked at the corners of your eyes. "Please, Casey, I need it."

She laughed, a dark, wicked sound that sent a fresh wave of arousal through you. "That’s not good enough," she said, leaning down to press her lips to your ear. "I want to hear you beg like the filthy little slut you are. Tell me how badly you need me to make you come."

"Please, Casey," you whimpered, your voice breaking as you looked up at her, your cheeks flushed and your chest heaving. "I need it. I need you to fuck me, to make me come. Please, I’ll do anything."

Her smirk widened, her teeth flashing as she leaned in closer, her breath ghosting over your lips. "That’s better," she murmured, her fingers slipping between your thighs once more, this time with an unrelenting intensity that had you crying out.

"Now, be a good girl and come for me," she commanded, her tone laced with dark satisfaction as her fingers worked you with ruthless precision.

And when you finally shattered beneath her touch, she didn’t let up, her hands and mouth dragging you through wave after wave of pleasure until you were trembling and utterly wrecked beneath her.

"You belong to me," she whispered against your skin, her voice a dark, possessive promise. "And I’ll make damn sure you never forget it."

[dakotalover1]

imgonnagetyouback

Spencer Reid x Reader (Rossi's Daughter)

It’s almost effortless, the way Spencer and I toggle between being on and off. When we’re off, there’s never a question of him seeking out someone else—it’s just not who he is. For one, his casework keeps him impossibly occupied, and for another, we both know the truth: no one will ever hold him like I do. No one will ever unravel him the way I have.

People on the outside don’t get us, and I can’t blame them. To them, Spencer is the genius, the prodigy with his nose buried in books, his mind running laps around theirs. But they don’t see him the way I do. They don’t know the Spencer who can whisper something wickedly clever into my ear and leave me breathless. They don’t know the Spencer who catches me off guard with a smile that feels like a private joke. They’ll never know the man who’s sexy without trying, whose mystery keeps me coming back for more. He’s an enigma I can’t stop solving, even when I think I’ve got him figured out.

To the outside world, our relationship might look like a puzzle, fragmented and strange—one moment we’re deeply in sync, the next we’re distant like strangers. But that’s us. We’re chaos and calm, passion and hesitation, a bond that defies simple explanation.

And now, here we are again, side by side at the bar down the street from my dad’s house. My dad loves throwing these little celebrations for his team—a way to mark the end of grueling casework. This one was different, though. A two-week marathon of intensity, and now everyone’s unwinding. Normally, during one of these “off” phases, Spencer and I would fall into our usual rhythm: separate lives, no strings, letting the other disappear for a while. But this time, it’s different.

Two weeks ago, Spencer started to feel it—the shift between us, the deepening connection that neither of us could quite ignore anymore. And I saw the flicker of fear in his eyes. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t scared, too. I’ve been avoiding “serious” for so long, but with Spencer, it just feels...inevitable. Natural. That is, until he switches gears, pretending like we’re nothing more than casual, trying to convince himself we’re just a passing thing. But we both know the truth.

When it’s just the two of us, tangled in each other and the silence, it’s the only time he lets himself exhale. I feel it in the way his body relaxes, in the way he clings to the quiet, to me. I’m his sanctuary, his one moment of peace in a life full of chaos.

Spencer thinks I don’t notice the walls he’s built, but I do. I see through the guarded way he speaks, the way he tries to keep me at arm’s length. I know why he does it—his past, his losses. He’s afraid of getting too close, terrified of losing something he can’t bear to live without. And I understand. After all, his mother couldn’t always be there for him, and his father...well, we both know that story. Even with the team, with JJ and Morgan and the others, there’s still a part of him that longs for a different kind of connection. The kind he’s found in me.

But Spencer’s comfort in my presence—his reliance on me—has its limits. He’s gotten a little too used to the idea that I’ll always be here, waiting, and it’s started to test me. I know he feels safe with me, and I love that, but there’s a part of me that wonders how long I can keep waiting for him to realize what we have. How long before he stops pretending and lets me in completely.

Because no matter how much he tries to deny it, no one will ever know him like I do. And no one will ever love him the way I can.

I’m seated at a high-top table with the girls, laughing at whatever joke JJ just cracked, but my focus keeps slipping. I can feel Spencer’s eyes on me from across the room. He’s standing at the bar with Morgan, but it’s like his attention is tethered to me, no matter where I go. That smirk—half knowing, half teasing—has been plastered on his face since I walked in.

And why wouldn’t it be? I’m wearing a tiny skirt in his favorite shade (of course, that wasn’t an accident) and a sheer white top that offers just a peek of the delicate lace beneath. It’s the kind of outfit that drives Spencer crazy because it’s equal parts sweet and sinful. He says he doesn’t want me, but we both know better. I know better.

So, I am sitting at a little hightop table with the girls, and I can feel Spencer's eyes and smirk pointing my way from the bar he's standing at with Morgan. I'm wearing a tiny little skirt that's his favorite color (obviously on purpose), and a sheer white top that you can slightly see my lacy bralette through. You know when you just know a guy still wants you even after he says he doesn't? Yeah that's the feeling I'm getting, I know Spencer better than anyone, and that man wants me.

Normally, I’d be smug that we’re back to normal, him undressing me with his eyes while pretending we’re just friends. However, I haven't decided if I want to curse him out or take him back to my house. I think tonight, if Spencer wants me back, he's going to have to earn it.

“I think Spence is going to combust if you don’t go over there and give him some attention,” JJ teases, her voice low but full of amusement.

The table bursts into laughter, and I lean back, swirling my drink with a smirk. “Oh, he’s going to have to do a lot better than those puppy-dog eyes tonight. I’m not giving in so easily.”

“Really?” Emily chimes in, raising an eyebrow. “Because it looks like you’ve got him wrapped around your little finger already. You’re going to make him suffer, aren’t you?”

I flash a wicked smile. “Maybe. Or maybe I’ll just make him think I’m moving on. ‘I could be someone’s wife,’” I say dramatically, quoting the line from my head and earning more laughs from the girls. “He doesn’t get to string me along and expect me to be waiting for him whenever he’s done overthinking everything.”

Penelope, ever the romantic, sighs dramatically. “But the tension between you two? It’s chef’s kiss. And that man looks like he’d follow you anywhere if you so much as crooked your finger.”

I shrug, feigning indifference, but the truth is, I’m soaking it all in. Emily nudges me, her voice taking on a playful edge. “Well, if you’re serious about giving him a hard time, you better brace yourself, because lover boy is on his way over.”

Spencer walked up to the table and waved to the ladies, and then leaned in to whisper in your ear, "You look good tonight". You seductively smirked and grabbed his jaw line with your hand pulling his ear to your mouth. As he smirks, you whisper back, "I know". His expression changes to one of confusion, as you would usually compliment him back, but instead you drop your hand and get up. "Pen, do you want to go to the ladies room with me?", her head perks up as she pretends to not have been watching that entire interaction and replies, "Oh! Yes of course, no fabulous female should ever venture too far alone!".

I brush past Spencer, my shoulder grazing his arm, but I don’t spare him a glance. I can feel his eyes following me as I walk away, his confusion and frustration practically burning holes into my back.

Let him stew. If Spencer wants me, he’ll have to work for it.

When Penelope and I return to the table, I don’t look in Spencer’s direction, even though I know he’s still watching me. Instead, I slide into my chair with a bright smile, joining the girls in laughter like nothing’s out of the ordinary.

Across the room, my dad, Rossi, catches my eye. He’s holding court at the bar, recounting one of his famous stories to a group of agents, his glass of scotch in hand. With a quick glance at the table, I lean over to JJ. “Be right back,” I say, standing up and making my way to him.

Rossi spots me approaching and pauses mid-story, a smile spreading across his face. “Ah, there’s my favorite critic,” he says, wrapping an arm around me as I step into his side.

“Favorite? Am I your only critic, Dad?” I tease, stealing the olive from his drink and popping it into my mouth.

“Probably,” he replies with a chuckle. “But you keep me honest.”

The agents around him disperse, leaving us a moment of quiet. He glances back at the table where the team is gathered and then back at me, his expression softening. “You seem...distracted tonight. Something on your mind?”

