#it was something i've been meaning to do for a while

[imagines-r-s]

☆somewhere only we know☆

dr. jack abbot x reader

author's note: i will say, i have so much love for this fic. def one of my favorites that i've written, so i hope you all enjoy!! (also i might write the smut to this eventually, i don't know yet though friends)

wc: 7.9k

warnings: mutual pining, crazy tension, no one doing anything about their feelings, a bit of angst?, stubborn old man

(gif not mine)

You’re not sure how the nickname came to be, but at this point everyone was saying the same thing about Jack Abbot: he had become your bodyguard. Every time that there was any sign of harm near you, low and behold, he was no more than two steps behind you to back you up. Even if you weren’t in harm, he immediately jumped into protective mode. 

The first time that it happened was at the beginning of night shift. You always got there at least 10 minutes early, just so that way you were able to stop at the cafeteria and get your usual tea, while having long enough for it to be cooled down by the time that you dropped it at the nurses station - because for whatever reason, they made their drinks piping hot. 

Today though, you were running late. Not late to the extent that it interfered with the beginning of your shift, but late enough that your tea was still piping hot by the time you made it to the Emergency Department. Even if it was placebo, you needed at least some of your tea before your shift, but you weren’t able to do that, so you were practically dragging yourself around the Emergency Room. 

”What’s wrong with you?” Abbot asked, noticing the dragging of your feet as you paraded around the nurses station for a moment. 

“My tea was hot,” you grumbled, suddenly irritated at anything and everything, which only earned a confused look in response. 

“Is it… not supposed to be?” he said, carefully examining the contents of the thermal cup that sat in front of you. 

“I mean, it’s supposed to be hot, but the cafe makes it too hot sometimes and I usually get here with enough time for it to cool off and I-“ you paused, watching as he grabbed your small pink thermal and walked over to the lounge. “Abbot, I didn’t mean throw out what I already had.”

”I’m not, kid. I’m just getting you an ice cube or two so you can calm the fuck down. I don’t want one of my best residents dragging the whole shift.”

You simply looked at him for a moment, “you think I’m one of your best residents?” A smile slowly growing on your face. 

”Don’t let it get to your head, I just don’t want you burning your tongue.”

☆

Here and there more mundane things happened, but it still showed the care and consideration that he had for you. 

The next significant time that it happened was when a multi-patient trauma came and it was all hands on deck; all hands on deck including a particular surgeon that Abbot just could not get along with. 

”What are we looking at?” she asked, storming in as if she had been seeing this patient the entire time that you and Abbot had been working on her. It was a teenage girl that was struck by the car on the passenger side of the vehicle. 

”We got this one, Walsh. Pretty sure I heard someone needed a surgeon in trauma 3,” Jack said, not wanting to deal with Walsh at this very moment. He also had the perfect opportunity to teach you something new, but he knew Walsh would immediately interfere. 

”You can’t just put your trust in any resident, especially one you show favoritism to, Abbot. It’s not wise and could kill a patient,” she said, calmly. Even though her words didn’t bother you, you still hesitated for a moment when you were handed the scalpel. 

”As I said before, Walsh, this doesn’t look like trauma 3. Go harass whatever patients are in there,” he spoke, turning towards you,”I wouldn’t let you do this one if I didn’t know that you could do it, kid. Now we don’t have time for whatever she has to say right now.”

You looked up to grab the scalpel from him, “thank you.” You earned a simple hum in response. 

You didn’t notice the way that his actions immediately caught the attention of everyone in the room, not just Walsh. Perlah made note to talk to Princess about it later. 

☆

Although you usually worked night shifts, you got called in to help just a bit earlier today - only by a few hours. Only unfortunate thing was whenever you got called in, you needed to get there as soon as you could, so that meant no tea today. 

Jack also got called in, but he was close enough to the hospital that a quick stop to the cafe wasn’t going to throw off his day - he knew you were likely 10-15 minutes out still, so he made sure that he grabbed the tea on his way in. 

Hustling in, you made sure to set your things in your locker before making it back to the nurse’s station. It wasn’t rare for you to see Dana, but it was rare for you to see her for more than 15 minutes at work.

”Dana, hi,” you immediately rounded the station to give her a hug, “I feel like I only see you in small doses anymore.”

”It’s good to see you, too, hun. No tea?”

”You know me too well, but no. I was running late in general, plus I hate being late whenever I get called in, so I didn’t-“ your words stopped in your throat as you saw a small black thermal pop into view. 

“Here, kid,” and before you could even say thank you, he caught up to talk to Robby - who didn’t miss the interaction either. 

“Oh, well. Nevermind, then?” you said, a confused look on your face, which only made Dana laugh more. “He did say I was one of his favorites, but I didn’t know that that entailed getting me my tea?”

”You’re definitely something to him,” she spoke, in true Dana fashion. “Maybe more than a favorite.”

”No, he just said I was one of his favorite residents, it wouldn’t be anything more than that,” you said, taking a sip of your tea, only to be met with silence, “Right?”

”That’s a question for him, hun. Let me know how asking goes.”

You knew you weren’t going to ask - this was just one of those mundane things that he did for you. 

“You know, I don’t get any of my residents their ‘morning’ drink,” Robby said, as he walked beside Jack. 

“Okay, well news flash, it’s actually 4:30 in the afternoon, so no morning drink here, brother,” he spoke, keeping his voice even. In all honesty, he didn’t know why he had gotten you tea. It wasn’t like he even got himself a coffee or anything, he just knew that you would need the pick-me-up before today’s shift and felt inclined to do so - for whatever reason. 

“Still doesn’t give any reason for you getting her tea,” Robby said, a slight smirk on his face, simply brought on by his friend deflecting. 

“I don’t really need to give you reasoning. I just need my favorite resident to be on point.”

”Oh, so she’s moved on from ‘one of your favorites’. I see.”

Jack could only roll his eyes in response. Of course that’s what Robby picked up on. 

☆

Loss wasn’t foreign to you. Especially in this profession - but today it hit harder. You were no stranger to the idea and concept that you can’t always save people, but for whatever reason, today was a day where you couldn’t deal with the loss. 

You had an older patient, she came in stable for a simple procedure, but something went wrong. You had walked away under the impression that she was stable, and she was, but when you were checking on another patient, you heard the nurses call and code. This had you sprinting through the ER and giving compressions for 40 minutes. 

She should have been fine. She quite literally was here for one of the easiest procedure you could perform in the ER, yet it wasn’t enough. You stayed in her room a bit too long before Jack found you. 

“You know, it’s not your fault,” you had found a point on the tiles that was more interesting than anything else. 

“Yeah, so why does it feel like it?” You hadn’t meant to be short with him, but you just couldn’t deal with it right now. You didn’t need comfort or patience, you needed someone to yell, scream, anything other than sympathy. It was somehow more draining than if someone just yelled at you. 

“Kid,” he said, stepping closer to you. He reached a hand out to your shoulder, but you nudged him off and left the room. He could only watch you walk away. He had never gotten that kind of reaction from you - part of him wanted to leave you be, but the other part was ready to chase you down to offer some kind of comfort. 

You just weren’t in the mood for it today. You were no stranger to self soothing, growing up in a place where it was every man (or woman) for themselves, so Jack trying to offer something threw you off. It wasn’t that you didn’t want the comfort, it was that you simply couldn’t accept it. 

Another reason that he wasn’t shocked to see you up on the roof, not on the side of the railing that he usually stood on though - which gave him some peace of mind. So he simply stood beside you, a peaceful silence taking over the both of you. 

He didn’t say anything, only moving his hand over just enough to where your pinkies were touching each other. 

☆

“Hi, I’m Dr. y/l/n, what brings you in today?” you asked, pulling the curtain closed, only to see one of your ex flings in the bed in front of you. It hadn’t ended badly, just ended because the mixed work schedules made a difference. ”Oh, hey, Lucas.”

”Hey, y/n/n,” the familiar nickname left his mouth as though nothing had really ever ended between you two. 

“What brings you in?” 

“Well, note that I wasn’t skateboarding at night, but I did skateboard earlier and the issue just got worse. I figured it wouldn’t hurt to check that my favorite doctor was working tonight to help me out though,” he said, which only earned a laugh from you - loud enough that someone else in the ER heard. 

Jack’s ears perked up at the sound of your laugh, “which patient is she with right now?”

Ellis simply laughed in response, “don’t ask questions you don’t want to know, Abbot.”

”What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

She could only smirk in response, only because she knew exactly who you were with right now because she had seen the name when checking boards, “she’s with Lucas, if I recall correctly.”

”Who the fuck is Lucas?” he said, a look of disgust crossing his face. He thought for a moment, as he process Ellis had spoken like he should know who she was talking about. “Wait, as in that Lucas?”

She couldn’t help to hide the smirk on her face, “maybe.” The smirk turning into a laugh as she watched him shoot up from the nurse’s station to go check on a patient that likely has a simple sprain. Before he knew it, he was moving the curtain back to see you and Lucas talking. 

“No, but it’s not like anything crazy, just a small get together. We also wouldn’t have to exclusively stay with Marcus and them, I didn’t plan on it at least,” he spoke, glancing up to see the older Doctor behind you. 

“I mean, I can see what I can do. No promises though, remember, I’m a very busy woman,” you spoke, checking the bandages on his ankle. Feeling a presence behind you, you moved to check behind you, only to see Jack there. ”Oh, hey?”

”Hi,” he said, tone short and voice laced with something you couldn’t recognize. He simply kept his eyes on the patient in front of you. 

“This is Dr. Abbot, by the way. Usually, he’s at least a tad bit more personable, but he’s not really trained to deal with some people, so give him grace,” you said, earning a laugh from Lucas. 

“I gotcha. Hey, man. Are you one of her teachers or?”

”Something like that.”

Sensing whatever tension was there, you quickly just to dissolve the tension. I’m going to go check back on some results though and I’ll be right back. Dr. Abbot?” you asked, nodding your head outside of the curtain,”care to explain what the fuck that was?”

”I don’t know what you mean,” he said, looking anywhere but your face. You took a moment to examine the expression on his face before you smiled. ”What is it?”

”Did Ellis tell you who Lucas was?”

”No, but he’s been mentioned before in passing,” he spoke, tone still short. 

You couldn’t help but laugh, “You’re jealous?” He couldn’t say anything in response - he wasn’t a liar. “Oh my god, you are. I was just saying that. Wait. I have so many follow up questions.”

”And I have no follow up answers for you, y/l/n.”

☆

“Okay, wait, so you mean to tell me, that he did all that and didn’t say anything else after you said you had questions,” your friend asked. 

“I can respect top tier avoidance, but doing that without actually clarifying did not help me one bit,” you had today and tomorrow off and your friend hit you with a ‘going out, you wanna come?’ text - so who were you to say no. 

“Hmm, you know what I sense, a planned drunk text,” she said, taking another sip of her margarita. You guys had made a stop at the bar before you would go to the club, mainly to rehash, but also make sure you had enough food in your system. 

“I don’t know, that’s a little much for knowing nothing for sure,” you said, but you had already been contemplating it. 

“Okay, so then, let’s get fucked up, so you can forget about your indecisive-hot-older-doctor crush,” she said, calling the waiter over to you, so you could get your checks. 

The two of you elected to meet some more friends out at the club, mainly for the safety of having a bigger group. As the night went on, the drinks kept coming and the music kept playing, but it was a much needed break after the tension filled days and thoughts of the doctor in your head. 

By the time that your friends were considering leaving, you knew that you were done for. The thoughts of Jack that were in your head weren’t going away - in fact, your drunk, delusional brain was starting to convince you that the idea of calling him was the best idea ever. 

“Should I call him, guys?” you said, your words somehow rushed and slowed simultaneously. “I kinda want to call him.” You were immediately met with mixed reactions, but your brain chose to ignore those disagreeing. 

Before anyone could even process, your phone was open to his contact and you were pressing the call button. It might not have been your smartest decision, but here you were. The phone rang once, twice, but on the third ring he picked up.

”y/n?” his voice sounded concerned - of course it did, you never just randomly called him.

”Hi, Jack,” you said, a smile grazing your face, even though he couldn’t see it. “I just wanted to, um, to talk to you.”

”Where are you?” 

“I’m out with friends.”

”Friends? Or Lucas?”

You giggled at that, “wouldn’t you like to know, pretty boy.”

A deep chuckle rang out from his side of the phone, “you think I’m pretty?”

”I think a lot about you, a lot. But, I’m not, don’t think I’m complaining about it.”

He simply sighed, “you have a safe way home?”

”Yes sir,” you said, he wouldn’t admit that it did something to him. 

“A sober driver?”

”An uber,” you said, getting into the car with your friends. The laughing in the background alerting him that you were on your way. 

“Let me know whenever you get where you’re going safely. Okay, sweetheart?”

”You called me sweetheart.”

”I know. Goodnight, y/n.”

”Goodnight, Jack,” and it wasn’t too late after that that he received a slightly misspelled text that you were home safe. 

Luckily, you were someone that didn’t get hangovers, but that didn’t make the pain of acknowledging the outgoing call to ‘Jack Abbot’ or the mistyped message saying you made it home any easier. You silently cursed yourself as you spent the day to yourself, knowing that you would have to see him tomorrow. 

Going into your shift, you prepared yourself for anything, you weren’t prepared for the small black thermal to be filled with your favorite tea, with a note signed off from ‘pretty boy’ on there. You could only shake your head knowing exactly who the note and tea was from, along with the knowledge that he probably signed it off that way because of you. 

“Pretty boy? That’s an interesting sign off,” Dana spoke from behind you. 

“Yeah, it’s something,” you spoke, folding the note and putting it in your pocket, you simply sipped on your tea. It wasn’t until you saw both Jack and Robby walk out, a smirk on both of their faces. “If you have something to say, just get it out now.”

The two of them could only cackle in response before Jack finally spoke up, “look, I just didn’t take you as the type to drunk call, y/n. That’s all… or call me pretty boy for that matter.”

You could only drink your tea and walk away in response. “I’m sorry, sweetie. I’ll make them leave you alone,” you heard Dana say from behind you. 

Before you could process it, Jack had fallen into rhythm with you. “Where are you going, sweetheart?” 

“Nowhere in particular, pretty boy.”

”Look, I know I made fun of it, but I can’t say I hate it,” he speaks, honestly. 

“I didn’t hate you calling me sweetheart either.”

☆

 You tried to avoid her, you really did, but unfortunately Gloria was the type to always find a way to you. “Dr. y/l/n, I’m glad I could catch you before your shift actually started.”

You simply smiled, sipping on your tea, “crazy stuff, Gloria. How are you?”

”I’m good, I wanted to bring something up with you,” you remained silent, letting her continue. Looking behind her to see Jack already looking at you, “I was making sure that you knew, due to excellent patient satisfaction ratings on your part, you’ve been invited to our annual gala.”

”The one that is primarily only attendings?” you were surprised that it was being brought up to you. 

“Yes, some of the board members were extremely impressed by a lot of things on your record - patient satisfaction ratings being one of the bigger ones - but they like to see that you genuinely care about things that happen in this hospital and they were wanting to see some new faces.”

You laughed at the last part of the sentence, knowing that implied they were tired of seeing Jack and Robby being the main ones there every year. “I don’t have a choice, do I?”

”You always have a choice, Doctor, but there is a wrong answer here,” she said, handing you the paper invitation. 

“Gee, thanks.” Now you had to find a dress. 

The next day, you texted Dana asking if she would be free at some point to go dress shopping with you soon before the gala, to which she was ecstatic to go with. So, the next day there was crossover in your days off - which was way too close to the gala for your liking - you went dress shopping. 

“Look, honey, all I’m going to say is that old man you’re into is going to lose it,” she said, laughing to herself once you stepped out of the dressing room. The dress was simple, but enough. A simple, long black dress with a white bow in the back to contrast. 

“Dana.”

”You know I’m right, you look good, kid.”

☆

Jack didn’t want to be here. He knew Robby didn’t want to be here either, but here they both were. Him with his whiskey, Robby choosing against drinking. “I still hate these things, I’m just waiting for Dana to get here, so she can talk shit with us like she usually does,” Robby said, speaking up first.

”Yeah, I don’t think these things will ever get anymore interesting, especially when all these donors care about are the surface level issues, never what actually matters,” Jack spoke, his eyes scanning the group of people that were here. “I just need Dana to get here to at least make sure I’m not falling asleep during all this.” 

“You know this is y/n’s first gala,” Robby said, gauging Jack’s reaction. 

A confused look came over his face, “wait, she was invited?”

”Yeah, your favorite resident isn’t just your favorite. Her patient satisfaction scores were above everyone. I know she didn’t learn that part from you.”

“Shut up, you already know that she’s one of the best that we have. She’s going to go far with whatever she decides to do,” he said, turning back towards the bar to set his now empty glass up. “I can’t wait to see where she goes in life.”

”You being a part of it? Or?” Robby wasn’t a stranger to asking Jack about you anymore. He knew his friend well enough to know that he was only hesitant of where things would go, in fear that things would end badly. Jack didn’t want to risk losing you to any extent. 

“If she wants me to be, I will be there.”

”If who wants you there, you’ll what?” he turned at the sound of your voice. His jaw dropped at how gorgeous you looked. Dana stepped into the circle after she finished talking to one of the donors. 

“She looks nice, don’t you think, Jack?” Dana asked, but she could clearly see that you had, in fact, left him speechless.

“Yeah,” he paused to gather his thoughts, “you look gorgeous, y/n.”

”Thank you, Jack. You don’t look too bad yourself,” you said, as if you weren’t absolutely losing it over the way he looked in a tux. “I really feel out of place here, I think I only talked to one other resident so far - and that was out of the five people we had to talk to to get over here.”

”You deserve to be here, sweetheart. Don’t worry,” he left it at that, watching as Dana and Robby left to go check in with Gloria. He came closer to you, unsure of what to do. He considered reaching for your hand, but as he go closer and the smell of your perfume hit him, all he could do was ball his fist before flexing his hand. ”I can’t even think straight around you during a work day, you have no idea how hard it is for me to keep my thoughts together right now.”

A smile grew on your face that he had seen countless times before, but this time was different. You weren’t any different, but the smile on your face meant something different. 

Before he could say anything else, he was interrupted by Gloria swooping in, “Dr. Abbot, Dr. y/l/n, I’d like to introduce you to Mr. Palmer. He was the one that saw some of your records and made sure that you were invited today,” she said, leaving the three of you alone. 

“Dr. y/l/n, I was extremely impressed when I saw and heard certain things about you. Patients love you, other doctors are incredibly impressed by you, you have a lot of potential,” he said, a cocky grin on his face that screamed ‘I have money and I hope that it shows’.

”Thank you Mr. Palmer, that means a lot,” you could feel Jack’s eyes on you. 

“Yeah, of course. You look stunning tonight, I would never miss the opportunity to ask someone so beautiful to dance,” he said, moving his hand for you to take. “Can I have this dance?”

You paused, not missing the glare that was sent in Mr. Palmer’s direction. You wanted so badly to object, but you knew this wasn’t the place that you could. “You may.”

Jack was heated. No. Correction, Jack was fuming. He could tell based off the way that he was looking at you, he wasn’t actually impressed, it was a base level statement. Unfortunately given context of time and place, he couldn’t do anything but watch from a distance. 

Robby and Dana had watched the whole interaction, moving closer to talk to Jack, but not before placing bets on how long he would last before cutting in. “You okay?” Dana asked, softly. 

“Just peachy,” his eyes didn’t leave you. He watched as the two of you started dancing, keeping watch of where he decided to set his hands - moreso how badly he wanted to be murdered. 

“You know, I told her whenever she bought the dress that it would catch your attention. Goals were achieved tonight,” Dana joked, hoping to add light to the situation, but he was still laser focused on you. 

“Yeah, it definitely caught my attention.”

You smiled to keep face, but truth was Mr. Palmer, who ironically was in fact named Chadwick, was a cocky son of a bitch that did not seem to have respect for you or any doctor for that matter. Conversing with him was nauseating, to say the least, but you knew that you had to keep up appearances - especially being a specially invited person. 

You were letting him go on and on about his recent golf experiences, when he suddenly changed the subject to you and how you looked in the dress - you knew immediately where he was going to go with this. You knew you were right when he talked about wanting to get out of here eventually and he tried to move his hand lower on your waist. 

“No, sir. I don’t think so,” you said, attempting to pull away, but he pulled you tighter. “You’re not getting what you want, even if you try pulling me tighter.”

”Oh, I would hate for something big to mess up that star reputation of yours, wouldn’t you?” he spoke, you had seen this move too many times. A very unfortunate abuse of powers, you were stuck.

“I know how good my reputation is, you can’t tarnish that, you prick.”

”Oh, but one word to Gloria and I can easily get you taken out of a program. I’d be cautious.”

“Yeah,” a familiar voice spoke from behind you, “I would be cautious, too. Get your hands off of her.” 

You didn’t know, but Robby and Dana had also moved in closer. You felt yourself let out a breath of relief. You stepped back and were on your way back to the bar when he had the audacity to say something else, “damn, I didn’t realize you got this far by fucking your ‘mentor’.”

The wire snapped. Anything that was holding Jack Abbot back from letting the man in front of him have it disappeared and before he knew it, the man was on the ground from a mean right hook. “Watch your fucking mouth.”

You stood there in awe. So much had happened in a short timespan, you didn’t even have the chance to recollect your thoughts. Robby had simply pulled Jack back just enough for him to process what was happening, “Jack, not here.”

Jack simply looked back and grabbed you, both of you immediately leaving. ack didn’t know what to say, the only thing keeping him in line right now was the click of your heels behind him. 

“Jack, wait up.” It wasn’t until you two had stepped outside that you had said it, but the only thing that let him know that was the cooler air hitting his face. 

“I’m not apologizing for defending you, sweetheart. I don’t care, he had no right to say what he did to you. I should have done way worse,” he kept going. Ranting on and on about the man that had disrespected you.

”Jack.”

“And him using, well attempting to, use the money thing against you made it even more of a dick move.” He kept ranting. 

“Jack, look at me,” you said, stepping closer to him. 

“What is it, sweetheart?” and before he knew it, your lips were on his. 

☆

Robby was going to hurt Jack. Not that he did anything specific, but after the events at the gala, he went MIA. He didn’t completely disappear, but he made an adamant point to avoid you and anyone he could at work. He was simply in a clock in, clock out mode. 

You tried your best not to care, you really did - it just took a lot to go from bits of nothing to the events of the gala back to square one. You missed seeing his black thermal next to your pink one or his little notes. Or him, for that matter. 

It was a total switch up from the emotional roller coaster that you had been on for the past eight months. How could he just go from this to normal? How could he just go from this to nothing with you?

It seemed too easy for him. Maybe it had been. 

Dana had made the suggestion that maybe you switch to days for a little bit, that way you weren’t constantly pressed on the issue that was Jack Abbot. She was also on the verge of attacking the man verbally - maybe physically - for what he was doing to you. 

Robby knew. Robby knew exactly what had happened, but he also knew his closest friend well enough that he couldn’t press on the issue in fear of making it worse. Jack was scared. You had eased him out from behind certain walls, but the certainty of a kiss made him want to build them back up. 

Jack knew, too. He knew that he was hurting you, but he couldn’t stop himself. He had his walls built up for a reason: to protect himself and you - but unfortunately, he was just harming you in the process. You switching from night shift for a few days per week is what made him immediately regret the decisions he had made after the gala. 

He showed up an extra 40 minutes early when you worked the day shift, just so that he could see you for longer than what he had been. He found peace in the night and darkness, but you were the one that was bringing him light for the time being. 

“I expected to find you up here,” he heard Robby say, eventually sensing him right behind him. 

“I know. I knew someone would know I was up here.”

”She knows too, she’s who sent me up here to make sure you didn’t jump,” Robby said, making Jack turn to face him. “You should talk to her. She’s holding it together, but she’s not doing good, man. I’m not going to say it’s your fault-“

”But you want to though.”

”Yeah. You might be her mentor, but at least she didn’t pick up on your small lack of emotional intelligence.” 

“I fear it’s too late for her to forgive me. I don’t want it to be, I-“

”You love her?”

”Yeah, I do.”

”So, you have to fix this, Jack,” and before he could respond, Robby left him on his own.  

☆

It started off gradually. You went back to working just night shifts, tired of letting him get to you. You were cordial, you did your job, and at the end of the day you immediately went home. 

The way that you and Jack worked together didn’t change, he still rightfully encouraged you to be the best doctor that you could be - he would blame himself if this directly hindered your career. 

“Sweet cheeks, why so glum?” you heard Myrna’s voice ring out from behind you. 

“I’m okay, Myrna. Also, sweet cheeks?” you questioned, sending a confused look her way. 

“You’re sweet and-“

”You know, I’m okay without you elaborating.”

”Suit yourself. You seem upset, who hurt ya? I can hurt them like I hurt my husband,” she said, making you glad she was still in cuffs. 

You smiled at the older woman, “I appreciate you, Myrna, but I promise I’m okay.” You removed yourself as far from her as you could, but when you heard the doors open, you made direct eye contact with him. You didn’t miss the two thermal cups in his hand. 

It was a silent exchange, he didn’t say anything else; opting to simply set down the mug and send a nod your way before he went to talk to Robby for handoffs.

“Have you two talked any since the gala?” Dana asked, pulling you away from your thoughts. Simply shaking your head, she let out a sigh. “I don’t like to see either of you hurting like this, especially you. He’s just too stubborn for his own good.”

“I know,” you said, sadly. “I just don’t feel like it’s my place to try and fix things as he’s the one that MIA, I just miss us - not that it was anything for sure, but it still felt like enough.”

“He’ll get it eventually,” Dana said, putting her jacked on and grabbing her bag, “I just hope sooner than later. Alright, hun, I’m heading out. Holler if you need anything.”

