#The character might not be real but the people behind them are!!

[warpdrive-witch]

Hello! Can I request angst for Agatha? Maybe Agatha and the reader are married and have a baby together, but someone is trying to come between them. This person wants the reader and starts sending fake photos to Agatha, making it look like the reader is cheating. At first, Agatha doesn’t believe it, but then something happens that makes her doubt everything, and she ends up leaving the reader. Eventually, she finds out the photos were fake all along. You can decide how it ends. Thank you!

Hey Anon! Thanks for the idea. I wanted to write this out for you before the last two weeks of the semester hit me in the face. I hope you love it. Enjoy 💜

18.1k Words. Manipulation. Leaving. Arguments. Angst. Childbirth. Stress.

The Evidence of Nothing

The nursery smelled like lemon oil and fresh cotton—the scent of new beginnings. Dust motes floated through the golden light slanting in from the west-facing window, catching on the soft curve of your belly as you reached up to shelve another book. Your back ached, but you smiled through it, one hand pressing instinctively over the gentle swell, like your daughter might press back.

Behind you, Agatha leaned in the doorway, her silhouette softened by the light, a mug in her hands and amusement tugging at the corner of her mouth.

“You know she’s going to pull all of those down the second she learns to stand.”

You glanced over your shoulder. “And you’re going to say, ‘She’s just curious,’ while I’m the one re-shelving The People’s History of the Peloponnesian War for the fifth time.”

Agatha stepped forward with a chuckle, placing her mug on the windowsill. “I never said I’d stop her. Just that I’d admire her technique.”

You grinned as she came to stand behind you, her hands slipping beneath yours to brace the book in place. Her fingers brushed over yours—cool from the mug, grounding and sure. The baby kicked then. Sharp and sudden.

Agatha stilled. Her eyes widened as she looked down at your belly. “Was that—?”

You nodded, eyes glossy. “She liked the joke.”

She exhaled a laugh, but it broke halfway. Her hand rose slowly, reverently, and settled against the place where the kick had landed. When the baby kicked again, her face cracked wide open with wonder.

“She’s real,” she whispered. “I mean—of course she’s real, but…”

“I know.” You leaned your head against her shoulder, the both of you swaying slightly where you stood. “It still hits me sometimes. Like I’ll forget for a second and then she moves and—”

“It’s everything again,” Agatha finished, voice thick.

You turned into her. She kissed your forehead first. Then your lips. There was peace here. A quiet certainty. Even when your hips ached. Even when the world outside felt too sharp. This house, this room—this love—was steady. Later that night, curled together on the couch, Agatha rubbed your back while you sorted through baby name lists on your tablet.

“I still think her middle name should be Justice,” she said, half-serious.

You raised an eyebrow. “What is she? A comic book character?”

“She’s got your spine and my attitude. She’ll need something iconic to anchor her.”

You shook your head, but you were laughing. And when Agatha rested her palm against your belly again, the baby kicked once more—strong and deliberate, like she agreed.

------

It was supposed to be a quick meeting. Twenty minutes, max.

You’d agreed to meet Maya Larkin at the campus café just off the quad—a tucked-away spot where faculty and grad students lingered over lukewarm espresso and half-graded papers. She’d reached out the week before, her email full of gratitude and eagerness. She was revisiting her thesis proposal, she said. Wanted your perspective. “Only if you have the time,” she’d added. “I know how busy things must be.”

You did have time—barely—but she’d been one of the brightest students in your public history seminar last year. Smart. Focused. Maybe a little intense, but respectful. And genuinely curious about the same kinds of questions that lit your brain up.

So you said yes.

You arrived a few minutes early, one hand cradling your belly out of habit as you shuffled into a corner booth. The barista behind the counter gave you a nod—already making your usual. The baby had started getting fussy about temperature lately; everything had to be lukewarm or she'd protest with a well-placed jab to your ribs.

Maya slid into the booth a few minutes later. Polished, professional, a little overdressed for a casual meeting—but maybe she was coming from a class. Her smile was wide, eyes bright behind dark-framed glasses.

“Professor,” she said warmly. “You look amazing. Glowing, honestly.”

You smiled, nodding in thanks. “It’s mostly the lighting. And the fact that I didn’t throw up this morning for the first time in three days.”

She laughed like you’d told a good joke.

The conversation was fine. Mostly.

She asked sharp questions. Brought up your recent panel presentation at the library conference. Quoted your article on queer archival silences—verbatim. It should’ve been flattering, and part of you was impressed. But something about the way she said, “I think about that line all the time: ‘Sometimes silence isn’t absence—it’s refusal.’” made the back of your neck prickle.

Not wrong. Just... too knowing. Too aware.

You chalked it up to nerves. People got weird around professors, especially when they admired them. You’d done it yourself, back when you were Maya’s age.

As you stood to leave, she hesitated.

“I, um—actually got you something.” Maya reached into her bag and pulled out a small gift bag. Pale yellow tissue crinkled softly at the top.

You blinked. “You didn’t have to—”

“I know,” she said, waving it off. “Just something small. I saw it and thought of you. No big deal.”

Inside was a teething ring shaped like a stack of archival boxes. You’d seen them on Etsy—clever and kind of adorable. It was cute. Harmless.

But something about the way she said thought of you landed a little too close.

Still, you thanked her. Smiled. Told her good luck with the revisions.

And then the soft chime above the café door jingled.

You turned instinctively—already recognizing the cadence of her footsteps.

Agatha spotted you immediately. Her expression melted into that familiar, quiet joy—the kind of look that made you feel seen even before she’d touched you.

She crossed the café in a few strides, pausing behind you just long enough to drop a kiss on your cheek. Her hand skimmed your shoulder, thumb brushing gently across your collarbone in a touch that had always made you feel like home.

“Hey, sweetheart,” she murmured. “I figured you might be here.”

You leaned back into her. “I thought you had office hours?”

“I did. Canceled the last half. Your texts looked like you were fading.” She smiled, then glanced toward Maya with polite curiosity. “Hi.”

Maya’s voice came a second too late. “Hello, Dr. Harkness.”

There was something clipped in it now. Tighter. You recognized the shift immediately.

Agatha blinked. “I’m sorry—have we met?”

Maya’s jaw tensed.

“I was in your History of Political Thought class. Fall semester, two years ago.”

Agatha’s face was blank. “Oh. I—apologies. I usually remember my students, but that year was a little chaotic.”

Maya’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. “Apparently.”

You stiffened. Agatha, ever perceptive, felt it too. Her hand dropped instinctively to your shoulder again, thumb smoothing small circles over your sweater.

“I was just heading out,” you said, easing yourself up from the booth.

Maya stood as well, but not before her gaze flicked—slow and assessing—from your rounded belly to Agatha’s arm still resting over your shoulder. Her nostrils flared so subtly it might’ve gone unnoticed… if you hadn’t already been watching her too closely.

“You two… know each other?” Maya asked, voice deliberately light.

Agatha lifted a brow. “We’re married.”

The words landed like a slap.

For a moment, Maya didn’t speak.

Then: “Well. Congratulations.”

You gave her a gentle nod, polite and practiced. “Good luck with your revisions. I’m sure your work will grow into something strong.”

Maya’s mouth twisted like she’d bitten into something sour. “I hope so. It’s always interesting to see who gets remembered.”

Agatha turned, her free hand settling protectively at your back. “Have a good afternoon, Ms. Larkin.”

You didn’t look back as the two of you walked out.

But Maya did.

------

The late afternoon had settled into something slow and honey-thick—sunlight slipping through the windows in lazy gold ribbons, the kind that softened the edges of everything. You were curled on the couch, a mug of herbal tea resting on the swell of your belly. It tasted like regret and well-meaning advice—raspberry leaf, lemon balm, nettle. Jen’s special blend. She’d handed you a mason jar of the stuff last week with a knowing look and said, “Not glamorous, but helpful. Trust me.”

You did trust her. Jen had been a part of your life long before she'd become your doula. She lived just two doors down—equal parts brilliant and grounded, a former ER nurse turned midwife who now grew heirloom tomatoes in raised beds and hosted monthly book clubs that always devolved into feminist rage and laughter. She’d been the one to gently insist on keeping a birthing pool in the house. “Just in case,” she’d said, tapping her temple. “Babies don’t care about plans, sweetheart. They come when they come.”

So, the pool waited in the corner of your bedroom. Deflated. Coiled like a secret. A quiet backup plan to a backup plan. But somehow, its presence made things feel more real. More possible. As if someone else had thought through the chaos so you didn’t have to.

You shifted slightly, adjusting the laptop perched across your thighs. Your legs were tangled in a pretzel of academic exhaustion—one knee bent beneath you, the other stretched out just enough to tap absently against Agatha’s thigh. She sat beside you on the couch, a novel open in her lap, though the angle of her gaze suggested she hadn’t read more than a paragraph in the last half hour.

A groan escaped your lips as another email notification popped up in the corner of your screen.

“What now?” Agatha asked, not looking up.

You sighed, rubbing your forehead. “Another undergrad asking if I can ‘just glance’ at their digital exhibit proposal before Monday. It’s Friday, Agatha. I’m not their personal fairy god-historian.”

She smirked without lifting her eyes. “You kind of are.”

“I do not grant academic wishes.”

“You do. I’ve seen you. One time you rewrote a student’s thesis abstract and called it ‘pedagogical triage.’”

“That was an emergency. He didn’t know what a historiographical lens was and was three weeks from presenting to the department.”

Your inbox dinged again.

And again.

You groaned theatrically, one hand drifting to your stomach as if to physically shield your child from the chaos of academia.

“Okay, let’s see… Michael needs help with his citations… Tabitha wants an extension… and—”

You stopped mid-sentence.

A new subject line blinked softly on the screen:

Following up on our chat – Maya Larkin

The air shifted—not dramatically. But enough. Enough that you noticed when Agatha's hand stilled on her book, her breath hitching just faintly in the quiet space between seconds.

You clicked the email open.

Hi Professor, Thank you again for taking the time to meet. I found our discussion about archival ethics incredibly inspiring—it really made me think more deeply about emotional bias in preservation work. I’d love to meet again if you're available. Totally understand if you're busy! I just value your insights so much. Warmly, Maya

You leaned back against the cushions, already composing a gentle, professional brush-off. “Why do they always want to ‘pick your brain’? My brain is tired. My brain is bloated with third-trimester fog. My brain is a balloon full of sleep deprivation and foot cramps.”

Agatha didn’t laugh. Not this time.

She slid a bookmark between the pages and set the novel down in her lap, fingers drumming once—then stilling.

“Didn’t you already meet with her?” she asked lightly, casually. But her posture had changed. More upright. Alert in that quiet, practiced way she had when something didn’t sit right.

You nodded, scrolling. “Yeah. Earlier this week. She was fine. A little intense. One of those students who memorizes your entire CV and then watches your face to see if you’re flattered.”

“Hm.”

That was all.

Just a soft sound. Noncommittal. But thoughtful.

You glanced sideways. “What?”

Agatha shook her head and reached out, squeezing your ankle where it rested against her thigh. “Nothing. Probably just the protective instincts kicking in. I didn’t love the way she looked at you the other day.”

You arched a brow. “She was nervous.”

“She was… something.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but stopped. Because even if you didn’t feel threatened, you had noticed the way Maya had lingered a little too long after the meeting. The way she’d smiled like she was testing a theory, not just being polite.

Agatha didn’t press. She didn’t need to. Her gaze drifted back to your belly—softening—and then flicked toward you.

------

Agatha hadn’t meant to overhear it.

She was coming out of the departmental printer room—an ancient, humming closet of overheating machines and jammed toner cartridges—when she caught the tail end of a conversation between two adjuncts near the breakroom, voices low and gossipy in that way people got when they weren’t talking about anything serious but still wanted to sound important.

“…said she stopped by their office hours yesterday and no one was there. Totally empty. Door open, lights on, but nothing.”

The other voice was vaguely familiar—maybe one of the anthropology post-docs. “Weird. They’re never out of office. Especially not this late in the term.”

“She even knocked, just in case they were in the back or something. But yeah—nobody.”

Agatha froze for half a second, her hand still on the doorframe. They didn’t name you, not outright—but “never out of office” could only be one person. You. You were practically known for it. You’d once held office hours on a snow day “just in case.”

It was probably nothing. Maybe the student had shown up late. Maybe they were confused.

Still, something tugged.

That night, after dinner—after the dishes had been stacked and the leftovers labeled, after you had curled up on the couch with a book propped on your bump and a blanket over your knees—Agatha said, too casually, “Did you have office hours yesterday?”

You looked up. “Mhm. Why?”

“I just… someone mentioned not finding you in your office.”

You blinked, then rolled your eyes a little. “Oh—yeah. A student came by early, and she looked like she was two seconds from a panic attack, so I offered to walk with her. We sat on the bench outside the library. Figured it would be less intimidating than hovering in my weird windowless cave while she tried to explain her draft.”

Agatha tried to keep her expression neutral, but something flickered. “Which student?”

You frowned, trying to remember. “Tabitha, I think? No—wait. The other one. But then Maya spotted me and before I could find a way to leave, she started asking questions”

Agatha’s body didn’t tense.

Not really.

But something in her shoulders changed—some ancient, barely visible bristle of self-protection.

“She asked to meet again?”

You nodded, distracted, already flipping back to your reading. “Yeah. I mean, she was right there, and I didn’t have anyone else scheduled. It was fifteen minutes, tops. Honestly, she just needed someone to tell her she wasn’t failing at life.”

Agatha hummed softly.

Then: “She’s coming up a lot lately.”

That made you look up again. “What?”

“Nothing,” Agatha said smoothly. “Just an observation.”

You watched her for a moment longer. Her face was calm. Too calm.

“She’s just a student,” you said gently.

“I’m sure,” Agatha murmured, pressing a hand to your leg beneath the blanket. “I’m just… noticing things. That’s all.”

You let it go. But that little weight settled somewhere behind your ribs. You weren’t sure whose discomfort it belonged to—yours, or hers.

------

Agatha didn’t sleep that night.

Not well, anyway.

You hadn’t noticed—you’d passed out hard, your back pressed against her chest and your belly cradled in the crook of her arm. She stayed awake for hours, thumb brushing lightly over the fabric of your shirt, waiting for the unease to loosen in her chest.

It didn’t.

She hated how it made her feel. Suspicious. It didn’t suit her. But something had shifted. She could feel it.

The next day passed without much fanfare. You had back-to-back meetings, and she had a faculty review to finalize. By the time the two of you finally got home, she could see how exhausted you were. Your ankles were swollen, your eyes rimmed with fatigue. You needed rest, not questions. Not doubts.

So she didn’t bring up Maya again.

She kissed your temple when you dozed off on the couch, then tucked a blanket around you and padded into the kitchen to make tea. Her phone buzzed just as the kettle began to scream. It was a message from an unknown number.

No words. Just an image.

The photo loaded slowly, the progress bar crawling like it knew what it was about to reveal.

And then it appeared. A blurry shot—taken through the wide library windows. You, seated on the bench just outside. Maya beside you. Leaning close. Too close.

The angle made it look worse than it was. Maya’s hand was reaching toward you—your shoulder, your hair, your face? It was hard to tell. You were turned slightly toward her, mid-sentence, eyes soft in a way that Agatha knew was your way of listening.

But it looked intimate. Too intimate. The time stamp read two days ago. The message underneath came through a second later.

“I thought you should know. I’d want to.”

Agatha stood still for a long moment. The kettle wailed beside her. Steam curling into the air like a warning. She clicked the phone off. Her tea went cold on the counter.

When you stirred awake an hour later, you found her reading, eyes unreadable. She smiled when you sat beside her. Kissed your temple. But her hand didn’t linger the way it usually did. And when you fell asleep against her again, she watched the ceiling for a long time.

------

It was a Thursday—ordinary in every way.

The kind of day that passed without ceremony. Students shuffled by her open door, leaves rustled outside the window, and the scent of dry-erase marker clung to the sleeves of Agatha’s cardigan like a ghost.

She was in her office, drafting lecture notes for next week’s seminar, a half-finished cup of coffee going lukewarm beside her laptop. Her pen tapped absently against the margin of her notebook as she reread a line, crossing through a phrase and rewriting it cleaner, sharper.

Then her phone buzzed against the desk. Once. Then again. A third time—sharp enough to fracture her concentration. She exhaled, annoyed, and reached for it. A single email. No sender listed. Just a subject line:

“You deserve to know.”

Her stomach pinched. Her finger hovered above the screen, reluctant, but still—curious. She tapped. The email contained no message body. Just an attachment. She opened it. It took her a moment to process what she was seeing.

You, unmistakably, sitting in your office. The light from your desk lamp made your skin glow. Your cheeks were red, lips parted mid-laugh. The angle suggested someone had taken it from just outside the open door—or worse, through the cracked blinds.

You looked happy. Relaxed. Flushed. And then she saw the caption. Crude. White letters overlaid at the bottom like a tabloid headline:

“Not just a student, is she?”

Agatha’s heart lurched.

It was a still photo—just a single frame. But it said too much. Or maybe nothing at all. If she didn’t know you, if she hadn’t watched you move through life with such open honesty, it would’ve been easy to believe something else was happening. Something private. Something inappropriate.

