moonlight: rafe Cameron series (fisherman x mermaid au!)— pt one | pt two | pt three | on hiatus ୨୧ Ꮺ ꩜
is it over? : Patrick zweig x latina!oc ୨୧ Ꮺ ꩜
BLURBS !
ocean tides / fisherman!rafe cameron x reader ୨୧
Hold me console me, and then I leave without a trace / john b x fem!reader ꩜
You do something suspect, this cute ass bye-bye / Peter Parker x fem!reader ୨୧
REQUESTS ! (open) my rules
who I write for: rafe cameron, pope heyward, jj maybank, John b routledge, peter parker, art donaldson, Patrick zweig, john carter, jack abbot, micheal “robby” robinavitch, Adrian chase, Clark Kent, Lois lane, Jimmy Olsen
hi John Bennett nation!!! I truly did not expect many people to even see my John Bennett work but am I glad!! im so sorry I havent written anything new, work just takes a lot from me and now that im working summer school its a little more hectic but if y'all have any request (does not have to be John Bennett) please dont be afraid to use my ask box! thank you love you and happy pride month 💕
happy pride month mama some john Bennett for the poor bi?🥺🙏😞
Happy pride month 🥹 Ughhhhh I feel so bad I’m working summer school but I’m off Fridays so maybe my brain can manage to pump something out this weekend
warnings . . . this is going to spoil it but i haaaave to… SMUT! MDNI!!! being on tinder is a warning of its own i hate that place, fingering…………..
word count . . . 2.1k
You can’t say you don’t want him in the same car as you, but you’re definitely surprised to see him. But if there’s one word to truly describe you, it's stubborn. Lena’s sitting in her booster seat, wrapped in her pinky hoodie and zip up, headphones in as she watches her favorite show on her iPad. And Pope is sitting right beside her, watching you.
“What is he doing here?” You turn to J, who’s driving the van.
“He is the adult for the trip.” J shrugs, “just hurry up and sit. We still have to pick Sammy up from her last class.”
You huff, turning your chin at Pope whose eyes have yet to leave you. And despite the tingle that runs through you, you have to stay strong. You move to the farthest seat in the back, tucking yourself into the corner.
Nicky is next. She’s still half asleep as she slides into the passenger seat, snoring the second she settles down. Sammy, despite it being so early in the morning, is beaming as the van door slides open. Lena tugs her headphones off immediately. “Sammy!” She giggles happily. And then, she turns to her uncle. “Uncle Pope, move.”
Nicky snorts out a laugh, now gouging down a hashbrown. J jumps in though, “manners, Lena.”
Lena huffs dramatically. A habit she’s only picked up on since you’ve been around her. “Please.” She mutters out. “Sammy promised to hold my hand when we go up the scary hills.”
You expect him to put up a fight. Because the only other spot is on the same cushion with you and you’ve decided that Andrew Cody hates you. So why would he want to sit next to you?
Your eyes widen as he easily slides out of his seat and crouches his way to the back. “W-wait!” You push forward, desperate to get this to stop. “Lena, baby, Sammy can’t do anything to help you. You need a strong man. Or… a man. He doesn’t even have to be strong.”
Lena gives you a bored expression, “that’s not very nice.” The furrow in the little girls thick brows makes you hesitate.
You sigh, “sorry.” You press yourself up against the side of the car as Pope plops down next to you.
“The hell are you doing?” He asks gruffly.
“What are you doing?” You huff, “sit at the corner.”
“I don’t want to.”
“I’m telling you to.”
“Why do I have to listen to you?”
“Pope, move.”
He’s childish, you’ve come to realize. Instead of scooching to the other side of the seat, he moves closer to you. “No.”
“Pope.” You groan loudly.
“Uncle pope,” Lena calls from her seat. She’s tapping away at her tablet with one hand as Sammy holds the other. “Are you being mean?”
“Yes.” “No.”
“They just like each other, mama.” Nicky chimes in, turning in her seat to grin at Lena. “You tease the people you like.”
“I do not like him.” You hope they believe you, since it’s a complete lie. But your friends know you better than you know yourself.