I shrug, playing it off. “No, not really. Just the usual chaos.”

“Uh-huh.” He gives me a knowing look, the kind only a father can master. “Let me guess. It has something to do with our resident genius over there?”

I sigh, leaning against the bar. “Does it have to be that obvious?”

“To me? Yes.” He takes a sip of his drink, his tone turning serious. “Look, you don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to, but...whatever’s going on between you two, make sure it’s something you’re happy with. Don’t settle for less than you deserve.”

His words hit a little too close to home, and I nod, unable to meet his gaze. “I know, Dad. I’m not settling.”

He studies me for a moment, then smiles softly. “Good. You’re my daughter. You’ve got Rossi standards to uphold, after all.”

I laugh, rolling my eyes. “Oh, is that what we’re calling it now?”

“Damn right.” He winks before turning back to his drink. “Go on, sweetheart. Don’t let me keep you from the party.”

With a quick kiss on his cheek, I leave him at the bar and head back to the table, but my focus isn’t on the girls anymore. It’s on Spencer, who’s still standing with Morgan, but his attention is locked on me.

I make my way back to the table, but my seat feels too far from the real reason I came back. I can feel Spencer’s eyes tracking my every move, but I don’t give him the satisfaction of looking his way. I sit down with the girls, pretending to be fully engrossed in Penelope’s animated story about her latest tech snafu.

But then I hear his voice, low and soft, behind me.

“Can we talk?”

The girls exchange subtle glances, but no one says a word. I don’t look at him right away. Instead, I take a deliberate sip of my drink and lean back in my chair, looking up at him with a perfectly raised eyebrow.

“Talk? Now that’s new for us,” I say, the words laced with a teasing edge.

Spencer doesn’t smile. His gaze is steady, and there’s something vulnerable behind his usual composure. “Please,” he murmurs, his voice quieter now.

JJ gives me a little nudge under the table, and Penelope wiggles her eyebrows dramatically. I sigh, pushing back my chair and standing up. “Fine,” I say, brushing past him as I head toward the quieter side of the bar.

He follows, and the sound of his footsteps feels louder than the music in the background. I stop near a corner booth and turn to face him, crossing my arms.

“What do you want, Spencer?”

He hesitates, shifting from one foot to the other like he’s trying to decide where to start. “I... I don’t know,” he admits finally. “I just—”

“You don’t know?” I interrupt, my tone sharper than I intended. “Because from where I’m standing, it seems like you know exactly what you’re doing. You push me away, pull me back, and then act like I’m the one who can’t figure it out.”

His jaw tightens, and I see the flicker of frustration in his eyes. “It’s not like that,” he says, his voice a little firmer. “It’s—complicated.”

“Oh, complicated,” I say with a sarcastic laugh, stepping closer to him. “You’re going to have to do better than that, Spence. Because I’m tired of complicated.”

He looks at me for a long moment, his eyes searching mine, and then he sighs, running a hand through his hair. “You’re right,” he says quietly. “I’ve been... difficult. And I don’t mean to be. It’s just—”

“Spit it out,” I challenge, my voice softer now but still edged with impatience.

He swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing, and then he steps closer, closing the space between us. “I’m scared,” he says, so quietly I almost don’t hear it.

The words hit me like a punch to the chest, but I don’t let it show. Instead, I tilt my head, meeting his gaze. “Scared of what?”

“Of this,” he says, gesturing between us. “Of how easy it is to be with you. Of how much I... need you.” His voice cracks slightly, and he looks away, as though the admission costs him more than he expected. “And I’m scared of losing it. Losing you.”

For a moment, I don’t say anything. I just look at him, the way his shoulders slump like he’s carrying more than his share of the weight. And as much as I want to stay mad, my resolve starts to crack.

“Well, you’ve got a funny way of showing it,” I say finally, my voice softer now.

He looks at me again, and the vulnerability in his eyes is almost too much to bear. “I know,” he says. “And I’m sorry. I’m not good at this, at... us. But I want to be.”

There it is. The honesty I’ve been waiting for.

I take a step closer, reaching out to gently tug at his tie. “You’re not getting off that easy, Dr. Reid,” I say with a small smirk. “If you want me, you’re going to have to prove it.”

His lips twitch, almost forming a smile, but there’s still that seriousness in his eyes. “I will,” he says, his voice steady. “If you’ll let me.”

I let go of his tie, my fingers brushing against chest, "Show me"

Spencer doesn’t move, and neither do I. The space between us feels charged, electric, like the air before a storm. My fingers linger just above his tie, not touching him but close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his chest.

“Show me,” I say again, my voice barely above a whisper.

His eyes drop to my lips for a fraction of a second before meeting mine again. “You don’t make it easy, you know that?”

“Why should I?” I challenge, raising an eyebrow. “You’ve made me work for every ounce of your attention, Spence. Maybe it’s time you see how it feels.”

His jaw tightens, but his lips curve into the smallest of smirks. “Fair enough,” he murmurs. Then, his voice drops, low and velvety. “But don’t forget, I’m a quick learner.”

The heat between us builds, and I can feel my pulse quickening. His confidence—subtle, restrained—is maddening, and yet I can’t look away.

“You talk a big game,” I say, tilting my head slightly, “but I’m not convinced yet.”

“Not convinced?” He steps closer, and I’m acutely aware of how close we are now. His hand brushes against mine, deliberate but fleeting, and the touch sends a jolt up my spine. “Tell me, what would it take to convince you?”

The corner of my mouth curves upward, a dangerous smile playing on my lips. "I'm sure you'll figure something out."

I take my hands off of him, a slow, deliberate motion, as I turn to walk away, the air thick with the tension between us. But just as I make my move, his grip tightens on my arm, pulling me back with a force that leaves me breathless. Before I can fully process what’s happening, his body presses against mine, his lips capturing mine in a kiss so intense it steals the air from my lungs. The heat between us ignites instantly, the world around us fading as his kiss deepens, claiming me in a way that leaves no room for doubt.

He's definitely got me back.

[more-sonorous]

gmybw 2- feelings, feelings, feelings

continuation of the little oneshot i wrote last night bc we've built a whole universe around it and i MUST do that universe justice by bringing it onto the page (screen)

if i write enough of this universe i WILL transfer it to the archive

.....

Medda Larkin firmly believed that the difficult, frustrating intricacies of the foster system needed to be spoken about more often.

She had to endure the longest three months of her life as she and Hannah waited on permission to become foster parents, and they were sorely unprepared. Becoming foster certified wasn't the issue-- sure, there were countless classes and home safety checks, too many interviews and loopholes to count-- but that was easy, run of the mill stuff. All of the difficulties came from the actual process of transferring Jack from one miserable foster family to her own (hopefully better) house. The system refused to budge, and through it all, Medda watched Jack Kelly fall apart bit by bit. She felt sort of like she was falling apart, too. Every new bruise and scrape he wore created another fracture in her heart, and she wanted nothing more than to save this kid. 

Of course, Medda did what she could and provided Jack with a place to escape to. He was always welcome in her theater or her townhouse and he knew as much, but it was a rare occurrence for him to actually turn up on her doorstep. Still, there’d been three or four nights when Jack Kelly spontaneously graced her humble home, and she and Hannah acted accordingly. Medda also found herself picking up meals for Jack during her lunch breaks and offering them to him during rehearsals, where he’d developed a habit of sitting in the house next to her and doodling on an old sketchpad she’d given to him. Medda adored the kid. He was real rough around the edges but he loved hard, passionate and talented and brimming with emotion and potential. Jack Kelly was a sweet kid, if not a little misguided, and he’d wormed his way into her heart with his easy smiles and his hidden depths. 

Summer was ending and that meant Jack would be starting high school, still trapped under the oppressive fist of a foster parent Medda knew frustratingly little about. She’d done her research on Mr. Alexander Snyder and found little to nothing incriminating about the man– just the fact that he worked as the lead campaign manager for the state’s current governor. That little tidbit of information had led Medda to wonder just how many CPS calls directed towards this man had conveniently slipped under the radar, and a protective fury lit like a bonfire within her.