She wanted to throw the phone across the room. Instead, she stared. The world thinned out around her.

For a moment, it was like being back in that other life—the one before you. The one where trust had been a sharp thing, easily broken. Where someone else’s secrets had rotted out the floorboards beneath her and left her standing in the wreckage.

She thought she was past that. She thought you had taught her something better. Then another email came in. This time, from an address she didn’t recognize.

No name. No signature. Just words:

This isn’t the first time, either. Thought you should know before it gets worse. Her hands trembled. She didn’t respond. Didn’t forward it. Didn’t delete it either. She closed the email and shut her laptop and sat in silence, the image still burning behind her eyes.

------

It was a Thursday—ordinary in every way.

The kind of day that passed without ceremony. Students shuffled by her open door in half-zipped jackets and earbuds, the last leaves of the season skipping across the sidewalk outside. Somewhere, someone sneezed with the conviction of a man losing a midterm. The heater clicked on for the third time that hour.

Agatha’s office smelled like dry-erase marker and paper. The kind of quiet, book-lined room that had once made her feel grounded. Today, it felt too still.

Her lecture notes sat open in front of her, margins scribbled with arrows and underlines, but her pen hovered above the page without moving. Her coffee had gone tepid. Forgotten.

She should have been thinking about next week’s seminar. Reframing Public Memory: Power, Absence, and Archive. She should have been considering which readings to cut, which to expand, whether she had time to rewrite the slide about monumentality in Southern cemeteries. But the only thing that kept repeating in her head—unwelcome, unprovoked—was that still frame.

Your face. That laugh. The cold, acid shape of implication twisted into the caption.

She’d stared at it too long. Not because she believed it, but because it had caught her off-guard so precisely. Like someone had reached into her chest and jostled the bone she’d only just learned to trust again. A knock came at the doorframe—two short taps.

“Dr. Harkness?”

Agatha blinked and looked up. Alice stood in the doorway, cradling a stack of folders against her hip, a travel mug balanced precariously on top.

“Oh. Alice. Come in.”

Alice stepped inside, nudging the door open with her shoulder and setting the folders down on the edge of the desk. “Here’s everything for the grant submission. And your revised syllabus notes.” She paused. “You okay? You look like you’ve been staring at the same sentence for twenty minutes.”

Agatha gave a thin smile, folding her arms loosely on the desk. “Just tired.”

Alice didn’t sit, but lingered—her weight shifting between feet, gaze flicking toward the half-shut laptop. She was observant, always had been. Too sharp sometimes. Not easily brushed off.

Agatha turned back to her notes, flipping a page. “Did you end up adding the entry about the queer oral history archive?”

“I did. Cross-referenced the metadata guidelines, too. But…” Alice hesitated. “Sorry, I know this might be out of line, but… you muttered something earlier when I knocked. Something about ‘students.’” Her voice gentled. “Everything okay?”

Agatha’s hand stilled. She hadn’t realized she’d spoken aloud. Just a whisper. A habit, maybe. A bleed-through of thought into speech. But now that the door was open, she didn’t quite know how to close it again.

She kept her tone even. “Have you ever had a student… blur the line between academic admiration and something else?”

Alice blinked. “Like… parasocial?”

“No.” Agatha’s mouth twisted faintly. “Like interest. Romantic, or otherwise.”

“Oh.” Alice set her mug down. “Yeah. Once or twice. It was awkward, but not threatening.”

Agatha didn’t say anything right away.

Alice tilted her head. “Is it someone in your class?”

Agatha shook her head. “Not mine.”

Alice frowned. “Then who?”

The silence stretched. Agatha tapped her pen once against the desk, then looked up. Her voice, when she finally spoke, was low. Careful. “Maya Larkin.”

Alice's brow furrowed in recognition. “The archival student? She’s… intense. Bright, but intense. I sat in on her presentation last semester. Didn’t she reach out to—?”

“Yes.”

Agatha’s eyes met Alice’s across the desk. Something unspoken passed between them. Alice straightened. “Did something happen?”

“Not exactly. Just…” Agatha exhaled, folding her arms tighter. “Something doesn’t sit right. And I don’t want to jump to conclusions. Especially not about someone she chose to mentor.”

Alice’s gaze softened. “Then maybe start with what you do know. Or… show me?”

Agatha didn’t move. She didn’t open the laptop. But she nodded—slowly. As if anchoring herself to the moment. To someone else who could see the thread, even if it hadn’t unraveled yet.

Outside, the breeze rustled through brittle leaves. A bell rang across campus. And somewhere down the hall, a printer kicked on with a shrill whine that made them both flinch. Ordinary sounds. On an ordinary Thursday. But the air had shifted. And something quiet had begun to take root

------

That night, the house felt too quiet. You were humming to yourself in the other room, folding the last of the laundry and calling softly for her to come help pick out tomorrow’s baby clothes. You sounded light. Happy. You had no idea.

Agatha didn’t answer right away. You found her in the kitchen, standing barefoot by the sink, the refrigerator still open behind her. Her phone was in her hand, screen dark now. Her other hand rested lightly against the counter, fingers flexing as if trying to ground herself.

You stepped behind her, arms circling gently around her waist, your cheek brushing her shoulder. “You okay?”

Agatha turned, slow, her eyes hard to read in the dim light.

“Yeah,” she said, too quickly. “Just tired. It’s been a long day.”

You tilted your head, searching her face. “Anything I can do?”

She hesitated—just long enough for something cold to slip between your ribs.

“No,” she said finally, voice quieter than before. “Not tonight.”

She slipped her phone into her back pocket and offered you a faint, tired smile. You kissed her temple anyway. But she didn’t lean in the way she usually did. And the photo—unspoken, unseen—settled between you like a weight neither of you could name.

------

Agatha balanced the takeout tray against her hip, the brown paper bag tucked tighter under her arm as the scent of roasted tomato soup and fresh focaccia drifted around her like a promise she hadn’t figured out how to speak yet. The hallway air was cool and faintly metallic—old building, older vents—but the warmth from the food wrapped around her like a second skin.

She hadn’t planned this. Not really.

But when she saw the café chalkboard outside the library—Lunch Special: Roasted Tomato Bisque & Focaccia—your favorite, always your favorite, something inside her sparked. Soft and urgent. Not guilt, not exactly. More like a quiet offering. A bridge she wanted to rebuild plank by plank, even if her hands still shook from the weight of doubt.

It wasn’t that you had done anything wrong. She knew that. God, she knew that.

But something in her—something old and cracked and half-healed—had split open again.

It was the kind of hurt that didn’t arrive with sirens or certainty. Just a slow corrosion. A voice at the back of her mind that whispered remember when, and what if, and don’t be stupid again.

Agatha pushed open the department door with her shoulder, her grip shifting to balance the tray. She’d imagined this moment on the walk over—your surprised smile, your eyes lighting up at the smell of soup, the way you always touched your chest when something moved you without warning.

She missed you.

Missed you, even though you shared a bed. Even though you laughed beside her and kissed her temple and traced her belly with reverent fingers when you both couldn’t sleep. Because somehow, in the silence between all those soft moments, space had grown. Not because of you. Because of her.

She was halfway down the hallway—almost to your door, already smiling in anticipation—when someone rounded the corner. Maya. Agatha’s body went still.

Maya’s hair was twisted into something that looked effortless but wasn’t. Her lipstick was dark, plum-red and glossy, drawn on with too much care for a casual Thursday. She carried nothing in her hands. No notebook. No folder. Just a small smile that didn’t belong here.

And she froze when she saw Agatha.

Only for a second. Just a flicker. But it was there—the startle, the adjustment, the recalibration of her mask.

“Dr. Harkness,” Maya said, voice breezy, polite. Too polite. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

Agatha didn’t smile. Her voice came out smooth, practiced. But cold.

“Clearly.”

Maya gave a half-laugh, her tone airy. “Just finished chatting with Professor. She’s always so generous with her time.”

Her eyes glittered—bright, sharp. Performed. Agatha’s grip tightened around the bag. The warm focaccia inside had begun to cool.

“Uh-huh.”

She didn’t step aside. Didn’t look away. And Maya didn’t linger. She breezed past with a nod, perfume trailing behind her—overly sweet, synthetic florals clinging to the stale academic air like a foreign presence. Wrong, Agatha thought. It smells wrong.

Only when Maya’s heels faded down the stairwell did Agatha begin to move again. Her breath was shallow. Her steps were careful. Your office door was open.

Inside, you stood at the far end of the room, sleeves pushed up, glasses slipping down your nose, surrounded by paper stacks and soft lamp light. You looked like yourself. Grounded. Focused. Beautiful.

And for one aching second, Agatha wanted to leave. Not because she didn’t believe you. But because she didn’t believe herself. Not fully. Not yet. Not when the shadow of something she'd once survived had found a new shape in her mind again.

You looked up and your entire face changed.

“Hey!” you beamed, already moving toward her. “What are you doing here?”

“I, um...” Agatha held up the tray with a shy, uncertain smile. “I brought you lunch. I saw the special and thought—”

She didn’t get the rest out. You were already across the room, stepping around a precarious tower of graded essays. You took the tray from her hands with a grateful sigh and set it on your desk. “You’re the best. I’ve been living off dry cereal and office candy for two days. You might’ve saved my life.”

Agatha laughed, but it cracked on the tail end. Barely audible. But you heard it.

You turned to her, head tilted. “Hey,” you said softly, reaching for her hand, guiding her fingers to your sleeve. “You okay?”

She hesitated, then let her fingers slip against the fabric. You were warm. Solid. Real.

“I’ve been…” Her voice thinned. “Weird. I know. I’ve been trying not to fall into old patterns, but—”

You frowned. “Agatha—”

She bit her lip and shook her head. “I don’t want to be that person again. The one who assumes the worst. Who sees ghosts in corners and shadows where there aren’t any.”

You stepped closer, cupping her face with both hands. Your thumbs brushed the softest curve of her cheekbones.

“You’re not her,” you whispered. “You’ve grown past that. You chose to.”

Agatha’s eyes shimmered. “I’m still learning how to trust what’s mine. That I don’t have to protect myself from the good things.”

“I know,” you said. And then, gently, “I love you for trying.”

You leaned in and kissed her—slow, certain, soft. A promise in a breath. She melted into it. And for a moment, everything held.

But later—when Agatha excused herself to the bathroom and stepped into the hallway, heart a little steadier, soup left half-eaten on your desk—she passed the bench outside your office. The one from the photo. The one from the email.

She didn’t stop. Didn’t look directly at it. But she slowed. And the scent hit her again. That same cloying, artificial perfume. It clung to the air like a warning. Like a thread she hadn’t pulled on yet.

------

Agatha told herself she was done looking.

She told herself the worst was over—that she’d chosen to trust you, that the lunch visit had grounded her again. She’d kissed your cheek. She’d stayed the whole afternoon. She’d even laughed.

But later that night—well after you’d fallen asleep, your body curled toward her beneath the quilt, a hand resting instinctively over your belly—her phone buzzed again.

1:13 a.m.

Another unknown number. Another email address that meant nothing. Another photo.

This time, it was nothing damning. Nothing intimate. Just you and Maya passing in the hallway. Maya smiling. You laughing at something, a coffee cup in your hand.

But the angle was the same. The framing. The intent. A beat later, another came through.

A different angle. This time inside the building—taken through the narrow glass window of your office door. You were seated at your desk. Maya was standing above you, too close, holding something out of frame. You looked distracted. Tired.

Underneath it, the caption:

“How long has this really been going on?”

Agatha’s heart pounded, hot and sick in her chest. She clicked away. Tossed the phone onto the nightstand like it might burn her. But the buzz came again.

1:29 a.m.

“You deserve someone who tells you the truth.”

2:04 a.m.

“Open your eyes.”

She stopped reading them. Stopped opening the photos. But she didn’t delete them. And the next day—Friday—was worse.

They came in every hour. Some from blocked numbers. Some from emails strung together in nonsense letters and numbers. Each one just different enough to seem real. Each one feeding the same slow, venomous narrative.

She tried to stay busy. She taught her class. Held a department meeting. Even brought you a decaf latte halfway through the day, holding your hand a little too tightly when you thanked her.

You noticed. Asked if she was okay. She said she was just tired. She smiled. She kissed your cheek in front of your T.A. like nothing was wrong.

But by the time the sun set, Agatha felt like she was made of glass—brittle and thin and dangerously close to shattering. And still the messages came. Still the images. Still that voice in her head whispering: what if you’re wrong?

------

It was just a voicemail.

That was all.

Agatha had only left the department twenty minutes earlier, her leather satchel slung over one shoulder, a glass container of pasta tucked neatly under her arm—the leftovers from last night’s dinner you hadn’t had time to eat. She was planning to drop it off, maybe steal a kiss, maybe convince you to pack up early and go home. She knew how grading week swallowed you whole. How you forgot meals and hours and sometimes your own name if a citation wasn’t formatted right.

She knew the look you got—brows drawn tight, glasses slipping down your nose, a red pen clenched like a scalpel. It worried her. The kind of tired you carried was never theatrical. It was quiet. Noble. Dangerous.

So she’d called you.

Nothing big. Nothing dramatic. Just a soft Hey, I’m coming by. I’ve got that stupid pasta you like. The one you claim tastes better when I make it—even though it’s just garlic, butter, and lies.

You didn’t answer.

Not unusual. Your phone had a talent for burying itself under student folders and library receipts and those tiny post-its you used like breadcrumbs through your chaos. She’d expected that. What she hadn’t expected was—

Laughter. Yours. She heard it before she saw you.

The hallway curved gently, your office sitting at the far end with the door half-open, just wide enough to spill out sound and light. The kind of light that made everything inside seem warm. Familiar.

Safe. Agatha slowed. There you were.

Back turned slightly, perched behind your desk with a paper cup in one hand and a soft smile blooming across your face. And across from you—

Maya.

Standing comfortably close.

She was holding something—thin, rectangular—one of those draft exhibit panels you always helped students with, maybe. Her fingers trailed across the printed text as she tilted it toward you, asking something Agatha couldn’t hear.

You answered. Your voice was gentle, thoughtful. Encouraging. The way it always was when someone came to you unsure of their own work. It wasn’t flirtation. Not technically.

But then you laughed again—quick and bright and familiar. Agatha’s stomach twisted like it had been tied wrong. She stopped walking.

She wasn’t hiding. Not really. She didn’t duck behind a corner or backtrack toward the stairwell. But she didn’t keep going either. She just stood there, the pasta container cooling in the crook of her arm, watching your smile break open like sunlight and wondering—absurdly, painfully—when was the last time I made you laugh like that?

Her phone buzzed in her coat pocket. She reached for it. One notification. A voicemail.

To: You Sent: 15 minutes ago

She blinked down at the screen, thumb hovering. You hadn’t even listened to it. Agatha’s breath caught low in her chest, a slow burn threading into her ribs. It was nothing. It was everything. A moment, a shadow, a memory she couldn’t quite claw away from.

For a second she just stood there, listening to the soft hum of your voice as it filtered into the hallway. The way you said Maya’s name. The quiet affection that seemed to thread through your tone like silk.

And then she turned. She didn’t speak. Didn’t step forward. Didn’t knock. She walked away. The pasta was still warm when she got back to the car. But she wasn’t.

------

You noticed it just before you left campus.

A low, rolling tension curled through your lower belly—dull at first, more pressure than pain. You paused at the edge of the quad, one hand coming to rest just above your hip, your other gripping the strap of your bag a little tighter.

You told yourself it was nothing. Braxton-Hicks, maybe. Jen had warned you about them. “Practice surges,” she’d said. “Common this late. Annoying, but harmless.” Still, something in your body felt different. Not sharper, exactly—just... aware. Like the air inside your skin had shifted. Like your muscles had started listening to a frequency you hadn’t meant to tune into.

You breathed through it, slow and steady, and pressed your free hand against your belly. The baby gave a soft nudge, as if responding. Not distressed. Just... present. Still here. Still with you.

By the time you reached the car, the tightness had eased. Mostly. But your body didn’t forget. It carried the memory of that tension like a held breath, like a word not yet spoken. And as you turned onto your street, you thought—not for the first time that week—We’re getting close.

------

The house was quiet when you got home. Too quiet.

No music playing. No clatter from the kitchen. Just the low hum of the fridge and the steady thud of your heartbeat in your ears.

You paused in the doorway, keys still clutched in your hand. “Hey,” you called softly. “Soup delivery?”

No answer.

You kicked your shoes off slowly, the weight of the day still dragging behind your eyes. Your shoulders ached. Your head buzzed. You just wanted to sit down. Eat. Maybe curl into Agatha’s arms and forget the last six hours of student panic and policy meetings.

You found her in the kitchen.

She hadn’t cooked. Just stood at the table, one hand braced against the back of a chair, her phone face-down beside her. Her back to you.

You tried to lighten the air. “Sorry I missed your call. I had a student stop by and I—”

“Which one?” she asked.

Her voice wasn’t loud.

But it cut like broken glass.

You blinked. “What?”

She turned slowly.

