All of the Whitaker fam shows up at the hospital and they all look like republican hicks so everyone is NERVOUS but then they’re like oddly supportive and woke
Mm, they come over to visit, and Dennis and Trinity take them over to a diner that they like or someplace similar. Trinity's not comfortable with them being in her house because she doesn't know them, and they look like they hate her kind, and they can't really hang out in the hotel they booked
They’re being served by an obviously queer waitress, just staring her down, making everyone nervous
Finally, Mama Whitaker says something
“You’re a lesbian, ain’t you, honey?” Trinity sucks in her breath; she’s been tensed up since they first arrived. She knows what these kinds of people think of queer folks; it doesn't matter how many times Dennis tries to reassure her
The waitress squares her shoulders, and her gaze doesn’t waver. “Yes, ma’am, I am.”
“Well, ain’t that just swell!” She claps her hands together and smiles. “Now, my Dennis’s sweet girl over there,” she points to Trinity, whose eyes are blown wide and she's frozen in place, “she got this… uh, what’s it called again, sweetie?”
“Situationship.” Dennis chimes in helpfully, fending off his brother’s attempts at trying to steal food from his plate with a familiarity that Trinity has never seen before
“Right, this no good situationship, and she needs a pretty girl like you in her life.”
Trinity and this waitress are stunned, Dennis and the rest are used to their mother trying to set them up with random people
“Oh! Mrs Whitaker, that’s not- I mean-“ Trinity sputters, her cheeks aflame as her eyes dart back and forth from Dennis’s mom to the waitress who has started giggling
“Nonsense.” Dennis’s dad cuts in. “Look at her. Broad shoulders, steady frame, powerful stride. She can command a room. That's all you need in a woman. Like my beautiful wife.”
“Oh, stop it.” Dennis’s mom playfully smacks her husband’s shoulder. “Here, lemme write down her number.”
“Dennis! Do something!” Trinity hisses, grabbing his arm and making him wince as her nails dig into his skin
“Calm down, I always said you needed better than Garcia. Mama knows best.” Dennis shrugs, ignoring the glare Trinity shoots him.
They’ve fully adopted Trinity as Dennis’s older sister, but younger sister to the rest of the brothers. From the first letter Dennis sent home (cause they’re old-fashioned), she was absorbed in their family, whether she liked it or not.
——
Coming to the hospital, everyone’s nervous and tittering around
Maybe the Whitakers all have resting bitch faces or resting nervous faces like Dennis. Either way, the air around them makes people nervous
They don’t want to offend one of their coworkers' families, but his family genuinely looks like hicks who spit on city folk and might start shouting bible verses at anyone, queer or not white
But then they start talking to people, and everyone finds out that Dennis truly got his kindness and tenacity from these people
Everyone’s opinions turn a complete 180
They’re so sweet and helpful, trying to stay out of everyone’s way while also simultaneously asking if there’s anything they could do to help out
They don’t stay long, not wanting to take up space in the ER and cause more chaos. They know how important and hard the job is, they just wanted to show up, cheer their baby on, and meet the coworkers he talks so highly of
But they do find Robby, Dennis didn’t give them any pictures, but the guy was acting shifty around them and sending Dennis heart eyes from across the room. It was so obvious
Mama Whitaker tried to make sure her boys didn’t threaten him too badly; they didn’t want him to break up with Denny just cause they said something, but she did have a little trouble holding herself back from threatening him as well
Papa Whitaker threatens Robby to come to Nebraska next break, where his shotgun will comfortably have a seat at the dining table. Robby, skinny as he is, says yes, then hides behind his boyfriend when he walks by to get away from his family
Dennis is wholly embarrassed by the entire situation, but people only tease him about how deceiving his family looks
let’s be real the pressure to use AI as an adult is exactly what they said the pressure the do drugs as a teenager would be like but the people that told us that caved immediately for the AI and definitely did not just say no
some of you weren’t around for the fan fiction dot net purge of 2002 (when they banned explicit content and mass-deleted thousands of fics) and the livejournal purge of 2007 (when they deleted hundreds of blogs, disproportionately targeting queer & kink content) and it shows
Just watched episode 3 of season 3 of house of the dragon. I have many thought. Mainly that everyone needs to back off of my girl Rhaenyra and let her have some peace and quiet. She has been going through it this season, and I fear it is only going to get worse for her.