Every second of every day when Jack wasn’t under her care made her more and more anxious, dreading the newest bruise on his young face or badly concealed limp in his step. Time couldn't have passed more slowly.

Then mid-August hit, and suddenly the Larkins were state-certified foster parents. Medda Larkin looked at Jack Kelly and said, ‘I have got to see that child safe and happy’. Once her intentions were made clear, a mess that would haunt her for the rest of her life kicked into action. Snyder didn’t want to give Jack up. He was furious. Started spewing lies to the case worker about how close they’d become and how good Jack was doing under his care. Medda was fighting tooth and nail for Jack, who didn’t seem very excited about the whole situation, and mid-August showed Medda a new, furious side of Jack Kelly.

He cooperated with her, with his caseworker too, but he was sharp and snappy and moody. Brimming with a rage she just couldn’t understand– a rage that was sometimes directed towards her.

Jack still visited the theater with Racer, oftentimes covered in new bruises and cuts and swamped in one of the three hoodies he owned, but he was a glowering, brooding mess of a boy that was prone to snapping. The glimpse of the funny, sweet kid she’d seen before was stamped out by a miserable, obviously terrified child, and Medda didn’t know what to do. She could only hope that getting him away from Alex Snyder would fix things. 

Still, within all of the bad moments, there were glimmering bits of goodness.

During the month before Medda began her custody attempts, Jack grew more at ease within the theater during every passing day. Everyone seemed to take a liking to him. He could be bright and charismatic when he wanted to be, and Medda watched countless others find themselves tugged into his orbit. One of those was one Spot Conlon, Medda’s lead set designer.

Sinead (nicknamed Spot because of the countless freckles covering every inch of her skin) had been working with Medda since she was a child, moving set pieces and operating power drills better than any of the boys her age— and she did all of that with a stoic, all-business expression. Medda watched the girl grow up and perfect her craft, and was proud to see Spot gearing up to start freshman year of community college as a welder. She was strong, independent, and smart as hell, and Medda loved her like one of her own. Spot was, coincidentally, the mastermind behind their Sound of Music set, and she took an instant liking to Jack. They had a rough and tumble sarcastic sort of relationship, but Spot was good for Jack. She was down to earth, grounded, and no-nonsense. He needed someone that would shut down his stubbornness as bluntly as Spot could.

Spot did exactly that on a muggy August day, when Jack was refusing to speak to Medda. He looked an awful mess, hood tugged down over his brow and arms crossed over his chest. A nasty cut sliced open the bridge of his nose, and he’d refused to let Medda bandage it in a fit of stubborn false independence. Medda had to drop the argument, fearing that she was being too pushy towards the kid because of her slow-growing frustration. He was obviously struggling and he was thinner than ever, nothing but a twig of a fourteen year old boy who might not’ve been getting fed at all at home. 

Jack was sitting silently in one of the plush audience seats, an empty chair between him and Medda. Spot strolled up to them, arms crossed, and stopped in her tracks in front of Jack. She raised one eyebrow, radiating a strange mix of confidence and judgement. “Jack Kelly, you look like a mess.”

“Shut the fuck up, Spot.” He muttered, tucking his nose further into the fabric of his hoodie.

Spot only smiled one of those scary smiles of hers (she rarely ever smiled, and she only had two smiles– a close-lipped, terrifying one, and an even rarer full-teeth, bright and happy, genuine one) and propped her foot up on the arm of Jack’s chair. He glanced at her paint-splotched work boot and Medda barely resisted the urge to laugh at his expression of textbook teenage petulance. “Let me do your hair.”

“What?” 

“I wanna redo your cornrows.” Spot said simply, reaching out and tugging his hood off. He growled in frustration and tried to bat her hand away, but she was four years his elder and much stronger, so she rubbed her palm over his hair with ease. He was due for a rebraid, little frizzy curls escaping from the already messily done hairdo. Medda could tell he’d braided it himself— his cornrows were uneven and they were different sizes, inexpert and rushed.  “C’mon, Kelly, we gotta get you fixed up.”

“You really think my foster dad is payin’ for a barber?” He sneered, trying to sound rude and accusatory but coming across as hurt instead.

Spot only raised an eyebrow, crossing her arms over her chest. “What, and you think I can afford a hairdresser? I’m poor as shit, Jack. I do my own damn hair. You ain’t seen me lookin’ a mess one time, either. I’m offerin’ to do yours for free, so why don’t you just man the fuck up and let me?”

“You’re the worst, Conlon.” Jack muttered, though he seemed more annoyed at her insistence than offended. That wasn’t a no.

A toothy grin took over Spot’s freckled face and she patted Jack’s cheek, whipping around to face Medda with the same smile turning her eyes into crescent moons. “Medda, can we go to yours?”

“Absolutely. What d’you kids want for dinner?”

Spot looked at Jack, eyebrows raised up to her impeccably styled edges, and he almost sheepishly met Medda’s eyes. “I guess if you don’t mind making lasagna…”

“I don’t mind at all, honey.” She rose to her feet and carefully brushed her hands off on her trousers, gently patting Jack’s bony shoulder. Medda didn’t miss how he leaned into the contact for a split second despite his still-stormy expression. “Can you handle some garlic bread too, or am I pushing it?”

Jack smiled a lopsided little smile, dimpling his right cheek as he rolled his eyes almost fondly. That was what Medda wanted to see. Comfort. Ease. A version of Jack Kelly that felt like he could smile. If things went how she wanted them to go, Medda hoped to see this smiling kid without all of the cuts and bruises. 

Four hours later, Medda was pulling a steaming pan of lasagna out of the oven while Hannah tossed a salad in the ridiculously pretentious salad bowl they’d received as a wedding gift. The kitchen smelled lovely and Medda was honestly glad to have a reprieve from the constant anxiety she’d been feeling all summer. Jack was in the upstairs bathroom, safe and happy with Spot. Their conversation was an unintelligible murmur from downstairs, but the point was that he was safe in the house with Medda and away from that sickeningly evil man.

Hannah’s snort of laughter pulled her from her daze, and Medda turned to her wife with curiosity written all over her face. “What?”

“I just can’t believe Mr. Pulitzer gave us this. It wasn’t even on the registry.” She snorted, holding up the salad bowl to examine the less-than-tasteful designs on the porcelain. This conversation came up every single damn time they used the bowl, and it never made them laugh any less. Medda could feel herself snickering already at the memory of how shocked they’d been when they unboxed the gift, two twenty-eight year old newlyweds with eyes nearly bugging out of their skulls at the sight of the strangest salad bowl they'd ever seen. “He’s one of the richest goddamn men in this city and he got us this salad bowl I’d find in my Minnesotan grandma’s house!” 

Soon they were devolving into laughter, and Medda had to move away from the burning hot lasagna in order to keep her skin safe. “Oh, God, I can still remember the look on your face when you saw it!”

“He couldn’t have gotten us a coffee-maker? Or even a nice set of china?”

“Hey, baby, at least it has matching salad servers!” Medda just barely managed to crow through her own laughter, which made Hannah burst into a round of cackling as she held up the aforementioned matching forks. 

As Hannah held on to the sauce-covered salad servers, laughing so hard that tears were beading in her pale-blue eyes, Medda grabbed onto the counter for stability and experienced a brief flash of adoration so extreme that she felt breathless for a moment. There was no one in the world she’d rather raise Jack with. Hannah was her person. Her rock in an incredibly turbulent sea. Medda had no idea what she’d do without this incredible spitfire of a woman, wo'd been by her side for months, researching loopholes to try and get their boy home faster.

Her wife’s laughter died and their eyes met for a second. Hannah’s expression softened for just a moment before her brazen personality returned full-force with a grin. “You getting sappy on me?”

“No, no.” Medda chuckled despite herself, because she most certainly was. “Just admiring the view…”

“Well, admire it another time. Why don’t you go tell those kiddos it’s time to eat before I devour this whole damn pan by myself?” Hannah pecked Medda’s cheek in a soft, appreciative kiss as she brought the salad to the dinner table. It was one of those kisses that conveyed just how much she loved Medda and all her sappiness, and Medda Larkin was reminded of just how excited she was to spend the rest of her life with this woman.