Lena laughs like it’s the funniest thing in the world. “They do like each other! So gross!”
The drive is incredibly long. Your body was aching from the way you were pulling from him and you had to give in. His leg is nudging against yours, pressing harder at turns.
“Move.” You groan, nudging him away.
“No.” He nudges his knee against yours again.
“Pope…” you huff, glaring at him. “You’re being annoying.”
It’s his turn to huff, “you annoy me all the time.”
“I do not.”
“Do too.”
“Kids…” J chimes this time, “settle down.”
“Ain’t a kid.” You toss a napkin at him from the back seat.
Pope decides to keep going, “sure act like one.”
“Sure act like one.” You mock, deepening your voice.
“I don’t sound like that.”
You mock again, “I don’t sound like that.”
“Quit it.”
“Quit it.”
Sammy groans this time, “both of you shut up.”
Lena is out cold when you all get to Sammy’s family cabin. It’s nice, sleek. It doesn’t look like it belongs in the deep foliage, too modern. Her mother has expensive tastes though, so it’s not a surprise that there’s technology all throughout the place.
J and Pope argued for a minute about taking Lena in but J ultimately won, now heading in with the lolling girl in his arms. Nicky follows suit, already complaining about needing a shower and the bugs all around. Sammy chimes in about the high tech bug zappers her mother has in every room.
You’re stuck behind with your bags in your hand. “Hello?” You call out to Pope as he starts walking to the cabin. “Where are you going?”
He turns, his own bags in his hand. “Inside?”
You wiggle your bag around. “What happened to chivalry?”
He glances at your bags and back at you, bored. “It died.”
“Pope.”
“Yeah?” He hums, uninterested.
“Help me.”
There’s a grin tugging at his lips, one he’s trying to fight as he turns back to you. “Where are your manners?”
“Pope!” You sigh, “really? I’m too pretty to do this.” But he’s not budging. “Fine. Please.”
That’s enough for him because he’s moving over to you, grabbing your bags with a triumphant smile, “good girl.”
You think about his words long after. You hate that you want him so badly. No matter what’s said or done, nothing pulls you from this aching need.
You wonder if he’s being intentional. From what you’ve gathered, he doesn’t have much female attention. Not because women don’t want him, you see the way eyes trail over him. But he’s awkward. You’re not sure if he even notices the way he’s lusted after.
He spends so much of his time acting like he doesn’t want you, when he makes a move that he is interested, you find yourself dissecting it for hours. It’s hard not to, especially when his softer acts are rare, in text or person.
“What are you doing?” The strong voice makes you jump in your spot.
You pull your hand out of the hot tub, the water dripping down your now cold arm. You turn to him, leaning against the tub. “Letting it warm up.” A pause. “Are you getting in?”
“No. I hate hot water.”
You roll your eyes, turning away from him. “Whatever.”
You don’t hear his feet shuffling away, so you know he’s still here. And you can feel him. Feel the way his eyes are on your backside.
“Whose shirt is that?” You’re wearing a huge t-shirt, practically a dress as it sits right beneath your knees, and the neck falls off your shoulder, showing off your collarbone.
The idea is immediate. You bite your lip to stop yourself from cackling and giving yourself away. You dip your hand back into the bubbling water, humming, “why?”
“It doesn’t look like it’s yours.”
You nod, “it isn’t.” You’re grinning, wanting to turn around and watch him. Watch the way his face twists in confusion. “Absolute truth?”
He hesitates but agrees. “Yes.”
The lie is easy as you turn to face him, face back to neutral. He doesn’t know that you’ve been celibate almost three years. He doesn’t need to know that the T-shirt is J’s which you stole from Nicky a while ago.
You shrug, continuing, “an old fling. Met him on Tinder.” You can’t tell what he’s feeling. You hate that you can’t because he always looks serious. Always looks stoic. “We went for drinks and ended up back at my place.”
“But you live with your parents.” He’s trying to get you to say more, that much you can tell.
“I’m not gross, Pope. I didn’t let him touch me until they were gone for the night.”