hate that mohan doesn't get the credit she deserves for being an amazing mentor to both whitaker and santos in s1. she balanced strictness and encouragement perfectly and she was instrumental in whitaker bouncing back from his bad cases and gaining confidence but somehow the credit for that goes to robby even though he didn't do shit aside from giving a ted talk on emotional repression... not only that but she was the ONLY doctor to tell santos that she deserved to be there and that she was good at her job.. it was trinity's first day there, she was enduring psychological warfare from a white demon, and samira was the only one to look at her and say langdon was wrong! he's not right about you!! not even robby says that to santos ever!!! samira mohan.... you are teacher of the century and we will avenge you
The older i get the more i understand why some people become obsessed with privacy, not because they’re hiding something, but because being constantly perceived starts to feel spiritually exhausting.
Did you know that soda machines at restaurants and movie theaters spy on you? That most common new cars now record your sexual preferences and send it to the manufacturer (and also data about anyone who also gets in your car, walks by your car, and maybe happens to be within visual range of your car)? That grocery stores are trying to force customers to download an app to scan barcodes on shelves instead of putting up prices, so the app can scan the phone, decide how much that customer should be squeezed for, and adjust the price? That more and more innocent people are being sent to jail for crimes committed hundreds of miles away because an AI facial recognition algorithm spit their faces out and the cops didn't bother to do the most basic of checks?
I am not uptight about privacy because I'm hiding something. I'm uptight about it because the people who dismiss my right to privacy are dangerous to you and me and our families, personally, all the time.
He knows the kind of person he is, the blood that's on his hands, and he doesn't want to make a child experience that. Some deep part of him is terrified he'll be just like his father. He grimaces at the thought of even being around kids long enough to become a role model.
That is, until he holds your baby for the first time.
She's a feisty little thing, the spitting image of her father, kyle. He had wanted to invite simon over for weeks now, show off the little miracle you made. The footie match on the telly goes completely ignored when kyle hands her to ghost, smiling "watch out, she likes to move."
"She's...small." ghost whispers, frozen in place as he cradles the baby. Wide eyes blink up at him, little arms waving as if trying to acclimate to his hold. Ghost looks between you and baby, brows pinched in worry "is she supposed to be this small? Is– is she okay?"
"Yes, she's supposed to be small, simon." Gaz answers for you, already pulling out his phone while you lean forward to adjust ghosts hands.
He's so big, baby could easily be held in two palms. She stares up at him for a moment longer, then squeals in delight and kicks her feat happily.
You watch in real time as ghost melts, leaning back into the sofa and holding the doughy little baby to his chest. His eyes crinkle into a smile, and you suddenly understand why gaz was so insistent about this.
"You're a natural, simon. She'll love you." Kyle rests a hand on ghosts shoulder. There's more behind the gesture than you can understand.
Later, while you and kyle take some much needed alone time cooking together in the kitchen, ghost will still be sat with baby on the couch. Whispering stories to her that only earn sleepy babbles.
You can't wait to watch her grow up with the two of them by your side.
Boys may be boys but hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. Or, another Reader crash-out fic
The cake was on the floor.
You stared at it. Chocolate and cream splattered across the linoleum. Your fingers were still curled around the empty plate.
Someone was talking. You couldn’t hear them. There was a ringing in your ears, high pitched and constant, like tinnitus mixed with a tea kettle mixed with the sound your sanity made as it finally, finally gave up and died.
A tear rolled down your cheek.
Then another.
The mess hall had gone quiet. You could feel eyes on you. Sergeant MacTavish was saying something; apologizing, probably. His mouth was moving. You watched it move, disconnected, like you were underwater and he was on the surface.