Still, Hannah was onto something. Medda was hungry. She made her way up the stairs and gently rapped her knuckles against the wood of the bathroom door before cracking it open and smiling at the sight of the two teenagers. The room smelled sweetly of hair-care products. Jack, sitting cross-legged in front of the toilet, looked very much at ease. Spot was perched on the toilet itself with a comb balanced between her lips, a look of concentration furrowing her brows. Medda noted, with fond amusement, that she was making the same face she always made when she worked on a particularly challenging set piece. Her fingers moved nimbly, twisting Jack’s dark hair with expert precision.

Jack smiled at Medda, and her heart swelled with fondness at the sight of him, hair nice and clean and nose bandaged. “Food smells good, Mrs. Medda.”

“I sure hope it’ll taste good, too.” She crossed her arms and leaned against the door, all of the love in her chest making it hard to do anything but look at her kiddos. “You two getting along in here?”

“Yes ma’am.” He responded carefully, not even wincing when Spot tugged the little curls at the nape of his neck into the braid she was finishing up. She’d almost finished his entire head, and Jack’s scalp was decorated with precise, even cornrows that had been braided into a nice design. Medda knew there was nothing like the happiness one felt after getting their hair redone, and she was sure it felt ten times better for a kid like Jack who hadn’t had the luxury in years, maybe.

She felt an uncomfortable clench of anger as she thought about the bastard who was supposed to be ‘caring’ for Jack, who hadn’t even attempted to send the poor boy to a barber in two damn years. Jack probably had to do his own hair, which was surely a difficult and time-consuming task for a kid who might not've been taught how. Medda tried to push those thoughts to the wayside; she was just happy to see him smiling on her bathroom floor.

Spot chuckled, swiveling the comb in her mouth to rest between her teeth. “Good thing Jack ain’t tender-headed.”

“If I was you’d prob’ly be pulling harder.” Jack joked easily, cheeks dimpled. 

“Yeah, you're prob'ly right.”

They shared a giggle– or rather, Jack giggled and Spot exhaled harshly in amusement, because that was about as close as she got to giggling. Medda watched her fingers twist and dart about, finishing the last cornrow up at the nape of Jack’s neck. She’d done an impeccable job. It was the neatest Medda had seen Jack in the three months she’d known him. Maybe even the happiest, too. 

“Alright, shithead, I’m done.” Despite Spot’s words, the older girl’s tone was brimming with affection as she gently slapped the back of Jack’s head and stood from her wide-legged perch. Spot brushed her palms off on the thighs of her classic work overalls as Jack clambered to his feet, making his way over to the mirror.

There was something about the way his face changed that tugged at Medda’s heartstrings. The tiniest smile seemed to blossom on his lips as those dark eyes flicked across his own expression, and he looked happy. Medda could tell Spot was having some big feelings too with the way she was looking at Jack, uncharacteristically soft, comb clenched in loose fingers.

The moment was sweet as honey, and Medda let it linger until Jack finally broke the illusion by carefully, almost reverently running his hand over his hair. He grinned, toothy and dimpled and ridiculously bright. “I like it, Spot.”

“Good, ‘cause my fingers are killing me.” She teased, unable to take a compliment, and lightly shoved his shoulder on her way to wash her hands. Jack continued to grin at his own reflection as Spot rinsed product off of her fingers, rolling her eyes at the loveable bastard squeezed into the space next to her. “Don’t get a big ego, casanova.”

“I’m not.” He shoved back, obviously unable to stop his smiling. “You’re the one with a big ego.”

“Yeah? Well I got every right to it.” Spot smirked at her own reflection and flexed both arms in the mirror, her rolled up sleeves highlighting the impressive muscles in her forearms. Jack gave a massive eye roll and ducked under one of her arms, headed straight towards Medda instead.

“How’d you put up with her for twelve whole years?” He asked, running a hand over his hair once more as if he couldn’t quite believe how neat and clean it felt. 

Spot fell into step right behind him. “‘Cause Medda Larkin is an angel. She puts up with your sorry ass, too.” Jack laughed, loud and unabashed, as he left the bathroom and jogged down the stairs. Spot stopped right next to Medda, uncharacteristically smiley. “I’ll clean your bathroom up after dinner, Medda.”

“Don’t worry about it.” She smiled and carefully took Spot’s hand, squeezing gently. “You did a good thing tonight, sweetheart.”

“Yeah, guess I did.” She shrugged noncommittally, brushing a stray curl behind her ear. Spot’s pretty natural hair was half-up in a bun and half down, hanging around her shoulders in lovely curls. She was still paint-streaked from the theater, but she radiated a confident, grown-up ease that Medda often saw in young adults when they hit this age. Adding to that was the happiness that came from helping out a good, wayward kid like Jack Kelly. Spot was almost smiling. Almost.

As she headed downstairs, Medda thought, warmly, that they would have looked like siblings to the untrained eye. 

The next week was rough. The custody change was close to becoming official and because of that, Snyder cracked down hard on Jack, who disappeared entirely for five painstakingly long days. Medda was almost beside herself with anxiety, constantly annoying Jack’s case worker with her pleas to just transfer his goddamn custody already. They’d completed all of the necessary steps, but Snyder was fighting hard against the system. Or maybe the system was with him and Medda and Jack’s caseworker were the ones fighting, but either way, it was taking too damn long to get that baby somewhere safe.

The caseworker, an elderly man that Medda knew only as Mr. Kloppman, meant well. He was just too damn strict about the laws and rules, always wearing a suit and refusing to consider any loopholes. He seemed to care about Jack and his safety, but then he’d say things like, ‘Jack’s got a violent history– are you sure?’ and, ‘he’s been in and out of foster homes for a while. Just be sure to make an educated decision’, and Medda would see red. What was so damn hard about putting this child somewhere he wouldn’t be hurt? She didn't care about his past. If she never learned Jack's backstory, so be it, as long as he was happy.

Just when she’d started to really and truly worry for Jack’s safety, she received a call from Kloppman. The relief hit her so hard that she nearly cried, because Jack Kelly was going to be fostered by the Larkins, and she’d won a three month long battle against a crooked man and his government ties.

The next day, Jack stumbled out of Kloppman’s beat up Honda Civic holding one singular duffle bag, looking more miserable than Medda had ever seen him. Kloppman even looked more tired than usual, his typically lanky body almost slumped with exhaustion. His suit was rumpled and his circular glasses sat slightly askew. 

Jack was tense with anger and covered with enough bruises and cuts to make Medda feel properly nauseous. She remembered holding Hannah’s hand like a lifeline as the impossibly broken, small child made his way up to the townhouse’s stairs and wordlessly stopped in front of them. Jack was furious. His anger felt like waiting for a thunderstorm to begin, when the energy seemed to buzz and hum in the air, and the clouds filled everyone with a constant sense of foreboding. It was palpable, tainting the air between them as Kloppman stood a few inches behind Jack and read off some useless reminders that only Hannah would listen to.

Medda desperately searched Jack’s face for anything but anger and was disheartened to see fear in his wild, dark eyes, badly masked beneath his furrowed brow. She didn’t understand, but she knew at that very moment that they were about to embark on a difficult journey, and she’d have to be a sturdy pillar of love and understanding for this child that’d lacked both of those things for far too long. 

“Well, Jack?” Kloppman said, with an awkward sort of tenderness that was meant to be reassuring but came across as tired. “You got everything from the car?”

“Yeah.” Jack bit out, voice gruff and low as he wrapped his arms around himself. 

The older man hummed, obviously sensing tension, and even more obviously unaware of what to do about it. He sighed a long-suffering sigh and awkwardly patted Jack’s shoulder. “Well, be good, kiddo. Call if you need anything.”

Jack said nothing in response, eyes flickering between Hannah and Medda as his case worker made his way back to the car. The engine spluttered to life on the sidewalk across from them as Hannah carefully opened the front door, giving Jack one last look of intrigue before carefully squeezing her wife’s shoulder.

“You wanna head inside, Jack?” Medda asked, making her voice as warm and loving as humanly possible. “I can patch you up, honey.”