“Okay.” Is all he speaks.
You shrug, turning your back to him once more. You’re scolding yourself because of course it didn’t work. He’s not into you. He doesn’t want you. You’re the one who wants him. You’re the one who is chasing him. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
“What did he do to you?”
His question makes your breath hitch. Slowly, you turn around to face him again. You flinch softly at how close he is to you now, chest practically pressed up to yours. “I don’t think you want to—“
He doesn’t let you finish. His harsh tone cuts you off, “Tell me.”
“He…” you’re scrambling. Nothing is coming to mind because this isn’t remotely close to being true. There’s no other guy and there’s definitely no Tinder. You mumble out the first thing that comes to mind. “He fingered me.”
His body close to yours tells you a lot more than you’ve ever seen on him. His breathing is labored, chest rising and falling from what you’re assuming is jealousy. His hands are ghosting at your hips, scared to touch you. Now you know what you need to do.
“Didn’t let him fuck me, Pope.” He backs you up fully against the hot tub, nose trailing down your cheek, to your jaw, and to your neck. He inhales you. Smells the mixture of your faint perfume mixed with the light sheen of sweat from the heat emanating from the hot tub you’ve been hovering over. “Couldn’t let him.”
This solidifies what he wants— what he needs from you. His hands fall to your hips, face nuzzled into the crook of your neck. His rough hands slowly move from your hips and to your thighs, letting your t-shirt scrunch up as he desperately searches for your soft skin.
You can’t take a full breath. His hands are tugging at the bottom of your bathing suit beneath your shirt. You expect him to tug them off of you but that doesn’t come. He pulls it taut to the side of you, letting it sit awkwardly. But you can’t focus on that when a single finger pushes between your lips, letting the tip of him press at your bundle of nerves.
A soft gasp leaves you as he begins to rub circles at your clit. “Fuck…” you whimper softly, brows furrowing as the little waves of pleasure course through you.
Your hips grind into his hand, desperate for more from him. He adds another finger, and another. He’s moved his face from your neck, his intense eyes watching your face twist in pleasure. “Pope, I…” you whimper softly, letting your forehead fall to his shoulder.
“Hey, hey,” his free hand grabs your chin, forcing you to look back up at him. “Don’t look away from me.”
And that’s all you need to listen to his command. His eyes won’t leave yours. You’re embarrassed. Embarrassed with how vulnerable this feels, having him watch you.
You almost cry when his fingers stop the motion at your clit, but you’re quickly shut up when his hand slides a little ways down and a single finger pops into you. You try to hide your face against him again but he doesn’t allow you to. The grip on your chin tightens, fingers spreading to your cheeks, lips puckered out, and keeping you still as he pumps the single finger inside of you.
You can’t speak. You’re a whimpering mess as he adds another finger. And another. You’re riding his hand desperately, completely flushed and flustered by his utmost attention. He’s captivated by you; by the way your face twists and turns in absolute pleasure, the way you’re rutting into him with a desperate need.
“Are you going to cum?” If this were anything else, you’d cackle at the serious way he speaks those words but you can’t talk. You nod wildly, hips stuttering. He’s smug. You’ve never seen him look so smug before. So damn proud of himself at the way he’s got you.
You’ve never cum so hard in your life because he refuses to let you look away. Your eyes have to be on him as your orgasm crashes over you, spasming around his fingers as your hips stutter and slow.
The grip on your face turns soft, thumb caressing your cheek. Your chest is rising and falling, catching your breath. You choke softly when his face moves closer into yours. His nose nudges yours, lips ghosting your softly painted ones. You close your eyes, lifting your chin softly to try and meet his lips. He doesn’t let them, instead, he’s pressing a soft kiss to the tip of your nose.
You’re sure you could have taken more from him but Sammy’s familiar voice is heard. “I can’t find the shorts I bought!” She calls out your name. She’s getting closer.
Pope pulls away from you, tugging your shirt back down your legs, hiding your body again. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t even look at you as he walks out of the room, rushing past Sammy as she makes her way onto the back patio. She watches him curiously before turning back to you. “The hell is his issue?”