The men probably thought they understood. Poor thing. She’s crying over cake. Women and their emotions, right? It came out of nowhere. She just snapped. Over cake.
You know what they say about adrenaline? How it makes you stronger?
Your head came up slowly. The tears stopped. Something in your expression must have changed because MacTavish took a step back.
“Ma’am- ” he tried.
You looked at him. Really looked at him. Six feet of muscle and mohawk and nervous energy.
Then you reached out, grabbed him by the front of his tactical vest, and lifted.
MacTavish made a sound like a squeaky toy.
You were five foot seven. MacTavish was six foot two and probably weighed two twenty soaking wet.
You held him in the air with one hand.
It was never about the cake.
It started at 0530- thirty minutes before your alarm- when the fire alarm went off because Private Jenkins had tried to make toast. Toast. The most basic form of cooking known to mankind. Bread. Heat. That’s it. But somehow, somehow, Jenkins had managed to not only burn the toast but actually catch the toaster on fire. You’d stood in the predawn cold in your pajamas for forty five minutes while the fire department cleared the building.
When you’d asked Jenkins, trying to understand the thought process on how he’d managed it, he’d said, “I dunno, ma’am, I just pushed it down and walked away.”
Walked away.
From a toaster.
This was a man was trusted with a firearm.
By 0615, you’d discovered that no one had bothered to replace the fire extinguishers after last week’s “incident” (someone had tried to deep fry something in the common room and had nearly burned down the building). The Fire Chief had shown up during the Toast Incident and had lost his absolute mind. You’d spent forty five minutes getting screamed at- actually screamed at, with the vein in his forehead pulsing and everything- about negligence and fire code violations and “what kind of chickenshit operation are you running here?”
You weren’t even in charge of fire safety. That was Morrison’s job. Morrison, who was conspicuously absent. Morrison, who’d somehow had a “dentist appointment” at 6 AM. But Captain Price had looked at you and said, “Handle it,” and then walked away, leaving you to take the fall for someone else’s incompetence. Again.
The Fire Chief had threatened to report the base. You’d had to grovel and promise it would never happen again and personally saw to it that they were all replaced.
0700: Someone- you has suspects but couldn’t prove it- had made you the next victim in the base wide prank war that had been ongoing for weeks and replaced your shampoo with Nair. No doubt they thought they were pranking someone else and hadn’t bothered to confirm they had the right locker first. You’d caught it just in time, but only because you’d been paranoid enough to smell it first. You’d had to use dish soap to wash your hair. Dish soap.
0730: You’d found out that the weekly intelligence reports you’d specifically asked Corporal Davis to file were not, in fact, filed. When you’d asked why, he’d said- and you could not make this up even if you tried- “Oh, I thought you said you’d do it.” You’d literally watched him write it down in his little notebook. You’d watched him underline it. The reports were now late. Your ass was on the line. But sure, Davis thought you were doing it.
0800 briefing: You’d watched Lieutenant Riley drink tea through his mask. Not lift it. Not move it. Straight through the fabric like some kind of logic defying cryptid. When you’d stared at him in horrified confusion, he’d just stared back with those dead eyes. You’d had to continue the briefing while experiencing what could only be described as a dissociative episode. No one else seemed to think this was weird. You were surrounded by lunatics.
0845: The visiting Lieutenant Colonel called you “sweetheart” and asked if you’d “mind terribly” grabbing coffee for the room. You were running the briefing. You were running it. He’d then spent the next fifteen minutes explaining your own intelligence report back to you, incorrectly, while nodding like he was doing you a favor.
0900: You’d discovered that your meticulously prepared presentation for the brass- six hours of work- had been deleted. Just gone. You’d asked the IT specialist what happened. He’d said, “Oh yeah, I was cleaning up the shared drive and it looked like old stuff, so I deleted it.” It was dated from yesterday. It was very clearly labeled “BRIEF FOR VISITING BRASS - DO NOT DELETE.” He’d apparently not read that part. You’d recreated it from memory in forty five minutes while having what you were pretty sure was an aneurysm.