He only seemed to tense up even further, that terrified anger practically rolling off of him in waves. Medda was at a loss, so she just decided to head inside and prayed that Jack would follow. After a moment of quiet contemplation, he did, lugging his duffel up the stairs with him. He paused at the threshold of the doorway, glancing back anxiously at Mr. Kloppman’s retreating car. It sputtered off into the distance, and Jack seemed to grow tenser with every second that the car grew smaller. Once it rounded the corner and disappeared, Jack stared at the interior of the townhome he’d been inside of countless times before, clutching the strap of his duffle like a lifeline. 

Medda couldn’t begin to understand what was racing through his troubled mind. To be fourteen years old and to have suffered so much was inconceivable to her. Sure, she’d had her own struggles, growing up with a single mother and being a black woman in a country that was nothing if not unkind and unfair, but Jack had been through so much more and he was less than half her age. Just seeing him standing there in his too-big clothes, injured and angry and broken, made Medda break as well.

He was looking at her, and there was genuine fear in his eyes. Her words lodged themselves in her throat and she could do nothing but stand, still and open, and pray that he’d remember to trust her.

Eventually Jack stepped inside, looking between the two women like he was waiting for the other shoe to drop. It took a moment for Medda’s brain to work again, but she eventually remembered common sense and took a step forward, smiling softly at the boy she’d grown so fond of. “You want anything specific for lunch?”

“No.” He ground out, fingers flexing and tightening further. 

Medda nodded, feeling nothing but patience and confusion. “Alright. Hannah was thinking we’d do grilled cheese and tomato soup. How’s that? Then we can fix up those cuts."

He nodded, eyes boring into hers with a strange, scary intensity.

She smiled, because despite her lack of understanding, she was still happy. Relieved, too. "I’m glad you’re here, Jack.”

Jack blinked at her, brow furrowing imperceptibly. She watched anger twist his mouth into a frown and barely registered his noncommittal shrug before he was storming past her, a flurry of unrestrained adolescent emotions manifesting in loud footsteps on the stairs and the echoing slam of the guest bedroom door. The house seemed to shake with the force of his anger, and Medda realized that she’d only won a small battle when she finally got custody.

There was a war to fight, and God damn it all, she was going to fight that war with so much patience and love. She was going to give Jack Kelly the life he deserved, even if it took him ages to see that he really did deserve it. 

[creator-of-calm-queer-chaos]

CERULEAN SEA HAS A SEQUEL

I REPEAT

THE HOUSE IN THE CERULEAN SEA BY TJ KLUNE HAS A SEQUEL

It’s called ‘Somewhere Beyond the Sea’ and it’s Arthur’s perspective, life, and the events following Cerulean Sea. Here is the summary from Macmillian (Tor Book’s distributor):

“A magical house. A secret past. A summons that could change everything.

Arthur Parnassus lives a good life built on the ashes of a bad one.

He’s the master of a strange orphanage on a distant and peculiar island, and he hopes to soon be the adoptive father to the six dangerous and magical children who live there.

Arthur works hard and loves with his whole heart so none of the children ever feel the neglect and pain that he once felt as an orphan on that very same island so long ago. He is not alone: joining him is the love of his life, Linus Baker, a former caseworker in the Department In Charge of Magical Youth. And there’s the island’s sprite, Zoe Chapelwhite, and her girlfriend, Mayor Helen Webb. Together, they will do anything to protect the children.

But when Arthur is summoned to make a public statement about his dark past, he finds himself at the helm of a fight for the future that his family, and all magical people, deserve.

And when a new magical child hopes to join them on their island home—one who finds power in calling himself monster, a name that Arthur worked so hard to protect his children from—Arthur knows they’re at a breaking point: their family will either grow stronger than ever or fall apart.

Welcome back to Marsyas Island. This is Arthur’s story.

Somewhere Beyond the Sea is a story of resistance, lovingly told, about the daunting experience of fighting for the life you want to live and doing the work to keep it.”

Its publishing date is September 10th of this year, and you can preorder it from most everywhere you buy books!!

[religion-is-a-mental-illness]

Dr. Phil: States across the country have passed laws banning "gender affirming care" on minors. Our next guest is a queer woman who is married to a trans man. When Jamie Reed worked as a caseworker at the transgender centre at St. Louis Children’s Hospital, she thought she was saving trans kids' lives. But she claims what she witnessed there was so morally and medically appalling that she had no choice but to expose what was really going on.

Jamie Reed: I was working in a paediatric gender for 4 1/2 years, primarily responsible for patient intakes. The center followed this message that transition would solve everything. That it would solve a child’s mental health problems. There were very few written protocols or guidelines. One of the providers even said we were "flying the plane as we built it." Doctors are acting like they're God when it comes to medically transitioning children.

Children could identify themselves as transgender, see a therapist for one visit, see our endocrinologist for one visit, and end up with hormones that would impact and change their bodies for their lifetime. These were identities that were still shifting and changing, but the treatments were irreversible and permanent. I saw a young person who was begging to have their breasts put back on after having surgery.

We were encouraged not to make a big deal out of it and definitely not to tell other families. I couldn't continue to be silent on it. The medical harms and trauma that I saw with these teens just took over my life. I was told I could no longer raise concerns or even use the phrase, "I have concerns about a patient." I have no trust in this industry medically transitioning minors anymore.

Dr. Phil: Jamie, thank you for being here.

Jamie: Thank you for having me.

Dr. Phil: You describe yourself a queer woman married to a transgender man and you're a member of the LGBTQ community and you went there to do something good, something positive at this clinic in St Louis. What changed your mind?

Jamie: A number of things. We started to see patients who were experiencing very significant medical harms. Being rushed to the emergency room with lacerations requiring stitches. We had patients contact us who were begging to have body parts put back on within months of having surgeries. And the thing that kept happening is every time I would raise concerns and ask about the protocols and ask about the guidelines, this is just how the industry works. If a child says they're trans, there’s no questioning it, we just say, "yep, you're trans, what would you like?"

Dr. Phil: You’re telling me that a 12- or 13-year-old who can’t decide which pyjamas to wear can come in and say, "I’ve decided that I want to transition," and with no more than a couple of hours - or two visits, not even a couple of hours, two visits - they say, okay, start taking this, start doing this. Which alters their biochemistry in a way that you can’t come back from.

Jamie: Correct.

Dr. Phil: And you say you saw dramatic increases in teenage girls that had no previous history of gender distress and they suddenly declared themselves transgender and demanded immediate testosterone [and] blockers.

Jamie: When I started - so I was there for 4 1/2 years, and when I started, I maybe would have 5 to 10 new incoming patients a month. By the time I left it was close to 50 every single month. My background is in clinical research and so I started looking at the data, I wanted to know what the numbers told me. And towards the end of my tenure, 73% of the new patients coming to us were girls who were in their teen years, so in that really vulnerable age of like 13 to 16 where they are just exposed to so many social pressures and they’re so empathetic to what’s going on around them too, that they really pick up on what’s going on in their peer group. We had clusters where it would be a handful of one whole high school classroom would come in all trans identified.

Dr. Phil: Historically, this typically would be males and you would have a female how often?

Jamie: Oh, very rare. And also, the ages were different. So, it would usually be younger boys who seemed very feminine or had feminine traits to their family and their families would seek care trying to understand what’s going on for their young male child. This was never something that would start in adolescence.

And these girls were also learning on TikTok, Instagram, they would come in and they would almost have the exact same storyline too. Like they learned what to say from a video to explain, "oh no really, I’ve felt this way from early childhood." But a lot of their parents couldn’t remember anything like that.

And part of what’s going on right now is that if you question this at all, you are immediately called transphobic, you’re immediately called homophobic, you’re immediately considered a bigot. And it’s just not scientific reality.

Dr. Phil: Jamie Reed says that her goal was to support trans youth. Jamie says patients had no idea what they were going to be as adults, yet all it took for them to permanently transform themselves was one or two short conversations with a therapist. When you say short, what would you call short?

Jamie: One visit. I saw letters being written approving children for puberty blockers or cross sex hormones after a single visit with a therapist.