Your eyes are wide, “oh my god, Sammy. He just fucking fingered me.”
☆ ☆ ☆ authors note . . . hey… hey… what yall doing… okay deadass honest opinion. tnd and ino is my first “real” smut and it’s not my forte AT ALL so i hope you all love it hehehehe (this is also not edited… bear with me)
I sadly have this thing called job? They haven’t found a cure for it :( so it’s been keeping me away from here (writing wise) but… in a month I’ll be on summer vacation (I’m a lunch lady) so I will try to finish the second part 🥹 but thank you for actually wanting more from me 🙇♀️
[WHIMPERS] [MOANS] [KISSING NOISES] [BREATHLESS] “TELL ME WHAT YOU WANT” [KISSING NOISES AND WHIMPERS] “DO YOU LIKE THAT” [MOANS] [PANTS] “MY GOD YOURE SO PERFECT” [WHIMPERS] [KISSING NOISES] “GOD I WANT YOU SO BADLY” [MORE KISSING NOISES AND WHIMPERS AND MOANS]
Summary : Dr Abbot who lives on adrenaline and still wears his late wife’s ring leaves his girlfriend feeling perpetually second, and as grief, emotional distance, and medical trauma collide, their relationship unravels into devastating loss.
Jack Abbot x female reader.
Enjoy! Pls.. ;)
The first time they assume she’s his wife, it unfolds under the oppressive glare, that strips all warmth from her skin and casts sharp, deep shadows under her eyes.
The night had barely begun, yet it promised no mercy. They brought him in barely breathing, each shallow gasp a fight that never quite filled his lungs, his lips already tinged a dusky blue as his small body shuddered and his sternum pulled inward with every laboured breath, the sharp smell of chlorine still clinging to him, seven years old, impossibly small on the bed.
Her hands moved on instinct, precise and steady, even as the thought pressed in beneath her training: he was slipping away, and she might not be able to pull him back. Water shouldn’t weigh this much. Not in lungs this small. Not in someone who should still be running, still be breathing. The room moved around her in practised chaos and voices overlapping, equipment clattering in sharp bursts, but it was the monitor that held her, its thing, relentless line cutting through everything else like a scream no one could ignore.
She doesn’t remember stepping back, doesn’t remember her hands leaving his soaked shirt, but she remembers his breath stopping beneath her palms, one instant there, the next gone, as if the world had simply decided to end it there. She steps into the corridor, where the air is warmer and heavier, and it sticks in her throat as she tries to breathe.
“…you should’ve seen him—”
The voices drift toward her, distorted, wavering.
“…last trauma, he just..”
“…his wife works here too, right?”
She looks up. Three med students, scrubs fresh and unsoiled.
“Dr. Abbot” the girl says, glancing toward the trauma bay, then back at her. “How long have you two been married?”
For a moment, the question doesn’t make sense. -Married- The word floats, disconnected, like it hasn’t reached her yet, an innocent question, misplaced in a room that doesn’t have space for anything gentle.
“Married?” she echoes.
For a second, she still doesn’t understand the question. Her brain stalls, caught somewhere between the image of a small, still body and the word married.
“Married?” she repeats.
They smile, relieved, thinking they’ve gotten something right. “We’re not married,” she cuts in, the words flat and immediate, leaving no room for anything else.
Oh,” the girl says, faltering. “Im sorry, we thought—”
“That’s my fault,” another adds, awkward. “I heard someone say..”
“It’s fine.” She responds. The words come out too quickly, to sharp.
It isn’t. Because now they’re looking at her differently. Everyone else knows, they know about the ring, about the wife. Everyone else knows about the ring. She can feel it even now, phantom-cold against her skin, the memory of it brushing her waist when he pulls her close, pressing into her hip when he kisses her like he means it, like he’s here, like he’s hers, but never fully. Never without that barrier. Never without her. His wife. Everyone knows that she’s deceased. But them, they don’t know that. Because she can feel it already, the shift. The way their eyes linger a second too long now, not with admiration but curiosity. Recalculation. Judgment dressed up as confusion. The words homewrecker echoing in their heads.