With that, it was you and the rest of night shift - and Robby, who couldn’t leave on time to save his own life. You fell into rhythm with Chen and Ellis as they walked during handoffs.

”Haven’t seen you with your bodyguard recently,” Chen said, his tone even. 

“My bodyguard?”

Ellis made a face and Chen could only laugh at you, “Abbot.”

“He’s not my bodyguard,” you grumbled, choosing to ignore the two of them. 

“That’s not what I heard, especially with him punching some guy out for you at that gala. A non-bodyguard wouldn’t do that,” Ellis said, a pointed look on her face. 

“Whatever.”

☆

Dana had decided to have a small, sweet get together for her birthday; she was able to leave her daughters with a babysitter and just wanted to spend some time with the people she cared about most. This led to you being sat near Heather, Robby, Frank, Cassie, Samira, and Jack, at a table in one of Dana’s favorite bars. 

You elected to ignore the ongoing sense of Jack’s eyes on you as you talked to Samira and Cassie. Cassie was ranting about her ex making a stop in the hospital for something as stupid as the skateboarding accident, but her voice kept fading into the background as you looked to see Jack’s eyes already on you. 

“Can you guys just make up already? The tension is actually insane,” Samira whisper-shouted to you. 

“Please, we’re begging,” Cassie added, “it even makes my heart beat witnessing all of this. It’s tiring. Just kiss, make up, maybe do more, we sure as hell won’t stop you.”

You laughed, “don’t you guys have jobs? My life and relationships should not be the primary focus of your day. Now, I don’t know about you guys, but I need a drink - will one of you guys come with?” 

Samira was already getting up when Cassie spoke up, “I’ll come with you, but I won’t get anything.” She told the table where you guys were going before she caught up to you. “Wait, y/n/n, isn’t that, uh, what was his name? That fling you had last summer?”

”Who? Lucas?” you asked, looking up to see him on the other side of the bar, you sent a small smile his way that he immediately reciprocated. He moved away from some of the friends that you recognized and headed your way. ”Hey, Lucas. How are you?”

”I’m good,” he nodded towards the two other girls around you as you introduced them. “You ladies getting anything to drink? They can be on me. y/n, you want your usual? Or are you drinking drinking tonight?”

You didn’t miss the smirk that was on his face, “I’ll have my usual, but I wouldn’t be opposed to a round of shots for us, too. Don’t think you’re going to get lucky though just for buying us drinks, Lucas.”

”Can I not just buy a pretty girl drinks without any ulterior motives?” he spoke, smoothly before turning to the bartender. “Four shots, a strawberry mojito, and - would you ladies want anything else?”

”I’ll have a tequila sunrise,” Samira mentioned. 

“I’m not drinking, but thank you,” Cassie added. Lucas nodded before getting the order finished. 

“I’m going to go back to the table, are you cool here with Samira?” Cassie asked, looking to you for a response. 

“I’m good, thank you though. You think I should drink the extra shot?”

”As long as you can handle it, y/n/n,” she said with a laugh. Turning back to the table, she let out a cackle at the sight in front of her: Dana and Robby watching Abbot, trying to hide the smiles on their faces as Jack looked like he was about to lose his shit - if he hadn’t already lost it. 

Once Samira got her drink and took the shot with you guys, she turned back to the table to already see most eyes on you and Lucas. “Oh, I’m not saying I can see steam rising from Jack’s head, but the man could very easily have steam coming from his ears.”

”He can’t get mad if he’s not going to say anything about how he feels,” you spoke honestly. Lucas turned and immediately recognized the doctor that had been looming the last time he had to go to the ER. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever gotten a look like that from a man that wasn’t in love,” Lucas said, taking a sip of his beer. 

“What?” 

He shrugged, “He wouldn’t look at me like he wants to kill me, if he wasn’t in love with you.”

“Random man does make a fair point,” Samira said, “can I please have your permission to stir the pot some? Just to see what the old man does?”

Lucas laughed at that, “just don’t get me murdered if you do, I have a lot to live for.”

”I don’t know what you have planned, but do what you have to do at this point,” you said, mentally preparing for what could happen. 

When Samira sat down, she immediately turned and told Cassie what was going on - she didn’t exactly have a master plan, but she did know it wouldn’t be difficult to get him to his breaking point. 

“Why’d you leave her up there, Samira?” he said, blinking slowly before taking a sip of his water. 

“She seemed okay up there, plus I’m not one to interfere on romantic matters,” Samira said, earning a laugh from Cassie and Dana. Robby could tell based off of Samira’s face that nothing was actually going on, she was just saying stuff at this point. Jack simply rolled his eyes before going back to his y/n watching. 

“I remember them being a thing,” Heather added to the mix, “they were cute, it didn’t work out just because of schedules though. Honestly, if his job changed any, I don’t think they should avoid trying again.”

Jack’s face remained still, but everyone at the table was on the same page: push his buttons just enough for him to do something. His attention was brought back to the bar at the sound of your laugh, which was usually one of his favorite sounds, but not when it was because of another man. ”He can’t be that funny.”

Everyone at the table could barely contain their laughter anymore, continuing to say things in hopes that it would finally make him get up and talk to you - but for whatever reason, nothing was working. Maybe it was just simple self control?

Jack kept his eye on the table, the noise of the bar drowning out as he waited for you to return to the table. He didn’t see you come back, but the smell of your perfume had has head snapping up, “you have fun, sweetheart?”

You smirked, the nickname usually kept between the two of you. “Yes, I did. Thank you for asking.” You continued talking to everyone at the table, but didn’t miss the feeling of eyes dancing between you and him. 

“Jesus Christ,” Robby muttered, shaking his head and you thought you could see Dana’s eye twitch. 

“Bitch,” Samira said, eyes wide, “I swear to god, if you do not leave tonight with him, I will hurt both of you.”

”Same,” the collective said.  

More time passed, but nothing happened. Jack didn’t really say anything else to you and you assumed that he had given up on whatever there was with the two of you. Before you knew it, another hour had passed and the table that was full before was down to just you, Robby, and Jack - everyone else going home together so they made it back safely. 

Robby looked at both of you before he started, “You guys need to figure your shit out. If you need me here to talk it out, cool - note, I won’t stay past anything other than conversation though.”Jack didn’t say anything. You didn’t know if that made you feel better or worse. “Okay, so this is the part where the conversation happens, if you were unaware.”

He stayed silent again, this time you weren’t having it though. “I appreciate the attempt, Robby, but I think everyone has tried hard enough.” You tried your best to keep your voice even, turning to grab your purse and move your chair, you were ready to make the walk home or get an uber home. 

“y/n, wait,” Jack’s voice finally said, “I- Can I drive you home?”

You looked from Robby to Jack, “I was just going to get an uber. It’s all good though.”

”y/n. Please,” at that your eyes turned to him. He was pleading with you, saying a million things at once. A million things that he had intended to say, but you saw it - you knew him well enough to see it. 

“Okay.” 

“Well, kiddos, if that’s all settled, I’m headed out. Let me know when you guys make it back safe though. I’ll see you guys at shift change,” and with that it was just you and Jack. 

”Are you ready to head out or?” you asked, breaking the silence that had taken a moment to settle between the two of you. 

“I’m okay staying for a second,” another beat of silence, “you look beautiful tonight, by the way. I just didn’t want to add fuel to the fire that our friends were waiting on, only reason I didn’t say anything sooner.”

”Yeah, there’s a lot of things you could have said sooner.” Was the comment a bit mean? Maybe. Warranted? Yes.

He sighed, “I know. Trust me, I know.”

”Okay, so if you knew, why? Why did you drag this on, push me away, all of that? I would much rather you just said that you didn’t want something with me than drag me along.”

”Sweetheart,” he said, reaching his hand across the table to yours, “trust me, I want you. So bad that I fear it could kill me. I just- I pushed you away because I was scared and for that I’m so sorry. In no way did I want you to feel unwanted.”

”Scared? Of what?” you weren’t even mad at him anymore, you just wanted answers. 

“Scared that, if I admit how I feel about you that I would lose you.”

You stayed silent a moment, tilting your head in confusion, “you thought you would lose me? So you pushed me away?”

”It sounds stupid like that, but I’ve lost so much in my life already. You mean so much to me and I didn’t want to risk losing that. I love you, y/n, and me admitting that made it real. And when it’s real, I have something to lose,” his eyes met yours again, “I can’t lose you.” 

You didn’t know how to respond. He had just admitted that he was in love with you and all you could do was look at him for a moment - his hand on yours was the only thing grounding you. ”I love you, too, Jack. I just didn’t deserve you pushing me away. You mean too much to me for that.”

”I know, and I’m so sorry that I put you through that,” a small smile appeared on his face, “I’lll make it up to you, I promise. Let me get you home.” 

You didn’t know if you should, but all disagreements flew out the window when you saw the way he was looking at you. “Okay.”

☆

As the sun eased into the room the day after, you felt yourself pulled back towards the body behind you. You felt at ease, at peace. A night of repeated ‘I love you’s and ‘I’m sorry’s to make up for lost time. A morning routine that the two of you developed in a few hours, him making breakfast for the two of you and you being the comforting presence he needed in that moment. 

The two of you made up for lost time before you had to prepare for work. Stopping at your apartment so that you could grab your scrubs and work bag, he looked at the pictures you had around of friends, family, and the memories that you had made - his mind immediately going to the new ones the two of you could make. 

Opening your cabinet to grab one of your thermal mugs, he saw the multiple pink thermals that stayed there, “I didn’t realize you had a problem.”

“I have at least one for every day of the week and then some for if I don’t feel like washing them, it’s a system that works” you said with a shrug of your shoulders. He let out a light chuckle at your ‘system’, but he couldn’t ignore the way that seeing two of his black thermal mugs in there made him happy. 

“I see I’ve made guest appearances here that I didn’t even know about,” he said, placing his hands on your waist from behind. “Are we stopping for tea before work?”

”Of course, pretty boy. Your favorite resident can’t be dragging,” you said, heading out. 

The two of you made your way through the cafe and into the Emergency Department, not missing the way that Dana’s face lit up at the two of you entering together. 

“I see the two of you finally made up,” Dana said, a smirk on her face, “and based on the way your skin is glowing, maybe more than just a make up.”

“Thank God, you guys needed to do something,” Robby said, nearing the nurses station. “I was genuinely so close to actually losing it, you have no idea.” 

------

taglist: @dayswithoutcoffee @dragonsondragons @literazine

hope you guys enjoyed!! feedback is always welcome

xoxo

ash

[leviraaaaaa]

“Your hands are fucking cold.”

You freeze when one of his eyes peer open, your hands pausing on his face where you were tracing his cheek.

You'd been awake for a few minutes now, watching him sleep. As the light sleeper he was, you knew you shouldn't be touching him when he's asleep. But he was lying just beside you, all curled and comfortable, his dark hair disheveled and his face so soft, you couldn't resist.

“Did I wake you?” You whispered.

“No.” He shakes his head, closing his eyes again. “Been up for a while. Just resting my eyes.”

You smile a little, scooching closer to him under the blanket. You could feel his body heat through the thin shirt he wore. “Never thought I'd see you lazing around.”

“It's weekend.”

“Since when do you care about weekends?”

“Fucks sake.” He groaned in response, scowling. His eyes opened as he shot a heatless glare at you. “It's one day I take a break and I'm facing a fucking interrogation. I'm getting up.”

With that said, before you could process what was happening, there was an empty space beside your arms and a blatant lack of warmth. You blinked confusedly.

"Hey—what? No!” You protested, but you were slightly late. He was already out of bed. You pushed yourself up to a half-sitting position, trying to keep your eyes open.

“What no?” He asked, glancing at you sideways as he stretched out his arms.

“Get back under here! I'm sorry!”

“Weren't you the one pestering me that I was laying around?” His raised his brow.

“Yeah, but that doesn't mean I want you to leave!” You whined.

He sighed, turning to the bedside table. He picked up the watch that lied on it. “It's way too late anyways. I need to get my shit done.”

“What shit?” You grumbled, half rising and crawling to the edge of the bed. You tilted your head to get a glimpse of the watch in his hand. “It's seven.”

He raised a brow at you questioningly and you are appalled.

“Levi, it's seven. On a weekend. Seven.”

“What's your point?”

You gaped at him for a few seconds, mouth parted. What kind of a psychopath were you dating?

“Sleep in?” You suggested, like it was obvious. “Please?”

Levi scoffed like you said something funny and you weren't sure how you should be feeling.

“You never get any rest!” Annoyance creeped into your tone as you glared at him. Why did this man hate life so much?

He doesn't respond, blatantly ignoring you as he slipped his feet through his slippers.

“Levi. Just sleep a little more. Come on.”

“I've slept enough.” He mumbled. “It's seven in the fucking morning.”

The absolute disgusted face you made at that statement was unreal. The absolute mortification you felt at that statement was unreal. You knew your boyfriend had serious issues, with insomnia and shit, and that he woke up early. He always left bed before you even woke up but you never thought it was serious to the point he got up at seven on a weekend. What time did he get up on normal days then?

You brainstormed fast. You really, really wanted him to come back here.

“Look!” You pushed your arms out the blanket, wiggling them around to get Levi's attention. It did. Levi was frowning, confused. “Look!”

“What?”

“Cold hand. Colder feet. I am freezing.” You said seriously “As my boyfriend, it'd be very rude of you to leave me to freeze to death.”

“You're under a damn blanket, stop being dramatic.” He rolled his eyes.

“Okay, and? You're warmer.”

“The fuck?’’ Levi looked at you. “Am I your personal human shaped heater or some shit?”

You considered. “...kinda?”

“You little shit.”

“No, okay, listen.” You sat up fully straight now, all sleepiness gone. You were on a mission and you were not going to rest until you succeeded. “I don't know who told you what but it's not a crime to sleep on weekends.”

Levi did not look convinced. He crossed his arms over his chest, looking at you. “Sure you'd know all about sleeping in. Takes the whole squad to wake you even on regular days.”

You shrugged. If he was trying to shame you, he was failing. You were a proud bed-rotter and not even Levi could overcome your love for naps (he came very close). “Yes,” You agreed, then pulled up the blanket and patted the empty spot beside you where he was resting before. “Now get in and let me teach you the blessings that weekends are.”

He stared at you. You stared back.

“Ackerman, do not make me come out there and drag you in, okay? I am cold, I will be colder. And then I will be pissed for the rest of the day.”

He watched you for a couple seconds, all grumpy and gloomy and serious, your messy hair on your head like a dark cloud hanging over. With your sleepy eyes and pouty lips, it was tempting. Highly. Even for him.

He considered. Paperwork. Erwin. Whatnot. He glanced back at you.

Dignity. He prayed silently. Walls, spare him dignity. Fuck it, he should really get going.

Should he?

Screw dignity. He caved.

“Fine.”

Your eyes instantly lit up, almost jumping in happiness when he sat back down. Enthusiastically, you pushed the blanket on him, wrapping your arms around him the moment he lied down, trapping him to ensure he can't change his mind. Your legs find his legs and you pushed them between them, scooting closer until you're practically flattened against him, snuggled against his chest, absorbing the warmth he offered, your eyes closing almost immediately. An arm wraps snugly around your waist and you swear you're half asleep right then and there.

“I didn't come back for you.” You hear him say. A man's gotta defend his pride after all. But you noticed the flush on his cheeks.

“Sure not.” You reply as you yawn.

“Serious. Don't think this'd always work. I just didn't have the mood to deal with paperwork.”

“Uh huh.” You were not convinced. Not the slightest bit.

“Stop looking at me like that.”

“I'm not.”

“You are. You're turning this into some gooey shit and it's weirding me out.”

“Okay. Whatever.” You nodded mockingly. “Says the guy who's here cuddling with me and getting blushy blushy. I'm sure this isn't gooey shit.”

“Fuckd sake.” He draped an arm over his face in fluster. “If you don't shut up, I will leave.”

“Shutting up.” You bit your tongue. Miracles were ever so rare, what idiot would you be to push your luck?

You kept silent a while, watching him as his eyelashes fluttered shakily. He was still stiff, his muscles tensed. The dark shadows had definitely lessened, you noticed, ever since you'd been pestering after him to get enough sleep all week. It's working, he had definitely been less tired. But it's not enough. This insomniac bastard can hardly get 4 hours of sleep on average and that did not sit right with you.

He was tired. You knew. You could tell

“Levi.”

He doesn't speak, only hums softly in response.

“Sleep. Don't just lie down.”

“Can't.” He shook his head slightly. “Can't sleep so late.”

“It's seven.”

There's a hint of a smile on his face. “I think it's already been settled that we have very different views on what's early and what's late.”

You rolled your eyes. “Stop criticizing my sense of time and go to sleep and let me sleep as well.”

“Can't.” He told you simply, his voice soft. “Doesn’t mean you can't. Go to sleep, I'll be here.”

Shaking your head, you push yourself up slightly. Your fingers trailed up to his neck and he freezes slightly. You traced the feeling of his undercut under your fingers, scratching down with your nails. “Let me help you then.”

His eyes open to find yours questioningly. You smiled, shifting closer and traveling your hands higher until they were running between the dark strands of his hair. You pull at them, just the way you knew he liked and it works, his shoulders almost instantly relaxes visibly and a soft sigh escapes him, his eyes fluttering shut. You shift up, higher until you can press his head to his chest and that's all it takes. It's like he melts into you.

“Shit.” He groaned softly.

“Feels good?”

He doesn't say anything, but his breathing relaxes, starting to get even.

“Go to sleep, Lev.”

He doesn't protest anymore, closing his eyes.

You play with his hair a little more, another hand softly massaging one of his shoulders. A couple seconds passed by in silence and through, you could only listen to his heavy breathing.It's okay if he didn't sleep fully. You just wanted him to relax. Absentmindedly, you traced one of the hair strands that fell on over his forehead. His bangs came almost upto his eyes now.

“Huh,” You sighed softly. “Levi. Your hair got longer—oh…. asleep?”

Oh shit, he actually fell asleep.

And no amount of titans you've ever killed could ever give you the satisfaction and sense of accomplishment you felt at that second.

You stared at his peaceful face happily for a few seconds. Then, still hands on his hair, you felt yourself dozing back to sleep. It's like watching him relaxing has made you feel relaxed as well. And no sooner, you were drowning in his arms, drifting to a far away world.

.

Levi wakes up after 3 hours.

At first, he's confused. He's sitting up in bed wondering how it'd become this late. How could it be that it was past 10 and he was still in bed?

But then he looks at you, so deep in sleep like you wouldn't even feel if the world just ended and he remembers.

Right. Of course it was you.

Did you know how easy it was for him to sleep when you were around?

He stares at you softly, all curled up under the sheets. He shifts a strand of hair from your face, tucking it behind your ear. You groaned quietly at the touch, but that was about it. You did not look like you were going to wake up anytime soon.

He watches you, considering.

Dignity. He prayed. Dignity has been long gone since the day you came into his life. He really, really should be getting up now.

Should he?

Screw dignity. He caved.

Might as well go for another hour.

[dark-wackademia]

uh, "i just need to focus on myself right now, thanks for understanding", and then do that regardless of how they react because you deserve to take care of yourself.

also, controversial opinion: you really don't need to explain yourself to anyone, ESPECIALLY when you're in a place like this. babes, your first priority is to let go of that feeling of worrying how others will take you living your best life/feeling obligation to anyone but yourself in order to start living authentically to you and doing whatever you need to for yourself.

secondly: you can do that for maintaining a healthy state so that you don't reach this place too, like preventative medicine... people forget it's worth much more than the methods we enact once at a later stage with something that could have been perhaps avoided all together, if not lessened had we caught it earlier. something i wish more people really understood is that you don't need to be AT deaths door or burnout/this level of not doing well to step back and get back to basics for yourself. imho, you can stay there as long as you need since we all interact with the world differently, and so, we all have varying needs, and those needs shift. sometimes, for a long while, you'll need to stick to being minimal in one area of life to create a sense of peace and balance for yourself in areas that matter more, at that time, and then reverse areas at another point in life. it's alright to just need to do what you need to in order to feel the best you can in life. it's kind of your only real job for yourself because it is YOUR life, after all. and no, that's NOT being selfish, because i hate when people i know take this time that their bodies, minds, and souls are crying out for them to only to frame it in "it's okay to be selfish". taking care of yourself (even if your support needs at the moment, or even in general, long-term, are high) does NOT equate to being selfish AT ALL.

repeat instead the mantras like "i can't pour from an empty cup" and keep in mind that you DONT want to wait until your cups empty. in other words, you don't need to keep pouring just because you have something in your cup. it's okay to keep yourself for yourself. if you have the time and energy, it doesn't mean you need to give it, even if you have been doing maintenance for a while. let go of that guilt, shame, and obligation you feel for simply existing and living. you deserve to enjoy yourself too. you deserve to enjoy your own time and energy before giving it away (even if you want to, which i get is a hard middle ground to strike but in time you'll find it). it's much more enjoyable when you do it this way. try to think about it in the way of water, if you went around literally pouring your water into everyone's cup just because you have even a drop, you'd end up killing yourself because you're drinking nothing. even a little, even half a cup is still not enough. framing it in that way has helped me shed the internalized ablism I had for most of my life, being someone that needs to support myself by a lot of alone time, especially, made me vulnerable to people who socialize more shaping my own perception as negative towards my natural inclination. now that i've let go of this, and keep doing so, i find i actually want to socialize more and find it more energizing whenever i do. i even make it a priority now, instead of finding it to be a chore, as i once had. also, i rec socializing only in areas of interest when you're craving some but are low on energy and vibes to give.

hope this helps someone. <3

also, i think people will understand, and even if they don't, in time, you'll meet someone who does. give yourself that space and time you need so you don't burn yourself out on ones who don't, so you're not burnt out for the ones who come along and get you.

[hyperlexichypatia]

I've seen basically two response arguments to Kennedy's slurs about autistic people being unable to pay taxes, have a job, play baseball, go on a date, write a poem, or use the toilet.

Both the responses are good and necessary, but I think they're incomplete. The two response arguments are essentially: 1. "That's not true, there are plenty of autistic people who have jobs and go on dates and play baseball," and 2. (largely in response to 1.) "Autistic people deserve acceptance and dignity even if they can't pay taxes or write poetry or use the toilet; people's value isn't determined by their abilities or productivity."

And, again, both of these responses are true and good and necessary. But what I'm not seeing people talk about enough is why Kennedy listed those specific skills, and what he's trying to imply with them. Because, see, when people are reduced to a dehumanized stereotype, "Not everyone is like that dehumanized stereotype" isn't sufficient, and neither is "Even people who are like that dehumanized stereotype deserve respect." The problem is the dehumanization. So let's look at the list of things we supposedly can't do, which Kennedy is using to conjure an image of "Inhuman Unthinking Blob."

Having a job. This is the big one. In American culture, your value, your personhood, is solely dependent on Your Job. Are you a valuable cog in the capitalist machine, or are you a cheap cog in the capitalist machine, or are you so worthless you're not even in the capitalist machine, and therefore have no reason to be alive? So it's good and necessary and important to spell out "A person doesn't have to have a job to be a person with dignity and rights." But there's a larger question out there, which is: What, exactly, constitutes "a job"? Yes, absolutely, everyone should have dignity and rights (and material needs like guaranteed housing, food, and consensual healthcare). But also, most disabled people, including ""severely"" disabled people, can and do perform productive labor benefiting their communities. It's just often labor that capitalist society doesn't classify as "a job," like caregiving, studying, or making art. It's important to say that people shouldn't need "a job" in order to deserve rights or resources. It's also important to point out that disabled people have been doing labor this whole time, just without the dignity, rights, or pay associated with "a job." In a socialist utopia where everyone had their material needs guaranteed, labor would still be done, and a lot of it would still be done by disabled people. That's important. Disabled people's contributions to society matter. And erasing that is something ableists do on purpose -- excluding the labor done by disabled people from the category of "job" is integral to excluding disabled people from the category of "productive" and thus the category "worthy of life."

Paying taxes. This is the most transparently ridiculous one, because absolutely everybody in the U.S. pays taxes. Poor people pay taxes (too much). Rich people pay taxes (nowhere near enough). Undocumented immigrants pay taxes. You buy a Snickers? It's priced $1.79 but you pay $1.92. That's a tax. You live somewhere? You're paying property taxes. You rent your home? How do you think your landlord pays their property taxes? From your rent. You're paying property taxes. You have a crappy underpaid minimum wage job? You're paying FICA. Everybody pays taxes. What Kennedy probably means to imply is "They're too poor to owe federal income taxes." Politicians love pretending that "taxes" means "federal income taxes" so they can claim to "lower taxes" while shifting the tax burden somewhere else (cf. Trump's attempt to claim that tariffs aren't taxes). And. And also. There's another subtle implication in there, that I see a lot from parents and ableists. Because of the deep intersection of ableism and classism, Kennedy is implying "They're too poor to owe federal income taxes" (therefore they're inferior) but also "They're not smart enough to do something complicated like file a tax return." When ableists talk about disabled people who "can't take care of themselves" or specifically "can't pay their bills" or "can't pay taxes," they're intentionally trying to conflate an economic state (having enough money to pay bills/taxes) with a cognitive ability (having the skills/executive function to manage money, budget, pay bills on time, or file a tax return). Kennedy probably doesn't file his own tax return either. I'm sure he has an accountant for that. Presumed-neurotypical people are allowed to do that. The world is full of rich people who lack executive function or money-management skills, whose wealth insulates them from the consequences of that, because they can either afford to just lose money, or they can afford to hire someone to handle it for them. The world is also full of poor people for whom one missed payment has ruined them. The world is also full of disabled people for whom one missed payment has gotten them declared mentally incompetent, institutionalized, or placed under guardianship -- by abled family members who probably hire an accountant to manage their own money. Again, all this is deliberate. Kennedy and other ableists/classists/eugenicsts are intentionally trying to conflate "lacks money," "lacks money management abilities/skills," and "lacks General Intelligence" as one more-or-less interchangeable phenomenon (Note: If you've read this far and haven't figured out my angle yet: There is no such thing as "General Intelligence" and the very concept is harmful).

