Under the Sea 🌊

Robby is coming back from vacation. But they're both so tired at the end of their shift that neither Dennis nor Robby notice anyone.💕

dennis whitaker is kissing him, wet and eager and young, and it reminds robby of college days and cigarettes, except dennis's tongue tastes more artificial than that. he mumbles a do you vape, kid? against those pretty pink lips, and laughs as dennis flushes, stutters out a defensive I've been... I've been trying to quit. sort of. robby hums, licks back into his mouth. something tropical... mango.

dennis whitaker is soft and warm and malleable in his hands, and he knows the kid has had a crush on him since forever, knows he shouldn't be indulging it. not when puppy love comes so easy when you're still as bright-eyed as dennis, not when the poor thing will get too attached and heartbroken. robby's never claimed to be a good man, never justified it to himself in his head. maybe being aware that he's bad is better than delusion.

dennis whitaker is letting robby open him up on lube-slick fingers, whining so beautifully as robby curls them inside his ass, so tight and velvet for him. it's cute, how dennis doesn't even try to muffle his whimpers, squirming and rocking his hips up into the pleasure robby freely gives. he can barely hold back his own groans, already knowing how good it'll feel around his dick, perfectly warm and welcoming and clenching down with a vice grip.

dennis whitaker is confirming that theory when robby finally sinks inside, panting and squeezing at dennis's hip to ground himself, pleasure sparkling in his veins and throbbing in his dick. dennis's own dick twitches against his pale stomach, reddened and weeping, pretty like the rest of him. robby's tempted to take ahold of it, pump him in time with slow thrusts, but he wants to try and make the kid cum untouched, first. wants to see if he can't get dennis's cum splattering over his own stomach as he wails.

dennis whitaker is catching him off guard and making his hips stutter in that lube-slick heat, making his eyes burn as he blinks back tears. dennis is clinging onto robby as best as he can, moaning out god, robby, you're so— oh, fuck, you're so beautiful, you're so good, feels so good— and robby has never been beautiful. no one's called him that before. ugly and big-nosed when he was younger, when everyone sorted him in the box of "other", which meant undesirable. handsome, sexy, when he was older, rumored to be a good lay. a plethora of insults and compliments, but never once has someone dubbed him beautiful.

dennis whitaker is lying so nicely to him and robby is murmuring m'not, kid, m'not, and he doesn't know why he's responding at all, but he has to make dennis understand. this is not intimacy, this is sex. this is not making love, this is fucking. robby is not beautiful, he knows how to thrust his hips in just the right angle to make dennis cry and cum and have a good night. dennis moans it anyways, whimpers out nooo, cmon, you're— unnngh, you're so pretty... and robby shakes his head, squeezes his eyes shut, wants to laugh. pretty. him, a useless kid, a gangly teenager, a grown man with a body that looks better in the dark. pretty. never in any stage of his life has he been pretty.

michael robinavitch is whispering no, angel, you're the pretty one, and it comes out sweeter than he meant it to, and oh fuck, he's really gonna break this kid's heart. he feels something sick curl in his gut when he realizes this might break his own heart, too. he doesn't want dennis to go. he doesn't want the kid to leave. maybe if he can fuck into him forever he'll stay. maybe if robby just asked he'd stay. robby doesn't know how to ask.

michael robinavitch is struggling not to cum before dennis does, hiccuping little sobs at the pleasure tremoring through his body, more pathetic than he's been in bed for years. he keeps his mouth firmly shut because he's terrified of what words might come out, terrified that they might be i love you. he doesn't even know if he means it. just that it's been so long since he's said it and felt it, and maybe he wouldn't feel it after, but he feels it now. warm and aching and fond and desperate, impossibly lonely. clinically fucking insane.

michael robinavitch is fucking hard into dennis's prostate, punching out unh, unh, unh—'s from the poor thing with every thrust, dizzy as he drives dennis to his peak whilst chasing his own. stupidly he thinks nothing has ever been more beautiful than dennis whitaker cumming, when a final thrust hits just right, makes that pretty cock on his stomach jerk and twitch, shooting ropes of cum over his tummy and chest, painted in warm spend. a debauched angel, a picture robby'd like to keep in his wallet. it's much too intimate of a thought.