Dr. Phil: And how long would that visit be?

Jamie: 30, 40 minutes.

Dr. Phil: And you said that the clinic would actually provide them a letter that checked all the boxes for them to qualify for the treatment.

Jamie: It wasn’t the clinic, it was me. It was my job. I sent out the fill-in-the-blank letter. I sent it. It’s what we did. We sent it directly to the community therapist and said just fill this out, plug-in where you need to, and we’re good to go.

Dr. Phil: What kind of things would it say?

Jamie: At the end of all of the letters would say, "I am approving this patient for puberty blockers or cross sex hormones." "They meet criteria."

Dr. Phil: There were some emails that you saw that were very troubling to you and I’d like to look at these.

Email to Jamie from Parent Revoking Consent June 9, 2022

"Please be advised that I’m revoking my consent for this course of medical treatment. Grades have dropped, there’s been an in-patient behavioural health visit and now he’s on 5 different medications. Lexapro, Trazadone, Buspar, etc. Blank is a shell of his former self riddled with anxiety. Who knows if it’s because of the hormone blockers or the other medications. I revoke my consent. I want the hormone blocker removed."

Jamie: The mom, who is a legal guardian, sent us that email and we acted like we knew better than a parent. And we refused to remove the blocker.

[hezekiahwakely]

As anticipated, here are my extensive red string notes from the pilot:

God knows how relevant any of this will turn out to be, but I'm nothing if not a collector of trivial information

Very long text beneath the cut:

Page 1

The Magnus Protocol Pilot 10/25/23

Characters (in order of appearance)

Alice Dyer -O.I.A.R. employee -Dated Sam in uni -Jokester -Training Sam -Gets along with Colin

Teddy Vaughn -Retiring from the O.I.A.R. after 4 (?) years -Going into insurance field

Colin Becher -O.I.A.R. IT Manager -Vegetarian 🥬 -On the hook of "his nibs" (boss, male) -Sensitive about FR3-d1 app development, communicates w/politicians, trying for 2 years -Only gets along w/Alice -Knows computers are listening -Jokes about being killed

Lena Kelley -O.I.A.R. Team/Department Manager -Authoritative, follows protocol -Doesn't think Gwen is qualified for management

Gwendolyn Bouchard -O.I.A.R. employee -Backlog of casework -Dislikes Lena, wants her job -Dedicated to detail -Accused of nepotism by Alice -Thinks current job is beneath her -"Not like most people." *static*

Samama Khalid (Sam) -New O.I.A.R. employee -Dated Alice in uni -Wanting to 'get back on his feet' -Familiar with TMI -Didn't know what the Incidents were before hire!!

Page 2

Pilot notes con. 10/25/23

Listening Tech - Turns on by itself 💡

Dated computers (O.I.A.R.)

"Manager's speakerphone" (Lena's)

CCTV (O.I.A.R. breakroom?)

Cell phone (Alice's)

*O.I.A.R. formed in 70s? Accor. to Alice*

*Response Department no longer exists*

Still in onboarding paperwork, "Response 121"

Sam ticked this box

Tech Specs

O.S. = Windows NT 4.0 (modified) -Extended support for this O.S. was ended Dec. 31, 2004 IRL -Runs on workstations connected by LAN -Similar GUI to 95; comes w/Internet Explorer

FR3-d1 -Custom research software circa mid-90s -Flags Incidents and creates a database -Can search private/protected sources (email) -Alice claims no one has understood its workings for 15 years -Written in German source code

*1 Year = Average Employee Stay*

Page 3

Pilot notes con. 10/25/23

Classification System

Used in FR3-d1's database

Structure: CATXRXXXXX-XXXXXXXX-XXXXXXXX

CATXRX -> From reference table (CAT = Category?) First four digits -> Main subject of Incident DPHW (?) Next eight digits -> Date of Incident Last eight digits -> Current date

Example: CAT2RC1157-12052022-13012024* -First one we hear they file. "1157" is the "DPHW" for "dolls, watching."

*Jan. 13, 2024 is the date of Sam's onboarding/training (after Teddy's going-away party)

*as listed in transcript; in-show, it's quoted as 22102023, or Oct. 22, 2023

Page 4

Pilot notes (con.) 10/25/23

FR3-d1's Voice to Text/Text to Speech

Voices (named by Alice, which Gwen dislikes):

Neil = Alex

Chester = Jonny

(those two most common)

Augustus = ?

Neil's Incident

Occurs in "Cyberspace" via the transcript

"I'm so sorry. I should have listened. I just couldn't face the thought of the rest of my life never hearing him again, I had to try." First lines 😢

Email from Harriet Winstead to Darla Winstead, May 12, 2022

Recitations *can* be paused by pressing "space"!

Chester's Incident

Also occurs in "Cyberspace"

Topic: Magnus Institute Ruins.

On forum, user RedCanary, begins April 10, 2022. Explored 4/19-20/22.

Third floor gone. No old papers.

Suspicious, occult (?) graffiti, stains (!)

Took box with strange symbols (same as ones on walls/floors)

4/30/22 Posted image of gore/eyes, possibly of themself. Banned + did not return.

Page 5

Pilot notes con. 10/25/23

Early release video Case #: CAT1RA1353-03102023-22102024(listed as 202"3" on Patreon)

Video was posted 10/22/23.

Listed as "Incident" on Patreon.

According to transcript, the O.I.A.R. offices are located in Royal Mint Court.

Johson (sic) Smirke Building

Main building.

5 storeys, Grade 2 listed.

Designed by James Johnson, but constructed between 1807-1812 by Robert Smirke after Johnson died. To be used for mint.

Entrance lodge also built by Smirke, in front of building.

Page 6

Pilot - Public Release -TMAGP#001

Changes:

Sam's first incident number - today's date

CAT2RC1157-12052022-13012024 -> CAT2RC1157-12052022-09012024

Voice (first incident)

Neil -> *Norris*

Minor word/date changes in incidents.

Minor line read differences.

Descriptions of Incidents in new transcript:

Norris': CAT1RBC5257-12052022-09012024 Reanimation (Partial) -/- Regret [Email]

Chester's: CAT23RAB2155-10042022-09012024 Transformation (Eyes) -/- Trespass [chat log]

[haggishlyhagging]

The question of suitable employment is raised persistently within the welfare system: what is to be expected of women with children? should they work or stay home? what kind of work are they offered or forced to take? is that work entirely determined by prejudgments as to their nature—what can and should be expected of them because they are female, female and black, female and white, female and poor, female and unmarried? In New York City, women on welfare say that they have been strongly encouraged by welfare workers to turn to prostitution, the threat being that the individual woman may in the future be denied welfare benefits because the caseworker knows the woman could be making big bucks on the street; or in emergencies, women on welfare are told to raise the money they need by turning a trick or two. In Nevada, where prostitution is legal, women on welfare have been forced off welfare because they refused to accept the suitable employment of prostitution; once it is a legal, state-regulated job, there is no basis for refusing it. Prostitution has long been considered suitable employment for poor women whether it is legal or not. This is particularly cynical in the welfare system, given the fact that women on welfare have been subjected to "fornication checks"—questioned about their sexual relations at length, questioned as to the identity of the fathers of so-called illegitimate children, questioned as to their own sexual habits, activities, and partners—and have been denied welfare if living with a man or if a man spends any time in the domicile or if having a sexual relationship with a man. Their homes could be inspected anytime: searches were common after midnight, when the welfare workers expected to find the contraband man; the courts put a stop to late searches but daytime searches are still legal. Beds, closets, and clothes were inspected to see if any remnant of a male presence could be found. Sometimes criminal charges of fornication were actually brought against the mothers of illegitimate children; the purpose was to keep them from getting welfare. For instance, in one typical case, a New Jersey woman was convicted of fornication and given a suspended sentence; she was forced to name the father, who went to prison. Welfare workers were allowed to interrogate children concerning the social and sexual habits of their mothers. Women on welfare have even been required to tell when they menstruate. Women on welfare have had no rights to sexual privacy; and in this context, turning them toward prostitution goes right along with refusing to allow them private, intimate, self-determined sexual relations. Prostitution is the ultimate loss of sexual privacy. Gains made in the courts in the 1960s to restore rights of privacy to these women are being nullified by new welfare policies and regulations designed to control the same population in the same old ways—practices that reappear in new guises but are built on the same old attitudes and impinge on the welfare population in the same old and cruel ways. The state is a jealous lover, except when it pimps.