They leave, the silence they leave behind is heavier than the noise. Her chest tightens again, sharper this time. She presses a hand against it, like she can force her lungs to cooperate.
In, The boy’s still face, out. She breathes
In, The word married, out. Her breath catches, uneven, like it can’t quite find its rhythm. It isn’t enough. Not even close. Her lungs feel full and empty all at once, as if something heavy is pressing down on her chest, pulling her under without ever letting her know which way is up.
“Hey, are you okay?”
She shakes her head automatically. “I’m fine.”
But the word comes out fragile, unsteady, like it never fully makes it into the air, like it dissolves before anyone can believe it.
She hears about him by accident.
“SWAT call,” a nurse says in passing, voice low but edged with something like excitement. “Brought him in through the back. Shoulder, I think.”
The world tilts, subtle, but enough. Enough for everything else to drop away. By the time she reaches the room, her pulse is in her ears, steady and crashing like waves too close to the shore.
The door is half open, he’s inside, sitting on the edge of the bed, shirt on his lap. Blood streaks across his toned back, not as much as it could be, but enough to make a cold weight sink deep into her stomach, settling there like it belongs. Dr. Mohan stands behind him, carefully cleaning the graze.
He looks up when she enters, surprise flickers. Then it’s gone.
“You shouldn’t be here.”
The words hit harder than they should. “I shouldn’t be here?” Her voice is steady at first. Barely. “I had to hear from a nurse that you were shot.”
“Grazed,” he corrects.
She laughs, but there’s no humour in it. “Right. Of course. That makes it better.”
Dr. Mohan hesitates. “I can come back—”
“No,” he says. “Finish it.”
Like this is nothing. Like she is nothing. She steps further into the room, her hands curling at her sides. “You couldn’t call me?”
“It wasn’t necessary.”
The air tightens, like it’s been pulled too small for both of them.
“Not necessary?” she repeats, disbelief sharp in her voice, anger breaking through the edges. “I’m your girlfriend, not a colleague you update when it suits you. Something less official? Something you don’t have to inform when you decide to go play soldier and get yourself killed?”
“I wasn’t going to get killed.”
“You don’t know that!” She yells.
He doesn’t respond. He never does.
“You could’ve died,” she says, softer now.
“I didn’t.”
“That’s not the point.” Her voice cracks, and she hates that it does.
Dr. Mohan finishes quickly after that, mutters something about dressings, and slips out, the door clicking shut behind her. The sound lingers a moment too long before fading, and the room seems to contract around it, smaller, tighter, as if the walls have shifted closer.
The silence that follows isn’t empty. It presses in. She takes another step closer. “Do you even hear yourself?” she says, quieter now but no less intense. “Do you have any idea what it feels like to stand here and realize that if something had gone worse, if you had died. I wouldn’t even have known until it was too late?”
His jaw tightens. “I’m fine.”
“That’s not the point!” Her voice breaks on the last word. And there it is. The crack.
“I can’t keep doing this,” she says, the anger unraveling into something rawer. “I can’t keep pretending this is normal. That this,” she gestures vaguely, helplessly “,whatever we are, is enough.”
He watches her, guarded. Always guarded. Like there’s a door inside him that she’s never been allowed to open. Because someone else is holding the keys.
“You shut me out,” she continues. “All the time. You don’t talk about her. You don’t talk about anything. And that ring—”
Her voice falters. She looks at his hand. At the band still there.
Always there.
“It’s like she’s still between us,” she whispers. “Every time you touch me, I feel it. Every time you kiss me, she’s there. And I’ve tried, I’ve tried to be okay with that. I don’t resent her. I don’t. But I resent that you won’t let me in.”
He exhales slowly, like this is exhausting. Like she’s the difficult one.
“I’m not asking you to replace her,” she says quickly. “I’m not asking you to stop loving her. But I am asking you to stop pretending you don’t have to live anymore.”
His eyes flicker at that.
“Don’t,” he warns.
But she’s past stopping now.