Write a poem. Again, this is deliberately ambiguous wording -- pretty much anyone can write a poem, including people who can't write or speak. Have you ever expressed an idea in which the words you used had an additional meaning on top of their literal meaning? Boom, you can write a poem. Maybe not a good one. But Kennedy didn't say that autistic people's poetry is bad -- plenty of neurotypical people's poetry is bad too, after all. There is a somewhat positive stereotype floating around that neurodivergent people are creative. We may be tragic, burdens on society, our parents' heartbreak, worthless, stupid, subhuman, but at least we're creative. Probably due to being more animal-like, "closer to nature." And neurobigots like Kennedy absolutely hate this stereotype. No matter how much dehumanization the "positive" stereotype is rooted in, we cannot have any positive attributes at all. They must never let us forget that we have no redeeming value whatsoever. We must be rendered as completely lacking in thought, feelings, expression, and creation. I'm seeing some echos of 18th century racism, too -- a common belief among 18th century white Europeans was that even if non-Europeans were superficially clever, they could produce no "higher culture," no great art or poetry or literature, because they were intrinsically a lower tier of human. This seems to be the root of Kennedy's implication -- not that autistic people "can't" write poetry (anyone can), or that autistic people are bad at writing poetry (most beginners are), but that an autistic person's creative output cannot constitute true poetry, true "high culture," because it comes from an inferior mind.

Play baseball. This is an especially slippery one, because like writing poetry, it's a learned skill with gradations of skill level, not an intrinsic ability that someone does or doesn't have. Most autistic people aren't pro-level baseball players, but neither are most allistic people. And again, Kennedy didn't say "Autistic people are bad a baseball." He said that we would never play baseball. "Has ever played or will ever play baseball" is such a ridiculously low bar that even I can meet it. Technically speaking, I can play baseball. I have played baseball, in school gym class. I know how! You sit there minding your business until it's your turn to stand up, and then someone hands you a bat, and then someone throws a ball, and you're supposed to try to hit the ball with the bat, and in theory, after you fail three times, you're supposed to be allowed to sit back down again and go back to imagining wild self-insert fanfic, but the coach gives you "extra tries" out of pity, so you have to humiliate yourself with five or six attempts instead of three. Yeah. I can play baseball. So what's Kennedy going for with this one? Baseball in the U.S. is associated with two things: American identity, and idyllic midcentury childhood. If autistic people can't participate in America's Pastime, can we really even be Americans? Do we really count as citizens? I don't think Kennedy is personally, ideologically all that committed to xenophobia himself; he's just hitched his wagon to a deeply xenophobic administration because they indulge his medical conspiracy theories. But he knows how to align his goals to the administration's. He knows that his boss is deeply committed to narrowing and restricting who counts as "an American," who's not really part of "our culture," who's not really a part of baseball and hot dogs and the Fourth of July, if you know what I mean. Okay, okay. Maybe I'm reaching with this one. But I'm definitely not reaching with the other association he's going for: Idyllic Midcentury Childhood. All kids play baseball. By which I mean, all boys play baseball. I'm not sure Kennedy knows that girls can play it too, or that he cares. The point is, baseball is part of childhood, and autistic people are never children. We don't play, we don't learn, we don't go through developmental stages, we're just forever Mindless Blobs. That's why things that would be considered cruelty if done to neurotypical children aren't cruelty when they're done to us. We're not really children. We never become adults, either -- how can we, if we don't go through childhood first? You can tell we're subhuman because we don't go through the universal experiences of Real People Life.

Go on a date. Okay. This one. This is the one where I get actively angry at the well-meaning, "inclusive" responses. "Just because an autistic person has high support needs and can't do XYX doesn't mean --" no. Stop right there. There is no such thing as a disabled person who "can't" date. There is no impairment or disability that prevents someone from dating. There are people -- autistic and otherwise, disabled and otherwise -- who for whatever reason, choose not to pursue dating. Maybe they're aromantic, maybe they're loners, maybe they have religious objections, maybe dating just isn't something they're interested in. Fine. That's their choice. But there is no such thing as a disabled person who "can't" date. There is no such thing as a disability that renders people incapable of romantic relationships. There is no such fucking thing as being "too disabled" or "too severe" or "too profound" or "too high support needs" to have a romantic relationship if two or more people want one. That is not a thing that exists. That is a thing ableists made up. There is no such thing as an autistic person who "can't" go on a date. There are autistic people who aren't allowed to go on dates, because their family or caregivers control them, infantilize them, restrict their freedoms, or treat them as mindless blobs. But all disabled people (yes, all) can pursue romantic relationships. All disabled people (yes, all) deserve the human right to pursue romantic relationships if they choose to. With other disabled people. With abled people. With whomever. And yeah, dating doesn't necessarily have to be romantic or sexual, but let me be perfectly clear -- disabled people, autistic people, "high support needs" autistic people have a right to have sex, too. A multiply disabled autistic person who needs 24/7 assistance deserves the absolute, unreserved right to have wild, kinky, balls-to-the-wall, whole-chicken sex with the entire starting lineup of the Detroit Lions, if xe so chooses to, and if said Lions are on board. We should not accept the premise that there is any such thing as a disabled person who "can't" go on a date.

Use a toilet without assistance. This is the Kennedy playbook trump card, but unlike some of the other claims, this one is actually true. There's no such thing as a disabled person who "can't" date, but yes, there are in fact plenty of disabled people, including autistic people, who need help with using the toilet. So what's Kennedy going for here? He's trying to evoke two things: Disgust and infantilization. We have a visceral disgust around excretory functions. Needing to eliminate waste reminds us that we're animals made of meat, not the higher intellectual beings we pretend to be. Everyone poops. So we do it in private, we describe it with euphemisms, and if someone needs help with it, well, they're not keeping up their end of the social compact to collectively pretend we're not animals with animal bodily functions. So people who need assistance with the waste process are disgusting, subhuman, a violation of imagined purity. And of course, they're babies. Babies wear diapers. Babies need help using the toilet. So an older child or adult who needs diapers or toileting help is basically a big baby. We have entire election cycles centered on "Which candidate has incontinence issues?" as a proxy for "Which candidate is a big baby unfit to lead?" as though someone's bladder leakage has any bearing on their wisdom or policy positions. And of course, since people who need help with toileting Are Babies, we're meant to assume that they can't do any of those other things, either. They can't even use the toilet, let alone write poetry or go on a date. In reality, plenty of people who need toileting help are writing poetry and going on dates. One of the biggest misconceptions that holds disabled people back from education or, in some cases, from basic communication, is this myth of linear "developmental stages" -- that if someone isn't "smart enough" to master an "easier/earlier" skill, then they can't possibly be "smart enough" to master a completely unrelated skill that some abled person thinks of as "more advanced." This is literally the primary barrier to communication access for speech-disabled people, and the reason nonspeaking people who type to communicate are so often disbelieved -- if someone isn't "smart enough" to master a "baby skill" like talking, they can't possibly be "smart enough" to read and write! Nevermind that for many speech disabled people, reading and writing are much easier than speaking. And if someone isn't "smart enough" to use the toilet unassisted, they can't possibly learn any advanced topics at all, because they must the "mind of a baby." (The only people with the minds of babies are babies. A 50 year old with incontinence has the mind of a 50 year old.)

So. To sum up: Kennedy is intentionally evoking the concept of autistic people as The Abject Unthinking, and neither "Plenty of autistic people can do those things he says we can't do" nor "Disabled people deserve respect and dignity even if they can't do those things" fully addresses the dehumanization he's trying to conjure. Maybe I'm just jaded, too, about calls for "respect and dignity" for disabled people that don't challenge the concept of The Abject Unthinking. I see behavioral therapists, institution staff, and parents pursuing adult guardianship talking about "respect and dignity." I see articles about how to restrain and forcibly drug people with "respect and dignity." Ableists literally murder disabled people in cold blood in the name of "respect and dignity." I don't know what "respect and dignity" means to these people, but it's sure not synonymous with "bodily autonomy" or "civil rights." By this point, I consider "respect and dignity" about as meaningful as "thoughts and prayers." All disabled people can, and deserve the right to, express themselves. All disabled people can, and deserve the right to, make their own decisions about their own bodies. All disabled people can, and deserve the right to, participate in their communities. All disabled people can, and deserve the right to, pursue relationships with other people of their choice.

[burymagdalene]

Heat Lightning: Part II – Kismet - S. Reid x Reader

Making it back to your shared motel room, Spencer and reader get a lot off their chests; figuratively and literally. With a new dynamic emerging, they fight to survive the heat of Texas, the case—and each other.

Part I (Could read this alone if you wish) pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader genre: Smut, angst, & fluff (18+ pls pls) tags: Spencer Reid x bau!female reader, bloodsplatteranalyst!reader, virgin!spencer, subby (?) service-y Spencer, masturbation (spencer), tit sucking, thigh riding, real riding, finger sucking, fingering, multiple orgasms, squirting, creampie, first time, munch!spence, murder, kidnappings wc: 8.5k a/n: Part 2/2 of my bau!reader duology! I've had so much fun writing this I hope Spencer and reader have lots of fun... this might be my dirtiest yet lol S1 Spencer is a young freak aficionado I swear.

Kismet

Destiny; fate.

“What chance did I stand against kismet?”

The tips of Spencer’s fingers have molded to take the shape of the dial on your AC as you drive back to the nearby motel. His face is turned to stare out the window on your side, wanting to catch the view he hasn’t fully appreciated while not having to turn away from you.

What he would have missed. Chewing on the inside of his lip Spencer ponders, what I would’ve missed if it was another unit, if they took on a different case.

“Whatcha looking at?”

“I just- it’s very beautiful out here at night.” Spencer replies, eyes flickering over to you in order to analyze if you think his lame answer is indeed lame. The way his voice dips at the end gives him away. That’s not really what Spencer meant.

You hum, it’s barely above a whisper, something ambient and low, but enough to fill the car. “Yeah? You thinking of moving to small-town nowhere with me?”

He smiles faintly, laughs at his hands in his lap. “No. Well, sort of. I’m thinking about how if we hadn’t took this case… I wouldn’t be sitting here. With you.”

There’s a long pause where neither of you say anything. Just the sound of tires on gravel as you approach the motel and the air conditioner still stubbornly set two degrees too cold.

Your tongue pokes out slightly over your chapped lips. “You’re very kind.”

Spencer leans back in the seat. “But I mean it.”

Taking the keys out, you’re finally parked in front of the kitschy motel. You don’t answer right away. There’s a comfort in letting silence carry things when words feel too sharp. But when you do speak, it’s quiet.

“Yeah. Me too.”

And for once, Spencer doesn’t overthink what that means.

𓆱

Out of the most incredible shower of his life, Spencer wipes away the fog on the small bathroom mirror to look over his face. Eye bags worse than they’ve been in a while, but the sun almost gave him a pink flush and bright hue that makes up for it. 

He had gathered up his pajamas from his go bag to carry into the bathroom with him after you were finished showering. Wanting to change in the bathroom, suddenly embarrassed. He was not expecting this situation while packing– how could he have?

Hair brushed and fully situated to reintegrate back into the room with the dim flickering light and the most intimidatingly perfect person he’s met. Great.

Opening the door, he’s immediately stumbling into you. Right in front of the bathroom door is the entrance to the room where you were standing by picking up a small hooked sign from the door handle. 

With a keen eye, Spencer watches as your fingers flip over the “Do Not Disturb” sign in front of the door. Very much aware that this is standard practice– he can’t help but feel personally affected by the underlying sentiment. Do not disturb us. We don’t want anybody else in here with us.

He feels drunk. Standing in the doorway silent and gobsmacked by the simplest gesture– you turn over to gaze at him, poking your tongue out playfully before moving back to the bed.

The slight sway in your hips as you walk to the room makes him clear his throat.

“Which side do you want?” You ask, already jumping theatrically on the right side.

“Um… right?” Spencer laughs, teasing you.

“Already takennn!” You sing your reply.

Sitting up, feet off of the right side, you pat the space next to you.

“C’mere. We can share.”

Padding over, a small drop from Spencer’s hair tickles the back of his neck as he sits beside you on the bed.

“I never got good at sharing, I don't think.” He is flirting, he assumes. But it’s also semi-true. An only child who is also a mama's boy, he never had to share growing up– but it comes pretty naturally to him anyway. He’s not explaining that though so his line is more effective. 

“You don’t wanna share with me?” You smile back at him in such a mind numbing way that he feels silly for flirting with you when you obviously have the upper hand. 

Spencer bites his bottom lip softly and shakes his head, eyes wide looking at you. He's pulling out the doe eyes, all his cards are on the table. 

A thick and nearly tangible silence falls over the two of you. Hips almost pressing with your close proximity, Spencer gains the last bit of strength he has from the long day to meet your gaze. Taking in your features for the first time undisturbed by chaos is making his heart flutter. The bruises have let up a bit– changed slightly in color and severity. Your bottom lip still has a cut on it, albeit, not sensitive to the touch anymore.

Without thinking, his thumb slowly comes up and brushes the bruise left on your cheek.

“These are getting better.” He mumbles, thumb on your cheek but eyes roaming toward your lips.

“Yeah, I’m glad.” You toss a shy smile back at him.

“Oh yeah? I thought you said it made you look tough?”

“Hm. I think I was just saying that. I don’t want to be so tough all the time.”

Spencer pulls his thumb a few inches down, nearing the corner of your mouth. In an act of bravery (mixed with sleep deprivation, heat exhaustion, and lust. Simply.) runs it slowly over the jagged edge of your bottom lip. Wishing to soothe it with his touch almost, wanting to take away all the bruises littered on you.

A small shiver runs down your spine and you do an unconscious jolt that makes Spencer’s thumb stop.

“Yeah. You’re not so tough.” Pulling his thumb down, your eyes reconnect.

Spencer watches the smallest twitch in your eyebrows, a microexpression that flashes behind your eyes, a slight tremble in your lip. Taking one last deep breath he sacrifices himself to the fire he’s kept at bay this whole case.

Lips instinctually meeting the corner of your mouth, a soft kiss placed on the damaged skin of your marked lip. A shuddering sound from your throat pulls him towards the noise. Then, a proper kiss is being placed. 

A minute pull away tilts the world off its axis before you two are grabbing each other, lips melding together at a near brutal pace. The stiff motel mattress lets out a pitiful squeak, seeking a cessation of movement that would not be rewarded tonight. 

Your hands are cupping his jaw, his own hands remain politely in his lap and twitch as he feels your hip finally press up against his. Letting go of his cheek, one of your hands snakes down to take Spencer’s, placing it on the inside of your thigh. 

Spencer grips it too hard at first, causing you to gasp against his mouth. Dial it back, he thinks and makes up for it by rubbing away the pain with his palm up and down.

The first to pull away you whine out, “You’re such a good kisser,” before connecting lips again, pulling him flush against you almost onto his lap.

“I haven’t really… ever-” He gulps, he guesses it’s polite to tell you.

“Oh yeah?” He watches the corners of your mouth falter, a slight twitch upward in a smile that has his brain screaming witch!

“Yeah.”

You chuckle kindly while ghosting your lips over his once more, “That doesn’t matter.”

“It might…” Spencer looks down from your eyes in his confession.

“It won’t.” You finalize like you’re a professional in these matters. Virgins. He blushes and begins kissing you again.

With an act as simple as a swing of a leg, Spencer’s mind muffles. Propped in his lap he wraps his arms around your waist, tight grips indent your skin. Another simple act– a kiss to the jaw. Adolescent, amateur even. Spencer closes his eyes as his head falls back, a quiet hum from you against his jaw and he smiles despite the hurricane in his stomach. 

Bracing his hands firmly on your hips, your lips trail over his pulsepoint, a soothing and sickening kiss is being placed over the sensitive skin (he didn’t know was so sensitive on himself– why does this feel so good?) and Spencer nearly flinches away.

“Does that feel okay?” You pick up on his slight movement.

“It feels really nice, actually.”

A laugh rumbles against that same spot and he could keel over, beg you to do this all night. 

“I can feel your heart beating there.”

Two of your fingers replace where your lips just were, a rapid thud beating against them through his flesh.

“My- my heart is racing, yeah.” 

Your warm palm pressed firmly against Spencer's chest, you usher him flat against the old mattress. Back pressed there, he looks up where you’re still sitting on his lap before bending slowly over him again.

One finger tugs the bottom of his t-shirt up to his chin, messy kisses peppered over top the fragile skin on the left of his chest.

Voice rising an embarrassing octave Spencer talks through an inhale, “Wh-what are you doing?”

“Mm. Kissing your heart.”

All the air has seemingly been knocked out of his lungs. Still, through ringing in his ears he whispers, “Why?”

“Well,” kiss, “because I think it’s sweet,” kiss, “and because I think it's kind.” your lips trail up slightly, a small string of saliva follows where you speak against his skin. “Because I like the person it keeps alive.”

Spencer could cry. His dick is hard, and he could cry. A blanketed wave of piety clouds his brain. He feels fucking obsessed, how do all people not succumb to madness when they feel this? If Spencer felt like this for more than 30 minutes he’d stop breathing. Or he’d completely submit to his life calling of reverency.

Propping himself onto his elbows he puts his face into your hair, resting his forehead against you firmly. Taking a deep inhalation of your scent, he commits it to memory before taking a hand to tilt your head up to stare into your eyes. 

“You’re so beautiful.”

A gentle and self-conscious finger routinely checks where your lip is bruised. A signal of your hidden insecurity toward the compliment. Spencer sees the hesitation in your irises as he moves his hand up to the curve of your waist, gesturing you to lay on your back now where he crawls over you.

Still intimidated by your bruising he tries to ease some of his body weight to his forearms and not your torso. He also doesn’t want his hard-on to dig into you right now.

“I think you’re astoundingly beautiful,” Spencer kisses your chin briefly, “you can ignore anything else I say, just believe me there.” 

May be a bit too serious, sappy and vulnerable for knowing you for a week, but Spencer has never felt so on-time and right than he does now.

You exhale sharply through your nose, push your mouths together again with a lazy grin. 

“You’re so warm, it feels surprisingly nice.” You giggle in response, your nails trailing lightly up his arms.

Spencer thinks back to your comment on hot coffee tasting better when it’s hot out, this is definitely the same strange phenomenon you were mentioning. Maybe it’s the counterintuitive notion where a hot beverage can increase sweating, which may help cool you down more efficiently. Maybe it’s the volatile aromatic compounds, which hit your nose and taste buds harder. He feels better to you when it’s hot out because he’s hitting your system harder. As long as he’s hitting your system-

Spencer’s spiralling thoughts get cut off by his own voice punching out a loud moan when you cup him over his pajama pants. The first time he’s feeling someone else's hand on him is so revolutionary that he has no control over his voice or facial expressions.

“Does that feel good?” Your tentative voice breaks him out of his daze. Like it could possibly feel bad with you.

Spencer has to search for the word yes within the vast confines of his brain– that’s how good it feels. Taking a moment he finds it, “Y-esss.”

“When's the last time you did this?” You’re whispering into his neck with a graze of your teeth he’s replying like you have him at gunpoint.

“Ah- y- yesterday-” Spencer manages to gasp out.

“Oh,” you giggle a bit which makes him peel his eyes open to look at you, “I don’t know why- I thought it’d be longer.” your sentence trails off with a string of soft laughs.

“Ah- well. I’m a virgin, n-not…”

“I know! I know… Yesterday, huh?”

Spencer feels his jaw instinctively squeeze shut. Yes, yesterday. He had barely made it to the very corner of his hotel bed back in Houston before shoving a hand under his pants to unsatisfyingly jerk off. A futile attempt to ease the molten hot swoops of horniness he gets while spending time with you.

“Wh- ugh.” Is all he can say.

“How about you show me how you did it yesterday, then?”

He teeters on the idea of white hot humiliation but in the end his hormones win, ultimately calcifying his boyish temperament with blatant animalism as he tugs his pajama pants down. Spencer is aware that you don’t mean exactly how he did it yesterday. All whines while biting down on his fist while the wrist of his other hand gets rubbed raw by the band of his pants that were barely open enough for boner access. 

Spencer scoots himself up so his back is resting against the rickety wooden bedframe, legs spread slightly as he flings his pants to the floor, underwear still on. Through cloudy eyes he watches you crawl over toward him, legs coming to cage in one of his thighs, sitting your weight on it. 

“Should I…” He traces a thumb over the waistband of his underwear.

“Please, yeah.”

Your eyes are attached to his lower stomach, eyes flickering up to his when he speaks to check for any hesitation.

Spencer is nervous, sure, but the sight of the basically egregious tent in his boxers is almost more embarrassing than it would be to just pull himself out of them. With a hook of his thumb, he pulls the band down slowly. First, the head appears, opaque drips of precum coating it lightly. Then the rest is pulled out, smacking his tummy with a sticky thud.

The first thing he hears is a small squeak coming from your throat. A laugh through your nose follows as you grin out, “Jesus.”

Beginning with a severe ego boost, Spencer can jump through the emotional hoops of the humiliation around jerking off in front of you. Jerking off to you, in front of you. He swallows an excess of saliva. 

Before anything else, Spencer has the urge to reach out and touch you, make sure you’re real– solid under his touch. Again he feels your soft cheek under his palm as he swipes a thumb shortly over your cut lip.

Then he grips the base and pulls up to his leaky tip with a tiny moan.

A dazed expression paints over your features, like you’re the one receiving any pleasure as he starts to really put his wrist into the movement. A tingle in his spine forms at the thought of doing this for anyone else. He would genuinely never imagine himself doing this, but the way he’s watching your lips tuck in to conceal a moan is truly a sight for sore eyes.

Spencer could most definitely cum. He probably should not if he doesn’t want to spoil the rest of the night just because for a fleeting moment he couldn’t control himself. Though. God, it would feel really good to just-

A roll of your hips against his thigh makes you and Spencer moan aloud in eerily similar octaves. 

“Can I touch myself?”

Your voice snaps him out of his inner monologue, fingers going lax around himself because if he’s touching his cock and hearing your voice simultaneously it’s going to end way too quick. 

“N-no-”

“Mmf- wh, huh?”

Consciously or not, your hips continue to roll circles onto his exposed thigh, the friction of your shorts with the pressure of his thigh makes you dig your nails harshly into his side.

“I just- no! I mean, let me do it for you. I’ll finish like this anyway.”

Without a reply, you let out a gentle gasp, dropping your head to your chest while you start dragging up and down against his thigh.

Spencer kind of just feels like watching, seeing your shoulders relax after everything this week has brought you is erotic in itself. 

Another squeak from your throat, “fuck, stop me please.”

Moaning the loudest all night at your response Spencer feels lightheaded. You can’t fucking help yourself.

Chest rising and falling rapidly now, Spencer’s hands find your hips, slowing your movements to a halt. You huff out a sigh and bend all the way down to reconnect your lips. In the momentum of slumping down you hit your lip a bit too hard against Spencer’s. A moan erupts out of you from the delicious sting while you integrate your tongue.

The filthy tongue kissing is distracting, but not enough to let slip the plan of Spencer helping you get off. Mind reeling, all the possibilities are tripping over each other in his head. Feeling your walls around his fingers, his lips around your clit. What do you taste like, feel like?

“Okay, okay,” Spencer whispers breathlessly, hoping that this plea reminds you of his aforementioned service towards you.

Dramatically, you roll off Spencer and lay on your back against the pillow next to where you two just were, nails trailing across his chest as you do so. A lazy spread of your thighs is the closest Spencer has felt to falling off a cliff, a silent beckoning that has him laying on his stomach between your legs in an instant.

He’s been in this position before, in fact. Not nearly in the way he is now though. Only previously has he situated himself like this when he was in FBI training. Sniper position. 

Hopefully Spencer will be better at this than the latter.

Soon you’re sitting up and grabbing at his shirt to fling it off onto the floor with his pants. He tries not to think about the grime from the floor all over his pajamas as he looks to you for consent on pulling off these shorts of yours.

“Can I take your shorts off. Um, and panties?”

You send him a sweet smile accompanied by a nod. Soon enough you’re taking off your tanktop too. Like it’s nothing. Like Spencer didn’t need time to prepare himself. Just as his fingers grasp the band of your shorts they’re stopping. Eyes glued and mouth hanging slightly open, Spencer gapes at your exposed breasts.

A dilemma. Should he continue with where he left off? Should he scoot up slowly and take one of your nipples into his mouth-

Before his brain can even finish painting the image he’s moving back up towards your face, giggling happily with you.

“Would you like to touch them?” Your grin is full of content admiration, not one of the smiles you’ve given him before, sly and seductive. This is you playing like real 20-something year olds do. The world outside of this room, the people you are– non-existent. 

What he would have missed.

“Uh-huh.” Spencer grins back, teeth on display. 

It’s almost hard to kiss and lave over your chest with the permanent smile keeping his mouth open. He can’t help it. The giddiness he’s experiencing is as strong as the loneliness he’s felt. Ever-consuming and solidifying, he is feeling himself heal from the inside out in your embrace. 

Like he’s booked a room on fucking prom night he feels so euphorically cliché.

You guide his hand to one nipple, he rolls it between the pads of his fingertips and you gasp, hips jumping up against his. Palming it once before rolling it again Spencer sucks a mark near your collarbone. He wants his lips on something.

 Wants a bruise to form on your skin that makes you feel beautiful– one that has a memory attached you’re not frightened of. 

