#so its hard to convince them when they are being bigoted

[curioscurio]

Why we have to start being nicer to eachother:

I know it sucks and is hard, but I think we really do need to start treating techbros and incels and our fellow humans with a bit more compassion, empathy, and understanding before we jump to bad faith interpretation. Especially when seeing a bad take online used as bait for arguments. We have to give other people the opportunity and knowledge to think for themselves, and make the choice to become a better person on their own.

"Hold on! Why should I be nice to people like that? THEY'RE the ones who are being bigoted to US!"

Well, I'll try and answer that question below! I ended up writing a lot, so check out the "read more" if you're curious. At the end of the day, I'm not an expert or a professional on human behavior, so keep that in mind. This is just something I've been thinking about based on my own past experiences.

Conspiracy theorists, the far right, gun enthusiasts, and even MAGA's all operate on the belief that modern society hates them for who they are. They think the entire world is against them.

And, looking at the kind of hate rhetoric and harmful ideologies they talk about; the cruel acts of casual and extremist violence that stem from that community, it easy to see why the world has turned its back on them. Right?

It makes you wonder: "Why are they like this?"

The easy way out is to simply hold on to the belief that they are behaving this way because they are bad people. Bad people do bad things, after all.

But when the world turns its back on a group of people, those people turn their backs on the world. They will naturally gravitate towards whichever group of accepting humans they come across first. Whoever validates their feelings and makes them feel accepted and safe instead of rejected and fearful.

The far right preys on young men who don't know know any better because they are never treated any better. They have influencers, exactly like Donald Trump, that make you feel safe. They also are lying to these people and using their fear of rejection to control them.

It's very similar to how the Church will help you out and feed you if you're homelss... as long as you join the church and donate 10% of your earnings to "God." (The churchs bank account. )

That is to say, people don't usually pop out of the womb with these prejudices and fears programed into their heads. It's something that has to be taught to them by somebody else. Their parents, the church, their school, their friends, youtubers, etc.

"So, what do we do? How do we save future and current generations from being sucked into this hateful spiral of far right bigotry?"

"How do we help our conservative parents, who we know love us but are absolutely convinced that they need guns to keep their families safe? How do we help our Trump Train family members who used to be loving, compassionate, people?"

Well, you're not gonna like the answer. We have to start being nicer to everyone. We have to be nicer to incels, dude bros, techbros, Karen's, and yes, even your average Republican voters. We have to show them compassion and empathy when they're expressing their fears, without immediately attacking them for it. We have got to prove to them that there's a place for them to come back to.

Their fears are being taken advantage of by a system that benefits from pitting the general population against each other. If we're too busy fighting eachother, we can never join forces and fight the system.

And so it turns into a self-sustaining system of fear and reactive lashing out. They start believing that everybody is against them, except the few people who understand. Until the only safe place left for them is the Q Anon message boards. Quite literally an orobourous of hate.

"But Curio! They literally want us dead! These people are violent and irredeemable!"

Many of them are. So many of these people are groomed into believing that the only way they can keep themselves safe is by killing anything they think has caused them harm. It's an intentional system maintained by those in power to control those who are not.

Some of them, however, are just normal people who got in with the wrong crowd or are too young to know better. Some people were never given the chance to be better.

"So, what SHOULD we do? Be nice to our oppressors? Let them get away with hate crimes and bigotry?"

No. But we DO need to stop thinking of "them" as this massive malevolent demographic who have no souls and are inherently evil. The majority of these people were lied to and manipulated and groomed into these beliefs.

We have to try harder to stop ourselves before we start calling them names and attack them, regardless of if they deserve it or not. We have to engage with them on good faith. Learn about WHY they believe conspiracy theories and why it stems from fear.

"Why? What will this help?"

Because you're quite literally showing them that there's another option available for them to take. You're showing them that, if they do change their minds and want to change their behavior, that you are a safe person to approach with these thoughts. You have the power to create a space for them where they're allowed to think for themselves without punishing them for it.

Once you create that connection, it's like you're showing them another road in life they can explore. They now can see a new future for themselves. A future where their kids start talking to them again. A future where they're not terrified of being humiliated for being soft. A future where they feel listened to.

And that's all. You just have to give them that chance. It's not your job to change their mind, or to tell them that they're wrong for thinking thoughts. In fact, trying to do just that will usually encourage them to double down.

But what you CAN do is build an environment where they have the OPPORTUNITY to change their mind. You can be kind, empathetic, and educational. Be patient and listen and have a respectful conversation with them.

It is especially important for people with privilege to step up and be those kinds of diplomats. People who are able and willing to look past the surface bigotry to address the scared humans underneath. People who can do this without endangering themselves or their community. This may be other cis straight white people who can get away with bringing these topics up gently, without triggering reflexive defensiveness. Who then have the patience to gently educate them and steer them towards a better path.

"But Curio, I can't do this. I've been hurt too many times by these people, and doing this would cause me significant mental distress."

Then don't. You're not obligated to be the better person for every situation and circumstance. Nuance must be taken into account. You don't have to be nice to every troll or ragebait Twitter post. I certainly don't want you to put yourself in a situation that causes you emotional, physical, or mental harm. Hell, you don't even have to give them the time of day. It's your own responsibility to make the judgment call regarding your health.

But people simply won't change if there's no room for them to change. And some people have the power to make that room for them little by little.

"I've tried everything. I've begged, cried, been nice, and shown them that we won't reject them. They won't change their minds no matter what."

And that's also ok! It can happen. When you give people the opportunity to make choices for themselves, there will always be people who still choose to believe the system they were groomed on. They can do that because thats free will, baby. There will still be people who will not change their minds and who will actively choose to become more radicalized.

And it's sad to see. But you also have to respect that sometimes people aren't ready to change at the same time that you're ready to help them change.

But you should try to do it for all the young men and children who are being taught by their parents that White Genocide is real. You should do it for the parents who love their kid so much, but are so terrified when they say they're transgender because they don't know what to do. Because they know the world will not treat them fairly or are afraid of ruining everything.

You should do it for your 10 year old nephew who watches Andrew Tate because their mother doesn't give a damn enough to check what kind of YouTube videos their kid is watching. You should do it for the depressed and hurting teenager who thinks they have no option left but to buy a gun and shoot up their school, because no ones listening to them. You should do it for the tradwife who's alone and hurting after her conservative husband cheated on her and left her with nothing; because she thought she would be the exception.

"...How do you know this will work? What if you're wrong, and nothing changes?"

I don't! I'm just a random person on the internet. I dont know who might read this. It's just my opinion.

But at least, at the end of the day, you tried your best to be a good person to another human being, and I don't think that's such very a bad thing. For me, I'm going to try because I don't want to lose my father to that kind of environment. I want to be able to have a normal conversation with him again.

There's some good in this world, Mr. Frodo, and it's worth fighting for.

[transmaverique]

amab and afab, if they were used as shorthand for the actual full phrases that they signify, with emphasis on the "assigned" part, and an understanding that they are enforcements of normative (ie, dyadic and cisgender and binary) sex, would be like. really useful. but people took the terms and started using them as shorthand FOR normative sex instead of the ENFORCEMENT OF normative sex. so when other trans people (almost always dyadic trans people) ask for your agab they are almost always asking for your Original Genital Situation. your starting point, so to say. and the reason FOR asking is also almost always bc they are trying to also enforce a certain kind of normativity within queer spaces (which is stupid bc being queer is inherently non-normative but here we are). like, you cant be a lesbian if you're ftm, bc you ARE m, so if you ARE a lesbian, then that means you're lying about some aspect of your identity. does that make sense?

it is always always always incredibly.... i do not trust dyadic trans people that use cagab terms, even moreso than i do not trust dyadic trans people that just use agab terms. agab is also coopted intersex language, but the "coercive" part of cagab SPECIFICALLY refers to medical "intervention" of intersex characteristics, such as "corrective" surgeries and hrt. i am deeply fucking suspicious of any dyadic trans person that uses those terms exactly the same as described above, even moreso if they do so bc "all gender is coercive".

like. yeah. that's true. but you use these terms to erase and overtake intersex discussions on the medical abuse of intersex infants. and i cant help but wonder why you would feel the need to do that.

[arabian-batboy]

Its disturbing how Zionists are trying to so damn hard to convince the world that Palestinians are currently on a huge raping campaign on innocent women and girls everywhere, even though there are literally ZERO evidences so far of ONE case of a Palestinian raping or stripping any civilians (and I mean real evidence, not bigots saying its true on twitter), they simply willed it into existence by merely saying it over and over again and thinking that's enough to make it into a real concerning fact

But do you know what has been proven as a legitimate fact for decades on the other hand? Thousands of Palestinians men, women and children being systematically violated and raped on a regular basis by Israeli settlers with no consequences or sympathy from the international community.

Like we literally have videos of Israeli soldiers on camera laughing about how many Palestinian women they have raped and multiple photos and videos of Palestinians being stripped naked and beaten by soldiers. Right now there's even a video of Israeli soldiers pissing on a dead naked Palestinian man on twitter which isn't being shared around or talked about half as much as much that one video of one Israeli woman allegedly being "stripped" to a bra and shorts, even though it has already been debunked by now that she was already wearing just a bra and shorts when she was captured and that neither she nor any other Israeli hostages have suffered any kind of sexual abuse by Palestinians (as you can see by how good they're being treated in this video)

It's really remind me how White supremacists in Europe have started this propaganda that Muslim refugees shouldn't be allowed Asylum because they're here to rape European women and that rape rates in Europe will sky-rocket by their mere existence, even though again, there are zero evidence of refugees committing sexual crimes (or any crimes) on a higher rates than local citizens. In fact, in some European countries and the US, it has proven that Muslim-majority neighborhood actually have the lower crimes rate compared to their counterparts.

One thing is clear here, it seems that it doesn't matter where they live, all White supremacists (especially Zionists) have the same exact trick when shit hits the fan and its: claim that "savage brown men are coming to rape your delicate white women! So you need to kill them before that happens!" each time the people they're oppressing are standing up for their human rights.

-

Palestinians made a document that contains templates for letters to US, UK, & Canadian politicians, media outlets, and companies in relation to current events in Palestine as well as petitions & other resources. If you live in any of these countries then please select a template, edit it to your preference and send according to the instructions on the relevant page.

Here is a link to it (please share it): https://docs.google.com/document/d/1-RUOHHiEtr7uoclQgWN-tCWOihnHIp5hym89aNePi_E/mobilebasic

Aside from that, please protest, support the BDS boycott and spread awareness as much as possible.

[britcision]

I’m pretty sure the people bitching about not giving money to tumblr are the same ones who complain when AO3 or wikipedia ask for donations, so I’m just gonna clarify something

Running a website is not free

Even if they made no changes and did only maintenance, they still need to pay for server costs, expert programmers for when something goes wrong, storage (although frankly storage is cheap as chips these days which is nice)

They need to keep up with the capabilities of new tech like improvements to web browsers, never mind their own apps keeping pace with old and new tech developments

Backwards compatibility (being able to run the updated app on old tech) is a massive problem for apps on a regular basis, because there are people out here using an iPod and refusing to update software

There’s a reason every few years apps like Animal Crossing will issue an update that breaks backwards compatibility and you can only play if your phone is running more recent software

This shit costs money even before you look into the costs of human moderation, which I’m not exactly convinced is a big part of their current budget but fucking should be if we want an actual fix for their issues with unscreened ads and reporting bigots

Ignoring that it’s apparently illegal for companies not to actively chase profits, running Tumblr is expensive

And advertisers know we fucking hate them here

They’re still running ads, which we know because they’re all over the damn place, but half the ads are for Tumblr and its store

Other ad companies know we are not a good market, so they’re not willing to put the money in

Tumblr runs at a $30 million deficit, every year, because hosting a site is expensive

They are trying to take money making ideas from other social medias because they’re not a charity; they need to make enough money to keep the site going

If you want tumblr to keep existing, never mind fixing its many issues that require human people to be paid to do jobs like moderation, they will need money

Crabs cost $3

One crab day a year can fix the deficit and hammer home for Tumblr that:

A) we do want to be here and want the site to keep going

And B) they do not need to do the normal social media money making strategies we all hate

They need a way to make money if you want the hellsite to exist, because we live in a capitalist hellscape and cannot all be AO3

If they think they can make enough to keep running without pulling all the tricks we hate, they have no reason to pull said tricks

But they need money

And a way to make money

And if we can show them we can do that, there is a significantly higher chance they will listen to us, the user base they need money from, than if we don’t

Tumblr isn’t perfect, or anywhere close. They need someone to actually screen the paid ads they put through, they need to take the transphobia, antisemitism, and bigotry seriously

These Are Jobs That Will Cost Money

People Need To Be Fucking Paid For Their Work

Tumblr Is Not Run By Volunteers For Free And Nor Should It Be

Paying People Is Good Actually

So if you wanna get all high and mighty over $3/year, by all means, go spend that hard earned cash elsewhere

Good luck finding a perfect and morally pure business to give it to though

Being a whiny negative asshole isn’t more appealing just because you’ve put yourself on a moral soapbox, it just means the asshole is a little higher up

For all the whining about “all the new updates are terrible this site is unusable”…. It’s one fuck of a lot more usable than it was in 2017, 2018, 2020

And yeah, it’s going back down and most of the newer ones have been fucking annoying and I would also like them to stop

But it got up somehow and that means it could do that again

Hope is more fun than edgy nihilism

August 1st is a good and exciting day to summon a crab army

[fernlessbastard]

ok hot take. we all hate capitalists. I know. I do too. I really, REALLY hate capitalists.

that being said C!Quackity is the definition of a capitalist. like in a fully "I made the money, I deserve it because I took the risks." "its not my fault that some people dont work as hard as I do." "las nevadas is a company, the only government is the corporation which Quackity owns." way.

he is sat RIGHT at the bottom right corner on the political compass, and he is not budging. obviously, thats not to say hes a homophobe or a racist or generally a bigot, but hes very much a land hoarding, greedy, individualistic, profiteer type guy.

him and wilbur have gotten into several arguments about this, as with pretty much all of the ways Quackity runs his goverment, and shots have been FIRED.