1000: Sergeant Garrick had crashed a drone- your personal drone, the one you’d bought with your own money- into the side of the barracks because he “wanted to see if he could do a barrel roll.” When you’d asked him why he’d used your drone instead of one of the fifty military grade drones on base, he’d said, “Yours was closer.” It was now in seven pieces. He’d apologized with those big sincere eyes like that somehow unsmashed your $800 drone.
1030: You’d had to break up a fight between two privates who were arguing about whether a hot dog was a sandwich. It had escalated to shoving. Grown men. Pushing each other. Over a hot dog. You’d had to file an incident report. You’d had to waste official military paperwork on the hot dog sandwich debate.
1100: The intelligence reports you needed for the 1300 meeting were being held up because the courier had accepted a dare to eat a carolina reaper and was now in medical “experiencing profound regret.” Your reports were locked in his bag. In his locked office. He was too busy “contemplating his mortality” to tell anyone the code. You’d had to get maintenance to literally drill the lock off.
1200: You’d confiscated a makeshift flamethrower that two privates had constructed from an aerosol can and a lighter because they “wanted to see if they could cook lunch faster.” There were scorch marks on the ceiling. When you’d asked them what they thought was going to happen, they’d both shrugged. No thoughts. Heads empty. Just vibes and arson.
1300 meeting: You’d had to present your recreated brief to the brass while the Lieutenant Colonel interrupted you every thirty seconds to add “valuable input” that was just… wrong. Factually incorrect. But you couldn’t correct him because he outranked you, despite being dumber than a bag of rocks.
1400: You’d returned to your office to find the door locked. Your office. Locked from the inside. You’d knocked. No answer. You’d used your key. It didn’t work- someone had engaged the interior lock. You’d had to get maintenance. Again. When they finally opened the door, you’d found Captain Price in there with Susan from admin. Susan’s lipstick was smeared. Captain Price’s hat was on your desk. They’d been using your office- your office- to fuck. On your desk. Your desk. Captain Price had the audacity to wink at you and say, “Thanks for the space, love,” as he walked out, adjusting his belt.
1430: You’d had to clean lipstick off your desk. And other things. You didn’t want to think about the other things. You’d used an entire container of disinfecting wipes. You were going to need therapy.
1445: Sergeant MacTavish had set off a smoke grenade in the women’s bathroom. You’d been in there. You’d been in a stall. He’d just opened the door, tossed it in without looking- because why would you look, apparently that’s too much to ask- and shut the door. You’d had to evacuate through a window. Second floor. You’d twisted your ankle. MacTavish had found you limping across the parking lot and had the absolute balls to ask if you were okay. You’d nearly murdered him with your bare hands.
1500: You’d discovered that someone had used your car- your personal vehicle- to make a beer run. Your car. They’d taken your keys from your desk (the desk that had been defiled) while you were in the building. There was a dent in the bumper now. No one would admit to it. When you’d asked around, everyone suddenly had amnesia. Thirty grown men and not one of them saw anything.
1530: Jenkins- fucking Jenkins- had been promoted to armory supervisor. The man who’d nearly burned down the building making toast. The man who’d assembled a rifle backwards last month. That Jenkins. You’d asked Captain Price if he was serious. He’d said, “He’s got initiative.” Initiative. Jenkins had initiative. You’d laughed. It was not a sane laugh.
1600: Someone had started a rumor that you and Ghost were dating. Three people had congratulated you. One had asked when the wedding was. Another had asked if Ghost was “good in bed” because “he seems like he’d be intense.” You’d had to stand there and explain that you were not, in fact, romantically involved with the base’s human shadow demon.
1630: The coffee maker in the officers’ lounge had finally, completely died. You’d gone to use the backup coffee maker. Also broken. The vending machine? Out of order. There was no coffee anywhere on this godforsaken base except for the instant coffee in the supply closet, which tasted like it had been brewed in the fires of hell using Satan’s bathwater.