“You take these calls like you have nothing to lose,” she says. “Like it wouldn’t matter if something happened to you. And maybe, maybe that’s because part of you wants it to.”
“That’s not true.”
“Isn’t it?” Her voice rises again. “Because it feels like you’re trying to get back to her. Like every reckless decision is just another step in that direction.”
“Stop.”
“I’m scared all the time,” she admits, the words spilling now. “And you don’t even see it. You don’t see me.”
Silence.
Thick. Suffocating.
Her chest tightens again, sharper this time.
Something twists low in her abdomen, sudden and wrong. She falters slightly, one hand moving instinctively to her stomach
“I—”
The pain spikes. Her breath catches.
He notices then. Of course he does. He’s always good at noticing physical things.
“What’s wrong?”
She tries to answer, but it comes out as a strained inhale.
The room tilts. Not again. Not now.
“I—”
Another sharp, tearing pain. Her knees threaten to give.
His expression changes, finally, concern cutting through everything else.
“Hey, sit down”
But she’s already folding inward, one hand clenched around the edge of the bed, the other pressed hard against her abdomen as if pressure alone could hold everything in place, stop what’s already begun. There’s warmth, too much of it, spreading where it shouldn’t, and her vision edges into blur before she understands what her body is doing. Not just stress. Not just grief. Something worse, slipping through anyway.
“I was going to tell you,” she whispers, barely audible, the words breaking apart before they can reach him.
His brow furrows. “Tell me what.”
She looks at him. Really looks at him. At the man she loves. At the distance that never closed. At the ring that never left. Her voice breaks completely.
“I was pregnant.”
The word hangs there
Fragile. Shattering.
And then, quietly, devastatingly “I don’t think I am anymore.”
samira only in ONE scene this episode and the episode being 41 minutes long is just proof of them erasing supriya's existence and work on this show.
I feel like I wasted my time with this show throwing woc away to lift up their white characters :/
that’s exactly how i feel too like she confirmed this morning she’s not going to paleyfest - she’s been the victim of a bunch of racist vitriol on twitter and production has left her out by herself.
this genuinely does not feel like the same show that i fell in love with and im upset about it.
%%%% a collection of random texts with social worker!reader
%%%% warnings— this is not a spoiler free story! lewd talks and behaviors, drug abuse, fem!reader, corny jokes, human behavior that will make you side eye. will add more as the story progresses
A/n: Sorry this took so long to get out!! I have been extremely busy! there’s two written parts in this!! please don’t miss them
TAGLIST CLOSED
The sandwich shop smells like warm bread and something faintly herbal—probably the rosemary from the focaccia. You tap your fingers against the table, trying not to stare at the way Dennis' sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, the veins on his biceps bulging as he finished chewing his food, reaching for his drink.
Your conversations so far have been nothing but easy laughter and stupid stories about your most hilarious medical experiences, along with some shared struggles in med school.
You nudged your cup with your fingers. “So what about you? Any equally embarrassing childhood stories I should know about?”
“Oh, absolutely not,” he said immediately, choking a bit from his drink before smiling at memories that can’t help but flood his mind, his small gap makes you swoon.
“Oh come on! I just told you the most embarrassing thing I've had!”
“Selective storyteller,” he corrected, leaning back. One arm coming to rest behind his head, stretching slightly with a groan before he relaxes again “I have a reputation to maintain.”
“With who?”
He glanced at you, just for a second longer than necessary. “Working on that.”
Your stomach did a painful, annoying flip.
You looked away first, smiling into your drink. “That’s not going to make me forget that you didn’t answer my question, by the way.”
“Yeah, I know,” he said lightly. “I’m distracting you.”
“You’re not doing a very good job.”
“Hey! I’m actively working on it” he replied, just as quick. Gesturing between you and him.
You laughed again, softer this time, and it settled into something quieter—not awkward, just…comfortable.
"So," he said, taking a sip of his iced tea, "you never told me the details on how you ended up in the Pitt in the first place." His tone was shy, but conversational.