I think the main argument from wilbur would be: "was it your fault that you were homeless after you ran from schlatt? do you really belive that youre the only person who has ever needed to run from financial abuse?" and "if it hadn't been for my policies about taking in all we can feed, then you would have starved to death in the woods. according to your philosophy I should have told you to piss off because you wernt profitable."

and then quackity responding with: "you change your ideology like youre a kid playing dressup, dont act like youre better than me because you woke up and decided that being a marxist suited your situation best, you just want something to argue about." and "you only took me in BECAUSE I was profitable. maybe not through labour but you would have used me as a bargaining chip any day of the week."

anyways, they've both been heads of state and both of them are well versed in political science and economics, which leads to both some very fun conversations and some less fun arguments. (wilbur might enjoy it a little)

ok so yes I agree with that take in the context of the smp, but it's also important to point out that minecraft "capitalism" is what those capitalists who want to convince you it's good claim capitalism to be. Food is abundant, shelter has little requirements to be functional, you can literally just dig a little into a hill and you're set, and then make a farm from things you can find anywhere. Anyone can mine, anyone has access to anywhere that isn't already someone's exact base, food is easily accessible and renewable, etc etc.

What Quackity's doing is he's actually providing a luxury service which isn't at all necessary. And Las Nevadas deserves to earn a profit from people using its facilities, cause they've been carefully and deliberately made to provide entertainment. Quackity doesn't have monopoly on food, shelter, land, resources, etc. Anyone could make their own small version of LN if they had the want and time to. So it isn't fair putting cQuackity in the same box as idfk bezos or musk, cause in cQ's case it's deserved, earned, and not a monopoly that causes everyone but him to suffer. Translating that into real life is just simply much more difficult than taking it at face value

As a sidenote I think that while Quackity is like that on the outside, he still wouldn't ignore someone needing help. Like, he's definitely got that built up resentment of "I had to work for all of this so hard, I've gotten through so many hardships. Why should someone else have it easier??" but then when the push comes to shove he's still end up helping, even if just a little bit.

[metalheadsforblacklivesmatter]

Fatphobia liberation month

Part of fatphobia that makes it so malicious is the fact that society teaches us that fatness is a choice.

You can't choose your skin color or the sex that you were born as or even being born disabled.

And liberals will even agree that you can't choose being born gay or trans (though conservatives disagree).

But through marketing and diet culture and food pyramids and a thousand videos a day shoving random information down our throat about what is and isn't "healthy" food. "Carbs aren't healthy, fat isn't healthy, seasonings aren't healthy, preservatives aren't healthy, fruits high in sugar aren't healthy, protein isn't healthy".

Because society thinks fatness is a choice, it validates this idea that fat people are less worthy, and aren't good enough simply because they "choose" to be fat.

You come up to me, say I'm less worthy because I'm born with a vag. I'll tell you fuck off with that shit because it's stupid to tell me I'm unworthy because of how I was born. But because society has a million (unhealthy) ways to lose weight. If you go up to a fat person and say the same thing, some fat people have truly internalized diet culture, and because of that they think that their weight is something they control and that they just aren't "trying hard enough". And it makes it that much easier to convince them that they aren't good enough because of who they are.

Some people can lose the weight, but some people that's just how their bodies are, and is equally as bigoted to tell them that they're less valid for it. In fact, it's more malicious because society works so hard to try to tell them its something they can control when in truth it's really not as easy as you make it sound.

(Even if they are capable of losing the weight, you're still an asshole for telling them that they're less than for being fat. I'm just saying it's cruel how we convince fat people that they can lose the weight and they're less deserving because they haven't tried hard enough when any naturally skinny person knows that it's absolute bullshit.)

-fae

[headmasterseverussnape]

Fun theory time (which I thought up at 1 Am..)

What if Salazar Slytherin wasn’t actually a bad person and it was all a conspiracy by the other founders?

1) It is possible he was a researcher. He could’ve dabbled in the dark arts to understand it and see its potential positive uses, but the other founders believed it to be too dangerous so they didn’t agree with it, keeping some distance from him.

2) He might’ve not known of the Basilisk’s powers? Was the snake even that well known before the got it? Probably not. He likely got it when it was a hatchling. Plus, he’s a parseltounge and was its caregiver. Snake’s learn who their handlers are and don’t attack them because they’re the ones the one that is feeding them. Which means it’s very much possible both of those factors made it to where he wouldn’t have been harmed ever. The chamber of secrets could’ve just been its enclosure and wasn’t meant to be opened without him around as it was a venomous snake and he was its handler. He probably told the other founders about it which is how they knew of its existence. They also probably changed the bathrooms around or put it over the chamber after it was made. Making it hard for Salazar to get to the chamber because it was in the girl’s restroom. So, the basilisk likely starved. Since it was starving when the chamber was finally opened it went after students.

3) What if Salazar was actually a Halfblood. His father being a pureblood, his mother a muggle. His father hooked up with a woman while drunk, she had Salazar but sadly died in the process. Salazar’s father married another woman, a pureblood who he already had an arranged engagement to. They pretend like Salazar was a pureblood to keep their family blood status from being “stained” and didn’t let him speak out. Then when he was older and ‘could’ speak up about it, he felt like he couldn’t or shouldn’t because of all the pureblood supremacy and his reputation as a great wizard would probably decline. As in that time people likely believed only pureblood wizards could be “great”.

4) What if it was all started because of a love triangle? It is possible that Salazar and Godric were both bisexual and got into a relationship at some point. One of the other founders were probably jealous of their relationship because they liked Godric. I’m going to say it was Rowena. After a couple of years of dating Godric he finally felt like he could tell him of his secret. However, since he kept quiet about it for years while they were dating, Godric felt betrayed as it was a HUGE secret that was kept from him. Rowena convinced Godric (with the help of Helga) that Salazar was likely keeping more secrets from him and lying to him about more things. Rowena was the one that decided to manipulate Godric and she made Helga back her up. Salazar and Godric ended up having a messy breakup, Godric later got into a relationship with Rowena. They forced Salazar to leave Hogwarts. Since telling people that Salazar was actually a Halfblood that would make him out to be the victim (which he actually was) especially since there was progression in inclusivity the wizarding world (and Hogwarts). So, they made him out to be a blood supremacist and bigot who created the chamber of secrets for the basilisk to kill students who weren’t “worthy”. Since he already dabbled in the dark arts, there was the incidents with the Basilisk and students it wasn’t very hard for the other founders to make him out to be the villain. Rowena and Godric eventually broke up and got with other people. Salazar also got with someone else hence the Slytherin Heirs. Godric still felt betrayed by Salazar so he held animosity towards the house he created which eventually rubbed off on the students. Creating the house rivalry between the two. Salazar could never set the record straight because he was known to be a dark wizard, handler of the basilisk that killed students and liked cunning, ambitious, etc traits which he used for his houses sorting. So, no one would’ve believed him if he tried to explain. Especially since the other founders were already popular and well liked while he never really was.

[caffeineandsociety]

Every single bias and bigotry is perpetuated by convincing even many of their most fervent holders that they don't hold them. Ironically, it is in part the knowledge that bigotry is bad that helps to perpetuate systemic inequalities.

Why?

Well, the logic is simple. Bigotry is bad. Basically everyone knows that bigotry is bad. The baseline is to agree that bigotry is bad. To say otherwise is shocking. Upsetting. No one wants to be that guy. A lot of them know the paradox of tolerance/the nazi bar problem and thus will agree that the solution to dealing with A Racist or A Misogynist or whatever is to ostracize them because their bullshit does not fit in polite society.

Therefore, when you tell some random person that they just did A Racist/Sexist/Ableist/etc. Thing, they're likely to get defensive - because, no matter how socially condoned that thing is, because the baseline is to agree that these things are bad, it ends up coming off as "this is not a socially condoned behavior, this is not cultural and/or systemic, this is something only TERRIBLE HORRIBLE INDIVIDUALS could EVER do, get out of my bar before you drive away all the non-evil customers!"

The idea that there are levels between "absolute paragon of equality who never commits even the slightest microaggression" and "A Bigot looking to hurt people whose very presence as a person should not be tolerated by anyone" is completely alien to...a LOT of people.

It's a widespread problem, though I suspect this may be especially hard to shake in the US, because "go ahead, pull yourself up by your bootstraps, individual solution your way out of systemic problems, you can do it!" runs horrifyingly deep in our culture.

But worse than that, consider what individual biases may look like - they're usually obfuscated under one or more layers of abstraction. Plenty of people who call themselves good non-racist citizens still tend to move away from Black men on the bus - it's not because he's Black, they say, he just Looks Angry and Intimidating and Shifty. And the thing is - the overwhelming majority of people who would say things like that believe it! They well and truly believe that the "hostility" they sense in EVERY Black man they see has NOTHING to do with the fact that they're Black men!

And a lot of people who think that work in HR.

And if you call them on that bias, they will believe that you're accusing them of being UNIQUELY awful - not picking up common social biases, but the complete opposite, creating a new terrible evil idea in their individual horrible evil person brain.

This is why "racists dni" is such a ridiculous thing to put on a profile - some 95% of even the most aggressive capital-R Racists do not think they're racist; they will swear up and down that the way they treat people has nothing to do with race; the most they might admit to is "its Those People's damn culture, they're so loud and rude, I know they have the capacity to be perfectly fine people so it's not RACISM to say they need to clean up their act!" And those who will admit to it actually being about race? Keep coming up with new words for their belief system because "no, no, Racism Is Bad, I'm just, uh, a RACE REALIST!" (🤮)

It's deeply insidious how it works.

[spacevixenmusic]

Hogwarts Legecy is the perfect storm really. Many buying the game are TERFs through and through but then you have those who are... tired. Tired of dealing with a world that never seemed so political before. Tired of having to make concessions for their allyship. Tired of the world being on fire.

Nostalgia is a huge marketing tool now more than ever because of the escape it provides. What is Hogwarts Legacy but the ultimate escape to one's childhood in lieu of how crap adulthood gets? For some hollow allies, it's the straw that broke the camels back.

Here's what they tend to... overlook: Transgender and overall queer folks? They're tired too. They're tired of making concessions in lieu of any creator's considerable bad behavior towards their identities. Tired of the world being on fire because of their right to exist being an actual debate. They'd certainly like an escape from a world that seems more political in their adulthood.

But we can't easily do that. Especially when that nostalgia's been the one thing weaponized against us even outside of popular entertainment.

This is all true. Bigots spend a lot of time throwing nostalgia at us because it's an easy way for them to get a foothold in your mind. If they can convince you "things were better when you were a kid", they can more easily convince you that your childhood escape fantasy is worth keeping, even when it actively promotes and harms communities associated with its creator. It's easy propaganda, and so SO many people fall for it so easily.

It's fine to revisit things from your childhood, but for fuck's sake, keep your mind in the present. Learn to look for the things that inspired you back then and then LOOK AROUND YOU for those same things in the present. They are there, I promise you.

You can enjoy stories about wizard schools that DON'T sign the checks of a fascist-supporting bigot who openly endorses a racist and HELLA antisemitic game, you just gotta spend 5 minutes looking for alternatives.

Play Ikenfell or Mystik Belle. Watch anime like Tweeny Witches and High Guardian Spice.

IT'S. NOT. HARD.

[mitochondriaandbunnies]

I have a lot of thoughts and feelings about The Outcasts floating around my head, to the point that I'll probably do some kind of write up about it, but I am so pleasantly surprised by having watched it and so impressed by how they chose to end the series

It's not an ending-ending-- even if they knew they were being cancelled (and I suspect they did), big tv finales weren't really a thing in the same way then-- but there is a genuine attempt at an emotional wrap-up that basically says: racism is learned, and anyone can stop being a bigot and learn antiracism, but they have to be willing to put in the work, and the work is often hard and humbling and thankless

After watching the second-to-last episode, I was convinced that the last episode was going to be a disappointment, because the second-to-last episode ends with what feels like a summation-- Corey and Jemal have split up but find each other again, make peace, and then actually announce that they need to talk about their partnership at the end of the episode

I assumed maybe there was an aired-out-of-order kind of thing going on and that the last episode would be a disappointing return to the status quo

But lo and behold, the last episode of the series has Jemal and Corey behaving a little differently-- they're kinder to one another, they apologize when they start fighting (and they only really start fighting once in the episode), Corey goes out of his way to humble himself to prevent Jemal from having to do the same, they examine the ways Jemal's conception of manhood is wrapped up in violence (because it's the only way he's ever had power) without saying he's wrong, and the question that keeps getting asked-- but never answered-- "why do you two ride together?" -- Jemal answers-- privately, without the audience of Corey, and you can see he's telling the truth. The episode ends with Corey saying he doesn't feel that any town or city is "right" for him anymore, and that he's happy to be on the trail with Jemal.

Which is to say: we didn't see them talk about their partnership, but we know that they did. We see that they're choosing the hard path of understanding, that they're following through, that the status quo has to be discarded. We see that Corey understands what privileges he has chosen to give up for his friend (and what their friendship means), and that he reaffirms that denouncing that privilege is the correct choice.