Her face was pale. Not in anger, but in something worse—grief, maybe. Shock. Like part of her had known this was coming and still hoped she was wrong. Her arms were crossed tight against her chest. Eyes rimmed red.

“Maya,” she said. “Right?”

You sighed—too long. Shoulders sagging. You rubbed at your temple. “Oh, we’re on this again?”

Her mouth parted just slightly.

You kept going, not even realizing how deep the hole was getting. “It’s been a long day, Agatha. Seriously, I was going to tell you. She just stopped by—she’s having a meltdown over her thesis and—”

She flinched like you’d shouted, even though your tone wasn’t raised.

“Oh my God,” she breathed. Her hand lifted slightly, like she needed to physically block the sound of your voice. “I can’t believe this.”

You held up your hands. “Agatha. Babe. Relax. It’s not what you think. You’re blowing this way out of proportion.”

And then you saw it—really saw her. Everything Agatha had been holding in. All of it. Her sleepless nights. Her guilt for doubting. Her shame for even entertaining the idea that you—you—could betray her. But also the fear. The creeping, unrelenting fear that maybe… maybe something had changed without her realizing it.

Her eyes were rimmed red, her mouth trembling even as she tried to hold it steady. She looked like she was about to break—and worse, like she was ready to let herself.

You stepped back slightly, blinking, your hand instinctively hovering over the curve of your belly like it could protect something sacred.

“What is happening right now?” you asked, voice cracking. “Let’s just—let’s back up.”

Agatha didn’t answer right away.

Instead, she pulled her phone from the counter and tossed it onto the table between you. The screen lit up—dozens of unread messages. No names. Just previews. Just timestamps. Just photos.

“Every single day,” she said. “Someone’s been sending me pictures. Emails. Texts. All anonymous. Photos of you.”

Your throat went dry.

She swallowed like it hurt. “Of you. With her. Maya. Laughing. Smiling. Sitting too close. Standing too close. In your office. Outside the department. Every hour. I’ve been spammed, I can’t sleep. I can’t eat. I keep trying to trust you and I keep getting punished for it.”

You shook your head slowly, hands raised in disbelief. “Agatha, no one is punishing you. This isn’t what you think. I didn’t do anything wrong. You know me. You know better.”

She reeled back like you’d slapped her.

“Don’t you dare say that to me,” she hissed. “Don’t you dare talk to me like I’m being irrational.”

“I’m not—I’m just—” you exhaled hard, struggling not to shout. “You’re yelling at your pregnant wife. I’m carrying your child, I’ve been on my feet all day, trying to hold it together, and now I come home and get accused of… what, having an affair with a student? That’s not irrational? You don’t think this is too much?”

“Oh, so now I’m the bad guy,” she spat. “You’ve been hiding her from me—”

“I haven’t hidden anything!” you snapped.

“You didn’t tell me! You knew she was hanging around you like some lovesick ghost, and you never told me how often she was showing up. How close she was getting. You let it slide.”

“I didn’t think it mattered!” you cried. “Because I wasn’t doing anything!”

“And that’s the problem!” Her voice rose to a sharp, furious pitch. “You didn’t think it mattered. You didn’t think I needed to know. You just let it happen and acted like it was nothing. And now I’m the one losing my mind over it.”

“I have been honest with you,” you said, chest heaving. “I am being honest.”

“You’re not,” she growled. “If you were, I wouldn’t be finding this out like this.”

You stared at her for a long moment—hurt and angry and cracking at the seams.

“Wait…” your voice dropped, bitter and stunned. “Why didn’t you tell me about the photos when they started? Is this what’s been going on the past week? Agatha, you didn’t trust your wife—your very pregnant wife—to not fuck some… what, random student?”

She froze. And in that silence, something changed.

You could see it in her eyes—how a thousand things collided there all at once: shock, shame, fury, and something far more dangerous than either.

Disbelief.

“I wanted to trust you,” she said finally, voice hollow. “God, I wanted to. I tried. But every time I reached for you, I felt like you were slipping away. Like there was something you didn’t want me to see.”

You blinked, jaw clenched. “Because I was trying to hold everything together. Because I didn’t want to fall apart in front of you.”

Her breath hitched, furious. “And what, that gave you an excuse to hide things from me?”

“There was nothing to hide!” you snapped. “You’re acting like I’ve been sneaking around behind your back when all I’ve done is work and come home and try not to collapse from exhaustion!”

“Then why does she keep showing up in my inbox?” she shouted. “Why do I get photos of you with her looking like you’re sharing some secret—like she knows something I don’t?”

You felt it then. The pain again. Low. Sharp. Deep in your lower belly.

You winced—one hand bracing against the edge of the counter. It was quick. Too quick for her to name it for what it was. But she saw it. The flicker of pain across your face. The way your breath caught.

“Are you okay?” she asked, softer, suddenly closer.

“I’m fine,” you bit out, eyes hard. “Not that you care right now.”

She reeled back. “Oh, that’s rich. I’ve been losing sleep over this for days, watching these messages roll in and wondering if I’m going insane, trying not to ask, trying not to accuse you of something I desperately hoped wasn’t true—and now I’m the one who doesn’t care?”

“I’m nine months pregnant, Agatha!” you shouted. “I’m exhausted and hormonal and in pain, and all I’ve done is try to keep my head above water while you spiral over something I didn’t even know was happening!”

She was quiet. Just long enough for the anger to twist into something colder.

“I need to think,” she said, her voice shaking. “I can’t be in this house right now. I need air. I need space.”

You stared at her like she’d hit you.

“Agatha,” you whispered, voice rough with disbelief. “But if you walk out that door—if you leave your wife and child because you couldn’t come to me with this sooner, because you didn’t stop to remember who I am to you—then don’t you dare walk back in like it didn’t matter.”

Agatha stood there for a moment, completely still.

Then she nodded—once. Sharp. Like she was trying to save face even as her hands trembled. She turned, walked to the door, and opened it.

The hallway beyond was quiet. Dim. The kind of silence that felt like winter pressing in.

And then, without a word—

She stepped out.

Closed the door behind her.

Not a slam. Just a click.

But it echoed like the end of something sacred. You didn’t move. Couldn’t.

The weight of her absence settled instantly. A hollow space in the middle of your chest. And somewhere beneath your ribs, deep and deliberate— Another wave of pain bloomed.

------

You didn’t sleep.

Not really.

You moved to Agatha’s side of the bed sometime after midnight, dragging her cardigan with you like a lifeline. The fabric was worn soft with time, faintly scented with lavender, cedar, and the kind of clean musk that always clung to her skin long after she left the room. It smelled like her neck at the end of the day. Like the hollow between her shoulder blades where you used to press your lips when she was too tired to speak.

Now, the scent filled your lungs like a bruise.

The sheets were cold at first, but you curled into them anyway. Into her pillow, still faintly indented from where her head had rested the night before. You pressed your cheek to it like maybe if you held still enough, breathed deep enough, she might come back.

The house was too quiet. Not peaceful. Not gentle. Just still.

That unnatural kind of stillness that follows an argument—sharp-edged and waiting to be shattered. The air felt heavier without her in it. The floorboards creaked beneath nothing. The wind outside didn’t rattle the windows, didn’t whisper through the trees. It just... waited, like you did.

Your phone lit up every few minutes on the nightstand. And each time, your heart jumped before your eyes confirmed what you already knew.

No missed calls. No texts. Just a calendar notification. A weather alert. A silence so complete it felt like a decision.

You pulled your knees up, curling around your belly like you could shield her—your daughter—from this grief, from this growing ache that had nothing to do with the pain and everything to do with the space Agatha left behind.

------

The pain came again at 2:13 a.m.

Not lightning-sharp. Not the panic-worthy kind of pain. Just pressure. Heavy and low, like something behind your hips was being pulled forward in slow, deliberate pulses. It dragged beneath your belly like a tide curling into the shore.

You gasped softly, hand instinctively cradling your bump. Braxton Hicks, you whispered to yourself. You’d read about them. Felt them before. Practice contractions. Harmless.

You waited for it to fade. It did. Eventually. But when the next one came—thirty minutes later—it lingered longer. Wrapped itself around your lower back like a vise and then eased away just slow enough to leave you shivering.

You didn’t cry. Not yet. You just shifted again, hand pressed firm to your stomach, as if you could steady something deeper than the physical pain. As if your daughter could feel your apology. I’m okay, you thought. We’re okay. She’ll come back. This is just a nightmare. It’s temporary. It has to be.

But the next wave was sharper. Not enough to make you scream. Just enough to steal your breath. You held it in. Held everything in. You didn’t want to make this about you. Not again. Not when she had walked out already believing that somehow, you were the one who couldn’t be trusted. That your honesty wasn’t enough. That your love hadn’t been enough to keep her from believing a lie.

You stayed in bed.

One hand protectively curved around your belly, thumb stroking the stretched fabric of the nightshirt that barely fit you now. The other hand clutched your phone—white-knuckled, silent.

The screen stayed dark. No messages. No typing bubbles. Not even an ellipsis. You closed your eyes, trying to breathe through the next wave of tightness. Not painful, just… ominous. Like your body was rehearsing for something you weren’t ready for. Like your heart had pulled the curtain back on something too early.

You didn’t remember falling asleep. But you must have, eventually. Just long enough for your mind to trick you. You dreamed of her shadow falling across the threshold—quiet, careful, like she didn’t want to wake you.

She sat on the edge of the bed, her hand brushing your hair back with reverence, voice cracking as she whispered, I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean it. Come back to me.

And just when you reached out to touch her— You woke. Your hand met empty sheets. Her side of the bed was still cold. And the pain was still there.

------

The light coming through the curtains was thin and gray—more of a suggestion than a sunrise. A sky that hadn’t decided what kind of day it was going to be. You hadn’t moved much.

Your limbs were heavy, your spine sore from how long you'd been curled on one side. The tightness under your belly was back—low and insistent. Not sharp, but... deeper. A stretch pulled tight from within.

You closed your eyes. Counted. One, two, three, four... ten. It faded. Slowly. You exhaled shakily and dragged your phone toward you, your thumb clumsy against the screen. The calendar blinked up at you.

9:02 a.m. HIST 604 - Lecture: Public Memory & Monument Crisis

You stared at the notification.

Then at your unread messages—still none from Agatha.

Still nothing from the woman who had sworn she'd never walk away from you again. You sat up slowly, one hand braced against the mattress. Your joints protested. Your belly tensed again, harder this time, and you bit the inside of your cheek to stay quiet.

When it passed, you pulled open your email, typed out a cancellation in two lines: Class canceled today due to family emergency. Please review last week’s slides and prep your monument comparison paragraphs for Monday.

You clicked send before you could reread it. Before your guilt could edit it into something more professional, more honest, more devastated. You hauled yourself upright, dragging your aching body toward the kitchen. Tea. Toast. Something bland. Something quiet. Something that could pretend to fill the hole in your chest.

The contractions were still far apart. Nothing consistent. Nothing you couldn’t breathe through.

But they were real now. And the silence was, too.

------

The email came at 11:04 a.m.

Subject: Following up again!

From: Maya Larkin.

You stood in the kitchen, hunched over the counter with a slice of toast in one hand, the knife still resting in the butter dish like you’d forgotten what to do with it. The toast was cold. Barely toasted. More obligation than meal.

Your thumb hovered above your phone, and when the preview lit up on screen—Maya Larkin in crisp, mocking letters—it felt like someone had dumped ice water down your spine.

Your jaw locked. Eyes stung. You didn’t open it. Didn’t need to.

You could already hear her voice in your head—over-sweet and paper-thin, saccharine in that way that tried to pass as sincerity. You could picture every word.

I really valued our last conversation. Would love to hear more about your research. You’re such a source of inspiration.

Like she hadn’t left a trail of ruin behind her.

Like she hadn’t been waiting for the exact moment your life started to split open. She hadn’t even waited twenty-four hours. You stared at the glowing screen, heart pounding in your ears. You could feel your pulse in your throat, hot and uneven.

It was almost impressive, the audacity. Your hand trembled slightly as you tapped the checkbox beside her name. Delete. No hesitation. No second thoughts.

The moment the message vanished, a sharper pain bloomed low in your belly—cutting and sudden. A tight band of pressure that wrapped from your back to your abdomen like something had been cinched too tight inside your own body.

“Ah—shit,” you breathed, gripping the counter’s edge.

Your knees bent slightly, your center of gravity shifting as you rode it out. The contraction rolled through you like a slow wave, strong enough to punch the air from your lungs but not quite enough to drown you.

You stayed there—eyes closed, teeth grit, one hand gripping the countertop, the other pressed firm against the top of your belly.

The baby responded with a soft, steady kick. Then another. Like she was nudging you. Still here. Still with you. When the pain finally ebbed, you exhaled hard through your nose and laughed—dry, breathless, bitter.

“For the love of God,” you groaned aloud, voice hoarse, cracking around the edges, “can you and your mother not have the fucking worst timing in all existence, sweetie?”

You braced one hand against the countertop, the other moving slowly over the hard swell of your belly, fingers splayed wide. The motion was rhythmic, instinctive—an attempt to soothe what couldn’t be soothed. To quiet the storm gathering beneath your skin, even as another one began to roll in just outside the walls of your home.

Thunder rumbled in the distance, low and long, like a warning echoing from across the ridge. You paused, lips parting.

Then—flash.

A burst of lightning lit up the windows. Just for a second. But enough to cast sharp shadows across the floor, to make the room feel momentarily stranger than it had before.

The baby shifted beneath your hand—slower this time. Pressing outward with a steady, deliberate roll. As if responding not just to your voice, but to the change in the air. As if reminding you she was here. With you. Still yours.

“I know,” you whispered, your voice catching in your throat. “I know, baby. We’re okay.”

But the words tasted like dust in your mouth. Because you weren’t sure it was true anymore.

The wind howled outside, brushing along the windows like a breath against glass. Another flicker of lightning chased itself through the trees. The air in the room felt tighter now, like it knew what was coming.

And still, the door hadn’t opened.

------

Alice hadn’t meant to dig.

Not really.

But something in Agatha’s face yesterday—too composed, too careful—had scratched at the part of her that didn’t like leaving threads hanging. And then today, when Agatha had handed off her lecture notes with a quiet thank you and a smile that didn’t reach her eyes, Alice felt it again.

Something was wrong.

She waited until after office hours ended. The building had thinned out, echoing with the shuffle of closing laptops and the rustle of winter coats. Outside, the sky was turning the kind of purple that meant evening had arrived without permission. Alice poured herself a mug of tea from the communal pot, sat down at her desk, and opened her laptop.

She started with the basics.

Maya Larkin.

Archival theory graduate track. High GPA. Strong recommendations. And overly, suspiciously involved for someone technically in their second year. Her name came up in faculty minutes for multiple committees. There was a line in last semester’s teaching assistant roster—assigned to one of the introductory cultural memory seminars. And—odd—there was her name again, listed as unofficially observing two classes she wasn’t enrolled in. One of them, Alice noticed, was yours.

That was the first flag.

The second came when she dug into the departmental project logs. You’d listed Maya as a research assistant for your exhibit work. But her time sheets were inconsistent. Too many hours logged for too few materials submitted. And when Alice opened the shared drive, a handful of the file names made her stomach shift.

draft_1_CURATED_final_Fig7_ML PersonalNotes_ArchivalBias ObscuringNarrative.pdf

That one stopped her.

She clicked it open.

The document wasn’t long. Just two pages, single spaced. But it was... pointed. Not academic. Not entirely. It read like something between a manifesto and a personal reckoning. The tone was clinical, but the language leaned emotional. It was about ethics. About relationships. About blurred boundaries in mentorship—and the price of being "silenced by those in power." A line near the bottom was underlined:

History is shaped by who gets to hold the pen—and who gets to pretend their version wasn’t written with someone else’s blood.

Alice sat back. Her tea had gone cold.

Her gut clenched in the same way it had when she read through student complaint reports. Not the obvious ones. The quiet ones. The ones that came through too late, or never made it past the draft folder.

She was just beginning to take a screenshot when her email pinged.

Subject: FW: Maya Larkin / Department Concerns

It wasn’t addressed to her directly. It had come through the general admin inbox, flagged and forwarded by the assistant dean. She opened it on instinct.

The message thread was messy, half-redacted in places—but the last entry was clear. A message sent to the dean’s office through the student conduct reporting system. The complaint was vague, unsigned. But it was about you.

And attached—tucked at the bottom like a time bomb—was the file name she recognized immediately:

MayaLarkin_Confidential.pdf

Alice clicked it.

And froze.

The top of the page included a photo.

Not damning. But calculated.

You. In your office. Smiling. Hands clasped on your desk like you’d been mid-conversation.

Underneath, typed in bold:

“This isn’t the first time. She does this. She hides it well. Ask around.”

Alice sat there, blinking at the screen, the quiet hum of the building pressing in around her.

She didn’t know that miles away, in a quiet kitchen, Agatha was already fighting not just suspicion but history.

Didn’t know that you’d just dropped your bag, already feeling the pressure in your belly growing tighter, deeper.

All she knew was that she had the beginning of something very wrong.

And she had to decide—right now—what to do with it.

Alice hadn’t expected to find much.