Once “More…” slips past your lips he’s removing himself from your neck and placing his open and ready mouth on your other nipple, sucking lightly. Spencer fucking loves this. He licks with his tongue broadened before putting the nipple into his lips. Spittle drips between the cleavage of your chest all the while his hand is massaging your other breast.

Pulling away to see his damage, he smiles. Dazedly moves his mouth to your other breast like it’s second nature to him. The spit left on your breast works as a quick lubricant for his fingers to pull and rub at your nipple again. So focused on suckling your tits, Spencer is not aware of your humping against his hip bone. Moans spilling into the empty humid air alongside Spencer’s gentle hums of mania.

“Mmm, Spencer. I- fuck. Never took you for such a fucking tease. Did not expect to be on the brink of begging to cum tonight.”

Gasping for breath, Spencer detaches himself from you. He could have been doing that for five minutes or five hours, he has no clue. Regardless, he was not trying to wring you out– though the thought of you begging him to cum makes his figurative tail wag. Next time!

“Uhh. Sorry. Ha, do you still want me to-”

“Yes.”

“So I’m forgiven-” His smile grows as he positions himself between your legs again.

“Spencer-” A little whine, a furrow of your brow mixed with the small desperate shift of your hips sends him into a frenzy. Typically so tough and stoic around your team, begging him to touch you now.

Taking too long to pull your shorts and underwear down together, your hands push the fabric along with Spencers, the anticipation in your fingertips shocking him. 

Now with your clothes discarded, you and Spencer are both fully naked together. He rubs at the skin of your outer thighs to soothe any nerves you (or him) have, still getting acquainted with the way you like to be touched. He wants to do it so right you can’t think– wants to make you feel so good you can’t even fathom being stressed.

He kisses your inner thigh, stalling or just proving that he can kiss wherever he wants boldly. 

“Do you need- should I help?” You gasp out, remembering the inexperience he has, not wanting to intimidate him in a situation where it’s supposed to be life-altering.

“Mm. What do you like?” He speaks against the skin of your thigh, not wanting to pull away from its warmth yet.

“I just- God. Messy? Suction in your cheeks.. ah, should probably hold my legs down.”

Spencer can’t help the smile at your instructions, he can definitely do that. Moving away from the home he was making on your thigh he positions himself in front of your center. Slightly puffy and wet from the friction of grinding against him, he takes in the need painted all over you.

A small gust of air blows out of his lips onto your clit, your hips wiggle. He kisses it, the first taste of yourself against his lips and he aches for more. Licking up whatever you have dripped out during your rutting and whining, he tastes you fully for the first time moaning against your nerves. 

Messy, he remembers. Pulling away just slightly, he spits out a trail of saliva against your pussy, taking one hand off a leg he rubs it around in sloppy experimental circles. A loud moan from your lips as encouragement. Those same fingers pry your lips open wider so your clit is more exposed to him.

More spit and he’s sucking your bud into his mouth, hallowing his cheeks and running his tongue against you through suctions. His wet strands of hair are being yanked, a dull sting that has him rubbing his hips against the mattress.

“Yeah- good, good. You’re good-” you mumble out quickly. You must’ve remembered you’re his coach of sorts, not expecting the act to be so good you can’t explain it to him anymore.

A pitiful “ughn!” gets punched out of your chest as Spencer slurps up incoming wetness from your core up to his saliva pooling around your clit and swallows like it’s nothing. Spencer finds his favorite is sucking your clit between his lips and pulling away before letting it go back to place. It leaves your taste lingering in his mouth and has your legs spasming around him.

Replacing his tongue with two of his fingers rubbing back and forth against your clit, he wants to talk over the noises of wet friction coming from your bodies,

“You know– even though you’re laying there so pretty for me, your legs shake similarly to how your muscles would when working out. Your heart rate is increasing, adrenaline is spiking which is why you feel tingly. Am I right?”

“Spencer-”

Fingers slipping easily against you, he picks up his pace, “Your muscles are actually contracting in that same way as you would if you were working out. Tensing and releasing in the same manner- I mean. Your brain can’t differentiate the adrenaline either, which is why your body is reacting in this way. Lights up your nervous system like crazy too,”

“S-spencer-”

“Your sympathetic nervous system manages your fight or flight,” he pauses his sentence to switch fingers against your clit, a thumb coming to massage circles now, “triggering those moments of shaking, rapid breathing- crying-”

“Spencer- this. This is going to make me cum.”

You squeeze your eyes shut– shutting down your mind and body after your warning– letting him do whatever he wants with that information.

He decides to pull his fingers away to suction your clit again, wanting to taste you as you cum. 

Moans dissolving, your face twists up before finishing on his face with a long whimper. The aftershocks are so strong you’re rubbing yourself against his flat out tongue as you hiccup through the overstimulation.

It was shocking, to Spencer. Feeling so confident and in his element during this. Quite literally born to stick his tongue out for you to wiggle and hump against till your voice goes quiet. 

Quickly, Spencer moves up to kiss you again, making sure you know how badly he still wants to. 

“I don’t know if I’ve ever cum that hard-” you laugh breathlessly, grabbing one of his wrists to bring his fingers that were against you to your mouth.

Leaving Spencer’s brain fuzzy, you place your tongue out before wrapping your lips around the digits, sucking yourself off of his skin. In his excitement he might’ve pushed his fingers down a bit too far, spit collecting at the corner of your mouth as you gag lightly.

Gently but swiftly pulling them out, he looks at you with concern filling his eyes. You just smile a pretty, lazy smile back at him laughing out a, “Fucker-”

‘I-I’m sorry.” He feels his forehead begin to sweat and an embarrassed flush melt his skin.

“Mm. Don’t be, baby.”

Baby. The old walls of the motel room are closing in on him. This is what he has been waiting to hear his whole life. A fucking pet name. Spencer can only give you a light awkward laugh in return.

Just like earlier this evening, you’re pushing one of his sides, silenting guiding him to go wherever it would please you. Spencer could die being your willing follower. This lands him on his back again. 

Looking down at his cock leaking by his belly button and his red skin on his sides from your scratching, he hums happily. You’ve sat yourself on his upper thighs, breasts above where he lays shining with his matted spit and he’s reminded how badly he wants them in his mouth again.

“Spencer, dear, how do you feel about me on top?”

“Uhhuh.”

“Yeah, uhhuh? Or “I don’t care” uhhuh?”

“Yes, please. Uhhuh.”

“So polite,” you coo, bending down to kiss his lips, hand gripping his jaw, “I can’t wait to feel you, fuck.”

Spencer is just trying to analyze the person who he was before this is over. How many times has he cum into his hand or against the mattress and deeply sighed after because it’ll never be a real person? Hyperbolic melodramatics aside, a lot. 

He feels you lift your hips up from his legs to position yourself over top of him, grabbing his base for it to stand upright for you. He groans, wants to continue to manhandle and correct him forever so he can be useful to you in this way. As long as he gets to see your wetness stick and collect against your skin as you open your legs wider.

Placing a palm against his chest you nuzzle his head in between you. Completely silent and focused, the room is merely filled with Spencer's borderline agonizing whines. While trying to fit him inside you, you're lubing him with yourself, slipping the head in for a moment, pulling out to rub against you, putting him back in, one delicious grind against his head– so on and so forth.

He briefly considers how this could get anybody to talk. We should use this in interrogations. Spencer would literally spill any secret for this to continue. 

A final pop signifies his head has fully entered you and the simultaneous gasp you both let out splashes heat into his face, his back arches. 

You make eye contact and give him a shy, reserved smile as you work your hips up and down, trying to take in as much as you can.

Huh? How can you feel shy– Spencer is elated right now.

“S-sorry. Ha, been a while..” You cut yourself off with a high pitched moan as another inch slides into you.

Huh?! You could literally just massage his dick against your clit like you were doing before and Spencer wouldn’t complain about anything for another month. How are you apologizing now?

“I can’t,” he laughs, “I can’t even talk. Right now, I can’t. Don’t say sorry.” Spencer tries his best at reassuring you.

“F-feeling good? I just want your first time to be, ah!-”

His eyes roll back as you take him fully, sat completely on his lap now, two hands gripping into his chest. He can feel the blood rushing in his veins and can count every atom in his body with how they’re vibrating. Yes, he feels good.

“Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god…” becomes his mantra. Truly, really, he wants to talk to you. He needs you to know that this trumps all other first times ever in the history of the world. Spencer genuinely can’t get it out. So he nods and nods and nods while his heart thumps and saliva collects messily at the corner of his lips.

Grabbing a bit too much, honestly, he pulls you down to kiss him more. Making sure to kiss the cut on your lip before going in fully. Feeling you squeeze around him while pulling yourself up to begin bouncing, he gently licks your slightly parted lips, trying to taste your sweet sighs toppling out of them.

A small suckle against the tip of his tongue tenses his thighs and you pull away to where you were, using his chest as an anchor so you can bounce against him frantically. One of his hands is glued to your waist while the other is pulling at your nipple till you’re letting out uninterrupted groans. 

You throb around him and pause when his hand on your reaches to your other breast, kneading and pulling to match the other. He pushes the cups up with his palm while rubbing your pebbled buds between the side of his thumb and forefinger. The stimulation is delicious, unrelenting, and rough.

“Spencer- h-hold on, please. Gentle.” You gasp with a sigh as you slow down, not being able to focus on the right angle with his hands teasing you so much. He closes his eyes and smiles, hands trail slowly to your stomach, rubbing there.

Teasingly, you bring your fingers to Spencer’s own hardened nipples, rolling them between fingers briefly. Letting out an embarrassingly similar noise to “guh!” Spencer's eyes shoot open and your hands retreat.

Through a fit of giggles, you muster out a “sorry baby, had to!”

He sighs, settles back against the pillow more, “that felt good.”

“Mmhmmmm.” You smile and begin moving again. With Spencer’s hands needing a new place to go he eyes your clit peeking out between your sweaty bodies. Three of his fingers come together to rub circles against you that match your bounces.

“Shittt. Don’t stop, don’t stop.”

How could he ever?

Sucking in a breath you slow your movements again, replacing them with a slow and deep grind against him as you take in both sensations simultaneously. Spencer watches your face, completely involved in consuming pleasure, almost a disbelieving shock written in your expression.

More of your slick pools around him, Spencer is acutely aware of it dripping down his very inner thigh to the mattress. You continue moaning softly in staccato, grinding your hips in circles as he plays with your clit. 

And just like that it’s gone. Your eyes open with a gasp as you stutter out, “s-sorry!” and go back to bouncing up and down on his length.

Again he’s confused. Spencer has never seen such a face full of pleasure, why would you stop?

“Wh? What's wrong?” He manages out with a scratchy throat.

“Hn? Ah, nothing. I just know that doesn’t feel that good for you guys-”

Spencer squints his eyes. What douches have you had sex with that have told you that grinding against them is less suitable than the bouncing? Is not watching you use them to get off not the sexiest thing ever? Literally. Ever.

Your back was arching and you could barely talk while your toes curl and you’re worried about him? 

“Noo, no. Angel- do it. Please, you can. Get off, just, yeah, use me to get off.”

Hands gripping your hips to stall them, your head falls back with a whimper. Panting breaths into the ceiling Spencer continues to guide your hips. Dragging them back and forth like how you were earlier.

“Fuck. Feels s’good. You’re like- I can feel you everywhere-” Your voice breaks on the last word, high pitched and frail as the grinding continues.

Allowing yourself to give into pleasure now, you’re moving your hips against him without the aid, leaving Spencer to circle your clit and moan at the sight of you.

Back bending prettily and mewling increasingly with the shaking of your thighs, Spencer senses your second orgasm is approaching.

“Shit. I- I think I’m gonna cum again, baby.” 

Your hand slaps against your mouth as you cum against Spencer, his fingers remain their circles on your clit, hips isolating to grind against you while you cum too hard to do it for yourself.

You gasp and slump your weight against Spencer’s chest, his dick falling out of you while you do so. His hands rub up and down the expanse of your back as you place kiss after kiss against his neck.

“Kay,” you begin rolling to your back, “your turn.”

Spencer looks over at you, grinning ear to ear. He was not expecting to be fashioning himself between your thighs tonight, he can barely contain his excitement as he rolls on top of you. Before he’s inside of you again and completely rendered speechless, he decides to get out all the words he couldn’t tell you before.

“You’re treating me so well,” he rests his head against your fluttering entrance, “I never imagined feeling so good,” he kisses your jaw, “such a good girl.” he finishes whispering against your ear as he slides inside of you.

This angle is different, for sure. Your legs are locked together against his back and having the free reign to control the thrusts and movements is making Spencer feel delightfully overwhelmed with desire.

He finds it’s easier to talk to you this way. So he’s running his mouth in pants beside your ear as you moan gently through overstimulation.

“You feel so wet. I could do this forever. I want to be around you forever. I’m so glad I’m here. You feel so good. I- I’m gonna cum.”

Pausing his rambling, Spencer stills his hips. Totally not wanting this to end and brutally aware that if he finishes right now he’s going to be completely knocked out after. His mind wanders to your cunt. You’ve orgasmed twice, you’re so wet around him that it’s been dripping everywhere for who knows how long. He has to taste you again.

Before he knows it, “Sorry-” is falling from his bitten lips and he’s pulling out of you. Your gasp makes him place a wet kiss against your stomach as he moves down between your parted legs.

This sight before him. Jaw dropping. All over your thighs and cunt is your and Spencer’s mix of fluids. You’re more swollen and open than before– he could still cum like this.

More gently than before he’s licking up everything that's smeared across your sensitive flesh in a dirty display of your feelings for one another. He’s moving his head around rather than his tongue, just maneuvering himself to savor everything you’ve expelled.

Muffled whines and pleads meet his ears doing so. Apparently, it’s “so much” and you “can’t cum again” but gripping his hair against you anyway. He’s never heard you so broken down and vulnerable as you beg him “please, please, please…” for maybe relief or for more. 

Bringing his hand down he slides in two of his fingers to rub at your walls. Certainly not as full as you were being fucked by Spencer, but still enough for you to leak the sticky white fluid you emit when being destroyed particularly well.

“Uh. Uh. Shit. Spencer. Mm. I feel like- I have to-” You babble pitifully as he sucks at your clit gently.

Whatever it is, he’ll take it. Lap it up and swallow it happily like a spoonful of sugar after cough medicine. 

Thighs closing in on his head, you cum again. Small bursts of fluid dribble out of you and pool around his fingers. So that’s what you were trying to say. 

“Oh my god. Oh my god. You’re so beautiful. That was so beautiful. Oh my god.”

Spencer is pulling his (very) wet fingers out of you to kiss all over your embarrassed face. 

“Please- Spencer. Cum in me.” 

Right. His dick is red and begging and drooling and twitching uncomfortably. 

Caging in your head with his forearms, he drops his forehead against yours and fucks himself back into you. Being wrapped around your warm, wet, tight pussy again makes him keen, shaking his head against yours like he can’t take all of it.

Your hands are combing reassuringly through his hair as you praise him, “you’re making me feel so good, nobody has ever made me feel so good. Baby, cum for me please, I need to feel you.”

With a bite of your lip between his teeth after a particularly toothy kiss, Spencer comes inside of you. Shaking like a leaf and whining through gasps he slides in and out, milking his cock for every last second it can survive inside of your heat.

Holding onto each other with a fervor not equipped for the unbearable heat wave outside you drag your lips, give small passing kisses while shuddering together. Hidden in the crook of your neck Spencer whimpers out, “I want to stay here forever.”

“Yeah? I do too.”

“I really don’t want to leave.”

You sigh but are smiling against his hair anyway, confidently hopeful without reason for the first time in your life. 

“We don’t have to.”

𓆱

6am the next morning a thunderous rain patters against the police stations windows, a deep abyss of dark sky wrongly indicating that the comforting blanket of night is still in place instead of the crack of dawn.

Spencer finds you separated from him again, the brutal reminder of you indeed not working on the same team churns his stomach. At the station Spencer builds a geographical profile to find the whereabouts of a certain fired theology professor, Dr. Lucien Harrow. 

Out in the whirling storms of Jefferson, you, Derek, Hotchner, and your unit chief who was particularly nasty to you are driving out to find where he resides, then, you can see if there may be any clues to where the cult is meeting. 

Spencer aches with the idea of you out in the flooded narrow backroads. Tree branches thrashing in the wind, skeletal fingers clawing at the sky in electric stripes. He should be there with you. Making sure nothing happens to you again.

Two sharp rings and Spencer is picking up his phone rapidly to your unsaved number. 

“Dr. Reid?”

“Y-yeah? Yes.”

“What can you tell us about that latin phrase from yesterday?”

“Daemonium Imperium, Fides Aeterna. It has ties to a rare Latin manuscript once banned by the Vatican, moreso a doctrine used by fringe sects of religious extremists, really.”

“So, this cult believes in sacrificial ascension? That death at the hands of a “faithful” leads to eternal peace and communion with the divine?”

“It could be–”

“He- he’s not here. At his house. There’s so much writing. The girls who died were not attacked by the cult or even failed escapees– they were offerings. The five who vanished had never tried to escape. They were elevated within the cult, chosen to carry out the "sacrifice" of their own sisters, believing this would grant them purity. It’s all in… he’s got this diary.”

Spencer's eyebrows shoot up, casting Elle a disturbed glance before he replies.

“Forward anything you found to our technical analyst, see if she can find any private property owned by Harrow. Or just–”

“What?”

“Just please be careful.”

A sigh from your side cuts through his ears, “I’ll try.”

Checking back to the fingerprints found in Harrow’s house, you consult your forensic notes from before in the car. The use of a mess to disguise markings, the complete lack of the unsub’s DNA, and the ritualistic carvings all point to someone not just avoiding detection, but trained to leave no trace.

Your brows furrow, “SSA Hotchner?”

He turns around to you with expectant eyes.

“If he’s so meticulous about cleaning up, most likely the cult grounds are going to be something he knows he has complete control over. Private property of some kind– where he knows he’s not going to be bothered. It’s not going to be open to the public.”

Hotchner nods, already moving toward the car door of the SUV, pulling out the radio from the passenger seat. Rain lashes sideways, but neither of you care.

“We need to cross-reference Harrow’s known associates and past property records, and contact your technical analyst. Anything purchased under shell corporations or family trusts,” you say, flipping through your notes as the others huddle under umbrellas. “Somewhere rural. Isolated. But not abandoned. They’re using this place regularly.”

Derek glances over your shoulder. “You think he’s the owner, or just the shepherd?”

You pause at that. “No. He’s the theologian. The teacher. This isn’t just about murder, this is doctrine. Someone else is in charge of logistics. He just gives the sermons.”

Derek finishes his urgent message to Penelope and within five minutes she’s calling back,

“I just pulled a deed registration from three years ago. Lucien Harrow’s mother passed away, and her will left him a parcel of land in Jefferson County. Sixty acres. No structures reported, but satellite shows some kind of development deep in the forest. Last updated… six months ago.”

The slamming of car doors shock your system as you snap back to reality, rain still coming down like judgment. 

Gravel being assaulted under hard screeching tires overpowers the hard rain as the SUV arrives. A long, low building, windowless, constructed of stone and wood, almost like a monastery. It hums. Not with electricity, with voices.

Whatever's waiting beyond that aged porch, it's not just a killer. It’s a belief system sharpened into a weapon.

Air is sweet and thick with incense and decay. The walls are covered in scripture, various Latin phrases written in blood and soot. Symbols carved into the stone, some fresh, some ancient. A narrow corridor leads deeper underground, illuminated only by flame sconces that flicker like they're breathing.

The infiltration of the compound was surgical and swift. Once the combined teams breached through the basement of the property, they were able to trap the cult members in the underground chamber with nowhere to run.

Those too stunned or resistant were restrained with minimal force, while others dropped to the ground, disoriented and exhausted. Mobile medical units waiting above immediately began triage, administering IV fluids and beginning the long process of deconditioning their minds from Harrow’s indoctrination. 

Once Spencer and Elle arrived on scene they quickly seized the grounds, uncovering journals, recordings, and ritual paraphernalia that provided indisputable evidence of psychological manipulation, religious abuse, and coercive control.

𓆱

“How many times do I have to tell you not to rush in like that, you were almost killed once. We don’t need somebody so liable on this team. We need to be able to count on one another.”

Back at the station, your unit chief growls lowly at you in disbelief, like you didn’t push along the whole case while he sputtered in confusion.

Spencer’s hands tremble slightly underneath the table, eyes locked in on your soaked frame. Prolonged exposure to cold rain increases the likelihood of developing pneumonia by almost 42%, especially when paired with elevated stress levels and lack of rest. 

Before he knows what he’s saying, “You don't get to berate someone for doing the job you failed to do.”

The room goes silent.

Hotch, watching the exchange from across the bullpen, steps in just as you start to gather your breath, taps your shoulder.

“Come with me,” he says, quiet but firm.

At the other side of the room Hotch walks you to a more secluded corner.

“He was out of line,” Hotch says finally. “But so were you.”

You open your mouth to respond, but he continues before you can. Who is this guy to offer you any advice?

“However, you think like we do. You’re quick to act and you’re thoughtful. The relentlessness in your pursuit of the truth is not something we see often.” 

“Thanks?”

“We would benefit greatly from a forensic science perspective. The kind of work you’re doing, the casework...but you have to trust the team. You have to trust yourself.”

Your heart is pounding in your ears. Your wet clothes from earlier clinging to you uncomfortably as you feel eyes on you from across the room. 

“Wh-what?”

“You can’t keep pushing yourself to the edge, not without someone to have your back. Your team does not have your back. If you accept, I could request your transfer of units into the BAU in Quantico.”

You can feel the weight of his words settle in the air between you. Eyes comically wide you watch the way this past week has unfolded like a flip book. Never have you felt good enough, the constant ridicule of your all-male team and consistent chiding remarks have ground you down into a fine paste of the person you were on your first day.

You can’t tell if it’s the offer of a lifetime, or the fact that someone finally sees you, sees worth in you, beyond forensic input on a grisly crime scene or the hollow praise in the field after everyone’s gone home. 

You blink. Once. Twice. The room feels suddenly too small, your soaked shirt too tight, your voice caught somewhere between fear and desperate relief. Spencer. A laugh bubbles out of you, watery and raw. You swipe a hand over your face, unsure if it’s to wipe away tears or the sweat beading on your brow. 

“Yes. I accept. Thank you. Yes.”

A fatherly clap on your shoulder, Hotchner turns away winking over at Spencer where he’s still sitting, eyes dry from staring at your conversation so long across the room.

𓆱

Wet trousers stick to the flat area of the sink in the station's bathroom as Spencer opens your mouth against his, hands feeling all over your damp skin. The kisses are never ending. Brutally pushed against your lips or dusted around any skin he can find.

“I can’t. I can’t believe this. I mean, you’re beyond qualified and capable but- I never thought good things like this could happen to me.”

You place your head down and bite his blazer-clad shoulder.

“You’re not getting rid of me. This is insane. You’re going to be so sick of me.”

Two warm palms encircle your cheeks, “That’s not even funny,” Spencer kisses your mouth once, licks a stripe up your neck making you giggle. “You’re… you’re going to see my apartment, the plane… we won’t be doing filing work together you’ll probably be on the side with Garcia, but, but you’re going to help us so much. I can’t believe this. I’m going to be with you every day.”

A strike of uncontrollable happy tears prick your eyes. Looking at Spencer, you wrap your arms around him tightly– enough to break his back even, the total definition of a bear hug. Another kiss is being placed on your chilled skin.

“You worried me earlier. You can really get sick being all wet for this long. Let’s go back and change.”

For a moment it's as if the motel room is your and Spencer’s shared home of domestic bliss. The leaky ring around the ceiling of the bathroom and the draft from the old window harbors the most intricate portrayal of the life you’ve built in a week; obsessive, tender, but strangely whole. 

The scratchy carpet remembers the quiet shuffle of Spencer’s socks, and the chipped headboard knows the heat of his hands. There’s a toothbrush next to yours, the rest of his toiletries not even unpacked yet. It has held the illusion of permanence through your time spent there anticipating when it’ll all end.

But now, it doesn’t have to end. Not really. Not with the move, not with the way everything’s about to shift, closer, steadier. You’ll be in his world now, not just in passing, not just in moans swallowed by motel rooms dressed up as borrowed homes. 

The illusion starts to feel like something more: a prelude.

𓆱𓆱𓆱𓆱𓆱 tags: @luvsvite @rainydayathogwarts @liuralibrar @cel070321

[screamlet]

Don't mind if I do! ♟♟♟

oh boy why did this one take so long!! 1k, established bucktommy, bad patient tommy, quick mention of mcd. set about a year after 8x15. also for @setmeatopthepyre who sent in the same prompt! for all that they're disasters, idk if i have another "patching up a wound" in me, lol. from the nonsexual acts of intimacy prompt list

---

"So this is urgent care," Buck marvels. He leans into Tommy's space and smiles at him. "You always take me to the best places for the best new experiences."

Tommy's expression is withering, or it would be if Buck wasn't so brave and strong and in love. But then again, Tommy's the one who sliced his arm open while working on a car in the garage, so maybe he has the right to be a little cranky about it.

"Are you in a lot of pain?" Buck asks. "Does that mean anything? Are you actually gonna tell me if you're in a lot of pain or—okay, jaw-clenched stoicism, I got it."

"It's fine. I don't know why you thought it was too deep for surgical glue."

Buck frowns. "It's way too deep for surgical glue." Suddenly, he beams. "Are you scared of doctors?"

"I'm not scared of doctors."

"I'm gonna ask Hen, maybe she remembers if you are."

"I'm not scared of doctors."

"Hey Hen random question but we're at urgent care and Tommy looks—"

"Maybe I'm uptight because I sliced my arm open and we're at urgent care." Tommy looks over. "You're not actually texting her, are you?"

