An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
“Alright,” Jonathan says. “I’ll go next, then. Nancy.” He smiles as he says her name with an air of mischievousness. Ever since they broke up, they’ve settled comfortably into friendship (Nancy realizes the hypocrisy in questioning Robin’s friendship with Vickie). It’s been relieving, but it also means Jonathan is a lot more comfortable with messing with Nancy. She hasn’t quite gotten there yet.
“Dare,” she says quickly, before he can even ask.
“Damn, that was fast,” Robin says. “What are you hiding, Wheeler?”
Nancy feels her face turning red. “Just give me the dare.”
Or: various queer feelings are revealed during a game of truth or dare.
written for day 11 of femslash february: “i dare you” / hiding
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still the same soul that i met under the bleachers
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Change is inevitable, Imogen knows it now.
People who have messy relationships in high school can get back together, come back stronger, and actually settle into something healthy. And they can lie in their shared bed while their cats climb on top of the both of them, giggling as they become a tangled mass of happiness.
But some things always stay the same.
Or: imogen and sahar, in 2025 and in 2037.
written for days 9 and 10 of femslash february: déjà vu / devotion
parker walks into the bathroom when samira’s having her breakdown. they kiss about it.
written for day 8 of femslash february: distance between / momentum
read on ao3 or under the cut
“Thought I told you to go home,” Parker says, walking into the bathroom and taking in Samira’s features. She’s hunched over a sink, having clearly been crying, and strands of her dark brown hair are hanging loosely in the front of her face. It makes her look equal parts disheveled and beautiful.
Samira looks up. “I’m not very good at listening,” she says, wiping a tear away.
“Yeah, I got that,” says Parker. “You okay?”
Samira just stares, gesturing at her trembling body, at her tear-stained face.
“Right,” Parker winces. “Stupid question.”
“I’ll be fine,” Samira says. “I was just thinking—I mean, I’d rather be here, amongst all the stress and blood and death, than at home, because at least I have a purpose here. I don’t have a purpose in a shitty apartment with a malfunctioning air conditioner. How fucked up is that?” The tears start to fall again, leaving glassy tracks on her cheeks and down her neck.
“It’s like…I don’t have anything meaningful in my life, apart from work. How am I supposed to live like that? It’s not like I can change it.”
Parker sees the yearning in Samira’s soft, glossy brown eyes. She wants meaning so badly that the desire is radiating from her.
Parker isn’t sure what she should do. Comfort her? Parker’s never been good with emotions. So she lets the silence that falls after Samira’s brokenhearted speech linger for a minute, and then she bridges the gap that lies between them, the tension-filled distance. Cupping Samira’s cheek like she’s done it a thousand times before, like her heart isn’t beating with unfamiliarity, she wipes the tears off her face, and Samira lets her. Parker can feel her fingertips tingling, electricity running through her veins. One thing she notices—Samira doesn’t even look remotely confused. She has a slight smile on her face, even if it’s heavy, and her expression is nothing but accepting. Like this—Parker’s hand on her face, the warmth that built from the touch—was an inevitability.
They’ve always been close. Samira’s one of the few doctors here that Parker is on first-name terms with. And Parker won’t deny that something is different about Samira, and it’s something that makes her heart soften and her stomach erupt with butterflies. She’s never allowed herself to believe Samira felt the same way, until now.
The momentum builds, the electricity between them buzzing at the tips of Parker’s fingers and hanging in the air. And before she can stop herself, Parker is leaning into Samira’s space, Samira is tilting her face forward, and their lips brush. Parker’s hand moves down the side of Samira’s head and rests on her shoulder as she kisses Samira, body intertwining with hers, each movement she makes laced with passion.
Despite everything, despite the horrific sights they’ve seen here in the hospital today, Parker is here, holding Samira, feeling her, breathing her in, and somehow, it makes sense to her.
“I have access to the drugs that are used for medically assisted death. All I have to do is take them from the hospital, and, I mean, you’re trained. You could put the needle into my vein, because I can’t do it myself, Allison, I just can’t. It would be quick. Painless. It’s the best solution.”
Remy says it in a quiet, measured way. She’s careful to keep her voice businesslike, not allowing for emotion to seep through. This doesn’t have to be sad. Really, all she’s doing is planning for the future, for the best possible outcome.
But she knows what Allison’s going to say the second she opens her mouth.
Or: before thirteen asks house to kill her, she asks allison, who she's been secretly dating. it doesn't go the way she wants it to.
written for day 7 of femslash february, "i have a plan" / greed
read on ao3 or under the cut
“I have a plan,” Remy says, in lieu of a greeting, her tone serious.
Allison raises an eyebrow. “Nice to see you too. What are we talking about?”