You smiled, rubbing your stitches with your finger absent-mindedly under the table. "Uhm…for some reason I kinda just- well, we were in a rush of course, emergency surgery…” Dennis nods along, concern littered all over his face.
“…I didn’t glove up- and I know— malpractice, but I was just trying to grab it, it was the wrong type of scalpel and it was all just a blur, she kinda thrusted it into my hand and it went through!”
“Oh my God….that’s insane, I’m sorry.” Dennis looks at his sandwich now, a little bit more than half-eaten BLT that he’s all of a sudden not interested in, more interested in looking at you, microexamining every small facial expression that you make.
“You have nothing to be sorry for! You didn’t stab me, Dennis.” You giggle slightly, raising your palm to the side in confusion
“I don’t think I could forgive myself if I did…” Your eyes flutter at his words, a small smile creeping up onto your features.
Dennis, on the other hand, is beet red as he stutters out an apology for his crush drunken confession.
“I mean- Robby would kill me! I didn’t mean…”
“It’s okay Dennis, I know what you mean.” You frown a bit at the mention of your dad, but you let it go soon.
His hands all of a sudden feel clammy, and he not-so-effectively rubs his sweaty hands on his denim jeans, clearing his throat as he stands up a bit, still crouching in the booth seat.
“I- I’m gonna go to the bathroom really quickly, I’ll be right back” You nod, licking your lips as you watch him fully stand up and walk away, pulling out your phone to text Mateo
Dennis slips back in his seat, sighing softly as his hands now feel dry, like he’s washed away all his anxieties.
“Sorry..”
“You’re fine, don’t apologize for going to the bathroom!”
“No…uhm, I- for the record didn’t mean to make things awkward”
“You didn’t, Dennis, at all. I enjoy talking to you— awkwardness and all.”
He lets out a deep breath— a shaky one at that, as he nods.
“Okay— Good”
Your foot accidentally nudges his under the table as you fidget without much thought. When neither of you pulls away, the silence is…something, but it’s warm, not uncomfortable.
Dennis glances down for a second, then back up, a faint smile returning.
“Next time,” he says, almost casually, obviously finding comfort in the reassurance you gave him. “I’ll try to…handle that a little better.”
“There’ll be a next time, Dennis?” A smile pulls at your lips, and Dennis is obvious to the teasing, deciding to hold himself down.
“If you want.” His voice is steady now, more confident, something that makes your stomach flip for the 56th time today.
“I’d like that” You physically see his chest deflate, a breath let go that he didn’t even realize he was holding until you uttered the words.
The conversation drifts after that, back to smaller things, easier things over mouthfuls of food, but it doesn’t quite feel the same as before.
yk I don’t even think its about the drugs for santos. she doesn’t give a fuck that he stole them.
its about the fact that he used his position of power to humiliate her and to hide his misconduct and in her eyes he faced no repercussions.
she has so much trauma about men in positions of power who do bad things and get away with it. she wants to make langdon suffer because he symbolises the system that has failed her so badly.
she doesn’t want him to get help, get better, be forgiven. she doesn’t want to understand him or sympathise. she wants to see him burn and hopes that it will be enough to satisfy her anger and pain and need for vengeance.
Whitaker is easily liked because he’s compliant. Santos isn’t easily liked because she’s defiant. The most well liked person in the room caring about the most “difficult” person to like as if it’s the easiest thing in the world to do. Everyone looking at him as if he were a saint for withstanding her, when to him she is his savior. Literally the most important platonic relationship on screen right now for me. Don’t look at me.
it feels like the showrunners think the whole “ one shift a day - realism” thing is what people like when that’s honestly the most limiting part of it
they’re gonna shoot themselves in the foot if they keep writing off beloved characters season after season and i know the last few episodes have yet to air but i really doubt samira’s arc will end in a satisfying way at this point. people aren’t going to keep watching if their favourite characters are going to keep getting written off with only one throwaway line that acknowledges them - especially when the mc is currently an asshole to everyone and their mom around him (don’t come on saying he’s in a mental health crises that is not what i’m talking about)
also you don’t get champion yourself as a show of diversity when you keep mistreating the woc in your main cast