"Nah, she and Karen took the kids on a day trip somewhere," Buck replies. "Just you and me today."

"No medical vigil for me? I see how it is."

Buck laughs, loud and bright with his whole chest. "I can FaceTime Eddie and see if he wants to hang out with us while you get like, maximum 10 stitches in your arm."

"You're making fun of me. I'm gonna have a scar on my forearm forever and you're making fun of me."

"I'm looking up scar gels," Buck assures him. "Ooh, that's us."

---

"15 stitches," Buck says. "See? I was close."

Tommy's eyes are shut as he nods. "Congrats. Use my phone, buy yourself something pretty."

"Can we get burgers after this? Hey," Buck says, softer. "You're not okay, are you? You can tell me."

Tommy takes a deep breath, holds it, then lets it out. "I'm fine. I'll be a lot better when I'm stitched up and home. It's fine."

They move into a different room with a bigger setup, trays ready to go and Dr. Donna cheerfully waving them over. "I can sit with him, right?" Buck asks, holding up their joined hands.

"Of course, bring all the moral support in the world," she replies. "Never too old or brave or big strong firefighter to have your hand held while someone sews you up."

"It's fine," Tommy says, absolutely not fine. "I've had staples in the field, I've been sewed up in tents in Afghanistan. This? This is nothing."

Tommy's clutching his hand so tightly that Buck can't actually squeeze back, so he rests his free hand on Tommy's instead. "Can you distract me?" Tommy asks. "Now's a great time to read me like, the entirety of an essay on… something. What are you into right now?"

"Can I look up the history of surgery?"

"A couple of little pinches, just ignore me," Dr. Donna says quickly. "Hey, why don't you tell me how you guys met? Got together?"

Buck leans forward to catch Dr. Donna's eye, which he can't do because she's working on Tommy's arm and whispering to the nurse next to her. "Uh, we can't tell you, actually. It's classified."

"Cruise ship rescue operation," Tommy says through clenched teeth. "Lifeboats, remember?"

"Oh, right, that's what they said."

Tommy huffs out a little laugh, squeezes Buck's hand tighter. "You'll never get security clearance for anything in your life, not ever."

"Yeah, probably not. How about, um. Hmm. Oh! Got together. The first time, I sprained my best friend's ankle because I was jealous, and then we kissed and it was great. The next time, we ran into each other at a bar and hooked up, and then we got back together—" Buck pauses.

"You okay?" Tommy asks.

"It's okay," Buck says. "Second time, we kinda did and didn't get back together, uh, after my captain at the firehouse—he was closer to me than my dad—uh, he died, and we just… got back together."

"I'm sorry, hon," Dr. Donna replies. "That's never easy."

"We both lost him," Buck says. "Yeah, so we were putting our lives back together and then it turned out that my sublet—I was subletting a house from my friend who moved back to Texas, the one whose ankle I sprained—well he didn't mention that the rest of the lease was only four months."

"You didn't read the lease."

"He's my best friend, we don't need leases."

"Clearly, you did."

"I don't have a lease from you. Do we need a lease?"

"Not if I'm evicting you today," Tommy replies.

"Yeah, nice try, who's gonna talk to your plants when you're on shift? And your kitchen would be nothing without me, Tommy."

"I guess that's true. I'd have to buy all those spices again and god knows how long that would take."

Buck smiles to himself; Tommy's feeling better already. "Anyway, the lease was up but I didn't know if I wanted to renew because the landlord wanted to jack up the rent by a lot, so Tommy—"

"I came to the conclusion that we were already living together, pretty much, so why not move into my house—"

"House that you own, with a really nice kitchen that could use all my pots and pans. Dishes, too, it's like you never had anyone over."

"My house that I own, and then—" Tommy sighs. "And then I'll see him every day. And every day he'll talk my ear off about anything and everything under the sun, except today—"

"You're all set," Dr. Donna announces. "That was agonizing, huh?"

Tommy looks down at his forearm, then shows Buck. "Staples would have been fine."

"You would have hated those so much more, believe me," she laughs. "Alright, Shirley's going to get your paperwork and then you can get out of here. Follow up with your primary care doctor or come back here. If it starts to take a turn for the worse: I think you know who to call." She smiles and points at both of them. "Burgers. Treat yourself. Extra carbs."

"Are they good for healing? Carbs?" Buck asks.

She shrugs and waves, then leaves again. "I'm gonna look that up," Buck says. "Can I have my hand back?"

"No."

"Big baby," Buck mumbles, bringing Tommy's hand to his lips and kissing it. "I love your big baby parts."

"That's maybe the worst way you could have put it."

"But you love me anyway."

Tommy's lips are a fine line again, slightly turned downward, but then he brings Buck's hand to his lips, too. "I love you anyway."

[so-i-did-this-thing]

How do I stop being anxious all the time in relation to being trans? I have an appointment to go on T in 2 weeks. I'm anxious about coming out. I'm anxious about someone figuring it out before I come out. Ahhhh. I have a therapist for anxiety but I don't think it's helping.

Hoping I don't make you even more anxious, but the bottom line is some folks *will* find out and you just gotta learn to roll with it.

What has helped me:

Getting good at identifying red and green flags in cis people

It's become a habit of mine to scope out people when I join a new community. I look at profiles, what people post, etc. It's a little tiring, but I try to find the allies and other trans asap in a new fandom or whatever.

Planning for the worst

To be trans is to always have a plan to Get Out of Dodge.

A lot of times, The Worst is really only temporary embarassment. I deal with this by keeping my head held high and leaning into the more "don't fuck with me, I am tired" part of my personality.

Fake it 'til you make it -- I used to have a paralyzing fear of public mortification, and over time have ripped that apart. Sticking to my boundaries helps a lot, and I am not afraid to say, "I will not answer that question."

Here's the thing, though -- people tend to be impressed when you weather the Mortifying Ordeal of Being Known, and you'll likely find yourself as someone to be looked up to. Cis folks routinely ask for my advice about their own Big Life Changes, because they have been impressed to see me go through mine. I've also helped crack a few eggs.

Sometimes The Worst is truly bad, and you should always be vigilant here. Again, I know it is exhausting, but always plan for your personal, emotional, and financial safety. Build an emergency cash fund. Cultivate friends who have your back. Always be looking for new job opportunities. Lots of stuff you can workshop with people.

Cultivating a very matter-of-fact relationship with Coming Out.

I focus on any relevant logistics and keep out my emotional backstory. Most people do not need to know how much of a mess I used to be. And I firmly state what I am doing with my future, rather than ask for permission.

My last HRT-related Coming Out email (to one of my orchestras, which is a very gendered biz) was essentially: "FYI, I am medically and legally transitioning from female to male. Just a heads up, as I'll look and sound a bit different at rehearsal -- I have a tux already for the concert. See you Friday!"

That's it. At a company, you can work with HR on your announcement, assuming one will even be necessary in your case based on your transition timeline.

When I changed my name years later, I was also direct:

"I am legally changing my name to Nicholas. It may take a while to update all my clients, so you're welcome to tell them, "Oh, [deadname] goes by Nicholas now. Thanks!"

And when I came out to my spouse in tumblr chat before our first date, it was literally: "Hey, jsyk, I am 35 and a trans man, in case that changes anything."

It takes a lot of practice to get to this point, and is something you can roleplay with your therapist.

Don't be afraid of your past

I am at a place where I will sometimes casually out myself to make a point ("No one ever needs to change the gender field for this form? I recently needed to.") or a stupid joke ("Ever since I was a little girl, I always wanted to be...").

There is a lot of value in the trans experience. You can decide how much of it you want to casually share, but it does get easier each time.

I hope this helps. Being trans means you will be coming out for the rest of your life (obviously, there are times where stealth = safety), so cultivating a no-nonsense, and even humorous, approach will go a long way for your mental health.

[enwoso]

blood, not bond | alessia russo x child!reader

-> based on this request

grumpy masterlist | leah is in it but she kind of pops in and out of it - more focused on: harrison, alessia and lovie.

at seventeen, you had gotten used to the strange rhythm of your relationship with, your dad, harrison.

once every four or five weeks maybe longer if life got in the way, you'd meet up with him. lunch or a quick shop around town, maybe both if you were lucky.

he'd always ask you about school, about your football commenting on the fact that he managed to watch your match on a stream like it meant something to you, or if you were still writing in that journal you'd started in year nine.

it wasn't uncomfortable, wasn't bad either. it just wasn't what people imagined when they heard the word 'dad'.

because really you didn't have a 'dad'. you had an alessia and a leah. they were your parents. your constants.

harrison well, he was.. something else? a figure which floated in and out your life with well meaning eyes and clumsy attempts to connect.

this time you were spending a rare saturday with harrison. but it wasn't in a 'cherished' kind of way, more like it was an obligation.

you didn't hate seeing your dad, sometimes on the rare occasion you'd actually enjoy yourself but most of the time were just.. odd. scheduled. like fitting a phone call in with a stranger into a diary full of people who actually knew you.

this one had started like the others: brunch at the cafe that he liked, shopping afterward if he remembered that you needed new trainers or a jacket. a few attempts at small talk — 'is school going okay?', how's football? scored any crackers yet?', 'how's your mum?'

the day had been fine, until it wasn't.

"so," harrison started, halfway through his eggs benedict. "louis and lily would love to meet you one day."

you blinked, pausing mid-forkful of your pancakes, "who?"

he just smiled like it was a name you should recognise, "your younger brother and sister. i've told them about you, there always asking when they're going to meet you."

your fork hovered still in mid-air, your mouth going dry. "you.. you have kids?"

"yeah, i do" he said as if it was nothing and that it should have been common knowledge to you. "well, you knew about zoey—"

"i knew you had a girlfriend when i was like eleven, you posted her once and then never mentioned her again."

he frowned, "louis is five and lily is three. and the only reason i didn't tell you sooner is cause i didn't want to throw too much at you all at once, but they've been asking about you for a while — especially louis, he's a big football and arsenal fan"

you didn't respond, just looked down. you now suddenly hyper-aware of the clink of cutlery around the cafe, the swirl of the cream in your coffee cup. your appetite vanished.

the rest of the day passes in awkward silences and occasional comments which you couldn't force yourself to reply too. he asked if you liked a jacket, you shrugged. asked about football, you said 'great'

finally, when he pulled up outside your house, home, he put the car in park but didn't turn off the engine.

"i'm serious, y/n" he said, hand still on the steering wheel like he might need to grip it to keep the conversation from drifting. "think about it please, they'd love to meet you."

you nodded slowly, "we'll see." it came out small, flat. a placeholder for all the thing you didn't know how to say.

you slipped out the car muttering a 'thank you' but before he could say more, you were heading up the driveway with quick steps and slipping through your front door like a ghost.

the front door creaked with the same familiar cream it always did. leah was in the kitchen, stirring something in a pan which you knew she'd of been instructed to do by your mum. music drifting through the hallway, quiet but calm.

"hey, angel. you good?" leah called out, you nodded again, tossed your shoes by the door, alessia bundling down the stairs as she ruffled your hair a warm smile on her lips.

"lovie! how was your day?" she asked as she leant against the banister, you knowing she wouldn't drop it until you said something.

"fine" you said, dropping your bag by the stairs.

"did you go for food?" alessia asked, her eyebrows raising at your short answers and the way you were behaving.

"yeah." you hummed, one foot on the bottom step waiting for your exit to go straight to your room.

"you want tea?"

"i'm good." you didn't wait for more. just walked straight up to you room and closed the door with a quiet click.

leaving your mum at the bottom of the stairs, her being slightly confused at your quiet behaviour, usually you'd come home with a story or maybe at least complaining about your dad asking you a question about something you hadn't done since you were ten.

but today, nothing. silence. but alessia knew better than to push. you'd tell her eventually.

—

alessia waited. she didn't follow after you. didn't push. she never did. she left you in your room while her and leah ate tea together. a slight look of concern on leah's face when alessia told her to leave you when she asked if she should call you down for dinner.

but a few hours later, after you had spent most of the evening buried in your duvet with your headphones on, alessia knocked softly and poked her head in.

leah had taken the dog out. the house was still, humming only with the low buzz of the boiler and the occasional car passing outside.

"can i come in?" you shrugged glancing up at your mum as she poked her head through the door.  you were sat cross-legged, staring blankly at your phone screen. alessia walked in, sat on the edge of the bed like she always had since you were small.

"so how was today? with your dad."

alessia looked at the way your face changed at then mention of it. she could tell something was off. not just because you were quiet, but the way you moved as if your skin didn't quite fit right. your shoulders were tight, tense.

"hey" alessia said gently. "you okay?"

your eyes stayed on your phone screen, you having been doom scrolling for the past few hours trying to get rid of your thoughts however it was probably making them worse.

your jaw clenched once. then again. then— "he told me he has another family."

alessia's heart thudded, a pout forming over her lips, "lovie.."

"i have siblings," you snapped, you voice sharp. "siblings, mum. five and three. and tells me like it's some lovely fun little surprise over brunch!"

alessia's face dropped, she knew about harrison moving on with zoey, in a way she was delighted it had meant he wouldn't keep sticking his nose in her relationship with leah and she knew about louis.

not because she found out from harrison himself first (no surprise there) but, from one of harrison's friends she bumped into while doing a late shop one afternoon. harrison then telling her a few days later, alessia urging him to tell you but he promised he would when the time was right.

"wow. i-i didn't know about the three-year-old. just louis but that was years ago."

"you knew!?" your voice hitched as you head snapped to look at your mum. hurt blooming behind your eyes.

"i knew about louis and yeah we both knew about zoey, but i didn't know they'd had another child." alessia explained, her voice calm, too calm for your liking. with the way your chest felt like it was about to explode.

"and what? you didn't think to tell me?" you snapped, your voice dripping with bitterness but also hurt.

alessia took a slow breath, "it wasn't my place to say anything. at the end of the day lovie, he is your dad. it should've come from him."

your eyes flashed. "oh, come on. that's such a cop-out."

"no, i didn't mean it like that."

"then how did you mean it?" your voice rose, frustration starting to build. "cause right now it sounds a lot like you just didn't want to deal with it. just like he didn't either."

alessia flinched but she didn't move her eyes hardening. "hey, no, don't put me in the same category as him, lovie. i've been here. every day. for every meltdown, for every match, for every homework crisis."

you started pacing back and forth in your room. "yeah, you have. you've been here. and he's been off playing happy families with some other kids. buying them toys, tucking them into bed, going to their school plays, their out of school clubs—"

"you don't know that."

"i don't have to!" you nearly shouted. "cause i can guess. cause i know what it looks like when someone doesn't show up, and he's had plenty of practice."

alessia took a careful step forward wanting to try and help calm you down before you did something silly. "you're allowed to be upset. you're allowed to be angry."

"well, good. because i am." you said, voice cracking with each word. "he shows up once a month, if that, buys me lunch, asks me about school like he knows me, and then drops this on me like it's something i should be excited about."

you stop pacing and turned to your mum, eyes shining with unshed tears. "he said they want to meet me. that they know all about me. like i'm just some story that their dad tells sometimes at bedtime. like i'm not even a real person."

alessia's heart broke a little more with each word. "he should've told you a long time ago. but he also should have done a lot differently then he did when you were growing up."

your voice shook as you sniffled. "i spent years thinking i did something wrong. that i wasn't enough. that i was the problem. that if i'd been better—quieter, smarter, easier—maybe he'd have stayed, maybe he'd of made more of an effort to get to know me. and now i find out he did stay. just not for me."

"oh, lovie..."

"he just replaced me, mum. he left you, and then he replaced me. like i didn't even mean anything."

and that was it—the dam broke. your legs gave way as you collapsed onto the side of your bed, and the tears came hard, your chest heaving with the weight of everything you'd been holding in for years.

alessia was beside you in an instant, pulling you close, her arms wrapping tightly around you like a shield. alessia didn't speak right away. just held you. let you sob.

"i don't want to meet them," you whispered eventually, voice hoarse as tears still streamed down your face.

"you don't have to," your mum murmured against you. "you don't owe him anything. this isn't your responsibility."

"he said they'd love to meet me," you scoffed bitterly. "but they don't know me. i'm just a name. some girl he sees sometimes. i'm not part of his family. not really."

alessia pulled back just enough to look you in the eye. "then let's make something very clear—you do have a family. me. mama. this house. your many, many aunties. your friends. the people who show up. that's your family."

you nodded, barely. your hands clutched the hem of your mum's jumper.

"do you think it makes me a bad person for not wanting to see them?" you asked softly, slight hiccup coming from your lips.

"no," alessia said without a beat of hesitation. "it makes you honest. and human. and hurting. and that's perfectly okay."

your mum stood, slow and careful, like you might shatter if she moved too fast. "your allowed to be angry."

"i don't even know what i am." your hands were trembling now. "i'm not mad he has a family. i'm mad i'm not part of it. that i never was. that he never gave me the chance. that he never loved me, not properly."

flash— age four: harrison meeting you for the first time after walking away after alessia had told him she was pregnant. bringing a little teddy bear like it could fill four years of nothing.  you didn't even remember it—but you remember your mum's face when the door had closed again.

flash— age nine: he missed your school plays. said he had work, but you saw the tagged picture later on. a dinner. smiling. a different world.

flash— age twelve: he missed your birthday. fourteen: he never messaged to say congratulations on your first start for the england youth team.

flash — age sixteen: he said he'd take you out for dinner after your exams, you sat waiting for hours - he didn't even bother to call and cancel.

instead it was just a pattern of promises that never really included you.

alessia took a slow step closer as she knelt down in front of you, you sat looking at your hands in your lap. "you don't have to figure this all out today, lovie."

"i don't want to meet them," you said, voice still hoarse but still sharp. "i don't want to play happy families with strangers. i don't want to pretend i've ever been more than a once-a-month reminder for him."

alessia arms wrapped around you like muscle memory, strong and warm and safe. "and that's okay, you don't have to do anything you don't want to. you have us. you always have and always will, that's never going to change."

you pressed your face into her mum's shoulder in front of you, letting the tears come again, now that you weren't pretending to be okay.

the front door opened. leah's voice floated in, as she called out, the sound of the dogs collar echoing as it shook itself in the hallway. "i'm backk!"

alessia looked over the top of your head, eyes soft as she whispered. "we'll get there. i've got you."

she stroked your hair gently as you curled into her side, exhausted and broken but safe. it wasn't fixed. not yet. and maybe wouldn't be for a while. but you had what mattered most. you had home.

[fluidstatick]

Washington's state bird shouldn't be a goldfinch. I've been in nearly every county in the state and I've never seen one. You know what our state bird should be? Anna's Hummingbird.

Look at that scowl. You ever see something so tiny radiate so much disdain?

These beautiful little assholes live along the West Coast year round, but are especially prevalent in Western Washington and Oregon. Despite popular belief, they don't migrate seasonally. An adult male averages 10cm long and weighs somewhere around 5g. They're standoffish, fast, surprisingly noisy, and stubborn as hell. I've seen one fly right up to my living room window and tease my cat while she tries to eat him. I once had to shoo one away from my hummingbird feeder so I could refill it, and he sat on a bush six feet away and cussed me out about it. Washingtonians have a weirdly prevalent reputation for being softhearted, but in reality the Seattle Freeze is real - a stranger is more likely to scowl at you than smile out here, unfortunately, and Goldfinches can't reflect that convincingly. Those round yellow guys always sound like they're looking to start a conversation, but Anna's Hummingbird is a fashionably quirky stream of consciousness complainer. What do you mean you're out of Tanzanian Peaberry Dark Roast? What do you mean, the I5 bridge is up for another twenty minutes? You have a lot of nerve sugesting that I can't pay my bill over the phone. Parking in this town is awful, and I suppose next week the road construction will make it worse???

Iowa can have the Goldfinch. We don't need her. (And NJ gets Starlings, yeah?)

Honestly really embarrassing for you guys. You need to sort this stuff out with each other

[mandalhoerian]

(6) 🦭 signed, sealed, delivery pending...

When a last-minute opportunity presents itself to become a distraction from the shame of not attending the reunion of your university friend group, you take it. One thing, though, yes, you might have been wrong for chickening out. But falling overboard in a storm, almost drowning, and getting saved by the biggest oddball of a skinny dipper out in the wild is a bit too much for instant karma, you think.

genre: fluff, comedy | word count: 13k | read on ao3

< previous | next (wip) >

note: apologizing for late chapters is getting old now i know, but i swear it would have come out earlier if it hadnt been for tumblr's ridiculous mature content label flagging issue . i've been wrestling with that bicth now ever since that update dropped on the 11h. all seal raf chapters are FLAGGED and i cant get them out of superhell. and apparently its their image recognition bot, i had to change the banner image. god if i have to deal with this bs AGAIN im crashing out i hope you enjoy the chapter

The wetsuit is half-zipped, clinging damp against your hips, something that doesn’t quite want to let go. You’re sitting on the flattest rock you can find near the lip of the cove, knees drawn up, elbows balanced on them, phone balanced precariously between your fingers. The mist is still stitched thick between the cliffs, and the morning sun hasn’t quite managed to cut through it yet. Cold air brushes against your bare arms, lifting the baby hairs, biting gently. Your knees are cold. Your mind is worse.

The group chat lights up again.

You scroll without reading at first, just watching the little cascade of names and icons — familiar and sharp-edged in ways you can't explain. It’s watching someone else’s memories keep moving while yours have stalled out in the same old frame. Same island. Same ferry. Same breath caught in your throat.

Yesterday’s conversation still occupies your mind, and you read through it once more.

"F4NT4STIC 4 REUNION ERA" (Yesterday, 13.37) [ tara ♡ ]: LADIES . YOU KNOW WHAT TIME IT ISSSSSSS [ simone (👹🤙) ]: girl i already took the days off. if yall flake i’m showing up to macie’s with a suitcase anyway [ fleetwood mac ]: LMAOO i mean my living room is still 80% cardboard boxes but sure, suffer [ simone (👹🤙) ]: if there’s karaoke i’m unplugging the speaker with my teeth [ tara ♡ ]: also HELLO??? miss ferrymaster of heartbreak bay??? [ tara ♡ ]: we see you reading and not respondingggg [ tara ♡ ]: THE WAY SHE’S STILL NOT ANSWERING [ fleetwood mac ]: come online and disappear if you're alive. don't write anything if you’re still in love with your ex [ fleetwood mac ]: you’re still in love with him???? [ fleetwood mac ]: damn it didnt work [ simone (👹🤙) ]: she’s gonna come back in like six hours and act like nothing happened [ simone (👹🤙) ]: literally text back. we're not mad you couldn't come. stop acting like this is a break-up !!!

(Yesterday, 23.35) [ you ]: sorry. alive. extremely salty. [ you ]: had to scrub barnacle residue off my soul before texting back. [ fleetwood mac ]: SYBAU girl you disappeared like a victorian child into the mist 😭 [ simone (👹🤙) ]: anyway. macie's wine count is at 3. tara made a playlist. theo hasn’t cried yet [ you ]: bold of you to assume he won’t [ fleetwood mac ]: we placed bets. i give him until desert [ tara ♡ ]: also you were right, he brought the seal mug he made in his pottery course. Unironically. [ you ]: I feel the emotional blackmail all the way from over here … [ fleetwood mac) ]: i had to leave the room. i was spiritually unprepared [ you ]: move it like half an inch every time he looks away and pretend like nothing happened to freak him out that paranormal shit is going on. for my sake. please [ tara ♡ ]: That's horrible. How do you come up with stuff like this? Do you want us to get kicked out if he makes a scene? [ tara ♡ ]: I'll send you pictures 😘 [ simone (👹🤙) ]: we set a place for you vtw. it’s got a rock on it. and a fork. [ you ]: that’s exactly how i would’ve wanted it <3

Your thumb pauses above a message. Just names. Names that once belonged to cramped dorm rooms, midnight indomie, and mutual breakdowns in libraries that smelled of old glue. The kind of friendships that were lifelines — loud and chaotic and necessary. And they still are. But you’re quieter now. Less sure what part you should play in their world.

Tara’s already published several scientific papers, both on her own and with her teacher — ResearchGate profile overflowing with content. Simone’s backpacked solo through South America and made it look unreal the entire time, every photo gold-dusted and cinematic and you’re sure she lives in an indie travel documentary. Macie just got picked up for a docuseries pilot. The one who shall not be named passed his bar exam and launched a website in his name that has to be surely coded by a tech god and branded by a Parisian design firm.

And you?

You still have this wetsuit from sophomore year. A freezer full of discount frozen meals. A collection of ferry schedules memorized down to the second.

You still work shifts that stretch into your bones. Still sleep in the room with the glow-in-the-dark stars you stuck to the ceiling at fourteen. Still get asked by tourists if you ever get tired of paradise. As if it’s not the same damn shoreline every day. They don’t know paradise comes with guilt-paid free health insurance and the inability to look into your parents' eyes without sweating through your shirt.

The museum front desk application sits untouched on your desktop. The deadline came and went while you were distracted by nothing in particular. There’s a half-written email to the local heritage center still sitting in your drafts. Volunteering was mentioned once, briefly, in passing, and never again.

You told your advisor you were taking a year. Time to figure things out. To recalibrate. To breathe.

But the year kept slipping. One month into the next. One season curling into the other. You started taking the same walk every morning. Then you stopped bothering with a route. Some days, even brushing your teeth was something that had to be earned.

You tried to make plans. Tried to start a spreadsheet. Color-coded your week and pretended it meant something. It lasted three days. Then the shame of seeing your own optimism undone by inertia sent you spiraling into the sea with your phone on do-not-disturb.

Sometimes you wake up already disappointed in yourself. Sometimes you manage to coast until lunch. The rest of the time, it sneaks up in strange places: folding laundry, stirring pasta, passing your own reflection and not recognizing anything urgent in your own eyes.