-Andrea Dworkin, Right Wing Women

[celestialastronmy]

Lucifer Season 1, Episode 9 "A Priest Walks Into A Bar this has to be my favorite episode from season 1 it really stuck with me.This episode marks a critical dramatic turning point in the overarching narrative of the first season through the introduction of Father Frank Lawrence, a compelling new character serving both plot and thematic functions.Father Frank's initial involvement in the episode's casework components allows for insightful observations concerning detectival procedurals. However, it is his interactions with Lucifer Morningstar that furnish the most meaningful character revelations.

It comes as a surprise to observe the bond that forms between the pious man of faith, Father Frank, and the fallen angel known as Lucifer. At first glance, these two individuals seem unlikely compatriots given their opposing roles in the cosmic order. However, upon closer inspection, one sees that beneath the surface differences lies a common desire for empathetic communication. Father Frank shows a remarkable ability to listen without prejudice, drawing out Lucifer's long-held burdens and moving tale of family disruption. Where others offer only condemnation based on reputation, the good Father offers compassion. Through respectful dialogue, these disparate figures develop a rapport built on sincerity rather than superficial image. Frank appears to understand that even Lucifer wishes to unlade his soul and find a place of acceptance. In their conversations, humanity can be seen humanity's universal need for willing ears and unbiased regard and support. Father Frank, like Lucifer, carries great sadness in his heart. For Frank, it's the pain of feeling he has let down his flock by not always living up to his ideals as a priest. This has made him question what he stands for. Through their friendship, Father Frank and Lucifer help each other to understand life's difficulties better. While Frank's devotion to God remains strong even in death, Lucifer finds himself deeply upset by Frank's sudden passing. In that moment, the Devil reacted not with his usual coldness but with real grief - as someone who saw the unfairness of loss and who treasured Frank's acceptance. Both Frank's willingness to aid others in need and Lucifer's growing care for humanity show there is healing to be found in sincere relationships rather than isolation. By opening our hearts to one another, even in small ways, we can all work to overcome life's challenges. When we make an effort to empathize with people different from us, hope has a chance to take root. For those who suffer alone, reaching out a hand of fellowship, as Father Frank did, may be the first step to finding peace. Long story short: Lucifer's interactions with Father Frank externalize the show's central themes: the power of forgiveness, opening up to others, questioning dogma, but not morality itself. Their kinship demonstrates Lucifer Morningstar's thematic journey towards embracing his capability for righteousness when apart from righteous trappings.

[mint-moon25]

FLORIDA - FOOD ASSISTANCE - SNAP

NEW - WEBSITE

MY ACCESS . MY FL FAMILIES . com

WENT - 2 - PROVIDERS - APP

CHANGED - MY ZIP CODE

WENT - 2 - WEBSITE - LINKED - MY

BENEFITS

WHEN - I - DID - STATUS - WENT

2 - 2ND - PART - NO 2 - NOW - A

CASEWORKER - WILL - REVIEW

SHORTLY - HOORAY

WILL - GET - BENEFITS - 22 MAR

AFTER - ALL - PROVIDERS - APP

TYPED - MY - CASE NO

SAME - AFTER - YEARS

BENEFIT - AS - HOMELESS

TOTAL - $67

HAD - 2 - RE-APPLY - FOR

PAPERLESS - AND - TEXT

THEY'RE - NOT - GREAT

WITH - THAT - SAW - MY

PAST LETTER - JAN 2024

FORGOT - THAT ADDRESS

SO - LONG - AGO

MIAMI - OVER - 1 YEAR

SAW - AGAIN - MY - HE IS

A - WOMAN - AND - SAID

'HIS - OTHER - HALF'

CAN - EXPERIENCE - YES

BEING - A - MAN - TOOLS

SO - CAN - WEE WEE LIKE

A - MAN - WITH - RUBBER

BODY - PARTS - FR

AMAZON - ALSO

WHO - GIVES - FOOD - TO

US - WEDNESDAYS

GAVE - HIM - $200

AMAZON - GIFT - CARD

SO - THEY - BOUGHT

BODY - PARTS

FAKE - BOOBS - 4 HIM

FAKE - MALE - RUBBER

PARTS - SHE - CAN YES

WEAR - 2 - WEE WEE

LIKE - A - MAN

$200 - WOULD - HAVE

BOUGHT - ME - SWIMWEAR

PINK - OTHER - COLORS

$19.99 - 2 DAY - PRIME

OR - OVERNIGHT FREE

WELL - HE - SAID - BECAUSE

OF - HOMELESS

MY - MIND - ($30 MILLION)

MILITARY - TENTS - 3 MEALS

FREE - NOT - 5 MEALS - SAID

GOVERNOR - DECREASING

MIN WAGE

I - THINK - THESE - HOMELESS

WHITES - BLKS

DEPRESSING - DOMESDAY

HOMELESS - EX - US ARMY

VETERAN - CREATING - WORDS

PER - LAW - 'I - CAN - READ TOO'

HERE's - GOOGLE - SEARCH

FLORIDA - ON - SCHEDULE

MIN - WAGE - NEW - $12 HOURLY

TIPPED - JOBS - LOWER

HOWEVER - GREAT - NEWS - FL

30 SEPT - NEW MINIMUM WAGE

$13 - HOURLY - FLORIDA

MONDAY - AT - LEAST

THEY - BOSTON - MA - MASSACHUSETTS

6 MONTHS

THEIR - STOCKBROCKER - FRIEND - HUGE

HOUSE - BUILT - FREE - 4 - THEM - LOTS OF

BEDROOMS - SAN DIEGO - BEACH - AREA

BEACH - HOUSE - HE's - TURNING - INTO A

BED - AND - BREAKFAST

BACK - AREA

ROCK & ROLL - BEACH - ACTIVITIES

HE's - CHARGING - MONEY - FOR

GOOD - 4 - THEM

FREE - HUGE - BEACH - HOUSE

4 - THEM - 2 - MAKE - MONEY

FROM - HE - CAN - COOK - HE's

THE - CHEF - 4 - BREAKFAST - 2

GOOD - 4 - THEM

THEY'RE - LEAVING

HISPANIC - MALE - KEPT - ON

SAYING - WHAT - I - GAVE HIM

HE'LL - GO - 2 - JAIL - FROM

HE - CAN'T - FIND - MY - YES

2 - INFLATE - MY - AIR - MAT

HE's - LEAVING - 2 GET JOB

GOOD

LAW - PASSED - WE'RE - YES

WAITING - 1 YEAR - CAMP

AREA - THEY - WILL ONLY

B - ALLOWED - THOSE - YES

BURROWED - PROPERTIES

1 YEAR - IN - ADDITION - TO

MORE - TRADITIONAL

SHELTERS - TOTAL - SPEND

$30 MILLION

1 YEAR - CAMP - AREA

MILITARY - TENTS

GUARDS - NO - CURFEW

UNTIL - THEM - GETTING

HUGER - TARP - AT - ROSS

$7.99

THEN - OTHER - THAT HAS

HOLE - ALREADY - 4 - I'VE

BEEN - USING - 2 - TIE ON

FENCE - USING - THAT

8 FT - X - 10 FT

SMALL - IN - REAL LIFE

USING - 2 - PROTECT MY

WALMART - LUGGAGE

DUFFLE - BAG - ROSS

BAGS - SKIN - CARE

WATERS - CLOTHES

2 - SHIELD FR RAIN

2 DAYS - AT - LEAST - WILL

RAIN - IN - MIAMI - THUS I

AM - PREPARING

HISPANIC - MIDGET - WHO

WANTS - 2 - MARRY - ME I

SAID - I - HAVE - 'NOVIO'