She sits down across the dining table from Remy, in their small apartment. Remy wants to cry a little. Their apartment. They have this whole life they’ve built together, and kept hidden from the world. They have something that’s only theirs, that no one can take from them.
But Huntington’s can, and Huntington’s will.
They’ve never talked about it, not properly. Sure, they have conversations about it, and Allison lets Remy rest her head on her shoulder and listens to her as she gets all existential. But they always dance around the real root of Remy’s concerns.
One day, she’s going to die. And it’ll be slow, and it’ll be painful. That’s unless she changes her fate, and stops that miserable descent into nothingness from happening.
If she takes control, and she dies before it can kill her.
“For when the Huntington’s gets bad. I want you to kill me.”
Allison’s eyes bug out of her head. “What?”
“I have access to the drugs that are used for medically assisted death. All I have to do is take them from the hospital, and, I mean, you’re trained. You could put the needle into my vein, because I can’t do it myself, Allison, I just can’t. It would be quick. Painless. It’s the best solution.”
Remy says it in a quiet, measured way. She’s careful to keep her voice businesslike, not allowing for emotion to seep through. This doesn’t have to be sad. Really, all she’s doing is planning for the future, for the best possible outcome.
But she knows what Allison’s going to say the second she opens her mouth.
“Remy, no. You can’t die—”
“I’m going to die anyways. This is the way I want it to go. I want to have control, Allison. Please let me have it.”
“You’ll get in trouble,” Allison tries. “Stealing drugs from the hospital—”
“It won’t matter,” Remy says. “I’ll be dead. What the hell are they going to do?”
“It’s a crime—”
“A crime you’ll never get found out for. All the signs will point to suicide, or to complications from Huntington’s. And honestly? It may be illegal, but you can’t get on an ethical high ground about this, Allison. You know this is the more moral option. It causes less suffering.”
“For you, Remy!” Allison almost yells, slamming her hand down onto the table. “What about me?”
“I’m going to fucking die either way, Allison! You’re going to watch me fade away, you’re going to watch me forget you, and then you’re going to watch me die. Or you could end it all earlier. All the pain,” Remy spits, voice catching on a sob, a collection of anger and sadness.
“Killing you is going to affect me. You’d be an idiot not to realize that.”
“It won’t. Not any more than the alternative.”
“I won’t do it,” Allison huffs. “I’m not killing you. You can’t ask me to do that.”
“Allison, now is not the time to do the whole by-the-book-good-person thing.”
“Oh my god, Remy,” says Allison. “I’m not saying no because I think it’s wrong. I’m not doing that. I know I’m being unreasonable, but I don’t care.” Remy watches as tears well up in Allison’s eyes. She’s sure her own are the same—she can feel the streams of salt as they trickle down her cheeks.
“I want to be with you for as long as possible, no matter what state you’re in,” Allison says. “And I know it’s selfish, I know it’s greedy, but it’s the truth. I can’t let you go until I absolutely have to. And I definitely can’t be the one to pull the trigger, so to speak.”
Remy’s eyes burn with rage, with heartbreak, with betrayal. The one time her perpetually empathetic girlfriend decides to do something selfish, and it’s this.
Being with Allison was always going to be complicated, what with the fact that Remy worked with the man who had indirectly ended Allison’s last relationship, at least in Allison’s eyes, and the fact that her best friend was the last relationship in question. Remy never expected this, of all things, to be what broke them.
But she can’t stay with Allison, knowing that she won’t do this one thing for her.
“I’m leaving,” Remy says bitterly, trying not to let the utter devastation bleed through her voice or show on her face.
And she gets up, leaves their apartment, and slams the door.
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When Michaela Pratt’s phone lit up with a text message, something she rarely ever received, she’d been surprised. Her life at the moment was all emails and long legal documents, and the occasional phone call from an angry prosecutor or the ADA. There was certainly no room for people from her past, for the ghosts of that time to come back to haunt her.
She had regrets, sure. But she was moving on. She was a federal judge now, for God’s sake. One of the youngest to ever be sworn in. There were more important things to worry about, verdicts to make, people to bring to justice.
And yet, when the From: Laurel Castillo brightened her phone screen, Michaela couldn’t help but smile, a strange sort of giddiness overcoming her. She should’ve been scared or afraid or confused, but all she felt was happy. They’d all cut her off, Laurel, Annalise, Oliver, Connor. That last one still hurt, even if she understood why.
And Laurel contacting her, it was a sign that she hadn’t permanently fucked everything up.
Laurel asked her to meet at a cafè near the courthouse, having clearly kept in mind that Michaela couldn’t be away from the place for long. She’d put thought into this. Michaela couldn’t help but feel touched. Nine years had passed, and Laurel still cared enough.