I watched the first episode of this show out of morbid curisoity-- why in god's name would ANYONE make a show about a former slave and a former plantation owner working together-- came to accept that it was a product of its time but not intending harm-- it's to show us that anyone can renounce racism, but has a naiive 60's 'can't we all just get along' view of what that means-- and came out on the other side thinking-- huh. This was a show that got cancelled because it looked racists in the eye and said 'you can, and you must do better-- and you're going to lose things and status because of it, and you simply have to live with that.' It's not perfect-- it's still a 1960's Western written by two old white guys-- but I'm glad I watched it, both because it was an enjoyable ride and because it's a fascinating bit of lost TV history.

[iamafanofcartoons]

Media Criticism is DEAD, there are no more good critics. LET PEOPLE ENJOY THINGS!

One of my pet peeves is that a lot of the time, people hating on X thing will just regurgitate whatever video essay they got their opinions from verbatim, so you get the same, tired criticism play out every time. Yes, I've seen the hbomb video, and its garbage!

I used to have a friend who basically just parrots certain opinions and it's super annoying because you can literally see him change his own opinions to suit critics, like at least have some original opinions man!

Its genuinely exhausting that everyone today is a mini critic. Every new game, movie, show, ect has to be criticized to the ends of the earth, even if some of those criticisms make no sense at all. even before a new game is out, people have to say it'll be shit with no evidence. can't even discuss a new game coming out in a discord of people who play the first game because they're all 100% CONVINCED without a shred of evidence that it will suck and the devs will fuck it up beyond belief, despite the fact that the only thing we've seen so far are concept arts and 2 trailers. Nobody can be fucking positive about anything anymore and its god damn atrocious. I'm so sick of it.

I'm really sick of people cynically criticizing everything over the most minute details, and it's exhausting talking about media with people like that. 

Obviously people can criticize things but a lot of the time it feels like people are trying to use criticism to make their opinions "objective" instead of just... not liking it. 

You can't just say "not for me" anymore, you gotta write a video essay on why this thing is actually bad.

If you say "I think RWBY is really good" of course people are gonna disagree and that's fine.

 But what I find annoying is that you'll go "Hey this RWBY fight/character is cool" and you'll get flooded with "RWBY BAD WATCH THE HBOMB VIDEO!!"

Imagine spending 2.5 hours watching bald neckbeard cinemasins take a giant dump on a passion project, but somehow you don’t have 5-10 minutes to use google search to see if any of what he said was true. Spoilers? Most of it was slander and libel.

And these are the same people that never recognize forced straight ships that pander to heterosexuals.  Examples?  Sorry, I don't have the time to list 95% of all media with a romance that aren't romance genre.

God forbid someone wants two fictional women to kiss...or two men for that matter.  LGBT media is always criticized more harshly than shows with no representation at all.

It especially sucks because I do think people should have the right to criticize things, and that no piece of media is above criticism, but when everything is 100% criticism 100% of the time it just… doesn’t even mean anything anymore.

It's also hard to criticise things like this when something actually is poorly written, because the worst bigots and haters come out of the woodwork and latch onto your criticism as a "look, we're right" kind of thing. It makes it hard to actually critique progressive media a lot of the time.

A lot of folks just want to hide their hatred for LGBT and for women. I guess I’d rather have poor representation than no representation at all.

Let people enjoy things instead of being a pretentious killjoy who's never had fun in their life unless they're shitting on someone else's fun.

It gets tiring to hear the exact same criticisms of a character I like every goddamn time I bring them up. It may be new criticism to people saying it, but it's mentally taxing hearing the exact same points a hundred times.

[lorbanery]

What's the point of trying to make shit in this society better? There's no fucking way, we have to burn it all down or else i've been fucking lied to for several years and i could have been doing actual good in the world. It can't just be working in the system it has to be against. It has to be

You know, I get where you're coming from. I've gotten caught up in the whole "they system will never change, there's too many people who won't let the system change, the system is too fundamentally broken to make fixing it worthwhile, easier to just throw it all out" mindset. It's tempting to approach it like any issue you might be having where the problems outweigh the benefits, like a computer that would be more of a hassle and more expensive to get repaired than to just buy a new computer.

But the government's not a computer. And frankly, the government's not really the source of all of our problems. Even if you believe that the main issue with the government is that it was founded on racist principles, well getting rid of the government isn't going to magically get rid of bigotry in this country. The government didn't create bigotry. Bigots created a bigoted government. But even when the US government was being conceived and built there were people pushing back against the bigotry. And there have been more and more people every decade doing the same.

We are miles away from the government we had in 1776. Partially because of societal changes, because people were convinced that certain bigoted attitudes were unacceptable.

We live in a country where a Black woman and a white woman are able to marry and buy a house and have kids and get divorced and then remarry two other women and vote for whoever they want.

None of those things were legal in 1776. All of those rights were fought for in long, hard battles. And it sucked and it's not right that we had to fight for any of them at all, and it's not right how many of just those rights came just within the last 50 years.

But we got them.

But now people want us to believe that that's it? That's all the change we can make? There's no possible way to push American society any further?

I'm sorry, but I can't believe that.

Not just because I, personally, have seen American society shift WILDLY left in my lifetime. Not just because my parents' generation saw American society shift WILDLY left in their lifetime.

But because there's so many people like me, like you, like everyone who wants a to see less suffering in the world, whether they believe it's possible or not. We have always existed, and at the end of the day, we're the ones who can push society further and further left, further and further into a society that cares about its other members. It's never just activists making speeches and organizing protests. It's never just politicians working from the inside.

It's also people out here, in society, willing to do even the simplest thing like "treating a marginalized person like a normal human being". Like supporting it when someone proposes building another homeless shelter in your town. Like not patronizing local businesses that have reputations for mistreating marginalized employees. Like patronizing local businesses owned by marginalized folks instead. Like supporting public resources that benefit the community like your town library, pool, skating rink, parks, etc.

Because the more bigoted people see others doing these things, the more some of them realize how poorly they've been behaving. Because the more younger people see others doing these things, the more they realize that this is how a normal, healthy person engages with the community around them.

As for the rest of your message? I can't say whether you've been lied to. I don't know who convinced you that there's no hope or what their motivations were. It's entirely possible that they genuinely believed it too — like I said, I've fallen for the same rhetoric myself before. But even if they did lie to you, I'm sure that's not the first time you've been lied to. We've all been lied to a lot over the course of our lives, about countless things. Of course it can hurt to realize, and I'm not going to try to tell you that you shouldn't feel those feelings. What I am going to tell you is to remember that you've probably been lied to before, and you were probably upset about some of those times too.

But you learned about it and you educated yourself about the truth and you learned how to spot those lies so you wouldn't fall for them again.

If you've read through this whole thing and you believe me when I say that it isn't hopeless, that we have changed society before and we can continue to change society, then that's the takeaway that I want you to take from this. That there is always hope, that learning from our collective human past means learning about the good we've done as much as it means learning how to avoid the bad, and that anyone who's trying to convince you that there's no possible good left to be done is either going through a depressive spiral of their own, or is trying to make you give up.

Don't give up. Don't give up hope. Don't ever give up hope.

[wirsindkrieg]

I was glancing through blogs that had responded to my post about not being alterhuman and the follow-up about not being part of the alterhuman community, and I saw a post pointing out that there's significantly more support for people saying "if you don't use [insert label], that's a red flag", while saying "don't call people things they don't want to be called" gets no traction, and wondering why that is. I have some thoughts on that.

There's two major factors I see that play into this. First, it's really easy to fall into an "us vs. them" mentality when you're in a community that gets shit on by people outside of that community. And that kind of thinking leads to a lot of reflexive defensiveness from anyone who openly says they do not want to be part of your community. For someone who is used to constantly having to defend themself, hearing "What I am is like you, but I do not use the label you have chosen for it" can be easily twisted into "You are wrong for using the label you have chosen", often without any conscious thought involved. Combine that with the tendency for people to mostly interact with people with similar views, and that reflexive defensiveness gets reinforced and spread.

The second factor is that people really do not like being told that they have to change. It's hard to hear that you're in the wrong about something, especially when it's accompanied by being told that you need to do something about it. Add to that the natural defensiveness that comes from being in a community that gets shit on, and it just gets harder to swallow. So those kinds of things either get ignored or actively pushed back against (sometimes publicly, often privately).

(As a small aside: That resistance to being told to change is also why it's hard to convince someone to shed bigoted beliefs, especially if they can't see the harm those beliefs cause. A lot of people simply do not want to be told they're doing bad things.)

There's also another minor factor that doesn't apply universally but which still crops up around these things: "queer" discourse. There are a lot of strong feelings around the word "queer", and those opinions tend to be extremely dug in. It's a topic that ties into peoples' inherent sense of self, and to a history of abuse that's still ongoing in some regions. It makes sense that it would be polarizing.

Where the problem comes in is that a lot of the alterhuman community (at least from what I've seen) is very in the "pro-queer" camp. That is, they feel like "queer" should be used openly and broadly, whether because they feel it's been reclaimed, they feel its nature as a divisive term is desirable, or some other reason. I've seen a fair number of alterhumans openly saying that they greatly prefer referring to it as the "queer community" over any other label.

There's a lot of parallels there between the use of "queer" as an umbrella term, and the use of "alterhuman" as an umbrella term. It's obviously not a perfect comparison ("alterhuman" doesn't have a loaded history as a slur, for one), but there's enough there in common to be worth noting. Both communities get shit on by outsiders, the labels are treated as intentionally very broad, and the terms are fairly polarizing. So when someone says "Don't call people things they don't want to be called" in regards to the alterhuman label, it raises a question: Does the same logic apply to "queer" too?

If someone identifies as both queer and alterhuman, and they consider that follow-up question, suddenly that statement has asked them to change regarding two aspects of their sense of self that are likely very important to them. The other two major issues are doubled, and with that comes an extra helping of defensiveness. And so they're even more likely to ignore or push back against it.

The main reason I'm counting that as a minor issue (even though it took a lot more words) is because it's not the root cause of why things get ignored; it just amplifies the problems that are already there. But it's also an element that needs to be considered in all of this, because when it does apply, I expect it has a big impact.

To rephrase most of that in much fewer words: It's a lot easier to accept "Those people are wrong" than it is to accept "You are wrong". The bigger problem is that refusing to hear those kinds of dissenting opinions limits growth. Sometimes, you are wrong, and you need that pointed out so that you can learn from it and become a better person. But in an era where it is terrifyingly easy to build ourselves into echo chambers (sometimes without even realizing we've done it), it becomes very easy to avoid even seeing those dissenting views, let alone engaging with them.

I'm a big believer in the philosophy of "Question everything," and that applies just as much to things we already believe. If you insist that the things you believe should never be questioned, you cut off an important aspect of growing to be a better person: trimming out the things that aren't right, even when it hurts to let it go. We have to be able to make the distinction between "thing that I disagree with" and "thing that is wrong". It's a hard thing to do sometimes, but it's good for us, both as individuals and as a society. I know it's something I still struggle with sometimes, but that's how these things go. It takes time to unlearn bad habits.

So yeah. Don't call people things they don't want to be called. It's literally that simple.

[martian-martian-martian]

Lmao i think its so funny when TERFS think that any agreement with a terf on anything, especially feminism, makes someone a terf who is 'blinded by trans ideology' and needs to be freed. Some of the shit I see on 'honorary terf posts' and stuff, it's really grasping at straws.

Like, seriously.

Me and ecofascists both care about the environment.

Me and radical racist vegans both think animals deserve better treatment.

Hell, me and GOP conservatives probably both think that the government having complete control over the people is a Bad Idea.

Agreeing with people on some things is not a 'gotcha' its literally being a human being with rational opinions. ANyone with critical thinking skills is going to coincide with those they despise on some points.

I have no problem going through life knowing me and some terf on the internet agree about women being able to have body hair without scrutiny, or the fact makeup is overnormalized for women, or that gender has caused a great deal of harm as a concept in society, or EVEN the fact that vaginas on women are cool, although unlike them I don't think they belong on women exclusively.

Where we DISAGREE is the whole part where terfs think trans people are a danger to women, to feminism, to 'the kids' and society at large, and don't deserve basic human respect.

Y'know. The actually important part.

If anyone out there is dangling on the precipice of TERF indoctrination because they're being fed the idea that caring about women's issues, or gynocological health issues, which are still a thing and CAN be a thing while also being inclusive, are somehow the exclusive property of bigots, let me coax you down from that ledge.

You can have nuanced opinions, but as long as you believe trans people deserve the same rights as cis people; the right to safety, privacy, dignity, and respect, you will NEVER be a terf. You're not "gender critical" or a "radfem" its all a packaged deal with commandeered language, and if you're even in for a penny, they will take that pound out of your flesh. On the basis of thought I actually stated alone, a basis of belief that doesn't even require LIKING trans or queer culture, or even understanding it, JUST THAT baseline respect, that actually means that to them you are in fact what they would consider a 'trans rights activist'. Something they spurn and scorn. Crazy right? Trust me. I'm a cis fem if that gives me any credit with a partially indoctrinated person: As long as you're picking the side of human dignity, you ain't a TERF. Scrape that grooming, warped, frustrated human old gum off your shoe and keep on truckin' like the badass feminist and egalitarian you are. Being frustrated or confused by identities you might find obnoxious or hard to understand is normal. That's what being part of a community is like. People will have perspectives that confuse you or maybe even make you feel threatened. Wanting them to stop existing, being convinced their real lives are a hoax, an illness, or cult that's killing the kids? That is fearmongering beholden to the fascist idea of "everyone has to be like me to make me safe" that is as old as the first neanderthal.