When she first started digging—cross-referencing Maya’s class history, department activity, advising notes—it had felt almost procedural. Academic. Agatha hadn’t asked her to. But the worry had been visible in her posture all week, coiled beneath her clipped sentences and long silences. Something had shifted in the way she moved, the way she watched the halls. Something had changed.

And Alice… well. Alice had spent enough time around professors to know when quiet turned dangerous.

So she kept going.

A few emails. Public ones. A seminar scheduling thread Maya had been CC’d on. A forwarded student project list. Then one strange file in the shared server. Titled like a joke: “Sandwiches & Strategy.” Tucked inside a subfolder of Maya’s exhibit drafts.

She opened it, half-expecting some bizarre mock-up of label formatting.

Instead, it was text.

An email chain.

Not one meant for her. Not one meant for anyone, really.

Her blood chilled.

She scrolled.

I’m surprised she hasn’t said anything. Maybe I should up the frequency again? She’s probably too distracted—being that pregnant and all.

Alice froze.

Don’t worry. I’ll keep playing it sweet. Professors love a good praise sandwich, right? ;)

She’s not going to stay with Harkness once this all sinks in. She’s too smart for that. I’ve read her work. She wants someone who understands her. Who sees her. She’ll come around.

The cursor blinked at the bottom of the page like it was daring her to breathe.

Alice sat back in her chair. Her throat felt tight. Her hands had gone cold.

This wasn’t a misunderstanding. It wasn’t unrequited infatuation, or professional overstepping, or even obsessive admiration.

It was manipulation.

Planned. Practiced.

Targeted.

She moved quickly after that.

Pulled the metadata. The email header. The sending address: maya.larkin@campus.university.edu. No spoof. No alias. Real.

And at the bottom of the file, as if Maya had been too smug to resist leaving one last fingerprint, was a draft auto-saved from her personal folder. Dated two days ago.

Subject line: “Timing the Follow-Up—Any Movement Yet?”

Alice’s heart pounded.

She stood. Pushed away from her desk. The room felt suddenly too warm, the air too thin.

She didn’t know the full story—didn’t want to. But she knew enough. Enough to recognize the danger. Enough to know how cruel timing could be.

And enough to know that Agatha needed to see this now.

She opened her phone and thumbed out a message fast as her fingers would let her:

Then she attached the file.

No explanation. No delay.

She pressed send.

And somewhere—across town, or across the next breath—Alice imagined Agatha’s world tilting sideways.

She just hoped she’d gotten to her in time.

------

Agatha hadn’t gone far.

She’d told herself she would. Told herself she needed air, space, time to clear the fog that had been choking her for days. But all she’d done was circle the same blocks—campus, downtown, the park, campus again—her hands clenched so tightly around the steering wheel that her knuckles had gone bloodless.

The silence in the car was deafening.

Not peaceful. Not grounding.

Just punishing.

Every red light felt like it was glaring at her. Every green one felt like it was daring her to run. She turned the radio on at one point, desperate for something to fill the space. But the third love song that came on—a hushed duet about forgiveness—made her stomach lurch. She shut it off and let the stillness swallow her again.

Her phone buzzed at least ten times.

She checked it every time.

None of the notifications were from you.

She couldn’t decide if that made it better... or worse.

By noon, she had retreated to the faculty lounge—dim, windowless, too quiet. The air smelled faintly of burned coffee grounds and overripe bananas left behind in the communal bowl. Her mug of tea sat cooling on the table in front of her, untouched.

She hadn’t even noticed she was crying until a drop hit the back of her hand.

She wiped it away roughly.

Then stared at her phone.

Again.

Your last words played on repeat in her chest, carved into her like a blade pressed just shy of the heart.

“If you walk out that door… then don’t come back until you really know what you want.”

She thought she was protecting herself.

No—that was a lie. She’d been protecting a scar. One that had nothing to do with you and everything to do with the people who came before you. The ones who had twisted the truth until it didn’t even resemble love anymore. And she'd looked at you—her wife, the mother of her child—and for one terrible second, she’d seen them instead.

And she had left.

She’d left you.

And then her phone buzzed again.

Alice (TA): Thought you should see this. You’ve been worried for days and I had a gut feeling. Sorry if I overstepped. But it’s her. It’s Maya.

Agatha blinked.

Sat up straighter.

Another buzz.

An email forward. No subject. Just the thread.

She tapped it open.

And everything stopped.

From: maya.larkin@campus.university.edu Subject: Timing the Follow-Up—Any Movement Yet?

I’m surprised she hasn’t said anything. Maybe I should up the frequency again?

She’s probably too distracted—being that pregnant and all.

But don’t worry. I’ll keep playing it sweet. Professors love a good praise sandwich, right? ;)

She’s not going to stay with Harkness once this all sinks in. She’s too smart for that. I’ve read her work. She wants someone who understands her. Who sees her. She’ll come around.

Agatha went completely still.

Her body turned to stone. Her mind, smoke.

The air left her lungs in one long, broken breath—like she’d been struck across the chest.

The mug beside her rattled as her hand trembled.

She read it again.

And again.

And again.

It wasn’t you.

It was never you.

It was her. It had always been her.

The photos. The angles. The captions. The carefully worded doubts. The pattern. The persistence. The manipulation.

All of it—orchestrated.

And Agatha had believed it. She’d let herself be pulled into it. She’d let that doubt grow into something that poisoned the space between you. She’d thrown you to the wolves of her own unresolved past.

She had walked out.

And you had begged her not to.

Agatha stood so quickly she nearly knocked the table back, her chair screeching loudly against the tile floor. The untouched tea sloshed across the rim of the mug, staining a napkin she hadn’t meant to grab.

None of it mattered.

Her fingers fumbled for your contact, hands shaking so violently she could barely tap the screen. Her heart was hammering hard enough that her vision blurred.

The call rang once.

Twice.

Three times. Voicemail.

She didn’t leave a message.

Just hung up and hit redial.

“Come on,” she whispered, pacing in tight, frantic circles. “Come on, baby. Please pick up. Please. Please—”

Nothing.

Again.

------

She didn’t remember most of the drive.

Only the white blur of her knuckles on the steering wheel. The way her fingers cramped around it, too tight, like letting go for even a second might undo her. The wind howled through the crack in the driver’s side window—one she hadn’t meant to leave open, but hadn’t noticed until it was too late. Now, it screamed across her cheek like something alive.

Her breath echoed inside the car—ragged, uneven, frantic. It sounded louder than the engine. Louder than reason.

And still, the phone sat useless in the passenger seat, vibrating occasionally with texts from friends, from numbers she didn’t check.

Not from you.

The sky had begun to turn somewhere around the edge of campus.

What had been a still, gray morning had thickened into something darker. Angrier.

Clouds rolled in low and fast, the kind that made your skin prickle before the storm ever touched the ground. Early spring wasn’t supposed to look like this. The petals from the dogwoods had started flying sideways, caught in sudden gusts of wind that bent the trees like dancers in grief.

It didn’t rain yet. But the air threatened it—humid and thick, full of the kind of pressure that made your ears pop.

A low growl of thunder rolled out across the horizon. Distant, but moving closer.

Then—flash.

Lightning cracked across the sky like a spine splitting open, bright enough to make her flinch.

She gritted her teeth and tightened her grip on the wheel until her fingers ached.

Almost there. Just hold on.

A road sign whipped past, and she realized she’d blown through a stop sign without seeing it. She didn’t care.

She didn’t slow down.

The wind pushed hard against the side of the car as if the world itself was trying to stop her from getting home. Like it knew how badly she had fucked up, and was asking her—are you sure you deserve to be forgiven?

She pressed harder on the gas.

Because it didn’t matter.

What mattered was getting to you.

The trees bent violently now, their shadows whipping across the road like limbs reaching for something they couldn’t touch.

Another roll of thunder.

And then—finally—the house came into view.

The porch light was still on, faint in the gray. The door shut tight. No ambulance. No headlights. Just stillness.

Too still.

Agatha’s pulse spiked so hard she thought her vision might go black.

She turned into the driveway fast enough to send gravel scattering behind her tires, slammed the car into park, and flew out before the engine even finished shutting down.

Her door was still hanging open behind her when she burst across the threshold, yelling—

“Babe—!”

And the storm followed her in.

------

The door slammed open, the sound ricocheting through the quiet like a starting gun.

Agatha’s voice cracked as she crossed the threshold—and froze.

You were in the kitchen.

Your body hunched forward over the counter, one hand bracing against its edge, the other clutched around the island stool like an anchor. Your head hung low, hair matted to your temples with sweat. Your knees buckled, hips shifting with uneven weight as a low, guttural moan spilled from your mouth—wordless and raw.

You weren’t screaming.

The pain was deeper than that. It came from the center of you, low and primal, a sound Agatha felt in her bones.

You swayed, body trembling.

Your grip tightened on the counter until your knuckles turned white. Like if you let go, the earth might tilt out from beneath you.

Agatha’s heart stopped.

Her keys hit the floor. Her bag dropped after them with a dull thud she didn’t register.

“shit…”

She crossed the room in a blur, feet nearly skidding on the tile. Her chest heaved. Her hands were shaking.

But her instincts didn’t waver.

She stepped in behind you, one hand sliding to your hip, the other splayed across your lower back. She didn’t squeeze—just held, grounding you with her touch. Her front molded to your spine, steady and warm, her breath catching at the base of your neck.

You let her.

You leaned back into her like your body remembered something your heart hadn’t forgiven yet.

“I’m here,” Agatha whispered, her voice shredded but sure. “I’ve got you. You’re doing so good. Just breathe, baby. Just breathe through it.”

Your head dipped forward again, shoulders curling.

A sob caught halfway between breath and pain—rough, sudden, involuntary.

She felt it vibrate through you.

Still, you didn’t look at her.

Couldn’t. Not yet.

You were shaking. Sweating. Trembling from the inside out.

But then you spoke.

And your voice was a rasp—hoarse, broken, laced with pain and something far more dangerous: exhausted fury.

“She has your fucking timing,” you whispered.

Agatha stilled.

You gave a watery, near-hysterical laugh—more breath than sound, more grief than humor. Tears slipped freely down your cheeks, hot and fast, leaving tracks that shimmered in the kitchen light.

“She’s just like you,” you managed, the words broken by another wave of pressure tightening across your body. “No warning. No apology. Just decides to show up when she wants to... Just here.”

Agatha squeezed her eyes shut, guilt blooming like wildfire beneath her ribs.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered, her lips trembling as she pressed a kiss to the back of your shoulder. “God, I’m so fucking sorry.”

She kissed you again, slower this time, as you rocked through the final seconds of the contraction. Her hand rubbed slow circles into the curve of your hip, the other gently holding your belly from underneath—supportive, reverent, desperate to feel the life she’d walked away from just hours ago.

You sagged into her as the pain eased, panting, your forehead resting against your arm.

She stayed behind you, holding you steady.

And in that moment, for the first time in hours, you didn’t pull away.

The contraction faded like a tide slowly pulling back into the sea, leaving behind wreckage—breathless, aching, soaked in sweat and sorrow.

Your legs trembled beneath you, not quite able to hold your weight. You could feel your pulse in your fingertips, erratic and desperate, and your breath hitched on the edge of a sob you barely managed to swallow.

You still hadn’t looked at her.

Not really.

She was behind you, her hands still firm on your hips, steady as stone, her presence quiet but unrelenting. She wasn’t moving. Wasn’t letting go.

Like she knew—if she stepped away again, it would break something neither of you would be able to fix.

And finally... finally, you turned your head.

Slowly. As if the act itself might tear you open further.

Your gaze met hers.

And what you saw there nearly broke you all over again.

Agatha was crying—but not in the way you expected. There were no sobs. No shaking shoulders. Just a rawness in her expression, an openness that looked too big for her face. Her lashes were heavy with unshed tears, and her lips were parted like she’d been holding in too many apologies and didn’t know which one to offer first.

She wasn’t pleading.

She wasn’t defending.

She was bleeding.

Your hand lifted—trembling, unsteady—and reached for her.

You brushed your fingers along her cheek, and she leaned into it instantly. Like it was the only air she’d been allowed to breathe in hours. Her lips found your palm, kissed it softly. Reverently. Like she was memorizing the shape of you in case you disappeared again.

“I know I don’t deserve it,” Agatha whispered, her voice low and cracking, like each word had to claw its way through all the things she should’ve said sooner. “But I need you to hear me.”

You were still trembling from the last contraction, legs unsteady beneath you, your weight shifting from foot to foot. The cool edge of the granite counter pressed into your back as your hand gripped it tight—not for balance, but to anchor yourself to something solid. Something that wouldn’t let go.

Your breath came in short, uneven bursts. The space between them was narrowing.

“Maya did this,” Agatha said, stepping closer, slow, careful—like you were a cliff’s edge she didn’t want to push. “All of it. The photos. The emails. She made them look real.” Her eyes searched yours, pleading—not for forgiveness but understanding.

“She wanted to make you look like the one who broke us,” she said. “She wanted me to fall apart so she could swoop in and pick through the pieces.”

Her voice caught. She swallowed. “Alice found the proof—her last message was sent from her campus email. Not even a fake account. She was arrogant enough to leave a trail. I have it. I saw it. I should have known. I should’ve trusted you. I didn’t—and I left.”

The air inside the kitchen felt dense, thickening with every word.  Your breath hitched. The truth hit harder.

Outside, thunder cracked—loud and sudden. The kind that didn’t roll in slowly but arrived sharp and demanding. The windows trembled slightly in their frames. A moment later, rain began to hammer the roof with a rhythm that sounded more like urgency than comfort—fast and wild, like it had been holding back until now. Slamming against the walls like an afterthought as if the clouds had finally decided they’d held it in long enough.

You should’ve said something. Maybe you were about to.. You inhaled sharply. But it wasn’t from the storm. It was your body—tensing again. You knew this feeling now. The pressure didn’t creep in this time—it claimed you.

It started slow—a whisper of pressure, like the tightening of a string behind your ribs. Then the grip of it began to build, heavier, deeper, rolling up your spine and anchoring in your belly like a warning bell that rang inside your bones. Your grip on the counter tightened. You shifted your stance, knees bending slightly. Your breath hitched—sharp and involuntary. Agatha’s eyes caught the change in an instant, posture shifting. Her voice softened, but it didn’t falter.

“Another one?” she asked, stepping forward, already steadying your waist with both hands.

You didn’t speak. You gave a small nod, gripping her sleeve, tugging—not to push her away, but to pull her closer. You didn’t want space. Not now.

“Okay. I’ve got you,” she said gently.

Agatha didn’t hesitate, sliding into place as if your bodies were two puzzle pieces that had never fit better than now her eyes locked to yours. Her arms found your waist, one hand pressing firmly to your lower back, the other at your side. Her presence was immediate—warm, grounding, yours.

The pain slammed into you with a force that knocked the air straight out of your lungs.

Your forehead dropped against her collarbone, your fists bunching the front of her shirt as your entire body clenched around the contraction. A low, guttural sound slipped from your throat—somewhere between a cry and a growl. It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t poetic. It was real and sharp, and it echoed off the kitchen walls like thunder of your own. You gasped, folding into her, your fingers fisting the fabric over her ribs like it might keep you tethered to something.

Agatha didn’t flinch. Her breath came slow and deep beside your ear, mirroring yours. “In through your nose,” she whispered. “That’s it. Breathe through it. You’re doing so good.”

You whimpered into her shoulder, legs wobbling again. She planted her feet wide, locked one arm firmly around your waist, the other rubbing slow, grounding circles across your lower back.

Agatha pressed her forehead gently to yours, her breath trembling against your skin. Her eyes were wide, glassy with guilt, and darting between your face and your belly like she couldn’t decide where to anchor herself. Her fingers tightened briefly at your waist, then loosened, stroking once in apology. Her knees bent slightly as if she were ready to drop with you, to bear the weight herself if she could. Her whole body trembled—not from fear, but from restraint, holding back the full collapse she so clearly wanted to fall into. “I—I know this isn’t the time,” she said, her voice barely more than a rasp, “but I need to say it anyway.”

You didn’t move. Couldn’t. The pressure in your back was mounting again, tight and low, but you kept your focus on her, blinking through the blur of heat behind your eyes.

“The things I said… what I thought you were capable of—what I let myself believe—” Her breath hitched, chest rising unevenly against yours. “I didn’t just doubt you. I doubted us. And that—God, that’s not something I’ll ever forgive myself for.”

The pain answered before you could.

It started like a slow fuse, curling up your spine and settling beneath your ribs like something smoldering. You winced, jaw clenching hard enough that your teeth ached.

“Don’t,” you growled through gritted teeth. “Not now.”

“But I—”

Your grip on her shirt tightened like a vise. The tension in your abdomen snapped up like a wire being pulled taut. You could feel it—your body preparing, bracing.

“No,” you snapped, eyes squeezed shut as the wave crested. “Not while I’m in the middle of a fucking contraction with a superstorm outside, my body tearing itself open, and your daughter acting like she’s late to a goddamn press conference.”

Agatha froze, mouth half open.

“I need you here,” you said, voice trembling. “Right here. Not in your guilt. Not in your head. And definitely not thinking about some college bitch who doesn’t matter.”