1700: You’d found Garrick in the medical bay doing parkour. Parkour. Off the examination tables. There were muddy footprints on the ceiling. The ceiling. When you’d asked him what the hell he was doing, he’d said with a straight face “Conditioning, ma’am.” The medic had just shrugged like this was normal.
1745: You’d finally made it back to your office to find Ghost sitting at your desk. In the dark. When you’d turned on the light, he’d said, “You left these on the printer,” and held up a pack of paper like that explained any of this while you tried to make your heart rate return to a normal rate and rhythm. It did not explain why he was in the dark. It did not explain how he’d gotten into your office. It did not explain anything.
1800: You’d made it to the mess hall. You were running on four hours of sleep, no coffee, crunchy hair, a twisted ankle, and your will to live that was hanging on by a thread made of spite and denial.
And then you’d seen it.
The last piece of chocolate lava cake.
Your light. Your beacon. Your reason for continuing to exist.
You’d made it through the line in a daze. Mystery meat. Suspicious vegetables. Powdered mashed potatoes that had the consistency of paste.
But you had the cake.
You’d had the cake.
Past tense.
Because MacTavish, the man who’d already made your day a living hell, had come barreling through the mess hall like a drunk moose and knocked it out of your hands.
You’d watched it flip through the air.
Watched it land.
Face down.
And now you were here.
“Do you know- ” you snarled shaking MacTavish like a maraca, “- what kind of day I’ve had?”
The mess hall was dead silent except for your voice, which had gone somewhere between a scream and a primal roar.
“You’re supposed to be elite. Special forces. The best of the best. Do you know what that’s supposed to mean, MacTavish?”
MacTavish’s feet were dangling. You’d been holding him for a full minute now. Your arm wasn’t even shaking.
“It’s supposed to mean competence. Basic. Fucking. Competence.”
You shook him again.
“But you, all of you- you’re the stupidest bastards I’ve ever worked with. And I’ve worked with Marines. I’ve worked with Rangers. I’ve worked with private security contractors who showed more common sense than this entire unit combined.”
Your voice was rising, getting more unhinged with every word.
“You can’t make toast- ” you glanced at Jenkins, who’d gone pale, “- without committing arson. You can’t file a simple report. You can’t read a file name that says ‘do not delete’ in clear fucking English. You can’t look before you throw explosives into enclosed spaces.”
You turned your attention back to MacTavish.
“You threw a smoke grenade into the women’s bathroom. While I was in it. Didn’t check. Didn’t look. Just tossed it in like you were feeding ducks at a pond.”
“I didnae ken- ”
“You didn’t think!” Your voice cracked. “None of you think! That’s the problem! You just do things! Stupid, destructive, idiotic things! And then you look surprised when there are consequences!”
You started pacing, still holding MacTavish like he weighed nothing.
“I have a master’s degree. I speak four languages. I have eight years of experience and a spotless record. And what do I do with all that training and education?”
You looked around at the crowd.
“I clean up after you. I fix your mistakes. I file your paperwork. I take the fall for your incompetence because apparently I’m the only person on this base who can be trusted to actually do their fucking job.”
Your hands were shaking now. MacTavish had gone very still.
“Price- ” you found him in the crowd, “- you promoted Jenkins to the armory. Jenkins. The man who set a toaster on fire this morning is now in charge of weapons. Do you understand how insane that is? Do you?”
Price opened his mouth.
“That’s rhetorical, Captain. I don’t actually want to hear you try to justify it.”
Someone in the back made a nervous sound.
“And the rest of you- ” you looked around at the crowd, “- you’re no better. You fight about whether hot dogs are sandwiches. You make flamethrowers in your spare time. You use my car without permission. You put Nair in people’s shampoo bottles. You act like this is summer camp instead of a military base.”
Your voice had reached a pitch that was probably only audible to dogs.
“How- ” you could feel your face getting hot, “- how do they trust you with missions? With classified intelligence? With guns? You can’t even walk through a mess hall without destroying someone’s property!”
You stopped. Looked down at MacTavish, still dangling from your hand.