[suntrastar]

sink or swim

pairing: ransom drysdale x reader

summary: you first meet ransom when meg drags you along to a party. everything somehow spirals from there.

warnings: swearing, smut (but like very vague smut, nothing super explicit), ransom’s general assholery

word count: 9.3k

author’s note: i hate ransom drysdale! he is a shit character! if he existed irl i would whoop his ass with NO hesitation. but i still wrote this fic because ... a bitch gets thirsty okay?? okay. and ik this is very long BUT a lot of it is dialogue so it should flow pretty fast!!! likes and reblogs are always appreciated!!! ily now enjoy!!! you can also read this on ao3 :)

There’s something fun about being somewhere where no one wants you, and then something shameful. 

Meg isn’t touching you, but as she drags you around her famous grandfather’s mansion in search of people to bother, it feels like she has you on an invisible leash, fastened tight over your neck. To keep you tethered to her- like a fucking dog. 

The leash hurts like it is not made of plastic or metal but instead two hands squeezing tight, wringing you dry, choking you harder and harder and bruising you purple with no remorse.

Now, she’s debating political theory with her douchebag fuck of an uncle, who almost hits you once- almost hits you twice with his cane while waving it around as he quotes Fox News-

Their voices rise. You’re the only one that flinches.

Standing awkwardly on the edge, you wonder why you are the only guest at this terrible party that looks so lost. Meg gives you a covert this-is-total-bullshit glance, and a small, pained, rehearsed smile, both of which you have to return- that’s the real reason you’re here, after all- and her uncle rants on, wholly oblivious.

You look past them both, to where one man stands by himself.

He’s leaning against the far wall, and while Meg retaliates with some of her favorite words, including audacity and bigoted and problematic, you take a sudden, intense interest in the wallpaper pattern, sweeping your eyes over the span of it, looking over the man just once.

He is staring right back at you.

All it takes is his eyes- he’s just staring, but you’re absolutely embarrassed. 

He looks rich, with too much product in his hair and a coat that looks like it cost more than your rent, with loafers that expose an uncomfortable amount of ankle and an expression that morphs into something wolfish as he starts towards you-

Before you can think, he’s joined your little circle- Meg prefers standing, so of course, everyone stands- and smiles when she glares at him. 

He isn’t looking at you anymore.

“So,” he interrupts, and his voice is so dark, “what riveting political topic are we debating tonight?”

You should call an Uber. Why did you accept Meg’s offer of a ride?

“Ransom,” Meg says sweetly, “could you just, like, fucking not?”

This is supposed to be a Christmas party, but none of these people seem to be in the Christmas spirit. Including her uncle, with his stuffy sweater set and clunky-as-hell shoes. He sputters something about young people and their profanity, and then hastily leaves. 

Without thinking, you breathe out a heavy sigh of relief. 

The man smiles wider. Unfortunately, it makes him look very handsome.

”Ouch,” he says lightly, to Meg, and turns to you.

A shiver runs down your spine. 

You hate him immediately. 

“Who are you?” he asks.

For whatever reason, the question makes Meg scoff. She shakes her head at you- a warning. Her hair flounces with the movement.

Because she doesn’t want you to, you give him your name. And then add, because your name alone seems like a title too stripped down, “I’m Meg’s friend.”

It’s hard to convince yourself to be polite, when you don’t like how he’s been looking at you- with his eyes narrowed and brown furrowed and lips parted. He gives an insufferable nod.

“Right,” he says. “The one she’s been showing off all evening.”

Your heart skips a beat.

“Ransom-” Meg starts, and suddenly you are so angry, at this man for confirming what you thought was all in your head, at Meg for suddenly swooping in to save you, like she’s been waiting for it-

“I guess,” you say, and smile a little, and regret everything.

“That’s pathetic,” he says, and looks at you kindly.

 Apparently, Meg is the only one allowed to be self-righteous in her annoyance, or anger, or any other mildly passionate emotion. She doesn’t return your covert this-is-total-bullshit glance. 

So you fend for yourself.

“Well, so is this fucking party, so-”

He interrupts you with a laugh. 

It’s loud and arrogant and mirthless, and you’ll climb out of a window, find a way to walk through the walls, if it means that you’ll escape it.

“I’m just joking,” he says, pursing his lips, and the hands on your neck, ever-present, nearly crush the breath out of you. “Don’t get your panties all in a twist.”

“So funny I forgot to laugh,” you say, and instead of replying, he just looks at you.

He looks at you slowly, like he has nothing better to do, like he has time to waste. You can smell him- some cologne that’s spicy, and expensive, and Meg is staring at you in shock, like you’ve committed a crime. 

But she’s quiet.

“I’m Ransom,” he says, and raises his hands to make little air quotes, which is weirdly adorable in a way that you hate, “Meg’s ‘asshole cousin’”

“Weird name,” you say. 

You’ve changed your mind- you’re not even going to attempt to be nice.

For a second, he looks furious.

It’s attractive.

“Yeah,” he says. “Anyways, I’m about to ditch. Do you want a ride?”

How does he know you came here with Meg?

He was staring at you from the wall-

From his butterscotch-colored coat with its awful, ostensible lapels, he pulls out his car keys. The BMW logo flashes silver and blue, clashing against the gold of his pinky ring, clinking against the metal as he twirls the key ring around his finger-

For a second, you think that he’s about to toss the keys across the room and command you to fetch.

“Um,” you say, uncertainly, irritated with your own restraint, “Thanks, but Meg will-”

“Meg will what?”

He’s mocking you, and there is no one to come to your rescue. 

Hesitantly, like she has to think twice about it, Meg opens her mouth to say something. What is her problem? What is your problem? Why are you treating her like she is your saving grace? 

You talk before she gets the chance. “Okay, yeah. A ride would be great.”

***

Ransom offers because he likes your face.

You’re better-looking than the girls that Meg usually brings along to these parties, or maybe his standards have fallen- he isn't sure. Does it really matter? Even though he’s been looking at you all night, even though he’s positively thrilled to have you in his car, he’s not going to try anything.

There’s something desperate in your eyes that compels him against it.

You inhale sharply when he turns left. 

“You forgot your turn signal,” you say, and he kind of likes how you chastise him, not angrily or even upset, but just exasperated-

How is someone like you friends with someone like Meg?

“Don’t worry about it,” he says lightly, and the tired glare you give him is enough to make his entire week.

Now that he thinks about it, his mother is always on his case about things like this- compassion and civility and basic human decency, and how he lacks it all, but what about now? He’s taking a miserable girl to her home, simply from the goodness of his own heart, with no strings attached. 

This is such a good deed- this is like charity.

His mother is also always telling him that he’s severely, almost clinically narcissistic.

He definitely is, but again, does it matter?

“So, what do you think about my family?” he asks, making a big, dramatic show of using his turn signal before swerving right, feeling too pleased when you smile. 

He steals a glance at your knees and somehow feels guilty.

He’ll have to do something about that.

“They’re pretty... lively,” you say hesitantly, and he’s suddenly hating the dark, this stupid fucking night- he’d like to see you better.

“Lively,” he repeats, and barks out a laugh. “They’re fucking crazy.”

You laugh, too, a real one- off-kilter, and too loud- none of that artificial shit he heard at the party. Nothing meant to please.

“I was definitely thinking that,” you say. He catches you looking at his hands, but boldly, you don’t look away. “I just didn’t want to be rude.”

“Now you’re worried about being rude?”

“I’m in a car with a strange guy I’ve never met before, so yeah.”

You’re smiling but look uncomfortable, and then afraid.

All bark and no bite- you’ve been talking all this talk, when really, he realizes, you’re so washed-out, so faint, like the bare sliver of moon out in the sky, the same weak moon he’s been cursing out. The same stars, too- you are just as scattered.

You look pretty.

“Are you scared?”

He keeps his eyes on the road because he thinks you’ll snap at him if he doesn’t. Not like anyone drives out here anyway- not like he can’t pay off a ticket or two or five-

“Should I be?”

There is something so delicious about this moment, with you starting to worry- he can’t look at the road anymore, not when he can watch your throat bob as you swallow instead, and it still feels so violating, but so good. 

“Nope,” he says, and you startle when you hear him say it, and he has to bite his cheek to keep himself from smiling. “No need.”

“Great,” you say, and go quiet. 

When he pulls up to your apartment complex, not too far from where he lives, he holds his mouth in check. He could say so many things right now, but for you, he restrains himself.

You have your bag in hand, seatbelt off. From the streetlight, the planes of your face look waxy yellow.

“Thanks for the ride,” you say. 

Your hand is on the door handle, nails glittering. He can’t make out the color of the polish.

While looking at it, a sudden urge overcomes him.

And he shouldn’t, he really shouldn’t, but he wants to, so bad. It’s borderline frantic, the desire- it’s necessary and all-important and crucial, for him and his basic peace of mind, and maybe for you, too-

Who is he to deny himself?

“Wait,” he says, even though the door is open and you have half of yourself out the door. 

The cold is slowly seeping in, bone-chilling.

You wait.

“Let me just,” he says, and can’t bring himself to say anything else.

He reaches out for your waxen face with one hand and presses it firmly against your cheek.

Under his touch, you shiver. He fans out his fingers to hold you better. 

Your eyes are wide. He thinks you look a bit horrified- horrified with yourself for not resisting, maybe.

But he closes his eyes as he leans in, so it doesn’t matter.

He turns your head for you, a bit forcefully. You don’t protest.

He kisses your cheek.

When he pulls back and opens his eyes, you’re staring at him with your mouth in a perfect circle.

“Uh,” you say, and suddenly look away and out into the night, and it makes him angry, even though it should be flattering, “Merry Christmas.”

*** 

You don’t think about Ransom as much as he probably would have wanted- life picks up too fast.

In the last days of the year, Meg calls you and texts you and even goes so far as to send a few emails, but finally, you seem to have found the self-respect to not respond- consider that ridiculously wealthy bridge burned. 

In January, your brother leaves to study for a semester abroad. All the walls in your small apartment are suddenly looming, standing high over you, standing empty. You try to shove off the loneliness by studying harder, by staying distracted.

In February, you have the same dream nearly every night- you’re sitting outside on a porch in the sun and for some reason there’s a bird on your head, and in your lap there’s a clock whose hands don’t work, and you’re wearing a heavy necklace made of gold links that jingle, and you’re so happy. 

Does the bird count as company?

In early March, while you’re watering your plants, your phone rings with an unknown number. 

You shouldn’t pick up unknown numbers.

You pick up.

“Hello?”

“Remember me?” 

His voice nearly gives you whiplash.

It’s dark and harsh, faceless and yet as arrogant as ever. 

“Hi, Ransom,” you say, and think of the night in the car for the first time since, think of how he gripped your face so hard that his ring left an imprint. “How the hell do you have my number?”

“Meg gave it to me,” he says smugly. “She says hi.”

You wonder what Meg thinks you did to her. It’s obviously something bad, something terrible, if she so willingly gave your number to this pretty-faced, pretty-voiced, ugly-coat-wearing asshole-

“Awesome,” you say plainly. You don’t want to talk about her. “Do you, like, need something, or-”

“I want to take you out,” he says.

You laugh and your grip on your pitcher slips, sloshing water over the edge.

“You’re joking.”

He is, right? 

He takes an impatient breath that, for some reason, sounds inappropriate. “I’m serious.”

“Ransom,” you say, slowly, “I don’t even know you.”

“Then get to know me,” he says testily, and you can perfectly picture him, sitting in some colossal brownstone his parents bought him, while a butler daintily dabs the sweat from his brow with an embroidered handkerchief. “Tonight.”

You’ve overwatered your marigolds. 

Has his voice really swept you this far away?

“No,” you say, and shake your head, even though he can’t see it. “No fucking way.”

“Oh, come on,” he says, like you’re the one being unreasonable. “You have anything better to do?”

You don’t, but you take a deep breath and prepare yourself to lie-

“I’ll treat you good,” he suddenly says, and his voice is low and sticky-sweet, dripping with honey. “I promise.”

He says it in a way that makes your knees weak.

You physically have to sit down- he knows how to get what he wants.

Could you actually do this?

Could you go out on a date with a crude, pretentious, trust-fund piece of trash, who probably thinks you’re easy, who’s only calling you because he’s bored, who has already subtly insulted you twice in this conversation alone-

-who got your number from his cousin that you both decidedly dislike, who kissed your cheek like you were pretty in the dark of the night, in his cold car?

“Fine,” you say. “Take me out.”

***

He doesn’t tell you that you look nice- he just stares.

There is something predatory in his eyes.

You’re out on a Wednesday night with a bad man, wasting your time, trying to get something out of nothing, smiling a fake smile when he orders you a drink you don’t like, already irritated with him, and trying too hard to stop looking at his face.

How are you actually interested?

You tell him that you’re in medical school.

“Really,” he says, like he doesn’t believe you. “You don’t strike me as that kind of girl.”

Underneath the table, you clench your hands for some sense of control, but still feel like you’re spinning. “What kind of girl?”

“Smart,” he says, and picks up his drink. The glass sweats beads of condensation, wetting the tips of his fingers. “I didn’t know you were smart.”

You shouldn’t dignify his flimsy insult with a response- he’s just trying to get a rise out of you, trying to make you roll your eyes or scowl or shiver. He wants you unsettled. 

But the moral high ground is, unfortunately, too high.

“And I didn’t know that you’re such a terrible date.”

His teeth gleam white when he smiles. He knows.

He knows that he can say whatever the hell he wants, because he has money, and those eyes, and that insufferably nice rich-boy hair, and that sweater with its charmingly frayed hems, and that voice- he has everything, and then some, and he’s about to have you, too, if he keeps on looking at you like he already does.

“You’re so sweet,” he says. 

“Fuck off.”

He winks and you could cry, you’re so fucking bothered-

You’re not usually this uptight, but he has you so drastically wound up that every little thing he does, even how he’s sitting- body sprawled, manspreading- is fire licking up on your skin, scorching-hot and ruining you with no remorse, like you have done something to deserve it.