You keep saying you’ll get out. That it’s temporary. That you’re not stuck. You tell yourself that so often it’s started taking the shape of a prayer. Or a dare.

But every time you scroll, you feel it. That sharp, quiet pinch in your ribs. You're watching a starting line recede in the distance while your legs stay tangled in the sand.

A sharp twist of your mouth curls before you can stop it, too bitter to be a smile, too wry to be pain. You toss your phone a few inches further across the towel, willing the distance keep the elephant in the room away for a while longer.

And Theo. Of course he’s there.

Ha.

You sit still. A breath leaves your nose. The rock beneath you is cold, uneven, your palms flat against it. Wet grit clings to your fingers. You focus on that. The gulls loop overhead, shrieking into the pale air. Below, the tide moves against the rocks in shallow bursts, licking foam into the cracks and pulling it back again with a hiss. The world hasn't stopped, but it’s ignoring you on purpose.

No, you're ignoring it on purpose. 

A sleek head breaches the surface a few yards out, rising between two fingers of rock where kelp sways below in long green ribbons. A huff leaves him in a pfbbbth sound — short, damp, unimpressed — and he glides forward in a meandering path, stirring flecks of foam in his wake. The water around him flattens, then rolls behind his body in lazy spirals. Even the cove is used to making space for him.

You don’t smile. It almost happens, your face twitches because it wants to. But it doesn’t make it all the way. He’s watching you, waiting, head tilted just slightly.

"Someone’s a little restless today," you mutter.

He barks again. Short. With an imaginary question mark at the end of it. Surely it’s because he hasn’t received his usual cooing greetings and your, “Hi, hi, hi, my cutie pie,” — but your spirits are as gray as the weather. You can’t summon the cheerfulness.

"Yeah, yeah, I’m coming."

You slide into the water slower than usual, the cold biting at your ankles and climbing. Raf circles once, then again, but doesn’t dart off the way he normally does. He floats closer instead, trailing you as you wade out to the deeper part. When your feet finally lift from the sand, you turn toward him.

"I should’ve just gone," you say. "I don’t know why I’m so scared of a little get-together. Who cares if I’m not working yet? I should just say I’m taking a gap year… Like for uni graduates. Or say like I’m looking into Work and Travel but haven’t really liked any of the choices or something."

He tilts his head. How clueless and cute. Smooth brain. No ridges or lumps, no valleys or bumps; all ideas slide right off.

"You don’t even know what LinkedIn is," you mumble. “You’ll never have to. I’m so jealous, you don’t even know.”

Raf makes a bubbling snort.

You hate how bitter it makes you, sometimes. Hearing them talk about opportunities and networking and beautiful apartments with friends who leave them soup in the fridge. And you smile, as you’re supposed to. It’s good news. You’re proud. You are.

But it still seeps into the spaces between each of your vertebra, shapes you into a shrimp before the stateliness of ambition and purpose, making you feel small for not having more to offer, and worse for resenting even a flicker of it. There’s something sour in you that can’t be sweetened into a lemonade.

And you don’t want to be that person. You don’t. But you are. Quietly. Privately. The kind of ugly that you don't admit aloud unless you’re alone. Or talking to a seal.

"I hate that I get annoyed," you say under your breath. "Every time one of them says they’re doing great, I get that twist in my stomach like I swallowed a rock. Even when I’m proud of them. Even when I love them. What does that make me, huh?"

Raf offers no reply. Just a slow blink and inquisitive, a train’s choo-choo sounding breathing from his flaring nostrils.

"It makes me pathetic. That’s what."

Your throat tightens. You wipe your nose with the back of your glove and look up toward the cliffs, eyes still hot.

"There’s something you’re unlucky with. You know what?" you say, voice hoarse. "Of all the fish in the sea, you ended up with me. Should’ve gone for a marine biologist. Or a rich heiress with a yacht."

Raf surfaces again, blinking at you with deliberate slowness that mirrors a cat’s. Then, with a low chuff, he glides closer and presses the side of his head against your shoulder. You’re still floating when he wriggles around, flippers flopping clumsily, and half-latches onto your side, a wet, overgrown toddler trying to hug a pool noodle. His whiskers tickle through the neoprene.

You flip onto your back and float, arms out, hair fanning around your head with a seal glued to you. The sky above is pale and empty, the kind of soft gray that feels too big when you're already too full. You drift for a moment with your ears half-submerged, the world muffled except for the splash of Raf's flippers somewhere nearby. Clouds move. You don't.

"Watch. You’ll get discovered by some cute environmental documentary crew next and leave me behind. Get famous. Start an OnlyFans for your flippers."

Pause.

“OnlyFins,” you snort to yourself.

Raf lets out a long, wet blort, and disappears underwater with a cute bloop. 

You barely have time to curse before something nudges your ribs — hard. Then again. And then you’re yanked downward, the flipper hooked around your waist is basically an overly confident tugboat.

You surface with a gasp and a splash, hair in your eyes, sputtering.

Raf bobs a few feet away, grinning in the smug way only a seal can, going "AUUUUU," over and over again, following that up with a performative spin and a slap on the water.

"No more jokes, fine," you cough.

He dives again, leaving a trail of bubbles — pops up, and pauses, twisting back to look for you. His head bobs once. Twice. Then he disappears again, darting just beneath the surface, drawing a path for you to follow. A loop, a spiral, a flourish. He resurfaces ahead with a sharp snort and flicks water in your direction.

You blink water from your lashes. "Okay, okay, I get it. Impatient little show-off. Seashells aren’t going anywhere, let me go get my gear, damn."

He dunks under again, tail flippers wagging just enough to be smug about it.

And after your preparations, you follow.

Because if anything makes sense — if anything ever feels whole — it’s this. Salt in your mouth. Raf’s stupid flipper smacking water like an impatient bunny stomping his foot. A sky so wide you can’t get your arms around it.

You may not know how to move forward. But here, right now, you don’t need to.

Here, you can just be.

By the time the end of the day rolls around, the dive with Raf has dried to salt on your collar, and your limbs are already back in work-mode — anchored, alert, one hand on the wheel, the other near the comms, watching the weather shift with a sailor’s instinct and a whole life of knowing exactly when things stop making sense at sea.

The last round trip of the day is quiet in a different way today, though. No commuters or tourists, and no one but you on board.

A rare fluke of timing: your dad tied up with engine trouble on the backup skiff; the senior deckhand down for the count after slipping on ice during today's last unloading shift and sent home limping; the second deckhand called out with food poisoning from bad market shrimp; the engineer out for two weeks recovering from wrist surgery after trying to fix a rusted coupling by himself; the backup engineer already covering freight route duties on the north side; and the high schooler who usually mans the snack kiosk bailed last-minute for a school recital he 'forgot' to mention until this morning. Even the part-time lookout who mostly just watches Raf from the upper deck found a way to slip away.

You’d said yes before your dad even finished the ask instead of just cancelling the entirety of the day off — if a perfectly fine excuse for why you didn’t show up at the reunion made itself available to you, you would take it without question. It was serendipity, why let it go to waste?

And it was only one run, the weather wasn’t supposed to break yet. You knew the route. You could handle it.

Though, frankly, it felt good to be trusted with something this real and just empty your head for the rest of the day.

So it's just you, the hum of the engine, and a stretch of sea that's growing moodier by the minute.

You clock it before it starts showing.

The pitch is wrong.

Movement is expected, up-down, up-down, sometimes with more vigor and distance. No, it’s not that. It’s the angle, the timing, the tension underfoot that rolls in just a half-second too late. The swell pattern doesn’t match the forecast, the wind has teeth it wasn’t supposed to, and the gulls have gone silent over the water.

You glance up from the console, watching the sky fold itself into layers. That soft lilac haze from earlier has gone bruised at the edges. There’s a kind of waiting baked into the air now, the hush before the sky opens its mouth and howls.

You should’ve already turned back. You know the signs. You’ve trusted them before.

But the timing’s tight, and you know the shape of this route better than the lines in your palms. If you hold speed and cut between the outer channel markers, you might beat the worst of it. The system’s moving in fast — but not fast enough to make you fold early. Not if you don’t have to.

Besides, there’s only one round trip left back home. The radar isn’t red yet. The pressure’s dropping, but the water’s still got give in it. Dad made worse calls in tighter windows.

So you stay the course.

Pushing until everything starts pushing back.

The ferry bounces over a swell so hard you almost lose your grip on the wheel, rattling the life preservers along the wall with a thwack loud enough to echo inside your skull. Water sprays white across the decks, and something about the sound makes your bones ache. For a moment, you swear you can taste seaweed. Feel the drag of sea lines on your wrists, rough as rope burn.

But you catch yourself. Stabilize your footing, hands steady on the wheel, leaning into the rise and fall as they taught you in driving school all those years ago. The first day your father stood beside you and showed you how to balance the revs and the brakes on this machine, how to feel each part working together to drive, how it wasn't about forcing the craft, but guiding it with trust — it’s all muscle memory.

Trust the machine. Trust your gut. Trust your judgment.

So you do. And you guide. Until the storm arrives. Until the weather begins to roll in dark as tar — resentful black clouds, brindled with light, coiling together as if building, brewing, churning in unison above. Eerything then becomes curtained with rain and water, a shower splintering against the ferry roof. Sheets of water cut across the deck is a fog obscuring everything further than a foot away. Wind batters against the sides of the hull, shrieking louder and louder every minute, whistling shrill through every seam and corner and vent, and by now the ocean is actively trying to shove this boat off the face of the earth.

Everything turns sideways for one split second, and your heartbeat almost rips out of your throat, and when the ship steadies itself it takes several painful heartbeats of thinking I fucked up, I fucked up before you regain equilibrium and resume steering.

Everything starts to make sense. 

Raf had been strange from the moment you showed up this morning — clingy, louder than usual, almost pacing the cove. He kept making pup noises at the tide, splashed too close to shore while you suited up, and refused to go too far in the open water — his favorite thing was to drag you out further before. When you finally entered the water, he didn’t dart ahead the way he usually does. He hovered, brushed against you, circled you so tightly you had to push him off just to move forward.

You didn’t think much of it. You were too busy rereading texts, too busy spiraling over group photos and inside jokes and what-the-hell-was-he-thinking-by-showing-up.

Raf’s insistence was a complication you didn’t have room for when you’d been already feeling stifled enough. Even underwater, he kept doubling back to check on you, tapping your hip with his nose, making strange high-pitched whines that only made you more irritated.

When you got out, he followed you up the hill, paralleling you from the sea. Right up the ramp. Flopped against the loading zone and refused to budge, and not in the usual cute way. He clung to your boot when you tried to walk. Grabbed the hem of your jacket and yanked. Made noises so loud and pitiful that a couple tourists pulled out their phones to call wildlife protection. They thought he was hurt.

You shoved him back toward the cove and joked that he was a diva — a barnacle, a stage-five clinger.

He bit Elias when the poor old guy tried to help nudge him off the deck.

You didn’t look him in the eye when you closed the gate. Didn’t even wave, muttering something about spoiled animals and going inside. Because you had a job. Because you were on the schedule. Figuring out how to phrase it, how to make ferry work sound intentional, how to talk about staying without admitting you failed to leave. You practiced the words, hoping the right ones would dull the sting.

You didn’t notice how restless he went in the way he took the lead once the engine started.

You didn’t want to.

You'd practically ignored him the entire day for being annoying. To entertain the idea he was like that because he sensed the incoming weather... but you were too wrapped up in the reunion and your own spiraling thoughts to notice what he was trying to tell you. He knew something was coming — you’re sure of it now — and you hadn’t listened.

Too busy nursing your own useless grief.

And now you’re the only one out on the water when the storm decides to bite, regret and fear coiling around each other snakes in the pit of your stomach. The poor little man must be terrified wherever he's hiding. You hope he's tucked away safely somewhere sheltered and cozy, not roaming around trying to find you and ending up hurt or lost or trapped. If something horrible happened to him during this storm, it would be all your fault.

And now, as the radio crackles to life, a sharp burst splinters through the chaos, and all those words ash-scatter.

"—ayday—day—fishing boat—toward—Devil’s Teeth—repeat, Dev—no powe—can’t steer—"

It cuts out, sharp as a snapped line.

Your hand’s already moving. Mic in hand before the words even sink in. "Copy, how many aboard?"

Nothing. Just static, thin and needling, buzzing against your skin.

Your heart doesn’t lurch. It drops clean and heavy, straight into the pit of your stomach.

You flick your eyes to the GPS. The rocks are close — less than a kilometer to starboard. But you don’t need the chart to tell you that. You can already see them, those serrated black silhouettes clawing up from the water ribs punched through the ocean’s skin.

The Devil’s Teeth. The name alone carries some horror. They don’t forgive. Sharp enough to sheer a hull clean if you come at them wrong, but deceptive enough to trick even seasoned sailors into thinking they’re safe.

Above the water, they jut out like gap-toothed palisades — almost orderly, almost safe. From a distance, they seem to mark a clear path, multiple narrow channels that promise passage. But beneath the surface, the truth spreads wide and uneven, masked by the shifting tide, what looks navigable from above is a maze fanning out is a hidden reef below, disguised by the illusion of space, a trap waiting to splinter anything that trusts too easily.

Now, you watch from the waterboarded windshield as the ocean breaks against them sideways, spray exploding into the air in fractured bursts, mist swirling breath from something alive and restless. You’ve seen them before. Too close once, from a rescue boat.

You know the pattern they form, the way they beckon, offering what looks to be safe passage only to tear apart anything foolish enough to trust it. And you know the names of the people they’ve taken.

You flick the comms again, voice tighter now, a thread of instinct winding tight in your chest, tugging you toward the danger. "Any vessel transmitting, identify yourself.”

The wind shrieks through the cracks, high and thin, something caught between teeth. Water lashes the glass, streaking down in frantic rivulets as the ferry pitches harder, the deck groaning with the weight of the sea.

Your breath catches as you scan the horizon, nothing but the vertical outlines of the Devil’s Teeth. Black knives from the churn. For one terrible moment, everything slows. The sea draws back, coiling, holding its power just a beat too long. Waiting.

And then it breaks.

You move, but it’s not a choice. It’s reflex tangled with terror, the wheel wrenching in your hands as the ferry shudders beneath you. The shift is too sharp, the hull protesting with a low, gut-deep moan as it fights the turn. Your muscles burn, braced against the pull as the deck tilts hard, balance slipping for half a heartbeat. The bow dips — just a fraction — before you correct, knuckles losing color where they grip the wheel.

The spray blinds you for a moment, mist shearing across the windshield. But you blink, steady, locked on the path that doesn’t exist but has to be there. The space between those treacherous spires where, if you’re off by even a meter, the sea will swallow everything.

Raf knew. He tried to tell you. Fuck, you hope he’s not out here. He’s too much of a smart cookie for that, but still, you hope to god he’s safe.

The comms hiss softly, a broken thread of sound lost in the roar that fills the wheelhouse.

"—adrift—can’t—hold—taking on water—drifting t—engines are—"

Static. Again.

But you don’t need to hear it. The truth is already laid bare on the horizon.

Your eyes are locked on the shape just beyond, the battered fishing boat barely holding its own against the waves. A thing too small for this weather, its hull pitching wildly, the wind tossing it like it’s a toyboat in a child’s pool.

You flick the comms again, voice tight. "Vessel approaching Devil’s Teeth, do you copy? Repeat, do you copy? I need the status of anyone aboard!"

The answer is silence, thick and pressing.

But the sea answers instead.

Each wave shoves the boat closer to the rocks, their sharp edges barely visible between the peaks of the swells. You can make out three figures, barely, blurred shapes clinging to the railing, fighting against the chaos, one at the bow, steady but strained, another near the stern, slower, unsteady.

And the third—

A hollow space where someone should be.

"Shit," you breathe, throat tight.

You throttle down, the ferry groaning as the engine strains against the push of the current. The bow swings wide, cutting across the waves, too close but angled just right to shield the smaller boat from the worst of the wind. The wheel vibrates in your grip, the metal cold and damp, the pulse in your fingertips matching the beat of the sea.

The deck is bobbing harsher under your boots as you cut the engine to idle. A deep, unsettling quiet follows, the kind that means the sea is holding its breath.

You shove the throttle down, setting the engine to idle, the ferry rocking in protest as it fights against the churning sea. You can’t leave it drifting for long, but there’s no choice now.

The door to the deck slams open under your hand, wind tearing through as if the sea itself is trying to conquer its way inside. Salt spray slices across your face, cold and biting, nails and claws of an animal trying to get you. You barely register the sting. Your focus is on the deck below, where the equipment locker sits by the stairs. The rope should be there.

You swing down the short, steep steps, boots skidding slightly as the ferry shifts beneath you. The locker groans as you yank it open, cold metal biting into your fingertips. The rope’s there, coiled tight, damp and heavy.

You haul it out, the weight dragging at your arms as you push back up to the deck, boots pounding on slick metal, breath burning in your throat. The rope is rough and solid in your hands, the damp fibers biting into your palms as you step toward the railing, eyes locked on the men still fighting the sea.

"Line! Now!" Your voice barely carries, but the men on deck move. One of them, older, face lined with years of fighting the ocean, catches your eye, and you know you can trust him with this. He knows. He moves fast and nimble as you toss the line, and he hauls hard, pulling the boat closer inch by inch.

The younger man beside him fumbles, hands trembling as he secures the line, but his eyes are wide and fearful, darting between the shifting boats, the storm reflected in them. You can't have him slipping.

"Hold!" you shout, stepping to the edge.

The fishing boat rocks violently, a wild thing barely clinging to the world. But it holds. For now.

"Get them across!" You wave the first man forward, stretching your hand. His grip is iron, calloused and cold, and he hauls himself over with a grunt. The second follows, shaky but determined. His boots slip, but you grab his arm, steadying him as he clambers onto the ferry.

"One more!" The older man’s voice is barely audible over the wind. He points—

And you see him.

Near the stern. Slumped, half-draped over the edge. Too still.

"I’m going." Your words are lost in the chaos, but you’re already moving.

The wind slams into you the moment you step across, boots slipping on slick metal. You grab the railing, knuckles white, muscles straining as you pull yourself onto the listing deck. The world tilts beneath your feet, the boat rocking harder as if it knows it’s losing.

"Come on," you mutter, heart pounding.

He’s heavier than he looks. Deadweight. His clothes soaked through, dragging with seawater. Your fingers slip against the slick fabric as you grip his arm, muscles screaming as you try to pull him up.

"Help!" You barely need to say it. The older man is there, hands grabbing the man’s other arm. Together, you drag him inch by inch toward safety. The wind howls, the sea pushing harder, trying to reclaim him.

You’re so close.

"Almost there," you breathe, arms burning with the weight.

The man’s head lolls, his breath warm against your neck, but it’s faint. You brace, dragging harder, the metal beneath your boots slick and treacherous. Every muscle in your body screams for relief, but you hold on.

"You hang on, girl!" The older man shouts, his voice raw, but the younger one is there now too, reaching to grab the man’s collar and help.

"I’ve got him—" You don’t finish. The deck tilts—

The ferry shifts—

And the wave hits.

It’s not a push. It’s a blow. A force that tears you off balance, rips your grip from the man, and sends you weightless for a heartbeat before the world crashes back in. Or, you crash into the world. It resembles falling on solid ground from considerable height, except that it swallows you right up.

Cold.

Needles slip beneath your skin, knifing past layers of wool and overalls until nothing is left but frost-bright pain. Nothing blazes brighter, burns colder; the sea owns it all, every sensation, every heartbeat, every flicker of memory, snuffing them out one by one until all that remains is fear. Cold, bone-deep, blinding fear that has you kicking and flailing.

The water wants you. It pulls without pity, claws without remorse, wrenches without warning. Everything happens at once: pressure and chaos, liquid ice tearing at your lips and choking down your throat. The current twists around you, a tangle of unrelenting hands dragging you deeper even as you fight.

Down. And down. Until light bleeds away, dissolving like ink in water.

Something flashes just outside your blurring vision—

Then something else—

And another—

Infinitesimal silver glints cut through the dark. Shifting shadows dart between the pinpricks of pale light as shapes coalesce above. Thin silhouettes slice through the dark, through the gloom as you fall farther from safety. The pressure builds, crushing against your skull, a terrible humming filling your ears as if the entire ocean is singing an ode to your demise. Your chest begins convulsing fiercely, throat contracting in response as you begin thrashing around, lungs on fire and desperate for oxygen. Drowning in the sea, alone, terrified and hopeless, primal instincts demanding you do everything you can to stay alive, struggling uselessly to kick upwards towards the surface.

Wherever that is.

You reach upward desperately with a lone hand, vision having tunneled from lack of oxygen and panic combined. In that brief moment, something soft brushes the tips of your fingers. Like... fur...?

There's no way to know. Darkness has already consumed your consciousness, the struggle to survive giving away to oblivion and acceptance the moment your lungs breathe in water.

                    Singing.

Somebody has been singing to you.

Nearby. Simple, wordless, a melody winding slowly through the haze. Notes rise and fall around you — lavender smoke, crocheting your consciousness together bit by bit. You think maybe the song sounds familiar, that you could remember how it goes if only you could focus enough. As it is, your pulse stirs in time with the tune, waking limbs that were limp and numb as they thaw, muscles flexing as if remembering the shape of themselves.

Warmth comes first. Gentle heat kissing along the edges of your senses before bleeding inward in honeyed tendrils. Softness next: fur beneath your chin, blankets pulled tight across your chest.

The quiet of snowfall settles around you after that, muffling, easing, cushioning every inch of you as reality drifts into your awareness.

Everything returns in increments: salt crusted to your lips, drenched clothes wrapped around your frame, a layer of sodden clay. Beneath you: sand. Matted to the backs of your arms, your calves, the hollow of your throat. Behind your shuttered eyelids, sunlight filters softly. Red glow, distant orange. Sunglow, the color of melting copper. There is sky above you and beach below, but most importantly — there is breathing inside you again, each exhale shuddering as your pulse struggles toward normalcy, softly but surely.

Slowly, ever so gradually, you pry your eyelids open.

A canopy of branches, feather-soft green interspersed with golden brown, stretch overhead in a gentle dome. The bark glistens in the morning light, sticky still from the previous storm. Below the shelter, sand stretches outward in a sweep of endless shoreline, punctuated only by tufts of grass and gnarled driftwood that form a natural barricade from any casual passerby. The tide ebbs gently just past that barricade, washing fizzy seafoam high up the shoals before sliding back out lazily in a smooth curl, and further still, the horizon stretches — spun cotton candy, pink on blue, melted into haze at the edges, mingling seamlessly with the sky. And you're tucked carefully among the roots of one of those great trees, cradled and swaddled by the same fur-coated bundle your cheek is pillowed on, wrapped protectively in its embrace and held secure.

It takes your brain a full minute of groggily attempting to piece together these strange details before you realize there's a figure in the water, maybe twenty feet out, half-shrouded by the hush of early light.

Your brain coming back to you is akin to hitting the floor after falling for some time. You flinch. Sit up too fast.

A tangle of dark gray, thick hide spills from your shoulder, pooling in the crooks of your elbows. You shove it off with a gasp, limbs sluggish but panicked, fingers catching in the strange texture. It hits the ground with a muted thump, heavy as wet rope but somehow dry and fluffy at the same time. The cold hits you immediately then, skin pebbling beneath the cling of soaked denim and wool and the frigid touch of salt wind. A full body shudder grips you, hard, teeth rattling in your skull, blood singing through your veins faster.

But not even that kind of cold is enough to distract you from the sight before you.

There’s a person waist-deep in the shallows, facing the sun.

Long hair drips like spun violet ink down a narrow back, plastered in curling sheets to sharp, bare shoulders. You've never seen natural hair that long in your life, it trails all the way down her body to fan out against the waves, streaming in shimmering bands over the crests of each swell, lit gold in the early sun. She tilts her head back to face the dawn fully, and you can only see the barest hint of her profile from the angle, the delicate slope of nose, the lushness of parted lips. There’s something arresting about the stillness of her, the way the sea seems to hush around her body. A statue the tide forgot to reclaim.

For a breathless, silent moment, she simply stands there, perfectly balanced, completely undisturbed, arms spread at her sides as if greeting the daybreak directly, skin glittering in the light, slick with seawater and—

A scar. A slash across one side of her shoulder, pale even against her skin tone, stretched tight as though dug deep enough to make bone.

Huh, you absentmindedly think. I think it's the same side as Raf's?

You break out of your trance with a loud gasp with the thought of your seal friend, which causes her to whirl around to face you, startled and wide-eyed.

Which brings another revelation. The person in question is a man, not a woman.

Skinny dipping, at that.

Your brain catches up to your eyes in a rush of static and shock. This is a Family Feud moment.

Name something a burglar would not wanna see when he breaks into a house.

The contestant yelling it with his whole chest. Naked grandma!

Naked HUH?

The buzzer in your head goes off.

Question: What’s the last thing a girl wants to see when waking up alone on an unfamiliar beach after falling unconscious?

Answer: Naked man.

You make a strangled noise and scramble back so fast the pelt half-slides off you, and at the same time, sharp pain lances through your right side, turning the motion into more of a hunch than a duck and roll. The sudden flare knocks what little breath is left out of your lungs, knocking sense back into you in the process.

Wait, what happened? Why does it hurt?

"Easy! Easy." The naked dude darts forward through the surf without missing a beat, water splashing everywhere with his hurried strides. The sound of his approaching footsteps makes you instinctively curl inward, arms hugging tight around your midsection while wincing. You don't look up, mostly out of embarrassment, and your thoughts immediately go brrrr when you become hyper aware of the fact you're definitely going to see things you won't be able to unsee. "You'll bleed again if you keep squirming like that! All my hardwork's gonna go to waste!"

You flail one arm between the two of you in a futile barrier while the other cradles where the injury is, still keeping your face down and staring down furiously at the ground to avoid looking anywhere higher than knee level. "Ah-ah-ah! Stop, stop!”