For a breathless moment, the kitchen was still. Rain hammered the roof in thick, staccato bursts, seeping through the walls like a second heartbeat. The air smelled like petrichor and electricity, and somewhere nearby, a shutter thudded against the siding. The lights overhead flickered once. Even the wind outside seemed to pause, like the world itself was holding its breath with you.

And then Agatha let out a stunned, breathless laugh—wet and raw, like it had been caught behind her ribs too long.

She pressed her face into your shoulder, her arms winding around you like she could stitch herself back into place just by holding you tighter.

“Okay,” she whispered, voice cracking as she kissed your temple. “I’m here. I’m right here.”

Your grip on her cinched tighter, nails digging into the soft cotton of her shirt.

You gritted your teeth, blinking hard through the pressure rising inside you. Tears stung at the corners of your eyes. “Agatha—” you gasped, voice shaking. “I swear to God, if your kid wasn’t trying to make a dramatic-ass early entrance, this conversation would not be ending this quickly.”

Agatha let out a second broken laugh, breathless and barely stitched together.

“Yeah,” she rasped, forehead still resting against yours. “She’s got my timing… and, apparently, my talent for catching you off guard.”

You groaned, your grip tightening at her waist again as the next wave started to rise.

“We’ll deal with the rest later,” you muttered, breath already hitching. “Right now? Your daughter is trying to race a goddamn storm.”

Agatha gave a soft, shaking laugh and kissed your temple again, lingering this time, like she needed the press of your skin to stay steady.

“Of course she’d choose now to make an entrance,” she murmured. “He’s ours.”

You moaned low into her collarbone as the contraction peaked, your body folding inward.

She rocked you gently, arms locked around your back, one hand stroking low circles at your spine, her voice low and close to your ear. “Could’ve picked a better time, kid,” she murmured toward your belly, smiling through the chaos. “But I get it—you’re mine.”

Outside, the storm pounded against the windows. Lightning lit up the room for a blink, casting long, jagged shadows across the tile. The lights above flickered once, then steadied. Your skin prickled. Everything felt too loud. The house groaned softly, as though it too was bracing.

You sagged against her when the contraction finally passed. Drenched. Trembling. Spent. Your shirt clung to your body with sweat, hair stuck to your forehead in damp curls. Your knees buckled, and Agatha caught you again, easing you gently onto the kitchen stool like you were made of something precious and breakable.

“I’ve got you,” she said again, softer now, like a prayer.

She knelt in front of you, her hands on your thighs, her forehead resting briefly against your knees as if she had to touch you in every way she could just to prove she was still here.

You reached for her hair with one shaky hand, threading your fingers gently into the dark strands, and tugged just enough to pull her gaze to yours.

“Three weeks,” you whispered your voice barely a breath. “She’s three weeks early, Agatha. What if—what if something’s wrong? What if he’s not ready? What if I’m not—” Your voice broke. “I didn’t think it would happen like this. I thought we had time.”

Agatha’s lips parted, the beginnings of an answer trembling on her tongue—but the next contraction swallowed it whole before either of you could speak.

You cried out as your body folded again, sharp pain lancing through your back and belly, your breath coming in stuttering gasps. You clung to her like a lifeline—fingers digging into her shoulders, knees buckling beneath you.

“Breathe through it, baby,” Agatha murmured, her voice low and steady right at your ear. “You’re doing so good. I’ve got you. Right here.”

She didn’t flinch, didn’t panic.

Her hand slid down your spine, grounding you as she held your full weight against her chest. You could feel the tension under her skin, the thrum of her pulse where your faces brushed—but she kept her voice even, her movements measured.

When the wave passed, she helped you into the stool again, one arm still wrapped tightly around your back.

She glanced at the microwave clock.

And this time, you saw it—the flicker in her eyes. Brief. Controlled.

“Five minutes,” she said under her breath. Then a little softer, to you, “They’re coming fast.”

You nodded weakly, chest still heaving.

She didn’t waste time.

Agatha moved toward the door, snagging the keys from their hook and slipping her shoes on in practiced motion. “Okay. Let’s get you to the car.”

But as she opened the front door, wind slammed into it like a wave. The storm had turned violent. Rain came in sideways. And beyond the porch, halfway down the drive, a massive limb—oak, by the look of it—lay twisted across the road, blocking the way completely.

Agatha stepped forward, squinting into the storm.

You tried to stand, gripping the back of the stool.

“What is it?” you called, voice raw.

She turned back toward you, soaked now across the front of her shirt, and calmly closed the door behind her.

“There’s a tree down across the drive,” she said, brushing the water from her face. “We’re not making it out by car.”

Your stomach dropped.

But Agatha crossed the kitchen to you with purpose, calm carved into every line of her face.

Agatha crouched in front of you, wiping the sweat from your upper lip with the edge of her sleeve. “This isn’t what we planned,” she said gently, “but it’s still going to be okay. You are not alone in this.”

She laid both palms over your belly. Kissed it softly.

------

Agatha helped you settle against the stool again, her hand lingering at your back, her thumb sweeping slow, grounding circles just above your hip. You were still shaking—damp with sweat, hair clinging to your temples, your legs trembling from the weight of what your body was doing and what it still had left to do. Your lips parted like you wanted to speak, but no sound came. Just breath. Just fear.

Agatha leaned in close, her forehead brushing yours for half a second.

“I’m going to call Jen,” she murmured, voice calm but laced with something that vibrated beneath it. “I’ll be right here. Okay?”

You gave her the barest nod, your eyes fluttering closed as another ripple of pressure lingered in your spine.

Agatha turned and slipped into the hallway, just far enough for the edge of her control to splinter. She pulled her phone from her pocket with damp fingers, her thumb slipping slightly on the screen as she tapped Jen’s name.

The storm was louder here.

Rain pelted the windows in heavy bursts, wind howled against the eaves like it was trying to get in. A shutter somewhere upstairs banged once—twice—and the floor creaked beneath her feet as she braced herself against the wall. Her heart was hammering so hard she could hear it in her ears.

The phone rang once.

Twice.

Three times—

“Agatha?” Jen’s voice came through sharp and clear, cutting through the noise like a flare. “Is it time?”

Agatha’s knees bent slightly. Her back hit the wall.

Her voice cracked before she could catch it. “Yeah. Yes. She’s in labor—real labor. Her contractions are five minutes apart, maybe less. I was getting ready to take her to the hospital but—” she swallowed hard, “there’s a tree down across the drive. We’re boxed in. I can’t—there’s no way out.”

Jen didn’t miss a beat. “Hey. Hey. You’re okay,” she said, calm but unshakable. “You’re exactly where you need to be.”

“No,” Agatha whispered, voice thin, fraying at the edges. “She’s early, Jen. Three weeks early. We were supposed to have more time—another two, maybe three weeks to get everything together. She didn’t want this. She didn’t want to give birth like this.”

There was a pause on the other end. Just a breath.

Then Jen’s voice came back, even and warm. “And yet here she is. And she’s not doing it alone.”

Agatha pressed the heel of her hand to her forehead, trying to collect herself, but her voice still cracked. “She’s scared. And I think—I think I am too.”

“I’ve got you,” Jen said gently, her tone steady as steel wrapped in wool. “And I’ll be there in less than twenty minutes.”

Agatha blinked fast, pressing her palm harder against the wall as her knees trembled. “You really think—”

“Agatha,” Jen interrupted, not unkindly. “You’ve got this. She’s got this. You’ve both done the work. Your job right now is to stay grounded so she can fall apart and know she’s safe. You can fall apart later.”

Agatha closed her eyes. Her throat tightened. But she nodded, even though Jen couldn’t see it.

“Okay,” she said, softer now. “Okay. What do I need to do?”

“Fill the birthing tub with warm water—now, before the power goes,” Jen said. “You’ll need soft towels, as many as you can find. Blankets for the baby. Light some candles if you’ve got them. Create calm. She needs to feel like she’s safe, not trapped. Put on some music if you can.”

“I will,” Agatha whispered. “I will. Just—just come fast.”

“I’m already halfway there.”

The call ended.

Agatha stood there for one long moment, phone still clutched in her hand, the silence after the call ringing louder than the wind. Her other hand curled tight around the doorframe as if bracing against more than just the storm. Her chest lifted. Fell. Once. Twice.

She would not cry.

She would not break.

Not while you needed her whole.

She wiped her face on her sleeve, straightened her spine, and turned back toward the kitchen.

Back to you.

Back to where everything would begin.

------

Agatha stepped back into the kitchen like gravity had pulled her there—like you were the axis around which everything else turned. Her eyes found you instantly.

You were still hunched forward on the stool, one hand pressed to the round, taut curve of your belly, the other white-knuckled around the edge of the counter. Your head hung slightly, hair damp and curling against your cheeks, breath shallow and uneven. Every inch of you looked like you were holding the world in place through sheer will.

“I just talked to Jen,” Agatha said softly, crouching low until she was eye-level again. Her palms landed on your thighs, warm and steady. “She’s on her way—less than twenty minutes.”

You nodded, but your lower lip trembled.

“Okay,” you whispered.

Agatha tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, her fingertips lingering longer than necessary. Her voice dropped lower, gentler. “I’m going to grab a few things—towels, blankets, the tub. But I’m not far. I’m not leaving you, not for more than a breath.”

You gave her the smallest nod, your eyes fluttering shut for a moment. She pressed a kiss to your forehead—soft, reverent, grounding—and then rose. Your breath still shallow and fraying at the edges. Another wave wasn’t far off—you could feel it circling.

Agatha stood, pivoted smoothly into the bedroom, and crossed to the corner where the birthing tub had sat for weeks—deflated, coiled, and quiet.  Just days ago, it had been a joke. Jen had insisted on bringing it over “just in case,” setting it quietly in the corner of your bedroom while you all laughed and waved it off.

You’ll be in a hospital. What would we even need that thing for?

Agatha stepped back into the kitchen, the bundled vinyl slung over one arm. “Where do you want it?” she asked quietly, her voice even but full of something that trembled beneath it. “I don’t want to guess.” You didn’t hesitate.

“Bedroom,” you whispered. That was all she needed.

Agatha unzipped the casing, vinyl whispering open like the start of something ancient and sacred. She rolled the sides out with care, smoothing the base flat onto the rug between the bed and the en suite bathroom. Her foot pressed firmly to the pump. Once. Twice. Again. Slowly, steadily, the tub began to rise. The walls lifted like breath being drawn, one slow inhale at a time.

Outside, the wind howled, rain battering the windows like fists desperate to get in.

The tub stood now. Empty but waiting. The hose was already coiled near the vanity in the bathroom—Jen’s earlier instructions playing out like prophecy. Agatha attached it to the hot water tap and turned the handle slowly. Pipes groaned. Then, water surged forward, rushing in with a hiss. Steam unfurled, rising from the basin like breath made visible in the soft bedroom light.

She adjusted the temperature, tested it against the back of her wrist—then left it running and turned toward the bed.

But a sound stopped her.

A low groan. Guttural. From down the hall.

You.

She was moving before the breath finished leaving your lungs.

Agatha found you back in the kitchen, your hands braced against the counter, your back bowed beneath the pressure of the next wave. Your body trembled as the contraction climbed, and your knees wobbled as you swayed gently in place, trying not to fall.

“I’ve got you,” she said as she reached you, her arms sliding around your waist like she’d done it a thousand times. “I’m here. Just breathe through it, baby.”

You didn’t answer—just let your weight fall into her chest as she rocked with you, one hand supporting your lower back, the other curling around your ribs. Your forehead found her shoulder. Your nails dug lightly into her sleeve.

Outside, thunder rolled low and long like a drumbeat too close to the skin.

“I’ve got you,” she said again, voice steady in your ear. “Let it pass. Just one wave. You’re doing so, so good.”

When the contraction finally broke, you collapsed fully into her, your breath ragged against her collarbone. “I’m going to grab the towels now,” she said, brushing your cheek with the backs of her fingers. “And the receiving blankets. The ones from the shower. I’ll be quick.”

You nodded, lips parted, eyes wet.

“I want to walk,” you whispered.

Agatha pulled back just enough to look into your face, searching your eyes.

“Okay,” she said. “We’ll walk.”

She didn’t lead you far—just toward the bedroom. You followed her slowly, your palm pressed to her shoulder, legs still shaking with every step. The hallway stretched between you like a tunnel, lit only by the flicker of warm bulbs and the silver flash of lightning that darted across the windows.

------

Inside the bedroom, steam curled around the rim of the rising tub, soft and silvery in the low light. It shimmered like breath in winter air, casting a warmth that made the room feel smaller, closer, sacred.

Agatha moved with quiet reverence. She crossed to the dresser, pulling open the drawer where everything had been waiting—towels folded weeks ago, waiting for a moment neither of you believed would come like this. She draped one thick white towel over the chair beside the bed, then laid two more at the edge of the mattress like offerings at an altar.

From the woven basket near the nightstand, she lifted three receiving blankets. One patterned with tiny stars, another with soft blue-gray clouds. The third—pale, delicate, covered in tiny wildflowers the color of lavender breath and spring rain.

She held that one longer.

Her thumb traced the hem. Her throat bobbed.

Then she placed it carefully on top of the stack, smoothing the cotton flat with a touch that bordered on reverence.

Behind her, she heard the soft shuffle of your feet.

You were moving Each step was measured, your fingers trailing along the wall for balance as you entered the bedroom.

You were halfway to the tub when it hit.

No warning this time.

No chance to steady yourself.

You stopped mid-step—your hand flying out to catch the edge of the dresser, your back arching as the contraction ripped through you like a current. A sharp, breathless cry tore from your throat.

Agatha turned at once.

She was at your side in seconds, one arm catching your waist, the other bracing the small of your back.

“I’m here,” she whispered. “I've got you, baby. Let it come. Let it move through you.”

Your body bowed forward, forehead pressing to her collarbone as your fists tangled in the fabric of her shirt.

This one was stronger. Meaner. Your legs nearly gave out.

She widened her stance, bearing your weight with her whole body, her palm rubbing firm, grounding circles against your spine.

“You’re okay. You’re doing so good,” she whispered, her cheek against your temple. “You’ve got this. Just one wave. Just one.”

You moaned through clenched teeth, knees shaking as you rode it out, breath coming in staggered gasps.

The room was thick with heat and steam, with the sound of rain hammering the windows and water pooling softly into the tub behind you. The house smelled like lavender and sweat and stormlight.

And still—Agatha held you.

Anchored you.

Loved you through it.

When the wave finally began to ease, your whole body sagged into her, trembling and soaked, your breath hot against her neck.

“Good,” she whispered. “That’s it. That’s my girl.”

And from the tub behind you, the water kept rising.

You were still folded against her, breath unsteady, your muscles trembling in her arms when you whispered, “I want to get in.”

Agatha pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, searching your face.

“Something’s different,” you rasped. “It’s lower. I need—I need the water.”

Agatha nodded. “Okay. Let’s get you in.”

She supported your weight as the two of you shuffled slowly back into the bedroom. The air was thick with steam now, the tub nearly full, soft ripples dancing across the surface. The scent of lavender from the towel stack mixed with rain, rubber, and something primal—the smell of newness, of birth edging near.

Agatha turned off the hose, tested the temperature one last time, then moved to help you out of your clothes.

“You don’t need to wear anything,” she said softly, fingers brushing the hem of your shirt. “Not unless you want to. It’s just us here. Jen will be here soon.”

You hesitated, fingers still curled around the elastic of your bra.

Then you nodded once.

“It’s just us,” you whispered.

Agatha helped you undress slowly, gently, reverently—like unwrapping something fragile. Your body was flushed, shining with sweat, each motion drawn taut by exhaustion and urgency. When you were bare, she helped you step one leg at a time into the warm water. You sank into it with a gasp, the heat stealing your breath for a moment, then releasing it in a shuddering sigh.

But you didn’t get far.

Your knees barely bent before another contraction slammed into you—hot, deep, unbearable.

You cried out, one arm flying to the rim of the tub, the other searching blindly for something solid.

Agatha caught your hand.

“I’m right here,” she whispered, crouched at the side of the tub, her palm locked around yours. “Hold on to me. Breathe through it. Just like that.”

You let out a sob, forehead pressed to the edge, water lapping against your belly as your body convulsed.

Agatha’s other hand reached into the tub, pressed to your back just above the waterline, rubbing slow, wide circles—anchoring you through it.

“You’re doing so well,” she murmured. “So, so well. I’ve got you.”

You cried harder at that.

Not because of the pain—but because it was just you two.

Because even in all the storm and sweat and fear, this was still love.

When the contraction finally released you, your body collapsed forward against the side of the tub. Your eyes closed. You whimpered, soft and hoarse.

Agatha knelt beside you, still holding your hand. Her forehead dropped to your wrist as her shoulders began to tremble.

You felt the quietest sob echo between you—shallow, aching.

“Agatha,” you said softly, almost begged, needing her eyes again. Needing to know she hadn’t disappeared beneath the weight of it all.

Her hand slid over your slick back again, slow and firm.

“I’m here,” she whispered. “It’s just us.”