michael robinavitch can barely think at all as he stills inside his boy— no, not his boy, his resident, his intern, whitaker— and cums long and hard and deep, full-body, tension draining out in one big swoosh. his orgasms haven't been this blissful and all-consuming for months, leaving him panting and sated, humming sleepily as his body blankets over his intern, catching his breath. dennis, voice a little hoarse around the edges from his moans and hiccups, answers him from earlier. we can both be pretty, he says, and it's so goddamn sweet it almost makes robby upset. a dog whining for a treat always kept out of reach. robby isn't the kind of man that gets sweet things.

dennis whitaker is soft and perfect underneath him, vulnerable and aching. dennis whitaker says things like we need you out there, captain, and feels so good, you're so good, and you're beautiful, you're pretty. dennis whitaker admires him. dennis whitaker is a mistake.

In the episode 72 hours, we find out Rose may have contracted AIDs during an emergency gallbladder surgery.

Rose: Why me, Blanche? I'm tired of pretending I feel okay so you won't say, 'Take it easy', and I'm tired of you saying 'Take it easy' because you're afraid I'm going to fall apart. Dammit, why is this happening to me? I mean, this isn't supposed to happen to people like me. You must've gone to bed with hundreds of men. All I had was one innocent operation. Blanche: Hey, wait a minute! Are you saying this should be me and not you? Rose: No! No, I'm just saying that I am a good person. Hell, I'm a goody-two-shoes! Blanche: AIDS is not a bad person's disease, Rose, it is not God punishin' people for their sins!

In Isn't it romantic? we find out Dorothy's childhood best friend is a lesbian who recently lost her partner. She confesses she has feelings for Rose. Rose turns her down but makes it clear that she still wants to be friends even though she doesn't return those feelings.

Sophia: Jean is a nice person. She happens to like girls instead of guys. Some people like cats instead of dogs.

Jean: Rose, about last night. I should never have said anything. Rose: You only said what you were feeling. Jean: It's just that this last year has been so difficult for me. Pat was the person I planned to spend the rest of my life with. And when she died, I just felt so terribly alone. Empty. I thought I could never care for anyone again. Until I met you. I just got very confused. I hope I didn't make you uncomfortable. Rose: Well, I have to admit that I don't understand these kinds of feelings. But if I did understand, if I were, you know, like you, I'd be very flattered and proud that you thought of me that way.

Ebbtide's Revenge gives us Phil's funeral, and Sophia addressing him wearing women's clothes.

Rose: So what if he was different? It's okay that you loved him. Sophia: I did love him. He was my son, my little boy. But every time I saw him I wondered what I did, what I said, when was the day I did whatever I did to make him the way he was. Angela Petrillo: What he was Sophia, was a good man.

Sister of the Bride, where Blanche's brother Clayton brings his boyfriend to town, because they're planning on getting married.

Blanche: Oh, look, I can accept the fact that he's gay, but why does he have to slip a ring on this guy's finger so the whole world will know? Sophia: Why did you marry George? Blanche: We loved each other. We wanted to make a lifetime commitment. Wanted everybody to know. Sophia: That's what Doug and Clayton want, too. Everyone wants someone to grow old with. And shouldn't everyone have that chance?

"Uh… How do you spell that one?"

Dennis's cheeks have gone a little pink as he asks. He should know. It's an obscure drug, not one they use a lot, but he should still really know.

He glances up at Robby, pen faltering in his hand.

Robby doesn't even pause, he takes both notebook and pen from Dennis. He's not gonna waste time sounding out each letter, they've got shit to do. Dennis watches him almost in a daze, how his big hands dwarf the notebook, how elegantly he holds the pen. He's slipping his readers on as he nods at Dennis and whistles. "Turn round for me, kid."

Dennis does, back to Robby and suddenly that firm grip is on his shoulder, squaring him. He can only blink, barely able to comprehend what's happening as Robby uses the space between his shoulder blades as a writing desk. There's the sensation of the pen's sharp point as it scribbles through the paper, Robby's warm breath as it fans across the nape of his neck. All he can do is hold still, eyes darting around the Pitt, not knowing where to look. People are staring.