The sloshing of jogging doesn’t stop.

“Just — man, don't charge at me, I don't know you!"

He stops short as though you've thrown a rock at him, legs cutting off mid-stride with a chaotic splash. For one blessed second, all is still again — except for the water lapping at his shins and your pulse banging against your teeth.

Then, a noise.

A half-choked sound that might be a laugh. Or a cough. He doesn’t come any closer. Just stands there, suspended mid-motion, your words having pinned him in place. The water stills around his legs. The surf hesitates, then draws back with a hush. You're still locked on a particularly blurry patch of sand wet with the red of your congealed blood like your life depends on it, but you hear the the tiny inhale that catches weird in his throat, and the breeze picks up with a stutter again.

He erupts worse than a volcano all of a sudden. “You’re joking! What? You don’t know me? You don’t know me? After everything — you just made me go through, that’s—”

“—a very reasonable response!” you shoot back, your voice high in octave, blood rushing so rapidly to your head that you’re not even comprehending properly.

“Wow,” he says, all affronted drama and wounded pride in one breath. “It's not like I'm gonna eat you. Humans aren't even safe for consumption anyway!"

"Whoa-hoh—" you start, but he steamrolls over you before you can properly get a word in.

There’s the wet slap of a foot shifting in the surf, heralding that he’s gearing up for a rant. “Most people say thank you, you know. Or ‘hey, cool of you to make sure I didn’t die horribly’—"

"You're naked, random guy!" you shout hoarsely, throwing out a pathetic arm to shield you from any and all compromising views. This is the politest way you could have put it. The next best thing was to shout, 'Don't come near me with your dick out.' Which. Yeah.

An awkward pause follows the admission, thick enough to make you glance up before thinking twice about it. You get a flash of purple before you look away once more, clutching the strange gray fur to yourself as some sort of feeble shield.

"—der why," he mumbles, more to himself than anything else.

"Excuse me?"

He deadpans, stopping just short. “I said, so now you’re body-shaming the guy who literally rescued you from certain death?”

“I’m shame-shaming the fact that you’re approaching me with your — your — entire situation out in the open!”

"You have my pelt," he says, with almost childlike seriousness, expecting you to be able to read his mind from the tone of his statement alone.

"Uh, okay?" you respond articulately, weirded out by how the conversation was lacking common sense. "What does that have to do with your clothes?"

This time, the quiet stretches out like taffy.

“I want you on the other side of this damn island if you’re an exhibitionist, I swear to god don’t think for a second I’m not capable of—”

“I am not!” The way his voice changes pitches has to be studied. “Have you lost your mind in the ocean? I can’t believe you’d suggest such a thing after everything I’ve done for you—”

You tune out his yapping. Yeah, this isn't getting anywhere. You're stranded on an island with a man you don't know, politely asking him to put his penis away, which, he won't get the hint for some reason and making it a 'I am who I am,' moment. Do you have to yell "Pervert!" at this guy for him to get a move on? Things couldn't get more absurd.

You rub your forehead wearily and groan in defeat. Is there something ironic about this exchange? Because you sure feel there should be something ironic here. There is probably supposed to be a joke somewhere here. The universe loves to deliver them in bundles.

An idea strikes you.

"Here, hold on," you say, shakily standing up while keeping your face diverted elsewhere. Your side does hurt, but the burn doesn't stretch as bad as when you felt it at first. "Just... turn around, please. No sudden moves."

"No sudden moves?" He answers with audible skepticism, the shuffling on the sand giving away his complying after a moment. The nervous waver in his words does manage to placate you somewhat. An exhibitionist wouldn't act this way. “I’m turning my back to you. How am I gonna know what you’re doing? For all I know, you could be ogling me with your squidlike human eyes, which, mind you, I wouldn’t blame you for—”

God, he loves the sound of his own voice, doesn’t he?

Muting him out once more, you pick up the fur coat blanket thing from its dropped position with an audible, "Hup!" It's bulky in your grip, almost too thick to lift, yet remarkably light at the same time — trying to pick up water without getting wet.

“—I’ve been told I’m distractingly shapely in the flesh, but I didn’t exactly wake up today planning to be admired in the wild. And it’s not even my best side, you know? My shoulders are uneven. I think. They used to be non-existent—”

You're in no position to be in awe right now though, so you brush off all possible questions concerning the bizarre phenomenon until later. With as much caution as you can muster, you raise it up like a curtain until the only part you can see of the man is his luscious hair, and start walking up to him.

“—Not that I’m implying anything. You are not the ogling type. Then again, I once trusted a cormorant and it stole my entire lunch while I was mid-swim, so what do I know? I’m just out here, my back wide open, accosted, and trying very hard not to hold a grudge—”

Then, you drape the cloak of fluffiness onto his shoulders in the gentlest manner you could possibly afford, avoiding touching his skin. The pelt closes around his back, reminiscent of the wings of a giant bird closing protectively, encasing him from neck down to calves. A gasp slips out of him. So small you might've missed it if you hadn't been holding your breath, waiting for any negative reaction.

His own hands come up to pull the flaps snugly closed, then he slowly looks over one shoulder at you with such stunned wide-eyed silence you almost want to crack a smile at him, but promptly freeze in place as soon as you lock gazes.

Not only does he have the most enticing eyes you've ever seen with vertical heterochromia transitioning from blue to pink like a bi-color tourmaline, but he has such an attractive facial structure that is both masculine and delicate all in the same breath it punches all of your buttons in one go and oh god — it is so not helping this entire situation. This stranger is the epitome of beauty. Handsome face and lovely features and soft bone structures and everything you didn't expect from a random naked dude on a beach you couldn't recognize as a local.

And the hair. You'd seen it from afar already but... it reminds you of strands of ashen lavender blossoms dripping with morning dew, wet waviness disappearing underneath the collar of the pelt. You'd kill to have this Rapunzel hair. It's unfair how a man—

You snap back to attention with a hard blink as the initial shock wears off.

"There you go, now I won’t get flashed," you exhale with obvious relief, trying to will yourself to act casually so you don't seem weird to the stranger who probably saved your life.

His head tilts, just barely. Long strands of wet hair slip over his shoulder as he stares down at the pelt wrapped around him — your handiwork. The fur shifts slightly under his touch, and he goes very still, watching it settle again. You wonder what he’s waiting for.

“You gave it back to me,” he says.

The words come out soft, a little too careful for something so simple. He looks at you, expecting the world to shift around what he just said. He’s silently saying this should mean something to you, too — but it doesn’t. And that mismatch only deepens the quiet between you.

You blink.

He lifts the edge of the fur in his hands, shaking it, then looks at you like the answer should be obvious.

A pause. “Right,” you say slowly. “And… that’s important to note because?”

He shifts his weight, brows drawing together in a look that’s too serious for the situation. “You could’ve kept it.”

"Wet as my clothes are, you need it more than I do.”

He is surprisingly docile and red in the face now that he has something on for modesty and can’t quite look you in the eye. The tips of his fingers peeking from all the fur in his grip are fidgety.

You give a wry grimace before remembering the manners Dad always told you to have around new acquaintances. "Yeah, um — uh, thanks. For saving my life.”

You tell him your name, and bow your head a bit in acknowledgment. His shoulders pull in tight at the sudden gesture of goodwill — though you aren't quite sure why — but relax after a breath as he meets your stare squarely, searching for something. The intensity throws you off balance; those odd and piercing mismatched shades fixed solely on you make the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end in both curious and fearful wonderment.

"And you are...?"

"Oh," he says, as if the question took him off guard, too. One hand comes up to brush through damp locks. Almost self-conscious, if the look on his face is anything to go by. There’s some sort of a faraway look in his eyes. "Raf — Rafayel."

"Were you the third guy on the fishing boat, Rafayel?" You recall that last crew member was slumped half overboard and passed out, prompting the rescue attempt that sent you both to sea in the first place. If Rafayel was wearing his pelt when you attempted to pull him up, the added weight could have been a factor in tipping both of you over. You find it's all a blur in your memory, though, and suppress a shudder. "Did you fall with me or—"

A shadow passes over his features as quickly as the changing tides. When he speaks, though, it's measured, almost cautious. "Yeah, I—" He pauses, shakes his head. Locks those impossibly colored eyes on you again, bright in the early morning light. "How are you feeling, though? Still hurts?"

"My side feels bruised like I was elbowed in the ribs but besides being chilled to the bone from falling into the ocean, I'm alright," you supply honestly. "I saw the blood on the sand, though. It feels unreal that I'm up and about right now. How can a scrape bleed that much?"

Rafayel's mouth goes flat as a line, looking you up and down with a concerning intensity deepening his tone. "You're lucky I was able to pull you back from the worst of it."

Shallow as it is, your wound isn't even dressed, but you decide not to engage in a conversation about the technicalities, patting him on the arm once in thanks and walking around him to get out of the forest line's shadow.

The beach stretching wide and strange before you is a postcard you don’t remember collecting. The sand is darker than you're used to, siltier, almost gray, and littered with glinting shells you don’t recognize, long and spiraled in augers, brittle as glass. Pale reeds jut from the shore at uneven angles, hissing faintly in the breeze, and the driftwood here is stripped bare, almost white, tangled in patterns that look too intentional for nature.

The water itself is clear, almost iridescent, casting strange reflections across the shallows, warped ripples that shimmer pink and green, an oil slick pretending to be pretty. And further out, offshore, strange half-drowned statue-shaped stones loom out of the surf.

You know this archipelago better than most, its coastlines and hidden inlets, the soft-bellied coves that tourists miss, having traced its map with your own hands, ferry lines, rock clusters, the way sandbanks shift after storms. Usually, it takes you seconds to place yourself. A curve in the shoreline, a type of dune grass, the slope of a treeline, something always gives it away.

But this place doesn’t register. No matter how long you stare, it refuses to sort itself into something known. The landscape’s been scrubbed clean of every tell you’re trained to read.

The most logical possibility is Seolhwine’s Hook — the island nearest to the Devil’s Teeth. That makes the most sense, right? You were heading back when the squall hit, and it’s the only one close enough for a current to drag you to overnight, and for Rafayel to be able to swim with you. But even then… even that doesn’t feel right. You’ve docked at Seolhwine’s before. This doesn’t match.

“I hate to say it but... Do you know where we are?” you ask finally, turning to him.

"My aunt's," he answers with a straight face.

You pause mid-shiver, your brain tripping over the simplicity of the statement.

You give him the flattest look you can afford, eyebrows lifting slowly. The pelt is clutched too high at his chest, his fingers wound tight in the fabric, you think he might be afraid of dropping it, though it doesn’t seem he notices he’s doing it. You can’t tell if he’s being deliberately evasive or if he genuinely thinks this is the helpful version of an answer.

"What?"

"Look, I’m all for jokes usually, but right now I need an actual place name — not just that your aunt lives here. I’m cold, I’m tired, and I just want to figure out how to get home—"

"It's my aunt's island."

You blink. Once. Twice. The explanation hangs in the air, weirdly self-satisfied. And it’s not satisfactory at all. Not even close.

What’s with the serene confidence of someone stating the color of the sky, as if “my aunt’s” is a perfectly normal answer to what island are we on? As if those two words magically orient you on a map?

You wait for more. Anything. The punchline. The name. Even a smirk. But there’s nothing.

Is he joking? Is this some elaborate bit? Or does he genuinely think that’s helpful?

The frustration in you sharpens. You’ve had to deal with flaky locals and clueless tourists and broken ferries before, but your patience is thinning by the second. You’re exhausted, still damp, still bleeding a little, and now stuck playing twenty questions with the world’s most uncooperative pretty boy.

"My aunt’s island."

He says it again, but there’s a slight shift in tone — firmer. He's correcting you. Thinks you’re the one being slow. And somehow, that makes it worse.

You stare at him. This time longer. He looks so damn earnest about it, truly believes he’s given you a helpful answer. It’s not smug. It’s not sarcastic. It’s not even deliberately vague to give away he’s fucking with you just to be a tease. It’s literal. Painfully, infuriatingly literal.

You’re trying to get directions from a very impatient child who only answers exactly what you ask and nothing else. Nuance is definitely a foreign language he never got taught.

But something tugs at the edge of your thoughts.

Because as stupid as it sounds — and it does sound stupid — it’s not impossible.

You look around again, really look this time, and you realize something’s been bothering you since you first stood up. It’s too pristine. Too quiet. There’s no old trailhead, no ferry dock, no graffiti-scuffed boulder where kids have carved hearts. No signs. No fishhooks, no cigarette butts. Just wind, tide, trees.

It clicks.

They’re marked on the maps you’ve seen, but only just. Annotated with little circles and names like SH-07 or East Ellinor. Places people like you aren’t supposed to go. Places the ferry routes steer around.

You’ve never been to one. You’ve never had a reason to. The people who owned them had their own transport, their own staff, their own little worlds with locked docks and private everything.

That’s why you didn’t recognize it. It’s not not on the map. It’s just never been part of your map.

You exhale, slow. Let the realization settle.

"So you're saying this is one of the private islands."

Rafayel’s brows lift in vague approval and he nods fervently. "Yes! That. Exactly. It's very private."

You rub your forehead, as if that’ll push the absurdity back into place.

Of course it is. Of course you almost drowned and then washed up on a privately owned island like some shipwrecked stray. Of course the first person you meet is a socially weird, mostly-naked man claiming ownership through familial inheritance like it’s a perfectly casual thing to drop.

You stare up at the sky for a moment, trying to piece together how the hell you even got here.

None of the private islands are anywhere near the Devil’s Teeth — most of them are tucked deep in the inner chain, clustered where the water’s calmer and the currents don’t rip you sideways. But this? This place isn’t close to any of that. You were unconscious, but you remember the storm. You remember going overboard, water in your lungs, panic in your throat, and then nothing. Blackout.

But you weren’t alone.

Rafayel said he pulled you out. Which means he swam you here.

You glance at him again, still draped in that ridiculous pelt and giving you weird pointed looks conveying that he wants to tell you something so bad. He doesn’t look winded enough for someone who hauled another body through open water during a storm. But if he did — if that’s how you got here — then he swam farther than you can make sense of. And maybe lost his clothes in the process. Somehow the latter makes more sense compared to the hypothetical that precedes it.

You were near open sea. This doesn’t add up. Even if he unexpectedly took you somewhere else than Seolhwine's, it just happening to be his aunt's private island is no coincidence.

You look back at him, more confused than before.

"Come," he says softly, extending his hand toward you with palm upward. "I'll take you to her. We'll help you get home. I promise."

A dozen different responses crowd your tongue as you stare down at his offered hand. All the questions rattling between your ears, each booking it for your lips faster than the next. None make it far. Suspicion should be there, but your instincts are unresponsive. They don’t find anything worth questioning about the situation despite the red flags.

Sure, maybe a weird randomly naked guy saved your life, brought you to a secret beach that doesn’t look on any travel maps, and claims to have ties with some rich aunt that owns the whole damn thing...

But he isn't dangerous.

You know that fact unequivocally. Call it a hunch, maybe? Gut intuition. It makes no sense considering your rational side has zero interest in jumping through hoops to trust the random person that literally dragged you out of the ocean to the least convenient place he ever could — but then again, life tends to toss the strangest circumstances and situations your way whenever you least expect it.

What matters most is getting back home, your parents have to be dying of worry — a search party must be out there wasting resources. Having someone who seems oddly comfortable on the island lead you directly to shelter would certainly speed things along.

"Hey," he gently adds when you're quiet for too long, breaking the train of thought running rampant inside your mind. The softness in his tone brings your attention back to him entirely, a gentle smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

He offers his hand a little higher, which draws your focus back on it with curious clarity. How smooth it lookd, even from this distance, perfect nails without a single scratch or imperfection, fingers delicate, elegant bones visible under the pale skin. "I just want to help. You're safe with me. I won’t hurt you."

You stare at his hand, then at his face, then back again. The tone is soft, the words gentle, but something about it scratches at the back of your brain. The kind of voice usually reserved for nervous animals crouched under porches. Any second now, he might start whistling and offer a treat.

Though the weird phrasing shouldn't work its weird magic on you, it does. Maybe because it sounds so nostalgic and familiar in a way that it invokes a sense of safety in you? Or maybe because you're tired, soaked to the bone, bleeding lightly still, and sore all over and this guy seems too nice to be anything less than honest?

Perhaps both. Probably both. You really have no business trusting strangers who wear big pelt blankets instead of actual clothing and give basic information away akin to some kind of social anxiety sufferer with performance issues, yet here you are, contemplating on the idea of taking his hand.

What the hell, you think eventually. Sure. What alternative is there? If the worst comes to pass, you intend to make him have one less limb to his name — it would be his own fault for walking around like a Resident Evil nude mod. How did that one text post go? Boy put that boaner away lest a sloppy little critter grabs hold of it.

But you’re not that sure what kind of answer you expected when you ask him where you’re headed, but he doesn’t so much point as let his hand drift outward, loose and imprecise — more communion than instruction, as though the land might whisper the route if you stand still long enough. He plants himself in the emptiness with the ease of someone who’s never needed a map, naming vague landmarks with the casual grace of someone expecting the road to rise just because he’s ready to walk it.

As someone who has mastered the art of minding your own business, you don’t call out this behavior. As long as he gets you someplace you can call help from, Rafayel is free to be a weirdo.

But you do press him for information.

“She has lavender near the steps, and her door is the color of the sea,” he offers, like that narrows it down. “The path smells of sage sometimes, if the wind’s right. And there’s a stone shaped like a sleeping dog near the turn — you have to squint a little. The house groans when it’s too warm. There’s a wind chime that only rings when someone she doesn’t like shows up. And the garden gate bites if you don’t know how to open it.”

Not helpful. But then he refuses to add anything else more along the lines of fucking common sense and normal people direction-giving. What does he expect, the scent alone pulling you in the right direction if you just walk long enough?

And maybe he's right. Maybe you're the weird one for expecting something as formal as an address out here. If this really is a private island, there might only be one house. Maybe 'lavender and a blue door' is all anyone needs. Maybe people out here remember things by the curve of the land and the way the air smells after rain.

It isn’t a real plan. It’s the shape of a promise, just strange enough to follow, just vivid enough to believe in for a little while. The way he speaks about it, there’s no room for doubt, and you’ve learned to believe in the word of a local in all your years of living around the archipelago.

So you follow.

The pelt shifts when he moves, catching bits of drift and sand, trailing slightly as he walks beside you through the underbrush. He doesn’t shiver, unlike you. And that makes sense, considering how warm and cozy you were when that thing was your blanket when you first woke up.

The morning light hasn’t yet burned the fog from the trees, and the forest path ahead is dappled in grey. Your boots sink into the softened moss with a squelch. His bare feet barely make a sound, but your skin does hear something because of your wet socks.

You glance sideways at him. No wince, no flinch, not even when he steps straight on a gnarled root that would have you cursing in three languages.

“Seriously?” you mutter. “You don’t even feel that?”

“I’ve walked stranger paths,” he says. Great.

You stop walking with a groan. The wind catches your soaked clothes, cutting straight through to the bone. Your arms are already shaking.

“Okay. New plan.”

He watches as you crouch in front of him, back turned.

You look over your shoulder with an encouraging gesture for him, “Climb on.”

He tilts his head. “Huh?”

“Piggyback. You're barefoot, this path is hell, and I'm freezing. Carrying weight warms you up.”

“Absolutely not.”

“You're not that heavy, and I’ve hauled crates bigger than you off ferries for years. So. Just. Climb on.”

He makes a strangled noise. “I didn’t learn bipedalism just to be carried like a pup by you!”

Such drama. There really is no time for this and you’re not in the mood for negotiations.

You grab one of his wrists and tug it over your shoulder. His entire hand twitches in response. “If it makes you feel better, this is entirely me being selfish. I want to get warm.”

He hesitates, and it’s not pride, he keeps glancing at your side, where the torn side of your turtleneck still clings damp and darkened. His hands hover like he might stop you.

“You’re not healed,” he mutters. “Not properly.”

You hitch his arm higher on your shoulder. “It’s fine.”

“That wound’s still raw.”

“So are my fingers. Cold does that.”

He makes a frustrated noise.

“Listen, enough with courtesy stuff, okay? I don’t care, I’m freezing,” you cut in. “And you don’t have shoes. We’re both going to be miserable either way, so pick your poison.”

He sighs, dragging it out. Eventually, he caves, muttering something under his breath that could be an insult but could also be a compliment. He hoists himself up, arms settling uncertainly around your shoulders, pelt-covered legs bracketing your hips, and you make sure he won’t slip away from your grip because of the material. You’re trekking along the forest in no time, feeling pleasantly distracted from the cold.

“This is deeply undignified,” he mutters.

“And being inexplicably naked in front of a stranger isn’t? Where and why did you lose your clothes anyway? You still haven’t told.”

There’s no response, except from a huff he lets out from his nose, which fondly reminds you of Raf. It must be a tale particularly embarrassing for him to tell, and he did have the fur to make it up for, so you once again don’t pry. Master of minding your own business.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. Get comfortable.”

He doesn’t. He sits stiffly at first, as though unsure how much weight he’s allowed to give you. Then he starts shifting. Sighing. Squirming. Grumbling under his breath about the jostling, the pace, the way your shoulder bone is probably bruising his ribs.

"You walk uneven," he complains after the first bend. "See, it hurts after all, yeah? Put me down."

"It's a forest," you grit out. "The ground walks uneven."

"I wish you would listen for once."

"That's a wasted wish on a star. You've known me for like what, fifteen minutes?"

He exhales through his nose again, slow and beleaguered. No witty answer to that one, it seems.

The longer you walk, the more he settles. His complaining slows into occasional muttering, then thoughtful silence. The forest begins to close in around you. Damp leaves brush your arms. The world smells of pine sap, wet bark, and something almost metallic beneath the rot. The silence here is dense, broken only by the soft rhythm of your boots against the ground and the occasional rustle of something unseen in the undergrowth.

Then his voice, soft and close beside your ear: “Do you name the trails you take at sea? Or are they just known to you?”

“What?”

“The water routes. The ones you steer the ferry along. Do they have names?”

He’s talking about sea lanes. You’re about to question how he doesn’t know these things, considering he’s a fisherman, but remember he might not be one. His aunt owns an island. This is a rich kid who probably wanted to fish and got the locals involved in his request.

“They’ve got designations. Letters, numbers. Eights and alphas and things like that. But most of us just… call ’em what we call ’em.”

“Like?”

You think a moment, breath fogging in the damp air. “There’s Shiverstretch. That’s the fast cold current between Dolos and Ternhook. Everyone calls it that ’cause it’s a backslap to the face, especially on the morning runs. And there’s Dead Hour Channel — no wind, no sound, just this long, empty drift. Makes you paranoid that something’s watching. I don’t like that one.”

You feel him shift slightly on your back, listening.

“There’s Longshout,” you add. “Named after a guy who tried to boat through in a storm and ended up yelling for help the whole way ‘til he ran aground on Fallow Reef.”

Rafayel snorts quietly. “That one sounds personal.”

“It is. He still works the east docks. Won’t shut up about it.”

“How do you find your way around, then? I always wondered. Do you read the water like seals do?”

“Reading the water is one way to put it, I guess. They’re charted. We use navigation systems. Landmarks. Depth markers.”

A pause. The trees rumble, disturbed by a sudden gust of wind, brittle leaves dropping pebbles onto the path in front of you. Rafayel shifts awkwardly behind you, almost toppling off to the left before righting himself with a steadying grip.

"Question," you say. "What indicators do you use? Chip on a tree or something?"

He whispers eventually, cheek lightly pressed against yours. You feel his eyes on you. "Smells."

You blink, twisting around to glance at him. He seems surprisingly somber all of a sudden. "Uhhh...."

"Just focus on the road, we're almost there. You'll see."

The path winds past the last of the scrub grass, and then it opens.

The trees fall away in a hush of damp leaves and saltlight, and there, cradled in the middle of the forest-clad small valley, is a sprawling, mansion of a house that doesn’t quite belongs to any century in particular. Can't be called old or modern. The word you’re looking for is neo-classical architecture made to be a beach house. Pale limestone, veined and sun-bitten, gleams beneath the overcast sky. Its walls are streaked with wind-carried brine, but the stone holds strong, weathered soft rather than worn down. And there is the giveaway Rafayel was talking about: blue door.

Lavender spills along the pathway in loose drifts, unruly and fragrant, tangling with sea-thrift and clover like the garden grew itself wild. Carved wooden shutters hang half-closed against the morning chill, and a curved archway frames the entry looks the part of a half-remembered temple. There’s something mythic about it, a story you were almost told once. A place that holds onto memory whether you want it to or not.

And then there’s the scent, ocean first, bright and sharp, but something warmer curling beneath it. Resin, maybe. Incense burned into the beams. Citrus oil in the wood grain.

You adjust your grip beneath Rafayel’s knees as you approach the door. Acting as a barrier between your bodies, his pelt is still slung down your back , trailing behind like a second spine, damp at the edges. He hasn’t said much since the last hill. Just rested his chin between your shoulder blades and hummed, quiet as tidewash.

You reach the first step. Hesitate. The house isn’t grand in the usual way, no columns, no gates, but there’s a heaviness to it. Not unfriendly, but expectant.

You knock.

Silence falls. The melted caramel of sunlight scatters through the dark glass in the windows. Rafayel shifts on your back, going rigid so suddenly it almost jolts you. His breath stills sharply against your spine, and in that single suspended moment, you can feel the piano wire of tension strung through his bones.

You don’t get the chance to ask why. Wood cracks loudly within the doorframe, and there's a pop, a groan, and then a soft, sweet creak as the lock disengages, allowing the door to slowly swing inward with an audible squeak.