Your eyes fluttered open—wet, aching.

She looked at you like nothing in the world mattered more than this.

Than you.

“I’m going to come in,” she said gently. “Okay?”

You nodded. Wordless.

Agatha stood, stepped carefully into the tub behind you, settling against the inflatable wall like it had been molded for this moment. When you leaned back, your head found her chest. Her arms wound tightly around you from behind. One hand cradled your belly. The other laced with yours again, soaking and strong.

“You’re okay,” she whispered, her lips brushing your temple. “I’ve got you. All of you.”

And for a moment, the storm faded. The air was still.

Then your body tensed.

Agatha felt it at once—the sudden shift beneath your skin.

You gasped. Your fingers clutched at her knee.

“There’s pressure,” you whispered, your voice breaking. “Something’s happening—she’s coming—”

Agatha’s hand pressed lower on your belly, feeling the way everything had changed.

She didn’t speak. She only held you tighter. Breath catching.

Then—

You let out a noise neither of you had heard before—part scream, part growl, pure instinct.

The pressure between your legs had shifted—immediate and burning.

Agatha’s eyes widened. Her hand moved to the inside of your thigh, her other arm bracing you as your hips lifted from the water.

“Okay,” she breathed. “Okay. I need to see.”

“Is she—?” you gasped, voice brittle and barely there.

Agatha’s hand moved between your legs, careful, reverent. “I think her head—” Her voice cracked. “I think she’s—” She cut herself off, swallowing hard. “I’ve got you.”

The door creaked open behind you.

“I’m here,” came Jen’s voice, calm and sure. “I’m right here.”

You barely registered the sound at first—so focused on the fire building in your body, the ache blooming low in your pelvis—but Agatha’s head lifted.

“Jen,” she breathed, still crouched behind you in the tub, her arms around your waist, her hands steady even as her voice wavered. “She’s close. Her head’s crowning. I can feel her.”

Jen was already at the edge of the tub by the time Agatha spoke again, her boots kicked off at the bedroom door, sleeves pushed up, eyes soft but focused.

“Good,” Jen murmured. “You’re both doing beautifully. Let me see.”

Agatha shifted slightly to give her room, never letting go of you—not even for a second.

You were panting, hands clutching the sides of the tub, your forehead pressed to Agatha’s shoulder. Her skin was hot with effort. Yours was soaked in sweat. The water between you steamed like breath in winter air.

Jen leaned forward. “Hey,” she said softly, voice right beside your ear. “I know it’s a lot. But you’re almost there, okay?”

You nodded, barely. “It burns,” you whispered. “It’s so much.”

“I know.” Jen’s hand touched your thigh gently, anchoring you in the moment. “That means you’re close. That means she’s coming.”

Your body seized again—another contraction rolling in fast, unforgiving.

Agatha held on.

“I’ve got you,” she whispered into your hair. “I’m not going anywhere.”

You screamed—not from fear, not anymore, but from force. You bore down as Jen coached from one side and Agatha held you from behind.

“Good,” Jen murmured. “That’s it. Let your body lead. Just like that.”

Agatha’s hands stayed steady—one at your back, the other bracing your belly. “Breathe with me,” she whispered. “Just one breath at a time.”

The contraction eased, and you collapsed against her, whimpering.

Jen’s hand was gentle as she checked again. “She’s almost there,” she said softly. “Next one might do it. But let’s take a minute. Rest. You’ve earned it.”

Agatha pressed her forehead to the back of your neck, her breath shaky, her voice a thread. “You’re doing so well. I’m so proud of you.”

You let out a small, broken laugh that turned into a sob. “You better be,” you muttered. “I’m pushing a human out of my body.”

Jen smiled, not laughing at you—but with you. “And she’s almost here,” she said. “When the next one comes, you give it everything you’ve got.”

You nodded again, slower this time.

Your whole body trembled.

“I can’t do it without her,” you said suddenly, voice sharp, panicked.

“You’re not,” Agatha whispered. “I’m here. I’ve got you.”

Jen reached over the edge of the tub and placed her hand gently on top of yours. “Both of us,” she said. “We’ve got you.”

The air in the room shifted. Not quieter, not calmer—but steadier.

Then another contraction hit.

It built low and deep, dragging itself up your spine like a wave coming to break.

You screamed again, louder this time. Agatha held your shoulders; Jen pressed her hands just beneath your belly to help guide the push.

“There,” Jen said. “There she is.”

You sobbed. Agatha’s lips were at your temple.

“One more, baby,” she whispered. “Just one more.”

You pushed—harder than before, through the pain, through the thunder outside, through the fear still trembling in your chest.

And then—

The water shifted.

A weight slid free.

And a sound—your baby’s first cry—cut clean through the world.

Agatha caught her, hands trembling, eyes wide with awe.

Jen helped guide her gently upward, and then—your daughter was on your chest. Slippery, warm, beautiful.

Alive.

You wrapped your arms around her, sobbing, your whole body trembling from the effort. Agatha pressed herself to your back, crying openly now, her arms around you both.

“She’s here,” she whispered. “She’s ours.”

Jen moved quietly, checking vitals, helping you position her better on your chest. The baby let out another cry—softer this time, as if she’d found what she was looking for.

And through the windows, the storm kept on.

But inside, all was quiet.

------

Did you love it 🖤

[astrolook]

The Astrology About Your Difficult Placements & Turning Them Into A Career Opportunity

Note: This post is based on my personal observations and patterns I've noticed over the years. It's important to understand that no single placement in a chart can determine whether someone is “good” or “bad,” a success or a failure, or even something as extreme as a criminal. Astrology is complex, and the entire birth chart must be considered as a whole. What we often label as "difficult" placements can actually become powerful sources of strength if we choose to approach them with awareness, effort, and a growth mindset. These placements aren’t curses, they’re invitations to evolve. This post is based on Vedic/Sidereal Astrology.

Astrology is a lot like Google Maps, it shows you possible routes to your destination, but it’s still up to you which path to take. It can guide, not dictate. That’s why I find it disheartening when some astrologers deliver overly negative interpretations that leave people feeling helpless or afraid and making serious life decisions based on it. Every placement holds multiple possibilities, some more challenging than others. With awareness and the right mindset, even the toughest placements can become powerful tools for growth.

These placements don’t doom you, they challenge you to rise.

Mars in 12th - Hidden enemies, betrayal from co-workers/colleagues, vehicle accidents, high blood pressure, imprisonment, compulsive behavior, hit man.

On the bright side, this is a good placement for martial artists, military careers, architectural /structural engineering, psychologist, working in intelligence or secret service, crime scene investigator, MMA fighter, monk, athletes, etc.

Moon in 8th - Volcanic emotions often buried. Might be emotionally manipulative in a subtle way. Intense and secretive and hide their emotions. Reads people with their x-ray vision.

On the bright side, this is a good placement for healers, astrologer, detective, investigator, researcher, astronomer, criminal profiler, hospice worker, witch, therapist, grief counselor, cult leader, etc.

Venus in 8th - Can get into surface-level relationships for "convenience". STDs, in some cases. Financial ruin from the partners. Betrays/cheats or the other way around.

On the bright side, this is a good placement for relationship counselor, sex therapist, even porn stars, financial advisor, lobbyist, artists, script writer, photographers, videographers, model, financial firm chairman, business owner, club/casino owner/worker, etc.

North Node in 1st - Prone to attract scandals, betrayals. Identity crisis. Chases validation, success or people only to feel empty. Project an image that's not real.

On the bright side, this is a good placement for social media influencer, streamer, entrepreneur, lawyer, public figure, vlogger, model, activist, etc.

Sun in 12th - Side character in their own life. Hypochondriacs. Felt underappreciated or not recognized for your self-worth. Isolate themselves when depression hits.

On the bright side, this is a good placement for foreign settlement or just moving far away from birth place where they get recognized for being an entrepreneur, startup founder, politician or govt jobs in a foreign country/state, behind-the- scenes work in the movie industry, freelancer, software engineer, etc.

Venus in 6th - Overindulgence in food/drinks. Ovarian cyst for women. Menstrual issues. Prone to get STDs. Betrayal from women. Having a crazy ex.

On the bright side, this is a good placement for service workers, emergency care, veterinarian, doctor, nurse, mental health worker, wellness coach, interior designer, HR, cosmetologist, gynaecologist, pet groomer, dog walker, plastic surgeon, Hairstylist, Makeup specialist, homemaker, hospitality worker, etc.

Mars in 6th - Workplace drama. Chronic illness. Rude to others or other way around. Betrayal from men. Might be a smoker.

On the bright side, this is a good placement for chefs, firefighters, military careers, surgeon, personal trainer, conflict resolution expert, racer, raw material manufacturer, athletes, Managerial positions in the hospitality/retail industry, architect, engineer, etc.

South node in 4th - Detachment from home life or unstable family situation. Foster care, in some cases. Odd one out of the family in some cases.

On the bright side, this is a good placement for a travel consultant/guide, social worker, game developer, life coach, realtor, real estate agent, antique items seller, costume designer, comic artist, comedian script writer, animator, VFX specialist, foster care worker, paediatrician, nutritionist, etc.

North node in 8th - Prone to get into trouble with law enforcement. Into drugs. In and out of jail in some cases. Stalker or the other way around. Pimp, in some cases.

On the bright side, this is a good placement for a criminal lawyer, police officer, forensic investigator, crime or thriller writer, crisis management expert, industrial worker, manufacturer, de-addiction center worker, activist, law enforcement, etc.

Saturn in 4th - Childhood trauma or abuse. Protein or vitamin deficiency, in some cases. Punished/emotional neglect by a parent, in some cases.

On the bright side, this is a good placement for an architect, realtor, nuclear power plant engineer/worker, zookeeper, homeless shelter worker, factory worker, volcanologist, meteorologist, nutritionist, bio tech careers, newsreader, magazine/article writer, TV show host, small business owner, carpenter, etc.

Wanna go deeper into the layers of your placements? DM me for a complete astrology reading or a 5 year/8 year marriage report or synastry reading🌙💬 and check out my pinned post for pricing + details 💫💸

Let’s decode your cosmic chaos together ⭐

Part 2 of this post will be about retrograde planets!

[ooooo-mcyt]

One of the biggest offender when it comes to mischaracterised characters/plot lines is, to me, the Secret Soulmates in Double Life. It’s too often just used as scarian cheating angst when it can be much more

Grian and BigB both wished they were paired before meeting with their soulmates, and after Grian realises who’s his and is unhappy with the outcome, he decides to defy fate and have a shot at what he actually wants instead of settling on what is grandes to him (going against the rules is a classic Grian trait after all)

BigB doesn’t entertain the idea much at first, only choosing to get with Grian after he gets in his head that Ren is the one who’s going to cheat and leave him for Martyn, which can be seen both as a valid concern given *insert whatever it is these two have going on* but also as a an excuse to not stay in a soulbound situation that he doesn’t really like. And Grian is shaped like the perfect escape route in that moment, on top of being the one he actually wants to be with.

Scar is upset by Grian cheating but he’s upset with Grian in general, for not entertaining his plans and for not being able to see eye to eye with him. Otherwise he’s pretty content with doing his own thing by himself and doesn’t care much that him and his soulmate aren’t like soulmates are apparently supposed to be.

Ren tends to be a sticker to the rules (unless he can find a justification to bend them) so of course he copes badly with BigB not doing what he’s supposed to be aka stay loyal to him. I still find it so funny that the first thing he does after learning that BigB saw Grian behind his back is start a weird cult thing with the woman he believes to be an omen of death and the guy he’s been accused of cheating on his partner with. I’d say go to therapy but the Relationship Ranch reviews aren’t too positive.

Towards the end though, as one pair becomes Red and the other is hunted for being Green, they both go back to their assigned soulmates, with Grian ultimately killing BigB by proxy, because you may want to choose your person and try picking your destiny but that’s just not how Double Life is meant to be played.

Which is a point that is proven true once more at the finale by another quartet.

I've always disliked it when Secret Soulmates are played straight as cheaters for pure angst favor, it's never sat right with me.

I mean, my main problem is how the way a lot of people portray Secret Soulmates does a disservice to Grian and BigB's characters.

Grian is often posed as almost a stereotypical cheater, given loads of uncharacteristic selfishness and even malice that he just generally doesn't have. Grian is often portrayed as vindictive, uncaring, hurting Scar just because and 'using' BigB in the process. As if Grian didn't have real reasons to be unhappy in his partnership with Scar, and as if Grian didn't genuinely really like BigB. I mean, Grian wanted BigB as a soulmate from episode one, before he even found out Scar was his soulmate. BigB wasn't just someone who happened to be there, Grian didn't just want anyone who isn't Scar as some malicious play, Grian wanted BigB.

And BigB, on the other hand, often feels like an non-entity, like people use him as a set piece, an accessory in their Scar centered angst. I mean, I get that BigB's pov isn't as popular as Scar's or Grian's, so a lot of people's first major exposure to him was through the Secret Soulmate plotline, so they might not be too familiar with him. But often it seems like he's not even treated like an actual entity with his own motivations and feelings and story. And I don't like that. I don't like when people boil BigB down to "That guy Grian 'used' to cheat on Scar" like he doesn't exist outside of Desert Duo angst fodder.

Not that everyone who plays into the 'cheating' thing plays it so..one note..but I've seen enough of Secret Soulmate takes that completely flatten and mischaracterize Grian and BigB's characters into "uncharacteristically selfish and malicious cheater" and "cardboard cutout plot device" to sour me on the concept a lot.

Also I honestly think that when we just look at Secret Soulmates as a "cheating story" we're missing the forest for the trees. Secret Soulmates didn't exist in a vacuum, it's very specific to the social climate of Double Life and the immense pressure for soulmate pairs to both be together and to never form bonds outside of that pairing. To me this specific relationship is not something you can just remove from the context of the harmful social constraints surrounding it. I really see Secret Soulmates less as straightforward "cheating" and more as an act of non-conformity driven by unique social conditions.

[ghostlynightpanda]

I don’t know your rules and boundaries but please don’t write what I’m about to suggest if it makes you uncomfortable!! Could you write Aib characters with a reader who is a masochist? Totally up to you, please tell me if you have specific things you won’t write about🫡

AIB Characters react to Reader being a masochist  

A/N: I'm not sure I fully understand all the aspects of what it feels like or what people look for when they identify as a masochist. Because of that, I was a little worried that my writing might not capture it the way you're hoping , or worse, that it might come across as insensitive or off the mark. (Definitely not my intention. I fully support people liking whatever they like as long as it's consensual and legal!) At first, I had a hard time coming up with something fitting for characters like Ann or Last Boss, because I couldn't really picture them with a masochistic partner in the usual way. But I did some research and learned that there are different types of masochism, not just the physical/pain-based kind, but also emotional or psychological forms. So I wrote their scenes from that angle, and I really hope it is what you were hoping for.

content/warnings: Ann, Kuina, Mira, Aguni, Niragi, Last Boss, Chishiya, fem!reader, smut, canon typical blood and violence, MDNI, 3.002 words

Ann

You feel it before the game even begins.

That old familiar hum — just under the skin. The nervous energy that settles in your chest, right next to your heartbeat. Not fear, not exactly. It's the thrill of knowing you could lose everything. The ache of something real.

You're alive here.

Not just breathing. Not just surviving.

Alive.

The others gather at the edge of the arena, the rules flashing across the screen in sharp white letters, and you take a step forward without thinking. It's muscle memory by now — your body moving toward the fire, your mind already pulling apart the mechanics of the game, calculating odds you know are stacked against you.

And Ann is there.

Silent as always. Watching you like she's trying to read between the lines of who you are.

"You're volunteering?" she asks, voice even, almost too calm.

You nod.

There's a pause. Her expression doesn't change — still that same analytical calm — but you know her well enough by now. There's a flicker of something behind her eyes. Not fear. Not confusion. Just... curiosity edged with concern.

"You don't need to," she says. "We have a plan. You don't have to take this risk."

You shrug, smiling faintly. "I want to."

Her brow tightens just a little. Barely noticeable — but you see it.

"You want to," she repeats. Not a question. A quiet, measured echo.

You meet her gaze, not flinching. "It's the only time I feel like I'm not sleepwalking. Out here, when it hurts, when it's real... I feel awake. Like I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be."

She studies you in silence. Not judging. Not trying to talk you down. Just... seeing you. The version of you most people don't notice. The one that isn't just reckless — the one that needs this. That seeks out the sharp edges on purpose, not by accident.

"You chase pain," she finally says. "But not because you enjoy suffering. You want to be changed by it."

That makes your breath hitch a little. Because it's true — and she's the first person who's ever said it out loud.

"You think that makes me broken?" you ask softly.

"No," Ann says, her voice like steel wrapped in silk. "I think it makes you dangerous. And brave. And very, very human."

You don't know what to say to that. So you say nothing.

She walks closer, until the space between you could be shattered with a breath. Her eyes never leave yours.

"When this is over," she says, "if you're still standing... we're going to have a talk. About what kind of pain you're really looking for."

Then she steps back — letting you go. Not stopping you. Not saving you.

But seeing you.

And somehow, that's more terrifying than anything waiting for you inside the game.