When his eyes trail down, from your eyes to your mouth to your neck to below, you are so acutely aware of wanting him that you feel guilty. Like it’s a crime.

***

You don’t seem like the type of girl to fuck on the first date. 

So, of course, Ransom tries to fuck on the first date.

As you stand outside the restaurant, in your dress and strappy sandals, you look so tense that he wants to laugh.

 He can’t help it, because this whole thing you have going on- this weariness you approach everything with, this attitude- is so funny. Maybe, in any other situation, it would be irritating, but he’s been so bored lately that it’s stirring.

“Do you want to go back to my place?” he asks, quietly, taking a step closer to you so that at this very moment, under the waning sun, you should be able to just lean up and kiss him-

You blink slowly and keep your silence.

This is fucking tedious.

This should be so easy- all he has to do is settle his hands somewhere soft and let time pass, and then before he knows it you’re there and under and begging. But he can’t bring himself to touch you just yet, not when his head is calling you pathetic, and his heart calls you-

His heart just calls you.

You start to answer, and then hesitate. All five stages of grief flicker over your face at once- denial to acceptance in the same breath. 

“Sure,” you say, unevenly, desperately-

When you step inside his house, your eyes go wide. As you take it in- the decor, the windows, the excess, he locks the door behind him and takes you in.

You step further inside, and he thinks of where it would be best, but then your eyes crease as you smile- it’s impossible to wait when your smile looks like that- and so he backs you right into the closest wall, cups your face with both of his hands and kisses you.

He kisses you and you curl your hands over his shoulders and immediately kiss back, and he is taken aback and delighted. 

And he knew- the entire time at dinner when you were making eyes at him like you couldn’t believe that you were actually sitting there, present in that moment- he knew that secretly, you’re a freak. He knew it- he knows it.

He hopes it.

“Let me fuck you,” he whispers, right into your mouth, when your heart has been beating right into his for a while, “Let me fuck you right here.”

You bite his lip.

He takes a hand away from your face and reaches under your dress fast, rucking it all the way up your thighs, trailing up to touch you-

“Fuck,” you gasp, and arch your back up against the wall, and he grips you a little tighter-

He presses a finger into you- pushing aside your underwear and, good grief, you’re already wet- harshly, and pulls away from your mouth, so he can watch your face. 

The lines creasing your forehead look like poetry.

He thinks he likes you. It’s a shame he had to meet you through Meg- it would be nice if he had met you somewhere else, on his own. 

That way, he’d be able to waltz in one day, to another insipid family gathering, with you tucked under his arm. You, with your promise of a medical degree and your strappy sandals, and your iron grip on his shoulders and your drawn out breath of a moan-

The looks on their faces would be priceless.

“I’ll take care of you,” he says, and he’s a little irritated at how cracked his voice sounds, but it’s the right thing to say- you swear again and he picks up his pace, pressing hard on your clit. “If you’ll be good to me.”

“I’ll-” you say, and you’re actually stuttering, and breaking out into a lovely sweat, still forced back into the wall with his hand and body. He leans closer, so he can’t tell where you and him and the wall start and end. “I’ll be- fuck, Ransom-”

You still have your arms wrapped around him, like an embrace. He keeps one hand between your thighs, your dress pooling over his arm like water, and uses his other to work at his belt buckle.

This is also funny- you stay exactly how you are, even though at that moment, there is nothing holding you back.

***

The world is begging for you to consider your actions.

But you don’t. You know that when he offers, you’ll meet him again.

It should be too late. You’re exhausted, from a day full of lectures and an evening spent in a lab, working as a professor’s research assistant, and then studying for a few hours in the library- all you really want to do is sleep. 

But then he calls.

The night is suddenly brimming with possibility, and you’ve never been more awake.

On a whim, Ransom suggests ice cream, and because you can’t bring yourself to deny him, you end up at a place that you would never go for- where everything is handmade and served in thick paper cups with multicolored plastic spoons, but he pays, because of his stupid ego or fragile masculinity or whatever the hell, so you don’t care.

He stands next to you as you order, and his shoulder keeps on brushing into yours. You can’t tell if it’s on purpose or not. In the glass shield that the tubs of ice cream sit behind, you’re both reflected, your body warped and tall, his body warped and taller. In the glass, his eyes meet yours.

The tension is strong- it’s only a matter of time.

Your heart flutters.

When you sit, he bumps his knees against yours- you’re sure it’s on purpose, now, but you don’t say anything. What even is there to say? 

That you like it? 

When he digs into his ice cream, the plastic spoon- a green one- snaps in his hand.

 And because you’re so caught up in your own ridiculous thoughts, before he can go back up to get another, you pull your own from your mouth- a pink one- and offer it to him.

The proposition makes him smile.

Why does he smile like that? Each movement, each twitch of muscle is so perfectly detached and coordinated- it’s violent. 

But he still takes the spoon from you gently, with a soft hand. 

He’s too pretty to be mean, you think, but against any type of judgement- not just the better kind- you wouldn’t have it any other way.

You let yourself laugh and he scowls. 

“This place sucks,” he says, like he isn’t the one who chose it.

He adjusts the womens’ scarf he’s always wearing, carefully arranging it over himself so it looks like it was carelessly thrown on. The blue in the paisley print brings out his eyes- it makes him look so stupidly hot that you start to get angry.

You just shrug. “Suck it up, buttercup.”

He puts your spoon in his mouth and looks at you.

Again, the night ends at his place- this time on an actual bed, because you ask for it, and you think he likes how you look when you ask for things in the current state state you’re in-

He fucks you in the dark, and swears into your ear, and is not kind or soft in any way, but after he finishes, he takes the time to kiss the spot in between your breasts, and you think that maybe he isn’t entirely horrible. The bedsheets are cool against your skin, and his mouth is always hot.

You leave without a word.

***

He takes you out this time, in a real, urgent show of wealth- he picks you up in his fancy car, takes you to a fancy restaurant where the numbers next to the fancy menu items are all appalling, where he spends the whole time making these awful, unfunny innuendos that still manage to rile you up, because they’re coming from his mouth-

On the way back, while waiting at a stoplight, you take a deep breath and brace yourself before looking at him.

He really is gorgeous- all lazy grace and harsh angles. The light colors his face red, red in his eyes and in the plane of his cheekbone and in the slope of his mouth- like a beautiful warning sign. His hands are carelessly draped over the steering wheel and, despite the warning, you reach out and trace a finger over his knuckles. 

His whole body jerks.

You quickly draw your hand back.

“What?” he asks sharply. He’s staring at you like you’re crazy.

You don’t know why this is suddenly so fucking embarrassing, all you did was touch him- but you suddenly feel terrible, and-

“Nothing,” you say, with the same tone, and whip your head away from him to the window, where you smolder in the dark and furiously stare at nothing.

The light turns green. He takes his foot off the break and all but slams it on the gas pedal, driving as atrociously as ever, looking over at you for a split second when you don’t protest. The blood rushing in your ears is too loud for you to think- you can’t form any words.

Once it subsides, marginally, you add, “Sorry.”

His jaw tenses.

You look back over at him, at his ring, and imagine it pressing into your neck.

“What’s the craziest thing you’ve ever done?” he suddenly asks- suddenly demands, with a blazing authority that makes your stomach do flips.

You don’t know what answer he wants. “Um, one time I snuck out of-“

“Let’s do something crazier.”

On an abandoned road, he pulls over, and then you’re under him in the backseat- doing something crazier. 

You might have some type of psychic tendencies, because his ring presses heavy into your neck as he pushes himself inside you, starting at a bruising pace, and then he says your name in the dark, and he looks so beautifully flushed, startling when you grab his hair, laughing when your hand accidentally skims his thigh, smiling when you come-

You wish you had the resolve to put an end to this.

You wish you could stay when it’s over.

***

You don’t like his house.

It’s not the brownstone you imagined, but rather a huge, minimalistic box, with too many windows and spotless paint and modern wood fixtures. Ransom has all of these customary rich-person things, including stately furniture and eclectic art pieces and tall shelves stuffed with books, but owning any actual personality has escaped him.

Standing in his house feels like standing in an empty room- it’s all so apathetic.

Still, you show up when he calls.

You haven’t done anything this bad before. 

But there’s a first time for everything, right? First time for enjoying bruises and biting and an unwavering grip on your neck or hips or waist or thighs, first time leaving something so intense so awkwardly.

Each time is worse than the last, with the awkwardness spiraling, accruing beyond reason, and each time you struggle with what to say- even now, you just do your best to stay quiet as you start to get up, reaching for your clothes-

Ransom drapes a heavy arm over you before you have the chance.

“You can stay,” he says flippantly, and then shifts to pull you close to him, so that you are suddenly lying bare-backed against his chest, so that his sweat-slick body and heartbeat imprints itself on your skin.

Is he asking?

You crane your head over your shoulder to get a look at him.

He returns your stare like he’s been waiting for it. 

His face is still flushed pink and a lock of hair hangs low over his forehead, and if you were any braver, you would comb a hand through it, gently, with no real intentions. He’s breathtaking. Even the new, foreign purple under his eyes is a sight- pretty like something you would want to kiss.

“You want me to stay?”

He rolls his eyes and tilts his head back. You would lick the sweat from the divots of his neck, if he asked you to.

“Or leave, if you want. I could care less.”

He cares

You know it because his grip is unwavering, because the terseness in his eyes is enough to make you look away.

Eventually, you settle a hand over his arm and try your best not to tremble. Ransom mumbles something under your breath- you can’t make any of it out, but you don’t ask him to repeat it, for the fear that it’ll upset this fragile bedroom balance you’ve so painstakingly built yourself into-

He wants you to stay. 

“Are you okay?” you ask, because you don’t think he is.

He inhales. You feel his chest against you; it’s shaky. You wonder, for a second, about who he might actually be, underneath the arrogance and egotism and constant need to be an asshole- is he someone you could like without feeling bad about it?

“Yeah,” he says, and throws his other arm over you, so that he is holding you. “Why?”

There isn’t a genuine bone in this man’s body, but he genuinely sounds confused.

It’s possible that you’re the one who isn’t okay.

“Because,” you say, and take a great leap of faith- holding your bare heart in your hands, you turn to face him.

You’re fully exposed and subjected to his gaze- it’s nearly eviscerating. His eyes dip down to your chest and something like insecurity flares in your chest. It’s awful and terrible and you urgently want to kiss him on the lips.

He always kisses you first. You don’t know if you have it in you to kiss him yet. 

You wouldn’t ever try, in case you don’t.

“You look kind of tired,” you say, and his eyes bore into you with a sinking weight, threatening to drown. One of his hands finds a blooming bruise on your skin and lightly presses. He doesn’t react when you wince. The action is still kind- almost tender.

He sighs, and it is such a delicate breath, fanning hot over your skin. 

“I’m not tired,” he says, almost childishly.

You might be overstepping. But you don’t even know where the lines have been drawn. 

“Okay,” you say, and because you would not dare kiss his lips, you lean close and kiss his jaw instead.

He startles and then gives you a crooked, lazy smile. He is everything good, you think- for this one moment. Pretty and soft-handed and made of glass and honey and all other lovely things.

You tuck your head in the crook of his neck and wrap an arm over his, tight, so he knows you are there, and hope for the best.

***

In your spare moments, you’re always thinking.

Ransom knows this because of how you look when you do it- your brow furrows and your eyes go glassy, and you frown with an intensity that he has never seen on anyone else.

It happens when you finish a sentence, when you have no response for him, when he is still talking but you’ve stopped listening. When you think it’s quiet.

It never happens during sex- is it pathetic to take pride in that?

As he stands in your apartment for the first time ever, you look like you’re in near-despair, like your thoughts are wreaking havoc on your mind, destructive and distressing. You wear basketball shorts and a college sweatshirt and glasses.

He didn’t know you wore glasses, and that you looked like this in them- he’s been missing out.

“Hi,” you say, and stare at him with troubled eyes.

Your apartment is so small. He almost feels claustrophobic, standing in here. When was the last time he willingly stood somewhere so small?

The lengths he’ll go to, for… 

For you, he supposes.

“Hi,” he says, and wonders, also for the first time ever, what it is that you’re always thinking. “Why do you have so many plants?”

On the windowsill, with even spacing in between, sits an entire row of glass jars housing plants- all singular flower stems, some budding, some in bloom. The petals of a marigold brush against the window, orange against the grey outside. It’s cute, he absently thinks, in a struggling, shabby type of way.

“It’s just something I do for fun,” you say, sounding irritated. “Like, a hobby.” 

Infringing on the living room space is a small table, cluttered with textbooks and pens and an open laptop with its screen dark.

It still baffles him that you’re smart.

“So,” you start, and cross your arms over your chest. He feels kind of offended, because he’s just realized that he really only knows a handful of things about you, and even that handful is sparse, slipping through his fingers. “Why’d you want to see me?”

He called on impulse. 

He’s just- he’s in what someone could call a mood, where he hates everything and has the intense desire to ruin something, and while he was thinking of how to fix it- beyond just getting wasted- he thought of you.

And when he called, you were sounding so tired and so he even said he could just meet you here, so you wouldn’t have to drive, so you could squeeze in a few more minutes of studying before he inevitably invades your mind-

Easily, he deflects. Nearby, there’s a hallway with two doors, one of which is tightly closed shut.

“What’s in there?” he asks, and points towards it.

You relax, slightly.

He wants to gather you up in his arms, but he doesn’t know for whose sake- his or yours?

“That’s my brother’s room,” you say, and your shoulders slump, and he resists the urge to pull you upright, and the urge to gawk. Brother? “He lives with me. But he’s studying abroad this semester.”

“Where?”

“Prague.”

He nods. This is a stiff, perfect, shocking distraction. “Nice city.”