The scent hits first, warm and strange. Spiced velvet, a whisper of cloves, dried orange peel, and something more ancient baked into the lintel wood. Then the figure behind it, unexpected.

For an “aunt,” she looks barely older than him. Mid-thirties, maybe, though it’s hard to tell. Her features are sharp, dignified, and her presence is a light cloud, wrapped in layered satin and lace shawl, white and lilac, all shot through with shimmer where the light catches on glinting jewelry. Her hair is swept back, rich violet and pinned with silver shells, and her eyes—

Dusty purple brightening with shock.

“Rafayel?” she breathes, her grip whitening on the frame. Her gaze darts down, takes in the sealskin clinging to your back, the way his taut arms still drape over your shoulders like iron bars. “Gods, is it really you? Look, look at you! Oh... oh!"

Rafayel slides off you, and she practically throws herself out the door as soon as the initial shock wears off, taking two long steps across the threshold until she's directly in front of you, cupping his cheeks with hands that only tremble the smallest bit. He meets her halfway, tilting his forehead to rest against hers as his own hands come up to gently caress her elbows, cradling them lightly. His motions are hesitant at first — touching with clear clumsiness, as if handling glass. But the moment she exhales an astonished little laugh, something changes, he pulls her close, tightening his grasp not to let her blow away on the wind. The woman leans fully against him then, looping her arms around his neck with a relieved shudder that shakes both their frames.

And you're there, a comical stick figure at the background of a well-drawn manga panel with a big arrow pointing at you.

You hope they won't hunt you for sport. Private island. Two eerily good looking family members. Girl who got deliberately delivered there when a closer island was the most blatant option. This has the potential to be a horror movie premise.

But no. Nope. Too late. She glances past his shoulder as soon as her embrace is complete and the silent reunion done with, locking eyes with you, and your soul flees your body, trying to squeeze itself back through your pores like some furtive worm to avoid the full brunt of her curious scrutiny.

She raises one perfectly shaped brow, but before either of you can exchange any words or reactions, Rafayel says something.

You say something, because it's in a language you don't know, one that doesn't bother to make itself easy, sharp at the edges, rounded at the core. It rolls out of his mouth, mist over moorland — thick, tangled, hard to follow. The stone-teeth syllables grind against each other, but every so often, they break open into something strange and sweet, the howl of a reed pipe carried on sea wind.

It just plays into the horror movie vibe because why would he blatantly switch language to probably speak about you, judging from the glance thrown your way, as if you aren't there? Probably conspiring how to eat you! You do feel like tenderized meat.

The woman hums again, a thoughtful note this time, and the conversation carries on in murmured exchanges of tone and gesture — softness here, a flicker of frustration there. And yet you can pinpoint the exact moment everything changes. Rafayel says something. But she draws back, cups his cheeks in her hands, and stares at him hard, searching. Whatever she finds isn’t enough, because she shakes her head once, firm, decisive. He asks again. Another shake, stronger this time, more insistent. Her fingers flex tight against his skin as if she means to hold him there, but he speaks again, something softer, fainter, and her hand relaxes, trembling on the edge of defeat. A faint frown crosses her face, a small downward curl that somehow turns the lines at the corner of her lips into parenthesis, closing off the shape of whatever she might have said next.

"Hey, uh," you finally intervene when their staring contest becomes too intense. They both startle, seeming to remember your existence at once. You smile nervously, holding one raised palm up in defense and nonthreatening greeting. "Sorry to interrupt, ma'am, but could I, um..." Your free hand gestures vaguely to indicate the general situation you find yourself in. "Use your phone? I don't mean to intrude or anything, I just. I got thrown over board during the storm, I don't even know if my ferry was capsized and I really, really need to get back—"

Rafayel says something else under his breath, hasty now, almost tripping over his words.

Her brows furrow in mild concern at his rambling. "Oh dear, I apologize, yes! Do forgive me for being impolite, I forgot myself for a moment there."

You nod politely in acknowledgment of her apology, lowering your arm hesitantly. "Not a problem, it happens."

"It's been so long since our house had guests," she admits candidly, placing an elegant hand over her heart in embarrassment. "Come, come in, please, you need a hot shower and change of clothes." She takes you by the arm and guides you inside. "You're drenched! Look at those goosebumps. Oh, you poor thing."

She leads you into a grand hallway filled with golden hour sunlight spilling through windows framed by sheer white curtains billowing lazily in the breeze, and it is not unlike stepping straight into the interior design section of an expensive department store. You could smell the money dripping off every nook, cranny, wall, and corner. If your wet socks were making muddy imprints on the flooring you knew you'd pass out from mortification on the spot. The floors here look pristine and polished enough for you to see your reflection clearly on its surface. Even the vase tucked neatly into the center of a glossy dark wood console table is worth more than your boat. Everything about this mansion is clean and orderly, it must be heaven on earth for a neat freak like your dad.

"He needs clothes the most, I think," you try to joke, letting her steer you through the main hall with wide curious steps and an awestruck stare. Rafayel, wherever he is behind you two, remains silent. You think he might have disappeared somewhere.

Her grip tightens around your arm like a mother hen dragging her chick into a coop to shelter from winter, her nails lightly digging into the sleeves of your sweater with a pleasant firmness that feels strangely grounding. "Don't worry about him, you focus on getting warmed up now."

"Thanks, ummm..." you begin, hoping it's polite to ask for her name while inside her home. But before you could continue, she turns to regard you with a serene smile — so gentle and graceful she could've been sculpted from marble if it weren't for her very lively personality. She smells nice, too. Floral. Very floral. The same kind of perfume bottle your aunt kept on display near her sewing machine that you stole a few sniffs of when Grandma wasn't looking.

Her attention is summer afternoon sunbeams on your chilled skin. "You can call me Talia.”

[kleinv01]

Hi everyone! I deeply apologize for disappearing, I didn't realize i didn't post an update on here yet..... Grandpa disease I have been taking a break from all activities, including game development, art commissions, etc, eversince 6th of March 2025, and this might last until June 2025. Which, explains my inactivity lately and I understand it does seems like I'm abandoning the project (Never, I love working on this game and I still have so much more to show for you guys!!) I will mostly be repeating the things I have said on my Twitter :

For those of you who aren't aware, since I also see there are many new followers here (Welcome!!) I have a condition called CFS (Chronic Fatigue Syndrome) which really affects my energy levels, on top of other chronic illnesses I have been dealing with since I was a lil kiddo. Regrettably my health has only been getting worse starting from the start of this year, and even now, just sitting on my desk for hours end had become something I physically cannot do as much as I did in the past. I'm doing all I can to manage my symptoms, so it feels a little upsetting that despite my efforts my health doesn't seem to improve as much as I'd like to. I'm looking to work around the symptoms while also finding ways how I can continue creating that matches my current capabilities and comfortability I've been slowly easing myself back into development this week. Thank you all so much for sticking with me, your support means the world and it's what keeps me going ; u ;

[daisiesonafield-blog]

I know we all hate to see stunts and bla bla bla.....but we as a fandom have largely voiced our frustrations about how Louis isn't promoted or marketed properly in this industry. How FITF's promo didn't manage to break through to a much larger audience like they expected it to. And unfortunately the most sure way to create publicity is through a relationship like McDomlinson. It's giving him exposure to a whole new audience, specifically women - which is great -, it's keeping his name in the press while he's not really working, and it's reintroducing him as a heartthrob to the general public - something he never had before. I've spoken many times about how Louis' image has always been that of a friend, the funny one. He was never marketed as the hot one or the one that gets all the girls thirsting. That started to change during FITFWT, and now we have a relationship stunt to further drive it forward. It's how the showbiz game is played, and Louis is seemingly finally playing it. It's what celebs have to do to keep relevancy and to boost their profiles. It would be really odd if he simply stayed single forever. There'd be no image boost that way. I just hope this means his upcoming projects will also be appropriately marketed.

See more here and here and here

[towersofviolet]

phrases that work for me in my office job and don't require lying (i know some autistic people struggle with even harmless lies) (also these are how i would say them and i'm very british so tailor them to your way of speaking):

"doing anything nice over the weekend?" (works best on a friday, or earlier in the week if you're not going to be speaking to that person again until after the weekend) - you can then add additional comments based on their response: e.g. they're going to see a movie -> "i've seen the trailer for that, it looks good" or "i haven't heard of that, what's it about?" or "oh i haven't been to the cinema in ages, i should go sometime"

related phrase to the above, for mondays: "get up to anything nice over the weekend?"

note, if asked about your weekend and you just stayed inside playing video games (and don't want to say that), you can say "oh i didn't get up to much, just had a relaxing one"

in general, if they tell you about something they did, aim to ask 1 specific question about it, even if you're not that interested. this shows interest to them and can raise your friendship bar (if you've played the sims you know what i mean). example: if they went somewhere, ask them "was the weather good?" (if it wasn't local/you don't know the weather they got on that day) or (if you do know the weather) you can comment on it like "aw it was a lovely day for it, did you get to spend much time in the sun?"

holidays are basically fancy weekends, so you can ask similar questions tweaked for the event: "was it just you and [family member] for christmas day?" (implied question: did you visit family/friends) or "do you normally do anything for halloween?"

if they say their kid did something, you can ask "aw did they enjoy themself?"

in general (at least in the workplace) people love talking about their kids. try to remember their name and approximate age (infant, teenager, etc.) so you can tailor questions, e.g. if you know their kid is about 15/16 you can ask "is [name] doing their gcses this year?"

times of year you can conveniently ask about their kids: september (start of school year -> "is [name] back at school yet?"), december (christmas if they celebrate -> "has [name] told you what they want for christmas?"), summer (holidays -> "when does [name] break up for the summer?")

caveat: don't ask too much about their kids that it comes off as creepy. if in doubt, wait for them to bring up their kid in conversation first, then ask a related question

weather is another topic, especially if you live somewhere with very changeable seasons

rain/overcast -> (glance out the window) "ah, it looks like it might rain but i didn't bring my raincoat" or (light-hearted tone) "i was planning on going for a walk at lunch but i might stay in now!"

rain after a long dry period -> "oh we've been needing this" or (variant, works best if you have plants) "the plants have been needing this"

sun -> (light-hearted) "what a lovely day, shame we're inside!" or "i hope this weather keeps up for the weekend"

sun after a cold/overcast period -> "the sun's finally out!"

long period of hot sun in summer -> "looks like it's going to be a scorcher!"

very cold period -> "i wonder if we'll get any snow this year"

talk about your commute to work: "the train was really busy today, i couldn't find a seat" or "the roads were so empty, i wonder if the schools are closed today" or (combining weather and commute) "i just managed to avoid the rain. i got to the building just as the heavens opened" (heavens opened = sudden heavy rain)

if a colleague shares a similar commute to you, you can be more specific: "did you get caught in the roadworks on [road name]?" or "was your train alright? all the ones from [your local station] were delayed by at least 15 minutes"

work-related conversation topics are great too! this will need to be tailored to your job/area of work. i work in an office and use lots of spreadsheets so these are things i say:

while working: "my spreadsheet's so slow today, how's yours?" or "i have so many tabs open, i keep clicking on the wrong one!" or "have you done the update? how long did it take to restart?" or "did you see the email from [name]? do you read it to mean [explanation]?"

towards the start of the day: "have you got a busy day today?" or "got many meetings today?"

you can also comment on the time at work: "almost lunchtime! i'm getting pretty hungry" or "only an hour to go" or "wow, i can't believe it's 4.30 already!" (if the day has been busy and passed quickly)

and the day works too!: "monday already, that weekend went way too fast" or (excited tone) "friday tomorrow!" or "how is it only wednesday?"

note: try not to just use negative comments like this, or people may start to see you as negative/a downer. try to inject at least as many positive comments, e.g. if you complain about monday then also celebrate friday! unfortunately there's a cultural caveat here. different cultures will prefer a more positive or negative style of small talk (e.g. people may be expected to moan and complain all the time) so it will depend on the culture of your workplace!

when you're autistic and you learn how to smalltalk it literally feels like you started hacking real life

[just-my-latest-hyperfixation]

Lament for the living

Written for round 1 of the @steddiebingo and for the April 2025 round of the @stmonstercalendar

Prompts: Scream and Banshee

Relationship: pre-Steddie

Words: 1,168 [also on AO3]

Rated: T

Tags: Death and mourning; Irish Steve; Ghost Eddie; Canon-adjacent

Notes: I have no idea what this is but it has acquired a plot again.

Steve first learned about the family ghost on the day he saw his grandpa for the last time. Mom had stepped out of the hospital room to talk to one of the nurses and dad was somewhere downstairs, taking an important business call. Steve, eleven years old and still clinging to the childish hope that things would be alright, made smalltalk for a while, telling grandpa about school and girls and the next big game he had coming up.

“Maybe you could come,” he said. “It's still a few weeks from now, so maybe you'll be fine by then. Maybe you-”

His voice cracked, and grandpa took his hand.

“I'll be there,” he promised. “Even if you won't be able to see me.”

Steve sobbed. “Don't say that. You can't give up like that, you can still make it.”

“No, kid,” grandpa shook his head, gaze shifting to the open window, and suddenly Steve realized how very tired he looked. “It's time for me to go, I know it. I've been hearing it call to me for days now.”

Steve blinked the tears from his eyes, head whipping to the window, but there was nothing there. “What are you- … what's calling you?”

Grandpa smiled and leaned closer, the way he always did when letting him in on one of his stories. The ones about ghosts and spirits that mom didn't like.

“The banshee. It's said that all families from the old country have one. They're spirits guiding our souls from this world to the next. When you start to hear their cries, it means that your time has come.”

Steve should've been too old to believe in fairy tales, but something about the words sent a cold shiver down his spine.

Grandpa died some time that night, quicker and more quietly than the doctors had been expecting. Steve was the only one who wasn't surprised.

*

Steve first starts hearing it around the time Barb disappears. He doesn’t recognize it for what it is at first, and he doesn’t think he can be faulted for that. Sixteen is way too early to expect the herald of your imminent death, for one thing. For another, it sounds nothing like he thought it would.

He was imagining screams and shrieks and wails, a sound to make your blood freeze in your veins and your heart go numb with terror. Instead, it's singing.

A low, raspy voice carrying out of the woods behind the house. There aren't any words to the song - none that Steve can make out, at least - and still there's a beauty and sadness to it that makes his heart clench. He assumes it must be one of the neighbors, and it's only when he mentions the song to Nancy and she looks at him like he's crazy, that it slowly starts to dawn on him that what he's hearing is his own lament.

And so, when the demogorgon peels itself from the ceiling in the Byers house, he grabs a nail bat and starts swinging, because if he's going to die, he might as well die doing something worthwhile. It's what he keeps doing in the years after. Fighting off monsters in the junkyard, throwing himself between Billy Hargrove and the kids, turning himself into a human shield again and again and again. He starts losing count of how many times he comes close to the brink of death. Every time he does, the singing fades for a short while. Every time, it isn't too long before it picks back up again, louder and closer than before.

When it wakes him on an early spring night in 1986, it's just outside his window, and he knows every single note by heart.

He's also goddamn annoyed.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Steve mutters, throwing off the covers and stomping over to the window with a bravado that probably only a person who has unexpectedly survived multiple apocalypses can muster. “Excuse me? You? Yes, you! Are we sure this is it this time around, because it's kind of getting really old!”

The singing stops. A pair of dark, startled eyes gawks at him.

Steve gawks back. He isn't quite sure what he imagined the banshee to look like, but he knows it wasn't this. The guy looks almost shockingly normal. Roughly his own age, with a mop of dark curls falling over bony shoulders and full, pink lips that are now lightly parted in surprise. If Steve saw him in the street, he probably wouldn't give him a second look - if it wasn't for the tattered white shroud he's wearing, and the fact that he is ever so slightly translucent.

“What?” the boy asks after a minute or two.

Steve shakes himself, remembering he's supposed to be mad.

“I said,” he repeats, “are we actually sure I'm gonna snuff it this time, because so far all your yammering has done is give me migraines.”

“No,” the boy says. “I mean … why are you-? You shouldn't be able to see me.”

Steve scoffs. “Uh-huh. And you shouldn't be doing this for four years straight, I'm pretty damn sure, so maybe you just suck at your job.”

“Excuse me?” the boy bristles. “I've been doing this for eight-hundred-and-seventy-two years and this is the first time this has happened. It's not my fault. It's…I dunno, this fucking place. The stupid hellhole under this town is messing everything up.”

“Yeah, tell me about-” Steve starts to say, then pauses. “Wait a sec, you know about the Upside Down?”

The boy huffs.

“Oh, I know everything about you, big boy,” he says, leaning closer on his branch and kicking his naked feet. It's a perfectly innocent statement in and by itself, but something about the way he twirls his hair and wags his eyebrows makes Steve's stomach give a funny flutter.

“Except for when I'm going to die, apparently,” he snaps, noticing with a warm surge of satisfaction how the boy's translucent face flushes. For a few moments, the only sound is that of the wind rustling the leaves. Somewhere in the woods, an owl hoots.

“Anyhow,” Steve says. “I'm going back to bed. I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't wake me again, unless it's an actual, life-threatening-”

“Wait!” He turns. The boy's grin has gone a little manic, his eyes a little desperate. “Why don’t you stay a little longer? We could talk- … I mean, maybe I could help figure this out? Not to brag, but I know a lot about supernatural shit.”

Steve hesitates. If the guy is telling the truth and has been doing this for eight-hundred-and-who-knows-how-many years, maybe he does know something that can help them.

He's also probably pretty damn lonely if Steve’s the only person in all that time who's actually been able to see him.

He heaves a long-suffering sigh.

“Fine, whatever. What do you know?”

Befriending the family ghost sure as hell wasn’t on Steve’s agenda for this year, but he's long learned to roll with the unexpected.

More Steddie Bingo

More monster loving

[chipthekeeper]

Today I had the displeasure of reading the words “we get it vel is sad and gay can we move on” and several other similarly ridiculous things on twitter a website not to be named, so I spent my whole 45 minute drive home just absolutely fuming with the need to defend my girl. Most of you know I've already done this in a broad sense before (defending her as a character and as half of a complicated relationship on her appreciation Friday), but let me focus in on what we’ve gotten from Vel so far in season two for now. Because yeah, it might not have been exactly what I was hoping to see, but it’s meaningful as hell and Faye is doing a fucking incredible job and deserves to be applauded for it.

Look. Even if all she was doing was being sad and gay, I would be here for that. You know this. Those are two of my most favorite qualities of her. But let’s not pretend that all she’s doing is “mourning her gay situationship” and forget why we’re seeing her in this arc in the first place. She’s Mon’s cousin and closest confidant, and she’s Chandrilan. Stuck between these two facts is a conflict for Vel. She HAS to be at this three-day-long heteronormative child wedding from hell because someone she loves needs her support, but she hates every second of it. She hates this place, these people, this culture, probably even the clothes on her back. She looks uncomfortable just about every second she’s on screen in this arc, ESPECIALLY in the third episode.

See?

Something you may or may not have noticed – even I didn’t really register it until I started thinking about all of this because watching three fucking episodes all in one night made them all blur together – but Vel DOESN’T ACTUALLY SAY A WORD IN THE THIRD EPISODE. She has no lines. Vel’s extreme stress and discomfort are conveyed only through Faye’s body language and facial expressions. To complain about this and cry about her only being “sad and gay” is a huge discredit to the performance and I simply won’t stand for it.

Like yes, she’s sad and gay but why can’t we take a second to think about what that means? Look at her circumstances, even leaving out the Cinta of it all for a second. This is a person who must have realized at a very young age that she was not only different but very likely going to either live a completely miserable life or be a disappointment to her very wealthy family and her society at large, and being back here in the middle of it all for an occasion like this hurts fucking deeply even if it’s a weird tradition and she wants no part in it. I can tell you this for a fact because I have fucking lived it. As a gay person, I have no desire whatsoever to take part in a traditional religious marriage or wedding ceremony like the one my sister had a couple years ago, but being at her wedding and the party that followed was overwhelming and painful because I spent so much time thinking something along the lines of “even if I had someone in my life to do this with, these same people – my family – would never celebrate my love this way.”

Now, is that what Vel’s thinking about as she stands next to the other unmarried women (i.e. teenage children) watching her niece’s first dance with her new husband? Perhaps not. But the way she breaks down after seeing Cinta sure looked an awful lot like how I looked sitting outside in the dark and the rain, drunk as I’ve ever been, while my sister’s reception carried on behind me.

And this, to me in particular, is what’s so great about Vel as a character – as a STAR WARS character – and why I will never ever complain about seeing her be “sad and gay.” For the first time ever in my favorite franchise, I get to see myself so clearly. She’s sad and gay, yes, but she’s also fiercely supportive of her family (the part she likes, anyway) – she takes Mon’s hand in support when she needs it, and she seems ready to snap at Kleya for even being around and creating the possibility of trouble at this function. She’s sad and gay, yes, but she’s on the front line of a fucking rebellion. Just because you don’t see it in this arc because that’s not where the story is focused doesn’t mean that’s not still true, and we’ll see that again come next week I’m sure.

I don’t really know how to wrap this up, but the point is if you’re tired of what’s happening with Vel in this show, you’re probably not paying enough attention. I want more of her and more for her to do as much as anybody (that’s a lie, I want it SO MUCH FUCKING MORE THAN ANYBODY, fucking try me), but there’s already a whole ocean of her character to explore with just what we have, if you only bother to stop and consider it.

[d1gitalwitness]

Siuan & Moiraine: Love and Justice in The Wheel of Time

I've been thinking a lot about Siuan's final speech in third season finale of The Wheel of Time, and I disagree with the reading that it centred Moiraine, when it was about Siuan's sense of justice, and what the Light means to her. It was also very clear for the most of the season, little of what Siuan did actually involved Moiraine - they were broken up (in a sense) but still did what they had to do respectively.

"Will you stand behind this woman who stands for nothing? Who loves nothing but power?"

Ever since Elaida's introduction, we learn that she wants the throne for herself not because she cares about the world, or even the prophecy - she wants it to establish a powerful title equivalent to her rank and that was it. There is nothing behind her ambitions, which is the darkest thing of all - even worse than Melindhra who swore to the dark because she wanted to save Malkier.

Siuan is different. She never wanted to become Aes Sedai, much less the Amrylin Seat. She comes a little fishing village and wears her Tairen tattoos proudly for everyone to see; she uses fishing metaphors even in official capacity; she decorates her room like a fishing hut and doesn't care what others think. This is who Siuan's father taught her to be - never to be ashamed of her identity, and always to wear her pride on her sleeve.

"So much for the Amrylin Seat remaining neutral without favourites. No life. No love of one's own. Nothing but the Seat."

The necessity of the Amrylin's indifference is not who Siuan is, who loved her father and never wanted to leave him, who loved Moiraine so deeply that she continued their affair knowing that it ran the risk of death. She made a choice to love Moiraine when it wasn't safe to do so, because this love is what gives her life meaning. Thematically, Moiraine and Siuan's love for each other is inextricable from their pursuit of justice - they are fighting for a future they may not get to see, but to be happy while the world rots is not something they stood for.

This is where Siuan differs from Elaida; Siuan is a ruler who loves and is loved in return, and White Tower laws do not allow room for that. The intractability of the White Tower will cause them to lost the last battle. They want to cage and gentle Rand - with good reason, of course - but this decision also means that they don't have faith that Rand can choose to do the right thing. They don't trust anyone and don't stand for anything but themselves. Moiraine, despite her ruthlessness, has come to trust that somewhere in the Dragon Reborn lies a good-hearted shepherd named Rand al'Thor.

For Siuan, the Amrylin must stand for something and someone. She cannot lead the world with indifference and selfishness. Notice that Siuan wishes that they never went to Gitara's study. For Moiraine and Siuan, the thought of knowing the truth and eloping never crossed their minds - maybe if they hadn't walked into the room, they would have eloped. But they were given the burden of knowledge, and they cannot abandon the world. It is perhaps true that Moiraine and Siuan only fell in love with each other because they recognised in each other a fundamental goodness. As Anvaere has said of Moiraine, the same can be said of Siuan.

"But there are two things my sister understands better than anyone; the difference between right and wrong, and how much harder it is sometimes to do what is right."

So when Elaida accuses Siuan of working with Moiraine - knowing damn well that these two were lovebirds - Siuan tells the truth. She loves Moiraine, and she won't be shamed - the laws of the Aes Sedai need to leave room for choice, for love, and for light. If they are to win the Last Battle, they need to change. Elaida is using the ugliness of tower laws fuel her dictatorship, and Siuan saw right through it. Elaida isn't a dark friend, but she doesn't know what the light means. Siuan does, because she loves and is loved. Her declaration of love isn't about Moiraine as much as it is about the indifference and cruelty of Aes Sedais. But Moiraine and Siuan's love for each other is what sustained them; they had the slightest of hopes that winning the last battle is what gets them closer to their dreams. It is crushing and moving and deeply heartbreaking.

“Everyone has a choice and every choice has a consequence."

People fall in love. And when they do, they care about the future that they have to live in. To have "nothing but the seat" is what Elaida embodies, and in her final hours, Siuan is warning Elaida that this tyranny and narcissism will rot her soul. Elaida's countenance of shock and surprise affirms this. Unlike her, Siuan stood for someone and something. She has more than Elaida ever would hope to gain. Siuan will never become a tyrant because she loves. To discount Siuan's love for Moiraine is to overlook the choice she made to love against the grain, even when it is the most dangerous thing she could do. As Moiraine has said, every choice comes with a consequence. Both of them knew they were living on borrowed time, but that is what enriches the love they have for each other.

There is a future where Moiraine is waiting for Siuan, but ultimately it can't be because they made a choice to forge a future for the whole world, even if it means forfeiting their happiness. Even if it means they won't live to see it. There is an extremely moving and earth-shattering bravery in that commitment.