As quickly as it started, it's over. Dennis spins back around, lips parted,

"I--"

Robby is tossing the notebook back to him. "10 milligrams of that, go see the pharmacist."

"I--" Dennis tries again, "Okay--"

And he's gone. Dennis is left clutching the notepad watching after him as he heads away. His chest feels weird. He can still feel where the pen followed the line of each letter, like it's been imprinted permanently on his skin. Each letter to spell… Dennis glances down. His nose crinkles.

At the bottom of the page, under his own quick but legible script is possibly the worst handwriting Dennis has ever seen. He can't even tell if it's spelled out in capitals. Shit. What was the drug again? Dennis better write it down, readable this time, even if it's spelled wrong it...

Dennis pats his pockets down, just needing a…

Lady of Orda Cave by Natalia Avseenko and Phototeam.PRO

Two-time world champion free diver Natalia Avseenko ventured deep into Ordynskaya Cave in Perm, Russia… one of the longest and biggest underwater gypsum caves in the world, dressed as the mythical Lady of the Cave, a spirit who protects divers inside the “natural cathedral”.

Truncated text of tweet from MrPitBull, Mar 11, 2026:

She kept finding women in laboratory photographs from the 1800s. Then she read the published papers—and every single woman had vanished. Someone had erased them from history.

Yale University, 1969.

Margaret Rossiter was a graduate student studying the history of science. She was one of very few women in her program.

Every Friday afternoon, students and faculty gathered for beers and informal conversation. One week, Margaret asked a simple question: "Were there ever any women scientists?"

The faculty answered firmly: No.

Someone mentioned Marie Curie. The group dismissed it—her husband Pierre really deserved the credit.

Margaret didn't argue. But she also didn't believe them.

So she started looking.

She found a reference book called "American Men of Science"—essentially a Who's Who of scientific achievement. Despite the title, she was shocked to discover it contained entries about women. Botanists trained at Wellesley. Geologists from Vermont.

There were names. There were credentials. There were careers.

The professors had been wrong.

But Margaret's discovery was just the beginning. Because as she dug deeper into archives across the country, she found something far more disturbing.

Photograph after photograph showed women standing at laboratory benches, working with equipment, listed on research teams.

But when she read the published papers, the award citations, the official histories—those same women had disappeared. Their names were missing. Their contributions erased.

It wasn't random. It was systematic.

Women who designed experiments watched male colleagues publish results without giving them credit. Women whose discoveries were assigned to supervisors. Women listed in acknowledgments instead of as authors. Women passed over for awards that went to male collaborators who contributed far less.

Margaret realized she was witnessing a pattern that stretched across centuries.

Women had always been present in science. The record had simply pushed them aside.

She needed a name for what she was documenting.

In the early 1990s, she found it in the work of Matilda Joslyn Gage—a 19th-century suffragist who had written about this exact phenomenon in 1870.

In 1993, Margaret published a paper formally naming it: The Matilda Effect.

The term captured something that had been hidden in plain sight for generations. Once you knew the term, you saw it everywhere.

Her dissertation became a lifelong mission.

For more than 30 years, Margaret researched and wrote her landmark three-volume series: Women Scientists in America. She examined letters, institutional policies, individual careers. She gathered undeniable evidence that women in science had been consistently under-credited and structurally excluded.

Her work faced resistance. Many dismissed women's history as political rather than academic. Others insisted she was exaggerating.

Margaret didn't argue emotionally. She presented data. Documented cases. Patterns repeated across decades and institutions.

Eventually, the evidence became undeniable.

Her research helped restore recognition to scientists who had been erased:

Rosalind Franklin, whose X-ray work revealed DNA's structure—credit went to Watson and Crick.

Lise Meitner, who explained nuclear fission—omitted from the Nobel Prize.

Nettie Stevens, who discovered sex chromosomes—received little credit.

Cecilia Payne-Gaposchkin, who discovered stars are made of hydrogen—initially dismissed.

And countless others whose names had nearly vanished.

Margaret changed the narrative. Science was no longer just the story of solitary male geniuses. It became a story of collaboration that included women who had been written out.