You nod distantly and head back to the table to put your things away.

“Yeah,” you say, after too long of a pause, as you start to cap pens and set them aside. You look at him as you do it, and so you miss a few times, accidentally drawing dark lines of ink all over your fingers. “I’m glad he got to go. When we were kids, he was obsessed with wanting to travel- he had this entire map in our room, and he would draw stars over every country he wanted to visit, and there were, like, a hundred of them, and he could list every single one, in the exact order he wanted to visit, and he could even list the capitals- I’m sorry. You probably don’t care about any of this.”

He doesn’t.

Or, he shouldn’t, but your eyes are clearer, and as you neatly stack your textbooks in an order only known to you, he is almost intrigued.

He’s longing for you- when you are right there.

He feels like a person outside of himself, when you look at him and smile tiredly.

“Do you want to watch a movie?”

There’s a cheesy ‘90s horror movie you find after a few minutes of channel surfing, complete with terrible special effects and edited-out profanity. The days are longer, now, and to stop the sun from casting a glare over the screen, you close all the blinds. It adds to the atmosphere, you say lightly, fully phased out of whatever just possessed you, and his hands are so itchy- itching to do something.

He sits. Patience is a virtue, but he is not virtuous, and so when you sit next to him and bring your knees to your chest, making yourself small, he goes to-

Something in his stomach stops him. 

It’s butterflies- is he actually nervous?

This is so fucking infuriating.

You’ve got him trapped in some type of pain-and-power-play, some type of unassuming purgatory, and all he can bring himself to do is lightly brush a hand against your shoulder. You smile at his touch and his heart fucking breaks.

As the second boy in the friend group gets murdered onscreen, you close your eyes and duck your head into your knees.

“Tell me when it’s over,” you say, voice muffled.

“Scaredy-cat,” he says, even though this is no time for jokes. 

You crack one eye open, looking only at him, and give him the finger.

Come here, he almost demands. The butterflies protest- he holds his tongue.

The dance continues. When the sun sets, everything darkens, settling into a dim blue. You look like something out of a painting. Faintly sad, unusually serene. The skin around your eyes has smoothened- you’ve stopped thinking so hard and he can suddenly breathe easier because of it-

And then there’s a jumpscare, and he shouts, “Jesus!”

The murderer has broken down a door, and all of the remaining characters are screaming, and you burst out laughing.

He’s in the middle of a crisis, and you’re laughing.

You lean into him as you laugh, with your head turned away from the screen and your eyes open, looking at him so fondly that he suddenly feels violated, and you let your shoulder brush against his.

“Scaredy-cat” you tease, and it’s absolutely now or never-

You’re making him weak- it takes too much time and effort for him to draw an arm over you.

You don’t flinch, but he is sure that you can hear his heart beating dangerously fast, without abandon, like it's trying to break free of his ribcage. He almost gasps when you come even closer and lightly kiss his cheek, wrapping your arms around him, and his head is just saying yes yes yes-

Your mouth goes over his ear, lips ghosting over skin. He waits, more scared than he’s ever been in his entire life, for what you have to say. 

***

So this is Ransom’s deep, dark, ugly secret.

He likes to be cuddled.

If it were anyone else, you would laugh.

But it’s Ransom, and so you just take it in stride, as part of his extremely fucked-up psyche that is probably a result of a hundred things he’ll never tell you- childhood trauma and neglect and the consequences that come with having more money than you need or deserve.

He’s always talking, always talking shit, always talking over you and over everyone else, and you realize, one day, that he really only is treading water- he’s only focused on staying afloat, speaking whatever he wants, but never actually saying anything.

He’s responsible for his faults, of course. But still, when he smiles in low light or curls his hands over yours so viciously, you don’t know if you should leave, or if you should just stay and pity him quietly.

You’re starting to like him too much to even care.

He starts coming around more. And he actually stays, and starts leaving pieces of himself behind. He has a toothbrush next to yours and a phone charger on his side of the bed and imported, undoubtedly expensive snacks in the kitchen.

He leaves clothes, too- you wash them with yours and keep them, neatly folded, in your closet.

On a warm day in May, he meets you at a cafe.

He does most of the talking, like always. It’s been months, already, but you still find it difficult to start conversations.

You still have trouble telling him certain things without feeling like you have to defend yourself, and he still rarely deviates from being a total dick, even when you hold him or have his head in your lap, when you make him laugh or when you kiss him.

Or when you put your hands in the sleeves of his sweaters and rub your palms against his forearms, because he’s always running warm and your hands are always cold. 

He always acts like it annoys him, jumps when your hands meet his skin- but you know he secretly likes it, because whenever you’re done he pulls the hems all the way over his hands and looks at you with something amazed in his eyes.

With the weather warming up, he’s ditched the sweaters and taken to wearing these awful fucking short-sleeved button-downs, all unnecessarily tight and showing way too much collarbone. He’s making you sweat.

“You’re staring,” he says, and smiles, self-satisfied.

You bring your straw to your lips and shake your head. “I’m not.”

He knows that you can’t help it- he is always so gorgeous. He’s infuriatingly pretty.

“Don’t lie to me,” he says, and nudges your foot under the table, voice suddenly low, and it’s like, holy shit-

You bring your drink down and lean over the table, careful to avoid knocking anything over, and kiss him quickly.

He tastes like bitter coffee.

You’re sad, all of a sudden.

When you settle back in your seat, you clear your throat like nothing happened. You want to lean in again and button up the rest of his shirt, and kiss him again. You want to come so close that your noses touch, and then yell at him, just for being him.

He looks appalled

“What was that for?”

It’s the first time you’ve ever done this.

“No reason,” you say. “I just felt like it.”

“You just felt like it,” he repeats, and it’s like the same reaction from the night at the stoplight, and you realize-

He’s dumbstruck.

Then, just as quickly as it came, it disappears. He sets his jaw like he’s about to get up and leave. You try not to scowl, even though you feel like you’re drifting, tide carrying you away, sand clean and smooth on where your body once was-

It gets to you.

“Can I not just kiss you?” you snap harshly, glaring at him with a ferocity you don’t think he’s ever seen.

It’s inevitable- the result of months of frustration. You can only suppress yourself for so long. Why, you want to ask, why are you not entitled to him the way he is to you and everything else? Can you not ask for him so wholly?

He flinches.

Ransom Drysdale, asshole extraordinaire, flinches.

It brings a small sliver of satisfaction with it. There’s some nerve you’ve struck, and the discontent on his face is steadily growing- 

You pay it no mind, drinking the rest of your iced coffee in calm silence. 

Outside, the day is vaguely summery, where the sun is out and strong, but still too cold in the shade. You stare past his head, towards the door. How quickly can you leave?

“You can,” he says quietly, when you’re rising to throw your cup in the trash. “Whenever you want.”

His eyelashes are so long- they command a moment of attention all on their own when he blinks- soft and slow and gazing at you from underneath them. You wonder if he is doing this for the same reason you are. If he’s lonely, too.

When was the last time you had the dream with the bird?

You smirk. “Whenever?”

He is forlorn. 

You like him better in the spring.

“Whenever.”

“Let’s get out of here,” you say, and make your voice low, since two can play at that game.

He considerably perks up. 

*** 

When you wake up, he’s still in your bed.

Lately, he’s been spending more time at your place than his. You think that all those windows are finally starting to get to him.

Ransom always holds you fiercely in his sleep. You break free as gently as you can and take him in for a brief moment- you like how he looks when he’s asleep. Unconcerned, chest rising slow with each breath, hair splayed over the pillow in nearly every direction. He almost looks innocent.

You get up quietly, even though there’s no chance he’ll stir- he sleeps like the dead.

Daylight filters through the blinds in white-yellow streams, dappling him golden. 

You almost take a picture, but regretfully leave the room for other tasks- you stretch and water your plants and check your email, and then sit down at the table to Skype your brother.

He picks up fast.

“Hey!” you say, and at once feel so much relief, to see his grainy, smiling face on your laptop screen.

Europe has done him good- he’s grown out his hair, and his skin is glowing, and he looks so happy.

He tells you about what he’s been doing lately, studying architecture. It makes you so proud, this fact alone- that unlike you, he can do whatever he wants and doesn’t have the looming promises of debt and academic burnout and crushing, ever-present stress hovering over his shoulders. It is so good to see him, and you are so grateful that he can be who he wants to be, do what he wants to do-

“Holy shit, who is that?”

He’s looking past you. You turn around and almost jump- 

Ransom stands in the kitchen, shirtless and rummaging through the cupboards. He waves at you.

You would think that someone like Ransom would exclusively sleep in, like, silk pajama sets, or something, but at least he’s in sweatpants- however low-rise they might be, however loosely knotted the drawstring is. It’s better than nothing, at least- what if he had walked out in nothing?

When you turn back to the screen, you catch a glimpse of yourself in your camera feed- you look absolutely mortified.

You are absolutely mortified. This is the start of what can only be a nightmare.

“Are you dating that guy?” your brother asks incredulously. He’s still staring at Ransom with his jaw hanging loose. “Is he your boyfriend?”

“No,” you say forcefully, without thinking. “That’s, um... “

Hopelessly, you gesture back towards him, trying to come up with the words. Nothing feels right in your mouth- every title you can come up with is too consequential, too heavy.

“...That’s Ransom.”

“Weird name,” your brother says, and grins.

You take a breath that feels more like a gasp. “I know.”

“Hey,” Ransom says, from the back, and continues to loudly open and close the cupboards- what the fuck is he even looking for? You don’t keep enough shit in there to warrant this much noise- he’s doing this for theatrics.

“I think I’m going to go,” you say loudly. “Love you.”

“Bye,” your brother says, and he’s grinning stupidly, like a madman.

You disconnect and feel like you might faint.

Not your boyfriend, right?

“Was that your brother?” Ransom asks, casually, finally finding what he was looking for- two mugs. There is no way that he didn’t come across them earlier. 

“Yeah- yes,” you say shakily. It feels like someone has filled your brain with fizzy water.

There’s a few boys your brother has met over the years, but you’ve always been careful. Because an introduction is like making a statement- it’s like saying that this person you’re with is important enough to you that they’re going to overlap, exist in more than just one part of your life.

But Ransom is a catastrophe of a person- you can barely handle him as he is. How could you ever have him as anything more?

He goes through the cupboards, again, and finds a box of teabags. “The one studying abroad?”

“I only have one brother,” you snap.

“Okay,” he says, totally unbothered, surprising you. He’s not a morning person in the slightest- why is he being so cordial? “Where do you keep your kettle?”

“Second cupboard on the right,” you say, and bury your head in your hands.

He looks at you. He is so many things, but never kind, until now. His hair, in its adorable bedhead, flops over his eyes. Before, it was only almost, but now, you think, he looks completely innocent, like the type of guy you could give kisses without feeling nervous, the type of guy you wouldn’t deny as your boyfriend.

What is wrong with him?

What is wrong with you?

At the end of the day, he’s always there- you’re exclusive, aren’t you? Isn’t that enough to deserve a title?

He finds the kettle, and then sifts through the box. He sorts through different flavors with a gentle precision you’ve never seen before- is this really him? Is he the type of person that is gentle and precise?

The uneven smattering of blue-black bruises on your thighs say no.

You’re so confused that your head hurts.

“None of these flavors are any good,” Ransom says, and shakes his head. His hair shines in the morning light. “Earl Grey- who the hell drinks Earl Grey?”

“Don’t insult my tea like that,” you say, and he looks back at you and gives you a brilliant flash of a smile.

If he’s bothered at all by your denial, he never brings it up.

*** He’s too far gone.

He’s in freefall, feeling weak- he’s fucking succumbed.

To you. To your comebacks and the world-weary gaze you have of everything, to your nonsensical collection of plants and your painfully unattractive basketball shorts, to the way you laugh too loud and too little, to the way you say his name, where he can never tell if you’re happy with him or exasperated-

It’s wrong. 

But, he thinks, so are all of these other things, like drugs and alcohol and blowing money on shit he doesn’t need- and you make him feel better than any of those things ever have, so why should anybody have a problem with it? A week goes by after you tell your brother that he isn’t your boyfriend- and it doesn’t bother him, because he’s never wanted that title in the first place, never has- but it obviously bothers you. 

You’re disappointed in yourself, because you think you’re supposed to be better than him, because you’re so smart and he is so terrible.

He hopes that that’s not how you actually think. It hurts him to0 much to even consider it, and so he doesn’t, and so he thinks of how to keep his hold on you, and then he thinks of why he even wants to-

The truth is too apparent to deny.

After a week, he calls.

***

He’s very slow.

Not tired- just consumed with the sudden need to savor things. When you let yourself into his arms, Ransom treats you like you’re fragile.

“What’s up with you?” you ask, and as he stares, your voice reduces to something small. You go timid when his eyes are on yours, he realizes, and the thought sends a thrill through his body- he slowly rocks you, to calm himself.

Your shirt is off and you wear a bra with a small lace trim- not racy, but very cute- and he just keeps on staring.  

Wow, he thinks. He fucked up good.

“Nothing,” he says, and moves one hand from your waist- he has you in his lap, straddling him- up to the top of your neck. He trails down and over to your collarbone, hooking a finger into your bra strap.

You laugh, breathy and indecent.

He lifts it, subtly, and you whine, and he bites back his own.

“You’re so pretty,” he says, and kisses your neck. “So fucking beautiful.”

“Ransom,” you gasp, with your hands splayed over his back. He slowly skims his hand over, to your back, feeling every little thing, dip and contour and curve, everything- and then unhooks it, and you are bared to him and he is breathless.

He takes you by the shoulders and twists, to bring you down, to pin you against the bed. Your comforter is dark blue, like ocean water.

Your eyes are endless, like ocean water.