She tapped her fingers rhythmically on the table, uncharacteristically nervous, as she sat across an empty chair. She checked her watch, observing the seconds as they ticked by, feeling like eternities were passing in the spaces between them.
But finally, a woman sat across from her.
Michaela took Laurel’s features in. She looked older. Not much, but just enough for Michaela to notice. There were crinkles in the corners of her eyes, the lines of her face more defined.
“Hi,” Michaela said, letting the understated greeting hang in the air for a minute.
“Hey,” Laurel said, and Michaela watched as her expression softened in real time.
“So, um,” Michaela said, with none of the confidence she was used to having, “Why did you want to meet?”
“Well,” Laurel said, “I think we should be back in each other’s lives.” Michaela opened her mouth, but Laurel continued talking before she could get a word out. “And I know you probably think that’s a bad idea, but just hear me out.” She frantically gesticulated throughout the whole sentence, and Michaela couldn’t help but smile. Some things never changed.
“Every single case we’ve been involved in is closed. We’ve confessed to what we’ve done, mostly told the truth…there’s no danger. And I miss you, Michaela,” Laurel said, voice dripping with unflinching sincerity. “I want to get to know you again.”
Michaela’s eyes flitted down to Laurel’s lips for a second. She knew how they felt, how they tasted. After all these years, she still hadn’t forgotten their celebratory post-exam makeout, never mind that it had lasted for all of five seconds. She wasn’t sure why she was thinking about it now, only that it filled her with a strange sense of longing.
“Laurel…” Michaela said, “I want that. You have no idea how badly I want that.” She placed her hand over Laurel’s, which was resting gently on the table. “But isn’t it…complicated? I mean, for God’s sake, Connor’s still in prison.” Her voice broke on the last word, catching with guilt.
Laurel raised an eyebrow. “No, he isn’t. You didn’t hear? I thought you’d be all tapped into the legal grapevine by now. He got let out early. Good behavior.”
“Really?” Michaela said, looking up.
“Yeah,” Laurel said, eyes misting. “Listen. I know it’s complicated, and I know it’s messy, but we’ve all grown and changed and become newer, better people. I’ve changed. A lot. But one thing never has. I love you, Michaela. I don’t think anything could ever stop me from loving you.”
Oddly, Michaela wasn’t surprised by the admission. She just felt a sort of settled calm, a sensation of security. Like it was always meant to be said, somehow, someday.
“Okay,” Michaela said. “Okay.” She ran her thumb, still lingering on Laurel’s hand, over the soft fibers of her skin. “How would you feel about starting our reacquaintance over iced coffee and a croissant?"
Laurel’s face broke out into a smile. It was the most beautiful sight in the world.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Trinity’s mouth always moves faster than her brain. If she was asked the thing she hates the most about herself, there would be a plethora of things to choose from, but her tendency to speak before she thinks is always the worst one.
Or: trinity says something slightly homosexual about yolanda while watching her do an operation, and yolanda overhears. my headcanon for how they got together between s1 and s2!
written for day 4 of femslash february: foot in mouth / pain
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
FUCK the duffer brothers they're going to communicate about their issues and work through them instead of breaking up offscreen
~
It’s not like they always argue. It’s just weird. Vickie still sneaks over to Robin’s place in the dead of night, but they don’t really talk, or do anything all that romantic. They silently curl up on the sofa, an uncomfortable amount of friction between them, tension hanging in the air. Robin will flick through TV channels with the volume on single digits, so as not to wake her family, and then she and Vickie will give up on finding something entertaining and just end up making out, there on the couch, with no passion behind what they’re doing. They just mechanically go through the motions, all the excitement and emotional vulnerability and lightness just gone.
Or: post-canon, robin and vickie go through a rough patch in their relationship.
written for day 3 of femslash february, "i didn't do it!" and "friction"
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An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
a few hours after she performs a disastrous blood-drawing procedure on joy, emma finds herself as the one who has to get her blood drawn. of course, joy is the one doing it.
written for day 2 of femslash february: “i’ve got you” / heartbeats
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
foretaub making out in a bathroom like teenagers what who said that
what if you were GAY and your wife was EMOTIONALLY CHEATING ON YOU because you CHEATED ON HER and you broke up at a WEDDING and then ended up in the bathroom with your BISEXUAL FRIEND who was DRUNK and then he KISSED you and you KISSED HIM BACK and then you REALISED WHAT YOU'VE BEEN SEARCHING FOR YOUR WHOLE LIFE
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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"mike why am i coming out in front of 13 people like i'm at a school presentation and why are murray and steve and nancy here and who is kali and why is she here too" and it was allll a d&d game you guys mike wheeler sucks at writing and when steve is back in chicago
amirah's fanfiction blog! @rahwriteswhump - Tumblr Blog | Tumlook