“All I wanted was one piece of cake. One. After spending the entire day keeping this operation from falling apart. After playing mother to a bunch of grown men who can’t be trusted with basic tasks. After being the only competent person in a building full of idiots who are supposed to be elite soldiers.”
Your voice dropped. Went quiet. Dangerous.
“And you took that from me.”
The silence was deafening.
You looked around at all of them. “You don’t even understand what you do. You don’t see it. You bumblefuck your way through every single day causing chaos and destruction and you think it’s fine because someone- because me- is always there to fix it. To smooth it over. To make excuses. To take the blame.”
You could feel something breaking. Some final thread of professionalism snapping.
You looked at MacTavish one more time.
Then you dropped him.
He hit the ground hard, stumbled backward, gasping.
“Outside,” you said quietly. Too quietly.
No one moved.
You looked at them. Your expression had gone completely flat. Empty.
“Get outside. By the count of zero.”
“Ma’am- “Price started, taking a step forward, hands up in that universal ‘let’s all calm down’ gesture. “Let’s just take a breath and- ”
You started taking off your earrings.
Price stopped talking.
You placed them carefully on the nearest table. Started on your watch.
“Ten,” you said calmly.
“Now hang on- ” Morrison tried.
“Nine.”
You unclasped your watch. Set it down next to the earrings.
“Ma’am, I really think we should all just- ” Garrick attempted.
“Eight.”
You shrugged off your jacket. Folded it. Placed it neatly on the table.
The mess hall had gone dead silent. Everyone was watching you with increasing horror.
“Seven.”
You bent down. Slipped off one heel. Then the other. Lined them up neatly.
“Listen, we can talk about this- ” Price tried again, but his voice had gone uncertain.
“Six.”
You rolled up your sleeves. Methodically. First the right. Then the left.
Ghost’s hand was definitely on his sidearm now.
“Please- ” someone in the back squeaked.
“Five.”
You tied your hair back. Smooth, practiced movements.
“Okay, everyone just stay calm- ” The visiting Lieutenant Colonel was backing toward the door.
“Four.”
You looked at the nearest table. Four people were sitting at it, frozen like deer in headlights.
“Ma’am- ” MacTavish’s voice was strangled.
“Three.”
You walked over to the table. Calmly. Slowly.
The four people scrambled away from it.
You grabbed the edge.
“Wait- ” Price started forward.
You ripped the table out of the floor.
The sound was catastrophic. Metal shrieking. Bolts shearing. Floor tiles cracking. The table came up like you were pulling a weed from soft earth. Several people shouted.
You held it above your head.
The mess hall had gone beyond silent into some kind of vacuum where sound didn’t exist anymore. Everyone had gone pale. Actually pale. Like they’d seen a ghost.
Someone whispered, “Aren’t those bolted to the ground?”
“…Yeah,” someone else breathed.
You looked at them. Made eye contact with as many as possible while holding a table over your head.
“Two.”
That broke the spell.
They moved.
Chairs screeched. Trays went flying. Someone definitely trampled someone else. There was shouting. Pushing. A full on stampede for the exits.
“Move move move- ”
“Go go go- ”
“Out of my way- ”
You stood there, still holding the table, and watched them flee like rats from a sinking ship.
When the last person had scrambled out- Jenkins, naturally, bringing up the rear- you set the table down carefully.
Then you walked out after them.
They were clustered on the grounds outside, a hundred and fifty people pressed together like a herd of prey animals, all watching the door you’d just exited.
You looked at them.
They looked at you.
The evening air was cool. Quiet. Peaceful.
“Run,” you said. It came out as a growl. Something primal and furious.
Nobody moved.
“Run. Laps. Now.”
They started moving, but not fast enough.
“I said run.”
They ran.
“How long, ma’am?” someone called out.
You smiled. It was not a kind smile.
“Until you die,” you said sweetly. “Or until I feel better. Whichever comes first.”
no, the bombing and deaths of thousands of palestinians, lebanese, yemenis, iranians, iraqis and people in west asia and africa are not 'distractions' for the epstein files. we get it you see our lives as less but it's just not. we matter.
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