“Are you upset about something?” 

Your chest rises and falls and he almost reaches for the waistband of your underwear, but stops himself. He presses a wet kiss to one of your breasts, and you arch into his mouth. He feels like you know every single secret of his, when he has told you none.

You know by accident that he’s ticklish. That’s it.

“I’m not,” he says. “I promise.”

He bends low to kiss down the length of your body, repositions his hands to hold your waist. He thinks that this is more intense- it is just his mouth and your skin and the sound of your breath hitching.

He still has it put together, remarkably well- unfathomably well.

“I feel like there’s something you’re- ah- not telling me, honey.”

That does it.

He grips your waist harder, in the way he knows you always like, so that tomorrow he will be able to retrace his steps, follow the blue-

“Say that again,” he says, and presses a soft kiss over you- even through your underwear, with its delicate lace trim, he can feel how wet and wanting and ready you are for him.

“Say- fuck- say what?”

Your hand flails, for a second, before you thread it through his hair, and yank. It hurts, pleasantly.

He hooks his fingers into your waistband and shimmies it down your thighs, and you instinctively spread your legs. He puts his mouth to your slit, slicker than he imagined, and the heady arousal rushing through his mind- and everywhere else- is nearly enough to make him forget what you even said-

He is quite possibly drunk off of you alone, and he wants to slap himself, and, like, press you so close into him that you forget your way out.

With the spare glow of one lamp, you look like you’re made of gold.

He breaks away from you for a terrible moment to strip, and with one hand he teases your clit, and with the other he pumps himself, hard, once, twice, three times in anticipation-

“Don’t make me ask again,” he says, and comes back up to cup your face once more, and slips his hand back down into you at the same time, with his cock hard against your thigh- this is all quite slippery- the game you’re playing at and the risk he’s trying to take-

“Honey,” you say, and you’re smiling deliriously, but shakily. “Honey honey honey.”

“You’re killing me,” he says, and his voice, in a moment of terrible, vulnerable, unspeakable betrayal, cracks. 

“Good,” you say, but your voice is all wobbly as he lines himself up and roughly pushes into you, holding you a little tighter to keep you steady. “You deserve it.”

He kisses you openmouthed, with his teeth scraping- it’s rough and jarring, the way you always take it. Against his mouth, you swear incoherently, stringing together a litany of curses with his name thrown in between, and goddamn him- it makes him smile.

He wastes no time- he can’t be patient any longer, not when he has you under him like this, and so he goes fast, snapping into you at a bruising pace and keeping his mouth close, and rubbing at your clit, to overstimulate you and make everything faster, harsher, more immediate-

When you come you always say his name, thickly with gravel in your voice, and gasp like the breath has been stolen from your lungs. This time, when you are so far gone that he thinks you’re beyond the realms of sound, and sight, too, with your eyes tightly screwed shut, he says it, for the sake of himself.

“I think I love you-”

[chicgeekgirl89]

The Good, the Bad, and the Very Ugly

Fandom: 911 Lone Star

Characters: Carlos Reyes, T.K. Strand, Tommy Vega, Nancy Gillian

Summary: When Carlos is struck down with a nasty bout of the stomach flu he needs rescuing from the best paramedic trio in town.

A/N: I have a Bachelor's degree in Emergency!, a Master's Degree in Royal Pains, and an MD in Grey's Anatomy so I can assure you that everything in this fic represents a very real, accurate depiction of how the stomach flu would hit a perfectly healthy young police officer. I took no liberties. This is science.

Massive thanks as always to @bluenet13​ for beta-ing!

For the @badthingshappenbingo​ prompt “Stomach Flu”

Read on AO3

Carlos was really trying to listen to this woman complain about her neighbors and their noise level, he truly was. He took every call seriously, even completely ridiculous ones like this, but today he was struggling. His stomach gurgled unpleasantly and he had to suppress a burp as the woman told him for the third time about how loud her neighbors were being.

“Ma’am, they are allowed to mow their lawn during daylight hours,” he said.

“Seven am?! Seven am is considered daylight hours?!” the woman cried. “I am trying to do my morning meditations and all I hear is lawnmowers and power tools!”

“Well then I would try headphones,” Carlos said, voice a little snappier than usual. 

Mitchell looked at him with raised eyebrows, clearly amused by the lack of his typical diplomacy. 

The woman glared at him. “I want your badge numbers.”

Carlos and Mitchell both gave them over willingly but it was another ten minutes of listening to her rant before they were finally able to escape and head back to the station. “You all right Reyes?” Mitchell asked as they got back into the cruiser. “You look a little green.”

“I’m fine,” Carlos said, even as his stomach lurched unpleasantly while he pulled the cruiser into traffic.

“You were a little snippy back there. Trouble in paradise?”

“T.K. and I are fine,” Carlos said. “That woman was in the wrong, there was no point in standing there and continuing the conversation.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Who are you and what have you done with Carlos ‘Calm and Patient’ Reyes?”

“Maybe he’s on vacation today,” Carlos told her.

“Mhmm…” she continued to look at him suspiciously, but didn’t say anymore.

His stomach had not improved by the time they got back to the precinct. In fact it seemed to be getting worse. Everything was bubbling and gurgling and cramping and making him extremely uncomfortable, but he set his jaw and sat at his desk to file the paperwork from their morning on patrol.

“Reyes, Mitchell,” their captain walked over and stood by their desks. “I’ve been on the phone for half an hour with a Mrs. Donnelly. Care to explain?”

Mitchell shook her head and rolled her eyes. “She called in a noise complaint. Lawnmowers.”

Carlos would have added to the conversation but he was growing oddly hot and his mouth had filled with coppery tasting saliva. 

“She said you were,” the captain held up a piece of paper and read directly from it, “disrespectful, unhelpful, and bigoted.”

Mitchell snorted. “Okay. Was she describing us or herself? Because I’m pretty sure she ticks all those boxes.”

The captain turned and looked at Carlos. “Reyes? Anything to say?”

Carlos opened his mouth and then closed it again, swallowing hard. “Carlos are you okay?” Mitchell asked with a concerned frown.

Carlos’s stomach squeezed and he knew there was no hope for it. “Excuse me,” he said, then turned and threw up directly into the garbage can beside his desk.

“Whoa!” their captain said. “Reyes what the hell?”

Carlos spat into the garbage can, the acrid taste of stomach acid burning his throat, mouth, and even up into his nose. “Sorry sir,” he choked out.

Mitchell uncapped a bottle of water and handed it to him. He took a careful sip, swishing it around in his mouth before swallowing tentatively. Somehow he felt worse than before throwing up; slightly cold and shaky, and like he might throw up again. 

“Reyes if you’re sick get out of here and go home,” his captain said. “We don’t need you bringing the whole bull pen down.”

“I’m fine sir,” he said and then blanched, doubling over the garbage can again. 

“No you’re not. Get out of here. And don’t come back until you can keep your lunch down,” his captain ordered.

“Carlos are you okay?” Mitchell asked, genuine concern on her face. “You look terrible.”

“I’ll be fine,” Carlos rasped. “It’s probably just something I ate.”

“Looks more like it ate you,” Mitchell said with a grimace as he got to his feet. “Do you want me to call you an Uber?”

“No,” Carlos shook his head, gripping the desk tightly. “I can make it.”

“Well text me when you get home so I know you’re okay,” she said. 

Thank god he only lived fifteen minutes from the station because the drive was so nauseatingly horrible he wasn’t sure he could have made it much longer. His stomach clenched and tightened at regular intervals and he was breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth like it was his job because he really didn’t want to pull over and be sick on the side of the road.

He pulled into the driveway and got his key out with shaky hands, stumbling in the front door and practically falling into the powder room where he once again violently emptied his stomach into the toilet. God, how could there be anything left after the first two rounds? He’d barely had anything to eat besides coffee and half a bagel.

He groaned as he pushed himself up and flushed the toilet, using the sink for leverage to get all the way onto his feet. He felt like shit. He hadn’t felt this bad in…well he couldn’t even remember the last time he’d felt this bad.

He knew he needed to hydrate before he went upstairs and collapsed into his bed so he slowly and agonizingly made his way to the fridge, searching for a Gatorade, his stomach still sending stabbing pains through his gut at regular intervals.

There were footsteps on the stairs and T.K. appeared, uniform half buttoned. “Carlos? Babe what are you doing here?”

Carlos looked at his watch. It was nearly noon but he’d forgotten that T.K. had a late shift today. “Captain sent me home,” Carlos said, struggling to reach an orange Gatorade tucked in the back.

“He sent you home?” T.K. walked toward him, confusion on his face. “Why? What’s going on?”

Carlos straightened up, wincing as his stomach cramped violently. “He thinks I’m sick.”

“He thinks you’re sick?” T.K. repeated, taking a step closer. “Why does he think you’re sick?”

Carlos grimaced. “Probably because I narrowly missed throwing up on his shoes.”

“You threw up?” T.K. snapped into paramedic mode, automatically pressing the back of his hand to Carlos’ forehead to check for a fever. “Oh baby.”

“It’s fine. Probably something I ate.”

“Do you want me to stay home today and take care of you?”

“God no,” Carlos said quickly. The last thing he wanted was for T.K. to see him puking his guts out repeatedly. “No I’m just going to get in bed and ride it out. I’m sure I’ll be fine in a few hours.”

His stomach felt like knives but surely a nap and some electrolytes would take care of that. “Are you sure?” T.K. asked, running a hand down his arm. “I hate to leave you like this.”

“I can take care of myself T.K., even when I’m sick,” Carlos said. “I promise,” he added when T.K. didn’t look convinced.  “I’m just going to go upstairs and sleep it off.”

“Well make sure you hydrate,” T.K. told him. “I’ll call you in a couple hours to check in.” He pecked Carlos on the cheek. “If you need something text me okay? I’ll keep my phone on me.” He said as he walked toward the door, grabbing his overnight bag and shoes. 

“I will. Have a good shift,” Carlos said.

He waited until T.K. had locked the front door to drag himself up the stairs. He fell into the bed and curled himself into the fetal position, begging his stomach to stop its agonizing assault.

The hours passed in alternating blurs of fast and slow. He was hot and then freezing, his body aching, stomach churning relentlessly. Even the Gatorade refused to stay down, sending him staggering to the bathroom to heave up the liquid and then, eventually, nothing.

He tried to read but he was too restless and even the television couldn’t keep his focus as wave after wave of agonizing stomach pain assaulted him. 

He attempted sleep but it was fraught with discomfort; half awake, half dreaming, too hot and then too cold, body tangling uncomfortably in the sheets, never fully sinking into the blissful darkness of true unconsciousness.

He was dragged out of his misery after several hours by the ringing of his phone. “Hello?” he croaked when he finally managed to answer.

“Hey babe, how are you feeling?” T.K.’s voice was slightly distorted, it sounded like he was in the rig. 

Carlos cleared his throat. “Fine. I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?” T.K. asked. “You sound weird.”

“I was sleeping,” Carlos told him, wincing as pain stabbed at his stomach again.

“Oh good,” T.K. said. “Did you eat something?”

Carlos grew nauseated at even the mention of food. “Not yet.”

“Well try okay? Some crackers or some soup or something?”

“Yeah I will,” Carlos told him. He would not. He didn’t think he could make it down the stairs let alone manage to scrounge up any food. 

Carlos heard the siren turn on. “I have to go. Call or text if you need anything all right? I love you!”

“Love you too,” Carlos mumbled, his eyes already sliding closed.

The next time he woke it was the middle of the night and he felt worse. So much worse. How was that even possible?

His stomach clenched so tightly that he couldn’t breathe. He moaned as he struggled to his feet again, the world spinning around him as he walked unsteadily toward the bathroom, using the furniture to stabilize himself.

He leaned over the toilet bowl stomach cramping and stabbing at him, but nothing came up. Instead he just retched helplessly for god knew how long until the episode passed and he collapsed onto the tile, shaky and sore and freezing. 

He swallowed hard, leaning his head against the wall and closing his eyes, praying that whatever this was, it would be over soon.

Several Hours Later…

T.K. hung up his phone and sighed, checking his watch for the fifth time in as many minutes. It was nearing seven am and he hadn’t heard from his boyfriend in a long time. He was starting to get worried, even as he tried to convince himself he was overreacting. It was early. Carlos was probably still asleep.

“What’s wrong?” Nancy asked.

T.K. looked down at the screen again, as if possibly a call or text had come through in the three seconds since he’d last checked. “Carlos was sick when I left yesterday morning and now he’s not answering. I figured maybe he was asleep but it’s been…a really long time.”

“Do you want to swing by?” Tommy asked. “It’s on our way back to the firehouse if we take the long way around.”

T.K. vacillated with uncertainty. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah dude, we’ll just swing by and make sure he’s okay. Can’t have you worrying about him for the rest of shift,” Nancy said.

T.K. hit the blinker and turned them right. “I’m probably overreacting.”

“Then Carlos will smile and thank you for it like the good, understanding person that he is,” Tommy said with a smile.

The house was quiet when they pulled up. T.K. felt his concern double as he took his key out and strode quickly to the front door. “We’ll wait here,” Tommy said when they reached the stoop. “Call if you need us.”

T.K. left the front door open behind him and strode upstairs. “Carlos?”

There was no answer and T.K. knew, deep in his bones that something was wrong. The bedroom door was open, but the the bed was empty, sheets and blankets mussed in a way that said Carlos had at one point been there, even if he wasn’t anymore.

The smell of vomit and sweat hung in the air. A barely touched bottle of Gatorade and Carlos’ phone sat on the nightstand. “Carlos!” T.K. called again more urgently.

“T.K.?” 