Kuina

"You keep throwing yourself at the edge of everything," Kuina muttered, brushing the hair from your face. "Don't think I haven't noticed."

The dim light of the safehouse flickered over your face as you lay on the floor, catching your breath. Another fight. Another close call. Your lip was split, your knuckles bloodied, and your eyes glittered like something in you thrived on it.

And Kuina — standing over you — had that expression again. That mix of frustration and fascination.

You smiled up at her, teasing. "What, worried about me?"

Her foot pressed against your stomach — not cruelly, just firm. Keeping you down.

"I'm more interested in figuring out what the fuck your deal is," she said coolly, staring down at you. "You take hits like they're gifts."

You moaned softly — not in pain. In something far more dangerous.

Her eyes narrowed. "Wait a second…"

You bit your lip, still breathless. "You figured it out, huh?"

She crouched down, her fingers tracing along the bruise blooming across your collarbone. "You like this."

"I like you," you murmured, voice low. "And I like when you're mean."

Her breath hitched. Something raw flickered across her face — curiosity, desire, disbelief.

"You want me to hurt you?" she asked, her voice a little lower now. "That what gets you off?"

You nodded slowly, gaze locked with hers.

"Not just anyone," you added. "You. I want you to hurt me."

She let out a soft, wicked laugh and pushed you flat with one hand, straddling your hips. Her fingers curled around your throat, not squeezing — just holding. Measuring. Testing.

"Oh baby," she whispered. "You really want to be put in your place, don't you?"

Your lips parted, breath shallow. "Yes."

She leaned in, her mouth brushing against your ear. "You like being bruised. You like the sting. You like knowing I'm the one doing it."

You whimpered.

"Then lie still," she whispered. "And take everything I give you."

Her mouth was everywhere. Her hands were rough. Her voice — low and cruel and perfect — filled every crack in your ribs like she was made to tear you apart slowly, just to see if you'd thank her for it.

And you would. Every time.

Because with Kuina — the pain wasn't chaos. It wasn't empty.

It meant something.

Mira

"You're trembling," Mira said, her voice light as silk, delicate as frost. "But I haven't even touched you."

Your breath hitched.

She sat across from you — legs elegantly crossed, wine glass dangling from perfectly manicured fingers. She hadn't moved an inch, and yet you felt like she was already inside your mind, hands trailing down your spine like whispered threats.

You didn't speak.

She tilted her head, eyes sharpening just slightly. "Oh? Cat got your tongue? That's surprising, considering how eager you were earlier… all that bravado. That needy little ache in your voice when you begged to see me alone."

Your throat tightened. You were on your knees now — not because she'd told you to, but because the silence between her words demanded it. Like your body already knew the rules, even if your mouth hadn't admitted it yet.

Mira smiled.

"You want to be degraded," she said softly, almost like she was amused. "You want to be seen for what you really are. Isn't that right?"

You swallowed. "Yes…"

"Mm." She sipped her wine, slow and elegant, like your humiliation was nothing more than background music to her evening. "You crave the sound of my disappointment. You ache for the shame. You need me to tell you that you're weak."

You whimpered — an involuntary sound, half mortified, half aroused.

"I don't have to raise my hand to hurt you," she continued. "Words are enough. Aren't they?"

Your head dipped forward, the burn of embarrassment washing over you like a fever. "Yes, Mira…"

"Look at you. Blushing. Breathing so fast. You came here thinking I'd give you what you want. But I'm not here to indulge you."

She stood slowly — each movement calculated, deliberate — and walked toward you. She circled behind, the warmth of her presence grazing the back of your neck. Not touching. Just hovering. Watching you squirm.

"You want to be used," she whispered into your ear. "To be undone by someone smarter. Stronger. Someone who sees every cracked little corner of your mind… and smiles."

You moaned, barely able to stay upright.

She crouched behind you, one hand ghosting just above your shoulder — still never making contact.

"If I told you to beg like a dog," she murmured, "you'd do it. Wouldn't you?"

Your voice broke as you whispered: "Yes, Mira."

"Say please."

"…Please."

A beat of silence passed. Then another.

She chuckled, the sound sending a shiver through your bones.

"You really are mine, aren't you?"

You didn't say yes.You didn't have to.

She already knew.

Aguni

"You're afraid of yourself," you whispered.

Aguni stood with his back to you, arms crossed, muscles tense beneath the flickering lamplight. The night was quiet — that Borderland kind of quiet. Thick. Watchful. Waiting for something to snap.

"I've seen what I become when I let go," he said. "And I'm not doing that with you."

You stepped closer, fingers brushing his back. He didn't flinch. But he didn't turn, either.

"I'm not scared of you," you said.

His breath hitched — the faintest, broken sound.

"I want to feel you," you continued, voice trembling, not from fear — but from need. "All of you. The part that holds back. The part that hurts. The part you think I couldn't handle."

He turned then. Slow. Heavy. His eyes dark, full of storms he never let loose.

"You want me to hurt you?“ 

You didn't flinch. You looked up into that worn, battle-hardened face — the one that had seen too much death, too much fire — and you nodded.

"I want to feel what it means to be yours."

He stared at you for a long moment. Like he was searching for a way to say no without shattering. Like he wanted to protect you from yourself.

Then he stepped forward.

His hand cupped your jaw — gentle at first, then firmer, holding you in place as he studied you.

"I don't do it like Niragi," he said, voice rough. "If you're mine… you don't get bruises. You get devoured."

You gasped — not from fear, but from the heat flooding your chest.

He pulled you in, lips grazing your ear.

"I'll hold you down," he growled. "I'll pin you. I'll take you hard. But I won't hurt you."

You whimpered. He smirked — just a flicker of it.

"But if you want to scream," he murmured, "I'll make sure it's from pleasure."

And then his hands were on your hips, dragging you closer, lifting you like you were nothing but breath and want. He pressed you against the wall — not violently. Purposefully.

Not to break you.

To claim.

And god, you'd never felt safer than when he wrapped those arms around you and held you like he was keeping himself from unraveling.

Aguni would never strike. But he'd hold you in place. He'd conquer, not punish.

He wouldn't hurt you. But he'd give you everything else. 

And somehow… that would hurt even better.

Niragi 

The game was over, and you were still breathing. Bruised, sure — scraped up and shaking, yeah. But alive. Barely.

Niragi's laugh echoed down the ruined hallway behind you, low and wicked. That kind of laugh that knew everything and cared about nothing. You didn't bother to look back as he followed — you could feel him at your heels like heat, like danger, like something primal.

"You almost got yourself blown up back there," he said casually. "Didn't even flinch. Either you're an idiot or you've got a death wish."

You smirked, brushing dirt from your blood-crusted arm. "Maybe both."

His footsteps stopped. You could hear it — the tension behind him tightening like a wire.

"What was that?" he asked, voice suddenly sharp.

You didn't answer. Just gave a soft little laugh — that kind of quiet, disdainful sound, meant to sting.

And then — hands in your hair.

You yelped, but not out of pain — out of need. Niragi had fisted a handful of your hair and yanked your head back, forcing you to look up at him. His face was close — too close — eyes gleaming with something dangerous.

"You think this is a joke?" he hissed.

You let out a breath that shivered through your lips, your eyes wide but not afraid. And then... you smiled. Slow. Deliberate.

He saw it.

The way your breath hitched. The way your body didn't fight the grip — you leaned into it.

And Niragi's expression shifted. From aggression to something more curious. Intrigued. Turned on.

"You like that," he muttered, almost to himself. A laugh pulled from his throat — something low and disbelieving. "You like getting thrown around?"

You swallowed, but didn't look away. "What gave it away?"

The grip in your hair tightened.

You moaned, eyes fluttering — and he watched, entranced, as you arched just slightly under the pressure, mouth parted like you were begging for more.

"Well, shit," Niragi murmured. "And here I thought you were just another mouthy bitch."

He shoved you roughly back against the wall — not hard enough to hurt, but enough to make your breath catch. Enough to make you feel it. He pressed in, his body boxing you in completely, one hand still in your hair, the other dragging slowly down your side like he was deciding what to ruin first.

"Say it," he whispered against your ear. "Say you want it rough."

You gasped, voice shaking from heat and something more wicked. "I want it rough."

"Darker," he demanded, his teeth grazing your throat. "Tell me you want me to hurt you."

Your body shivered, already melting under his hold.

"I want you to hurt me, Niragi. Use me. Break me."

His groan was guttural, the last thread of restraint snapping in half. He grabbed your thigh and hiked it up against his hip, grinding against you like he could already feel how wet you were through your clothes.

"You better mean that," he growled. "Because once I start, I'm not going to stop until you're crying — and begging for more."

You looked up at him, breathless. Hungry.

"Good."

Last Boss

The bodies hadn't even gone cold.

The last game had ended barely minutes ago, smoke still curling from the wreckage, blood steaming on the pavement. You stood there — splattered, shaking, alive in the way that only near-death could gift you — as he watched you from the shadows.

He didn't say anything at first.

Last Boss just stared, blades still sheathed at his hips, eyes unreadable behind that thick stripe of makeup. You were the only one left who didn't fear the sight of him. Maybe the only one who'd ever understood it.

"You didn't flinch," he said, finally.

You turned your head toward him, slow, deliberate. "Neither did you."

He stepped closer, boots crunching through broken glass and ash. "They were screaming."

"I liked it better when they were quiet," you murmured. "Right before the end. That moment when they realize nothing matters… and it's too late to fight it."

He tilted his head. Intrigued. "You enjoy this."

You met his eyes. "Don't you?"

He let out a soft sound — not quite a laugh, not quite a scoff. Something in between.

"I was nothing before," he said. "No one looked at me. No one feared me. But here…" He spread his arms, like he was showing off a twisted kingdom. "Here, I'm seen."

You nodded. "And me? I've never felt more alive than when I'm about to die."

That caught him. He blinked once, then smiled — a small, crooked thing, more knife than warmth.

"You like pain?"

You shrugged. "I like meaning. The kind you only feel when your body's breaking and your mind's begging to hold on. That split second where the world gets loud, and nothing matters but staying conscious."

He stared at you like you were a mirror.

Not the same, but recognizable. Kin, in a cruel way.

"You're not afraid of me," he said.

"I think you're beautiful," you answered, honest and calm. "In that fucked up kind of way."

That made him pause.

No one had ever called him that. Not before. Not here, not there.

"Most people run," he said softly.

You stepped closer, eyes on his, voice steady. "I don't run from what I want."

He looked at you, long and quiet. Then his hand came up — not violently, just fingers brushing along your neck, where a bruise had bloomed from earlier. His thumb pressed lightly against it.

"You like that?"

Your breath hitched. "I like surviving it."

That smile again. Wider now. Pleased. Dangerous.

"You're sicker than I am."

You smiled back, a little blood still on your lip. "Not possible."

He laughed, then. For real this time — low and broken, but genuine.

And just like that, something wordless passed between you.

Two monsters. Two survivors. One chasing fear, the other chasing feeling.

Both finally seen.

Chishiya

"You're not subtle," Chishiya said flatly, eyes flicking up from the playing cards.

You raised an eyebrow, lounging on the sofa beside him. "What?"

"That thing you do," he replied, voice calm, almost bored. "Throwing yourself into situations where you're guaranteed to lose. Picking fights. Taking the fall. Like you're hoping someone will punish you for it."

You blinked.

He didn't smirk. Didn't laugh. He just… watched.

"You think you're mysterious," he went on, tilting his head, "but you're just loud about your damage."

You felt heat rise to your cheeks — not from shame. From the way he saw through you. Not emotionally. Analytically. Like a hypothesis confirmed.

"You don't know what you're talking about."

He hummed, tapping his fingers along the edge of the table. "You get off on being stripped down. On being made small. On being the broken one in the hands of someone smarter."

You swallowed. Hard.

"And it's pathetic," he added.

You inhaled sharply — and something in you lit up.

Chishiya caught it.

He leaned forward, slow and deliberate, until he was close enough for you to feel the chill of his words against your skin.

"You want me to tear you apart. Not with fists. With facts. With silence. With truth you can't handle."

You didn't move. You couldn't.

His voice dropped a shade lower. "You want me to ruin you."

You shivered.

He leaned back again, gaze detached, clinical — like he'd just dissected you and was already filing away the results. "I won't hit you," he said, matter-of-fact. "I won't touch you. But I'll make sure you never forget how small you are when I'm in the room."

Your throat was dry.

"And that's what you really want, isn't it?" he asked. "Not pain. Not sex. Just to be under someone who doesn't even need to raise their voice to break you."

You nodded. Slowly. Powerlessly.

Chishiya looked away like the conversation bored him. But he was smiling now — faint, unreadable.

"You're useful," he said. "I might keep you."

And the thing was?

That wasn't a threat.

It was the closest thing he'd ever say to love.

Masterlist

[hoboblaidd]

“It is no story,” he snapped. “It is a truth I lived for millennia. I vow to be respectful of your experiences but is it truly so much to ask that you deign to offer me the same courtesy? I do not beg empathy for my sake, but for the memories of those who endured things this world cannot imagine. They were not characters in some fanciful tale. They were real people made to fear, made to suffer, but who never stopped fighting.”

Solas could feel them clamoring at the walls behind him. The thousands, tens of thousands, that they had saved, and the many more that they had not. Those who died fighting, those who died weeping. Those whose minds had been burnt by Elgar’nan, or twisted by Ghilan’nain, or butchered by Andruil. Those who he had bled to liberate and those he had sent knowingly to their deaths. History forgot them all, but even with time and age, Solas could not. 

He folded his leg beneath him, picking at the ancient leather strap of his greaves. Unbuckling it, and then buckling it. Driving his thumb into the loops, scraping the tatters away with his nails. And then buckling and unbuckling it again. 

Their cries turned into the shuffling of heavy boots and tired feet dragging across the ground. He would know Varric’s steps anywhere, but he did not turn to look. It was a ghost that haunted him, nothing more, but one of many.

He dug his finger into the worn metal of his greaves. Bits of dirt and grime chipped away, the once brilliant gold now a muted rust. He traced his nails through the now dulled intricate designs, the elegant embossments worn down into faint outlines.  

“Nor do I, at times.” Solas met her admission with a huff of ironic laughter. He’d lost parts of himself somewhere along the way between the endless wars, endless intrigue, and endless treachery. He’d once confessed to Felassan that the last time he’d felt whole was when he and Mythal watched their first sunrise. But without those wars and betrayals, and the little parts of himself that became its casualties, those countless, clamoring forgotten ones would never have had a chance for freedom.  One’s unvarnished, ‘true self’ was an acceptable sacrifice. 

He flicked his fingers against the sturdy old chain mail, its rattling swallowed by the mute nothingness of the prison. He followed the sound, using it to focus his mind to feel the life of the very spirit she now threw back in his face. But he could not reach Compassion. Instead, he felt his own quieting of Cole’s mind; the gentle, mournful command to Forget.

“That was different,” Solas insisted, gritting his teeth and stubbornly refusing to hear how pathetic a defense that sounded. It had been a weakness, one he should not have shown her. But he could hardly have sat by and did nothing, and risk her destroying something unequivocally good for no reason other than inconvenience or distrust.

“They were harming no one and did not deserve to be hurt or perverted because of someone’s prejudice or lack of understanding. I was not trying to use anything on you, save perhaps to appeal to some part of you that might feel empathy for something innocent.”

   "Perhaps." she says, monotone, though she makes no attempt to mask what she feels though the words that do not materialise. She didn't believe it, and she didn't believe him stupid enough to believe it either. But those were thoughts that were too soft to take shape into a tongue as sharp as hers and so she simply turned it over her tongue, swallowing it back down like a knife - to wait for the right time.

You are a coward. Not unlike the many that I assume you have fought against - if such stories are even true. Given how easily you wield a whip. Orla would know, the whip also fit very comfortably in her own hands, once though she held no one's life on her hands - only their suffering. To push the responsibility to those that had, wrongly, seen different, better and say that they were the ones to blame for wanting him to be someone better than who he was. For their lack of vision when he himself covered their eyes with wool. An act of a fucking coward.

My people. These spirits. He would have freed them all and left the rest of them to burn - to him, to these immaculate creatures she and those of her ilk were nothing beyond that: irritants.

But she remains quiet, why remain quiet? Orla pushes herself off the shadows, walking back into the streets, towards the Shadow Dragon's hideout. Thanking Emmrich for his talents and patience "It's a nice and inspiring story, I get why you and Varric got along."

Exhausting of different types. At least Varric could make her laugh, had tried - misplaced perhaps - to show her a different side of life. Orla could barely see it now, everything were smudges of oil once more.

   "I barely have an understanding of what my true self even looks like." only recently did she remember who she had been before this shadow of an animal that she was now. She could no longer fit the shape of the teenager barely a woman she had been and this form was uncomfortable and easy to escape. She loved it, however, flaws and thorns and all. He was a necessary evil, one that was helping her fix his mistake by unleashing those worse than him. And she? She was whatever she needed to be - her true self, her inner form, had nothing to do with it.

She had fought to keep it. If she was to be a weapon, she should be the sole wielder. And yet there they were, talking in a familiar space with a familiar cut through the air and a twirl of a cane.