BOYFRIEND - NOW - HE WAS

SCARING - ME - ABOUT - BLK

MALE - LOOKING - AT - MY BL

BLUE - TARP

MOST - LIKELY - MY - BLK

BALLS - 2 - TIE - TARP - HE

TRIED - 2 - SCARE - ME

STEALING - MY - SHIRT

MY - PILLOWS - MY IGLOO

BOO BOO

GOD - REDEEMED - US - FR

THE - CURSE - OF THE LAW

OF - THIS - PLANET

DOMINATED - BY - SATAN

A - LOOSE OUTLAW SPIRIT

BUT - WE'RE - REDEEMED

EXCEPT - FROM

CONSTANT - ROBBERY

JESUS - IS - LORD

TOLD - HIM - 2 - STOP

SCARING - ME - HE - 2

WANTED - 2 - WATCH

ME - PUT - MAKE - UP

ON - TOLD - ME - ABOUT

THE - BACOPA - EFFECTS

AROUND - MY - NOSE

THEY - ARE - FULL - OF

MEDS - HOUSEWIVES

FISHTALES - SOLUTION

I - SAID - DON'T - WORRY

ABOUT - IT - I - NEED - TO

DO - MY - MAKE UP

THEN - LATER - HE - JUST

LOOKS - AT - ME

I - JUST - LOOK - SOME -

WHERE - ELSE

WHAT - I - MISS - ABOUT

EUROPE - TALL - BLUE

EYES - GORGEOUS MEN

MISS - ABOUT - ASIA

ADMIRING - GLANCES

OF - TALL - THIN PRETTY

MALES - VIETNAM - AND

BANGKOK - THAILAND - 2

HERE - IN - MIAMI

UGLY - SMELLY - BAD

BREATH - HOMELESS

HOBO - HISPANIC AND

BLKS - WANT 2 SHOVE

THEIR - PEE PEE IN MY

VAGINAL - AREA - FOR

I - HAD - TENTS

I - HAVE - BLUE - TARP

'NO ONE - IS LOOKING'

BLK - MALE - WANTED

2 - TALK - 2 - ME - AT

2:08A EST

I - SAID - 'IT's - 2 A EST'

HE - SPOKE - LOUD - 2

A - HISPANIC - OLD YES

MALE - OUT - LOUD

THEN - LEFT

I - HAD - EAR - PLUGS

ON - YOUTUBE - JERRY

SAVELLE - GOD's WORD

JOEL OSTEEN

2 - BUILD - US - UP

BLK - HOMELESS - FR

OTHER SIDE - OF SW 2 ST

WANTED - 2 - SHOW - HIS

NAKED - PEE PEE - 2 YES

PENETRATE - VAGINAL

AREA - LIVE - INSIDE - MY

BLUE - TARP

MIAMI - FLORIDA

LIVE - LIVE - PEE PEE - 2

WEE - WEE - ON FENCES

LIVE - PEE PEE - 2 - YES

PENETRATE - ASIANS

INSIDE - OPEN - BLUE

TARP - FR - ROSS DRESS

4 - LESS

MIAMI - IMMORAL - USA

AMERICANS - CUBANS

COLUMBIANS - HISPANICS

BLKS - FR - CUBA - ALSO

BLKS - FR - HAITI - MOST

VIOLENT - MIAMI - POLICE

BRICKELL - CITY - CENTRE

ARMED - ALLIED - ALLIANCE

SECURITY - THEY'RE - LIKE

COPY - CATS - OF - MIAMI

14TH - AMENDMENT

AS - AMERICANS

ILLITERATE - LOW - GPA

NOT - BRIGHT - VIOLENT

UGLY - REPULSIVE - YES

HUMANS - MIAMI - 99%

SPANISH - FR - SPANISH

COUNTRIES

AMERICANS - CAN'T READ

14TH - AMENDMENT

NO - STATE - CAN - DEPRIVE

A - PERSON - OF - LIFE

ILLEGALLY - ARMED

POLICE - SHERIFFS - SECURITY

NO - STATE - CAN - DEPRIVE

PERSON - OF - LIBERTY - YES

HOMELESS - IS - LIBERTY

NO - TATE - CAN - DEPRIVE

PERSON - OF - PROPERTY

ALWAYS - ALLIED SECURITY

SMILING - ABOUT - THROWING

AWAY - WHAT - WE - BOUGHT 2

7TH - AMENDMENT

CIVIL SUITS - WHEN - AMOUNT

IS - OVER - $20 - RIGHT 2 TRIAL

BY - JURY - SHALL - B - ALWAYS

PRESERVED - REV'D - REVISED

THUS - AS - WE - SUE

HARVARD - LAW

REPUBLICAN - PARTY - OF - FL

PAYING - ME - $1 TRILLION PER

DAY - 500 YEARS - TAX - PAID

PLUS - CITIZENS - RESIDENTS

OF - FLORIDA

'2 - KILL - A - MOCKINGBIRD'

2 - KILL ABUSE FOREIGNERS

BIBLE - NEVER - HARM - THE

FOREIGNER - LIVING AMONG

THEM - NEVER - MISTREAT 2

EATING - FIRST - THEN - WILL

GO - 2 - ROSS

BUY - HUGE - TARP - $7.99

JESUS - IS - LORD

KOREAN - GIRLS 2

[maciek-jozefowicz]

Designing a house in SketchUp — perspective view from southwest.

On the left side is the bicycle “garage” and work shop. Electrical outlets on the exterior allow for electric scooters to be conveniently powered up. The built-in casework is for storing helmets, gloves and parachutes, spare parts like tires, inner tubes and chains, and various maintenance supplies and tools.

“Healthy Planet for Healthy People” will be the slogan of future personal transportation that will replace the automobile. It is not too early for automakers to begin making the transition. There will be a time when BMW, Mercedes and Audi will be known only for their luxury bicycles and status-symbolizing electric scooters. People will forget that they made cars. Ditto Ferrari and Lamborghini, and Tesla, who will invent the first self-driving electric scooter.

Tesla will also invent the first sun powered electric scooter, which will have attached to it a handglider-like canopy with solar panels. The rider of this scooter will be able to scoot for hundreds of miles without a recharge and, also, glide gracefully off cliffs or multi-story scooter parking garages or through specially designed launch-windows of high rise office buildings — getting home from work will have never been so exhilarating.

Of course, not every carmaker will make a successful transition. Some will go extinct. Companies are not unlike species, if they don’t adopt to climate crisis (aka. Clisis), they will die.

[ao3feed-ereloy]

Playing House to Build a Family

by Ratcatcherr

Ereloy Week Day 3: Angst with a Happy Ending

Aloy never expected to find a sister, let alone one who needed her help. But when Beta comes into her life, Aloy knows she has to do everything she can to give her a better future. The only problem? The government won't let her adopt Beta unless she's married. Enter Erend, Aloy's best friend and confidant who'll do whatever it takes to keep Beta safe. They just need to fool their caseworker long enough to make the adoption official. But as they navigate the ups and downs of fake marriage, Aloy and Erend find themselves getting closer than they ever imagined. Can a marriage built on a lie become something real?

Words: 804, Chapters: 1/?, Language: English

Series: Part 3 of Ratcatcherr's Ereloy Week 2023

Fandoms: Horizon (Video Games)

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Categories: F/M

Characters: Erend (Horizon), Aloy (Horizon), Beta (Horizon), Alva (Horizon)

Relationships: Aloy/Erend (Horizon)

Additional Tags: Fake Marriage, Adoption, Implied Child Abuse

source https://archiveofourown.org/works/45679732

[residentshitcunt]

Looking into this, never would I have guessed at first glance that the organ was built largely in the 1990s, and installed in 1998. It's in Corthell Hall at the University of Southern Maine, built by David E. Wallace and Company (specifications here). I don't know what the voicing is like, but the stoplist is giving "exciting hymn machine" much more than "serious concert instrument". Like there's a 16' pedal reed, which is supporting ???? on the great? How big is that diapason? I do appreciate the cornet décomposé on the swell, a pity it has fuck all counter on the great unless that chimney flute is doing some serious heavy lifting. Then again, if the casework is at all indicative of the pipework inside, the principal chorus is going to be the size of a house and the swell won't stand a chance.