The reply was croaky, weak and T.K. turned in the direction of the master bath. What he found hit him like a punch in the gut. Carlos, in nothing but his boxers, sweating and shivering as he sat on the floor, his back pressed against the bathroom wall. 

T.K. dropped to his knees, hands running over Carlos’ forehead and down his face, fear spiking as the heat of Carlos’ skin seared his own. “Hey baby,” he said softly. “You didn’t answer my calls.”

“T.K. I don’t—I can’t—” Carlos looked panicky beneath his exhaustion and T.K.’s stomach clenched in fear.

“Cap!” he yelled out the door, voice cracking. “Hey, it’s okay. We’re going to help you all right? How long have you been here like this?”

Carlos just shook his head, all his effort apparently going into breathing and remaining conscious.

“T.K.!” Tommy and Nancy appeared in the bathroom doorway, both of them looking concerned. 

“He’s burning up,” T.K. said, panic seeping into his voice.

“Nancy, call it in,” Tommy ordered. “And go get our kits from the rig.”

“Dispatch this is RA Unit 126 responding to a call at 540 Lynwood Avenue,” Nancy said into her radio as she flew out the door.

“Let’s get him on the bed,” Tommy said, getting under one of Carlos’ arms as T.K. scrambled to get under his other side.

Carlos moaned as they walked him out of the bathroom. “I know, I know baby, you’re okay,” T.K. said, voice thick as Carlos shivered violently against him. 

Nancy returned quickly, pulling equipment out of their kits as T.K. and Tommy gently laid Carlos on the bed.

“T.K. check his pulse,” Tommy ordered. “Nancy get a BP.”

Thank god someone else was taking over and telling him what to do because he felt completely shattered right now by the image of his strong, beautiful boyfriend reduced to such a fragile state. “Pulse is rapid,” T.K. said, his own heart rate matching it as Carlos’ eyelids fluttered. 

“BP is low,” Nancy said.

“And temp is up,” Tommy said, lifting the thermometer to look at the reading. “One hundred and two point seven. Carlos, can you hear me?”

There was no response and T.K. thought he was going to lose his mind with panic.

“No rebound tenderness,” Nancy said, palpating Carlos’ abdomen. He let out a moan as she pressed directly on his stomach but she continued her exam with professional precision. “Belly is soft. I don’t think it’s appendicitis.”

“I think we’re looking at a severe case of dehydration,” Tommy said. “Let’s get some fluids going.”

“I got it,” Nancy said, pulling out bags of saline and potassium. 

“Should we take him in?” T.K. asked.

“Let’s just see how the fluids go first,” Tommy said. “I’m sure Carlos would prefer to avoid the hospital, let’s give him a chance to come back on his own.”

The next few minutes were agonizingly long as Nancy and Tommy started the IV’s and they all waited to see if Carlos would come around. He wasn’t completely unconscious but he wasn’t totally with it either, breath coming out labored and harsh, limbs moving restlessly, eyelids fluttering up and down as his head turned from side to side.

T.K. stroked his fingers through Carlos’ damp, sweaty curls, biting his lip as anxiety and guilt ate away at him. “I thought he was all right by himself,” he said. “If I’d known…”

“T.K. this isn’t anybody’s fault,” Tommy said, reaching to take Carlos’ pulse again. “Sometimes it just happens. Carlos is young and healthy, nobody had any reason to suspect he would go down so hard.”

“Yeah dude, you can’t blame yourself for the violence of the stomach flu,” Nancy said, adjusting the IV’s.

Carlos stirred a little more and blinked a few times, eyes trying to focus. T.K. instantly went on alert. “Carlos, babe? Can you hear me?”

“T.K.?” Carlos shifted, and T.K. put a gentle hand on his shoulder to keep him from dislodging the IV’s. 

“Hey Carlos,” Tommy said, giving him a smile. “How are you feeling?”

Carlos groaned and swallowed hard. “Bad,” he croaked. 

“Well we’ve got some fluids going, that should help. Give it a few more minutes and we’ll see how you feel,” Tommy said. “Can you tell us what happened?”

“I uh, I don’t know,” Carlos said. “My stomach just…I couldn’t stop throwing up. And after a while I couldn’t even get off the floor, everything just hurt and I was so cold. I think maybe I passed out a couple times, I’m not sure.”

T.K.’s heart squeezed at the thought of Carlos alone and suffering on the cold bathroom tile. “Do you remember the last time you ate or drank anything?” he asked.

“Nothing stays down,” Carlos croaked, his voice weak and raspy after so many hours of throwing up. “Makes my stomach hurt.” 

“Baby you should have called me,” T.K. admonished him, tears dangerously close to the surface. 

“T.K.,” Tommy said quietly. “Give him a minute to catch his breath. Save the lecture for later.”

Carlos seemed to grow even more aware of the situation and closed his eyes. “Oh god, I’m so sorry.”

“Sorry for what?” Nancy asked.

“This,” Carlos said, gesturing aimlessly with his hand. “This is…”

“Hey, nothing to be sorry for,” Tommy said reassuringly. “Happens to the best of us. The twins both had a stomach bug last year at the same time and it was a total nightmare.” She gave him a smile and then turned back to her team. “Nancy, why don’t you and I head downstairs and get Carlos some Gatorade? We’ll call the station too and tell them we’ll be a little longer.”

“He uh, he likes the orange ones,” T.K. said.

Tommy put a hand on T.K.’s shoulder and squeezed. “Orange it is.”

They both slipped out of the room leaving Carlos and T.K. alone. “Babe what happened?” T.K. asked, still stroking Carlos’ curls. “When I called before you said you were okay.”

“I didn’t want you to worry,” Carlos said. “It wasn’t so bad and then…it was.”

“I’m so sorry, I should never have left you like this,” T.K. said.

“T.K. I took care of myself just fine before you came along.”

“Yes and using the current situation as evidence it’s a miracle you survived.” T.K. was unable to keep the emotion out of his voice.

“T.K.” Carlos tried to sit up, but T.K. shook his head and pressed him back down into the bed. 

“No, no. Do not try and take care of me. I’m here to take care of you. Just rest okay?”

“Are you going to make me go to the hospital?” Carlos asked.

“We’ll see,” T.K. told him. “You really, really scared me.”

“I’m sorry,” Carlos said. “I didn’t mean to.”

“I know.” T.K. bent over and pressed a kiss to his forehead. “This isn’t your fault. It’s nobody’s fault.”

Tommy and Nancy returned, Gatorade in hand. “Any better Carlos?” Tommy asked.

“Yeah, I think so,” Carlos said.

It had been about forty minutes since they’d arrived and Carlos was less pale and more alert, but he still didn’t look well. “Are you just saying that so T.K. stops freaking out?” Nancy asked knowingly. “Because T.K. is always going to freak out so you may as well just be honest.”

“Bedside manner Nancy,” Tommy said lightly as she uncapped the Gatorade. “Carlos do you think you can sit up?”

He nodded and T.K. and Nancy helped slide him up against the pillows until he was propped up enough to sip at the Gatorade. He eyed the bottle nervously as Tommy uncapped it. “Just a couple sips,” Tommy said. “If you can’t keep it down we’ll take you to the ER and have them run some more tests. My guess is this is just a particularly violent strain of stomach flu, but I don’t want to leave unless we’re sure you’re on the mend.”

Carlos’ hand shook as he raised the bottle to his lips and he grimaced as he took one small sip and then another, managing a couple tablespoons before the bottle tipped dangerously in his unsteady hand.

T.K. reached out and caught it, removing it gently from Carlos’ fingers and setting it on the nightstand.

“Temp is down to one oh two point one,” Nancy said.

“And your blood pressure is looking better too,” Tommy said. “How’s your stomach?”

“It still hurts,” Carlos said, shifting uncomfortably in the bed.

“But you’re keeping the Gatorade down, so that’s good,” T.K. said, trying to comfort himself as much as his boyfriend.

“I don’t think a hospital trip is necessary unless it would make you feel better to go,” Tommy said.

“No, I’ll be fine,” Carlos said firmly.

“He can’t stay here alone,” T.K. argued.

“Which is why you’re staying with him,” Tommy said smoothly. “Shift’s almost over, you’re already here, there’s no point in dragging you back to the station.”

“Yeah don’t worry about it,” Nancy said. “We all know Cap and I do the heavy lifting on this team anyway. We don’t need your manly self getting in the way. Girl power and all that.”

“Nancy,” Tommy sighed in exasperation.

“I’m just kidding!” Nancy said. “Don’t worry about it Strand, we got you covered.”

“T.K.,” Tommy nodded toward the corner of the room and T.K. left the bed to follow her as Nancy chatted at Carlos and packed up their equipment. “I’m going to leave another bag of saline with you, just in case. If his fever spikes again or his abdominal pain increases…”

“I’ll take him in,” T.K. said immediately.

“And you’ll call me,” Tommy said, reaching out to squeeze his shoulder. “And call me tomorrow regardless. Let me know how he’s doing.”

“Yes, of course. Thank you for everything.”

“You’re family T.K., you and Carlos. We do what we need to for family.”

T.K. walked Tommy and Nancy to the door and then spent a few minutes downstairs heating up some plain chicken broth before returning to the bedroom. “Still okay?” he asked as he set the bowl down on the nightstand. 

Carlos nodded. “Beyond embarrassed, but okay.”

“Stop it,” T.K. said as he settled on the edge of the bed next to him. “You have nothing to be embarrassed about.”

“I’m pretty sure having to be carried to your own bed in your underwear by your boyfriend and his teammates is embarrassment worthy,” Carlos said.

His voice still sounded rough and there were dark shadows under his eyes. Just looking at him made T.K.’s heart hurt. He wanted nothing more than to take away every second of his pain from the last twenty four hours. 

“They’re just glad you’re all right,” T.K. told him, knowing that was one hundred percent the case. His teammates were truly the best and had proved that once again tonight with the way they’d dropped everything to come to Carlos’ aid. “Besides, we’ve seen plenty of bodies in the field. That they got an eyeful of you…they’ve seen a lot worse. Trust me.”

Carlos raised an eyebrow. “That doesn’t really make me feel better.”

“Sorry,” T.K. said, rubbing his knee through the sheets. “I think you should try and eat something.”

Carlos grimaced. “My stomach still hurts.”

“But you haven’t thrown up in,” T.K. checked his watch, “thirty seven minutes. I think it’s worth a shot.”

He still looked hesitant. “Hey,” T.K. said. “I’m here now. I’m going to take care of you. What happened earlier won’t happen again, I promise. Just try? Please?”

He picked up the bowl and spoon, offering them to his boyfriend. Carlos reluctantly took hold, hands still not quite steady, so T.K. helped him hold it. He managed about a third of the bowl before handing the bowl back to T.K. “Happy?” he asked tiredly.

“I won’t be happy until you’re better,” T.K. told him. 

Carlos nodded in agreement. “Me neither.”

“How does a bath sound, hm?” T.K. asked. “I’ll put in some essential oils, you can just relax and let some of today go.”

“You don’t have to do that,” Carlos said.

“I want to,” T.K. said. “Let me take care of you, okay? It makes me feel better too.”

“Okay,” Carlos relented. “Yes, a bath sounds good.”

T.K. leaned forward and kissed his forehead. “I’ll be right back.”

Carlos spent about half an hour in the bathtub. T.K. used that time to change out of his uniform and do a little bit of cleaning and sanitizing in the bedroom and bathroom. He returned the soup bowl to the kitchen and started the dishwasher, gathering up a few things Carlos might need and then heading back upstairs.

Carlos was standing by his dresser, slowly pulling on a pair of sweatpants, clearly in discomfort. “Whoa,” T.K. set everything down quickly and then moved to stabilize him. “You should have called me.”

“I don’t like feeling helpless,” Carlos said, frustration lacing his tone.

“I know,” T.K. said, gently moving him back toward the bed. “But you’re going to get some sleep now and when you wake up I think you’re going to feel a lot better.”

“What if I feel like this forever?” Carlos asked miserably.

“You won’t,” T.K. smoothed a hand over his forehead. “Your captain called while I was downstairs. Apparently this bug has swept through your whole department. At least twenty people have called out sick and five have been hospitalized. You all got hit with a pretty violent stomach bug. But it seems like a forty-eight hour thing; most of them are on the mend.”

“Oh god,” Carlos said. “I should call him back.”

“I told him you were out of commission,” T.K. told him. “He said to feel better.”

Carlos rolled his eyes. “No he didn’t.”

“Okay,” T.K. said. “Technically he said, ‘Nobody who’s barfed their guts out in the last day is allowed in the office without a doctor’s note.’ But I think the sentiment was the same.”

“That sounds about right.”

He grimaced as he settled under the covers. “Come here,” T.K. said, sliding in next to him and pulling his head into his lap, fingers running gently through his hair. “Close your eyes.”

Carlos did so, body relaxing into T.K.’s touch. “I love you,” T.K. said quietly. “So much.”

“How can you say that after you just cleaned up my vomit?” Carlos asked, eyes still closed.

“Because that’s what love is,” T.K. told him. “Love is being here with you. Through it all. Every day. For every moment. The good, the bad—“

“And the very ugly,” Carlos murmured.

“You’re far too pretty to be ugly,” T.K. assured him. “Even when you’re barfing.”

“Oh god stop,” Carlos moaned. “Don’t make me laugh, it hurts.”

“Go to sleep,” T.K. told him again. “I’ll still be here when you wake up. And I will happily clean up your blood, your sweat, your tears, and your puke every day for the rest of my life if I need to.”

Carlos cracked an eyelid. “I know you’re trying to be sweet, but that’s pretty disgusting.”

T.K. shrugged. “Like I said before, I’ve seen a LOT on calls. You can’t scare me off Carlos Reyes.”

Carlos closed his eyes and snuggled closer into T.K. “Good to know.”