   "You made yourself my adversary, Solas." irritant, that too was certainly correct. He held no love for her, why should she, she was the thorn on his side that refused to be removed and only dug itself deeper. She didn't see him as an adversary, not truly. No more than a sailor would see the sea as an adversary. She knew that the world would be safer from his plans while he remained imprisoned, if she must be the warden for the time being so be it - even if she was not good at her job.

She had only wished it had not come at the expense of two other awful Gods piercing into this world too "No one is entitled to anything - much less generosity."

I believed in Varric and his approach, his judgement and was repaid in kind for his misplaced judgement.

   "You begged me for that spirit's life. Called me by my name." she says simply, stepping over the entrance step towards the shop, tipping her head towards the merchant with a small smile, nodding along to the small chatter between Davrin and Emmrich "Is it strength or weakness? Is it strength you are trying to use, or cunning?"

Adversary or tool? Weapon or key? He could claim as he wished. Master manipulator, liar and fiend - a bid to pull at her heart strings and see how far he could pull and how she would bend. Predictable. Orla could not understand a single thing about him beyond the stories but the outline, while slightly off kilter, was still correct. He cared. He cared for these spirits. For whatever was left of his People. He cared about tearing down the veil. To fix his mistakes - hubris. He thought himself a villain and yet himself as the only one capable of fixing it.

He had real, living flesh people that he cared about. People that she had access to. The thoughts turn and she swallows those thoughts too - an eye for an eye - sharpened them for a later time if such a thing became necessary "Or perhaps your age is showing, and you have already forgotten."

[sonchiildren]

Just to put this out there for the evening, it is ONE thing to try to fluster, agitate, or mess with a muse but it's ANOTHER when it clear that you are making the person behind the character uncomfortable. If someone tells you to stop than fucking stop. There are genuine people behind these blogs and just because we are playing a character doesn't mean you get to harass us.

[unproduciblesmackdown]

anytime there's production trivia for something i've actually seen like "& the director didn't tell any of the actors this was going to happen so as to get Not Acted Surprise, from the Actors" it's like that's so funny the way i didn't ever see that part as like wow that seemed so particularly genuine to me compared to other parts of this work or other works in general. but on the other hand there'll be scenes in something where a surprising event occurs around multiple characters and there'll be trivia like "wow the way nobody (else) knew this was going to happen beforehand, in so impactful a scene, that makes sense" and then someone involved will be like that's not true

[the--days]

so it's like this.

you're young and you're scared and you're trapped in the feywild (happens to the best of us) with the love of your life. You're a half-elf and she's a fullblooded elf but you don't think about it very much because you're barely surviving day to day. And you get offered a deal to get yourself home again, and you take it. And the price of your freedom is that you leave her still trapped there, alone.

And then five years pass. And you age a century in that time, and you grow, and you change, and you find her again, and you're still in love, and you meet people, and you lose people, and you love them too, and you learn, and you start wanting a future again, and caring again, taking care of yourself, taking care of other people--

and after all of that, at the end of things, you find out the man responsible for all of the misery in your short, sad life has cast a spell which gives him complete control and ownership of you- mind, body, and soul (again. this happens to the best of us). And you are given the choice to stay under his thrall, and live a thousand years-- or to age and die, like humans do, and to be free of him.

And the love of your life is there, and you're married now, and she's still a full blooded elf, and you're still a half-elf, and you think about what that means a lot more than you used to.

And still, after everything you've learned-- you choose your freedom. You choose leaving her behind.

[imastoryteller]

Writing Angry Scenes: Tips to Avoid Melodrama and Make It Real

Anger can be one of the most intense, relatable emotions to read—and one of the trickiest to write. When handled well, an angry scene can pull readers deep into the emotional world of a character, building tension and driving the story forward. But when handled poorly, anger can easily slip into melodrama, making the character’s feelings seem overblown, forced, or even cringe-worthy.

So how can you avoid these pitfalls and write anger that feels real and compelling? Here are some tips to make angry scenes powerful without overdoing it.

1. Understand What Fuels Your Character’s Anger

To write anger authentically, you need to understand its roots. People get angry for complex reasons—fear, frustration, betrayal, grief, and even love. Ask yourself what’s truly driving your character’s anger. Are they afraid of losing control? Do they feel abandoned or misunderstood? Are they hurt by someone they trusted? Anger rarely exists in isolation, so dig into the deeper emotions fueling it.

When you understand the core reasons behind a character’s anger, you can weave those nuances into the scene, making the anger more relatable and layered. Readers will feel the depth of the character's rage, not just the surface heat of it.

2. Show, Don’t Tell—But Don’t Overdo It

“Show, don’t tell” is classic writing advice, but it’s especially crucial in angry scenes. Don’t rely on generic phrases like “She was furious” or “He clenched his fists in anger.” Instead, look for unique ways to convey how this specific character experiences anger. Maybe their voice drops to a deadly calm, or their eyes narrow in a way that makes everyone around them uncomfortable.

That said, showing too much can backfire, especially with exaggerated descriptions. Over-the-top body language, excessive shouting, or too many “flaring nostrils” can tip the scene into melodrama. Use body language and physical cues sparingly and mix them with subtler reactions for a more realistic portrayal.

3. Use Dialogue to Reveal Hidden Layers

People rarely say exactly what they feel, especially when they’re angry. Angry dialogue isn’t just about yelling or throwing out insults; it’s an opportunity to show the character’s deeper thoughts and vulnerabilities.

Consider using controlled, icy responses or unexpected silences. Maybe your character says something hurtful in a low voice rather than screaming. They might express sarcasm, avoidance, or even laugh at the wrong moment. Anger often carries hidden layers, and using these nuances can help your character’s dialogue feel genuine, even haunting, without falling into dramatic clichés.

4. Control the Pacing of the Scene

The pacing of an angry scene can be the difference between a powerful moment and a melodramatic one. In real life, anger doesn’t always erupt instantly; it can simmer, spike, or deflate depending on the situation and the character’s personality. Experiment with different pacing techniques to create tension.

You might build the anger slowly, with small signs that something’s brewing. Or maybe the character explodes suddenly, only to calm down just as quickly, leaving a chill in the air. Controlling the pace helps you control the reader’s emotional engagement, drawing them in without overwhelming them.

5. Avoid Clichéd Expressions and Overused Reactions

When writing anger, avoid falling back on clichés like “seeing red,” “boiling with rage,” or “blood boiling.” These phrases have been overused to the point that they lose their impact. Instead, get creative and think about how your character’s anger might feel specifically to them.

Maybe their skin feels prickly, or their jaw aches from clenching it. Think about details that are unique to the character and to the moment. By focusing on small, unique sensory details, you’ll help readers feel the anger rather than just reading about it.

6. Let the Setting Reflect the Emotion

The setting can be an effective tool to amplify a character’s anger without overstating it. Small details in the environment—such as the hum of a refrigerator, the slow ticking of a clock, or the distant sounds of laughter—can create a sense of contrast or isolation that heightens the character’s rage.

For example, imagine a character seething in a peaceful park or a quiet library. The calm of the surroundings can make their anger feel more potent. Or maybe they’re in a crowded, noisy room where they feel unseen and unheard, which fuels their frustration further. This use of setting can add depth to the scene without the need for dramatic gestures.

7. Let Consequences Speak for Themselves

An effective way to avoid melodrama is to let the consequences of the anger show its intensity. Characters don’t always have to yell or physically react; sometimes, a single choice can convey more than any outburst.

Perhaps your character cuts off a close friend or says something they can’t take back. Maybe they throw away a meaningful object or walk out in silence. By focusing on the consequences of their anger, you can reveal the impact without over-explaining it.

8. Let the Emotion Simmer After the Scene Ends

Anger is rarely resolved in a single moment, and its effects often linger. When writing an angry scene, think about how it will affect your character moving forward. Are they holding onto grudges? Do they feel guilty or exhausted afterward? Does their anger transform into something else, like sadness or regret?

Allowing the anger to simmer in your character’s mind even after the scene ends creates a more authentic and layered portrayal. It shows that anger is complex and doesn’t just disappear the moment the scene is over, adding emotional weight to both the character and the story.

[angelltheninth]

Arcane Characters Find Out You Haven't Had Your First Kiss Yet

Pairing: Jinx, Vi, Caitlyn Kiramman, Maddie Nolen, Ekko, Vander, Silco, Sevika, Viktor, Jayce Talis, Mel Medarda x Fem!Reader

Tags: fluff, kissing, first kiss, flirting, banter, shyness, gentle kissing, musundertsnadings, age-gap, experiance gap

Ko-Fi | Rules | Fandoms and Characters | Commissions

A/N: I have kissed people before and I know I wanna kiss all of them too. They deserve kisses, they need kisses.

"Ya've been starin' at me for an awful long time now. Not that I mind, your eyes are real pretty, sugar. But ya've got me all curious now." Jinx invaded your personal space like it was no big deal and leaned in so you had but inches between you.

You pressed your lips together and fidgeted in your seat. "You... I was wondering have you kissed anyone before?"

"Well here and there but not recently. I've got someone I really wanna kiss now." She pointed at you and tucked a hair behind your ear. "Wanna make out? I don't have any important things to do for a few hours?"

"Few hours? People make out for that long? Wait no, that's not what I want to do. I was curious cause I never kissed anyone and I was wondering if you... maybe wanted to kiss me?" With a slightly bashful tone you met her shiny purple eyes which only seemed to get brighter as she closed in.

"Do I wanna kiss ya? I wanted to since I saw ya! Been waitin' to get asked. Ya know, gentlewoman and all that shit." She wasn't one, not by a longshot but she also knew she could cross boundaries easily, this was one where she was more than willing to wait. "Pucker up quick!" You only had a second to react before harsh lips closed over yours, her thin but strong arms locking you in place on the chair. "Mwah!" Jinx cackled when she pulled back. "There. That's one thing to cross of your list. Can't wait for more." Winking she spun around in her chair and did a little happy dance.

Everyone knew Vi was a bold one, what she wanted she went for, often with little questions asked. She spent the whole date taking initiative, taking your hand, showing you the best places in Zaun, and a few at Piltover too, although she didn't know as many that were cooler than Zaun's. At the end of it she walked your home.

"I live in a safe neighborhood, Vi. There's no need for this." You argued as you fished for your keys to unlock the door. As you did you had full intention to invite her in.

"You never know when someone might try something. You're too cut to pass up on, sweet thing like you, bound to attract eyes. People might get ideas. Like this." Before you knew it, she pressed both hands against your hips and kissed your neck. You nearly dropped the keys when you felt the bolt of excitement run through your body. "See what I mean?"

Gulping you turned your head to hers. "Y-Yeah." She smirked and cupped your chin with the opposite hand, bringing you closer. "Vi, hold on." You turned your head back towards the door. "I never kissed anyone before." The whisper pierced through all the horny energy in Vi's body.

Her hands dropped from your hips. "Oh. Well now I feel like an ass. Since you let me walk you back and all, I thought... sorry I don't know what I thought. Do you want me to leave?" She waited for you to turn around and was surprised when you cupped her cheeks and leaned in. Her eyes widened for a moment before closing, right as your lips met in the middle. The grip on your hips returned, but it wasn't as strong as before. She wasn't the only one who could initiate.

You could look far and wide and you wouldn't find a bigger gentlewoman than Caitlyn. She asked if anything she did was wanted, if it was okay, if you liked it. Some of it came from her Academy days, some from her upbringing but she was never pushy with you.

It was actually you that noticed she was glancing at your lips a little too often while you were helping her sort out through the many documents she apparently had to bring home to work on. "Today was supposed to be our date, seems to me like you're dating your work as much as you're dating me." You teased and watched her huff.

"That is not true. You are infinitely more attractive, darling. I wouldn't kiss the papers but I would kiss you any day." Caitlyn flirted back and set the mentioned papers down. "In fact... I could use a little break from this. And you're right, tonight is our date night. So, tell me," Caitlyn walked up to your side of the desk and leaned on her hands, her face above yours, "would you do me the honor of kissing me?"

A heavy blush bloomed on your face as you felt caught in her crosshairs. When she got serious about something she saw it though until the end. That's how she was looking at you now. "I'd love to kiss you, Cait."

She chuckled at your breathless tone. "I'll go slow. It's your first kiss, right? I figured from the way you'd blush and turn your head when I'd lean in." Her gloved hands slid over your hands, giving them a comforting squeeze. "Close your eyes for me, darling." The moment you did you felt her lips against yours, perfectly falling into place.

"You're joking, aren't you? You haven't kissed anyone? No one? Not even a little?" She tried to hide her amused smile behind her hand but it was futile. You rolled your eyes at Maddie and then threw a pillow in at her head.

"First, how do you kiss someone a little? And second, you know I've barely dated before this. You're the first girl I'm kinda serious about. Thought that waiting to have my first kiss would be... you know romantic?" You shrugged and hugged the other pillow close to your chest. Maddie let out a loud 'awww' and hugged you tight, kissing your cheek.

She laughed when you tried to push her away for making fun of you.

"Now hold on. I think that is really sweet of you, love. Not many people out there have your romatic mind and I love that about you. Also, real sweet that you want to kiss me out of everyone." Her hands pressed upon your shoulders and her smiling face approached yours. "Do I get to do that now or...?"

You could see how eager she seemed now that she learned all this new information. "I mean... if you want." Your hug around the pillow tightened as you tried to will yourself to calm down. On the outside you were calmer, ever pushing back into the kiss, sighing contently against Maddie's lips, but on the inside, you were a damn mess of anxiety. "Shhh, it's just me, remember?" She cooed against your lips and waited for you to relax, massaging your shoulders before leaning in for a second, longer kiss.

This was more of a dare than you wanting to kiss anyone tonight. It wasn't your fault that all your friends knew about your big crush on Ekko and roped you into a game of darts that you lost and therefore had to walk over to him and kiss him. Your friends watched you fumble over to him, all giggling.

Ekko looked at you a little bewildered. "Look, don't ask, this was all their idea." You pointed behind yourself at your friends. "They dared me to kiss you so, if you wanna kiss me... you know, cool

"I've got nothing against kissing you, firefly, but I'm a little confused. Thought you didn't mess 'round with friends like that." Ekko did, you knew but you always thought that if you crossed that line with him there would be no bottling your feelings back up. And standing here in front of him, asking for a kiss, you knew that was true.

"I don't mess around with friends. But they won't leave me alone about not kissing anyone yet and you were the safest bet. Plus..." You moved from foot to foot, like that would shake off your nerves. "I like you, Ekko. As more than a friend. I have for a while."

All the chatter from around the two of you seemed to fall into a void. Ekko opened his mouth to say something but you kissed him before he could, too scared of a rejection and too high strung to think about the fact that you might never get this chance again. But to your surprise he kissed back, his full lips pressing hard against yours. "Thought you'd never come out and say it. Damn, been waiting to hear those words since forever." Ekko hushed against you before he dragged his lips from the corner of your mouth to your ear. "I like you too." He confessed with a whisper.

"Don't you let what those assholes said get to you, darlin', their mouth is bigger than their brain." Vander cleaned the dirty glasses behind the bar as you handed them to him one after another.

You grimaced, remembering all the teasing, quite rude teasing might you add, that you endured before Vander stepped in. "I could have kicked them out myself. Besides what do they care if I'm dating you? Not like you gave me the job because of it." They said a lot more than that but you didn't even want to go through all of it.

"Hey, you do great work here. The kids love you; I love you. All that talk about tradin' favors, bunch of bullshit, that's what it is. Besides, I know you've kept to yourself more than others around here. Got nothin' against that. If anything, makes me a bit nervous. I mean, you really want this old man to be your first at everything?" He scratched the back of your head as he remembered the night when you cuddled and you confessed, he would really be your first everything, not just your first relationship. Since then, he'd been a bit jumpier.

"Vander, you're a bit more than a decade older than me. We're both old. And when you get to my age and you haven't done anything, people talk. So, I can't really blame them for thinking what they do about me getting a job here. It's shitty yeah, but like you said, they're just assholes. I want you to be my first kiss, first everything." You confessed and suddenly you noticed Vander wasn't cleaning glasses anymore. He still had the glass and the rag in his hand but he wasn't moving at all.

You seem to have stunned him with your words. There was an old story you remember, about a kiss breaking a sleeping woman from her slumber. With a cheeky grin you pushed yourself up on the bar to get high enough to kiss him. Vander let out a sound of surprise but quickly melted into the kiss. The sound of the glass shattering also shattered the quiet moment you shared and you parted, laughing. "Well, I'll be damned. Seems like there are still things that surprise me."

Silco didn't hear anything from you about the status of you kissing or not kissing anyone. He heard it from Jinx, who heard it from Sevika. And to think one of your best friends would rat you out to her boss' daughter like that. "I'll kill that mouthy bi-" Your threat stopped on your lips, silenced by thin lips. "Silco... what the fuck?"

"What? From how I heard it, you really wanted to kiss me, but were to scared of looking desperate. Best to get things like this over with fast, otherwise they clog up your brain with unnecessary worries." He spoke like a true businessman. And at his core he was one, a corrupted one, and really good at his job.

Still, you looked at him, blinking slowly, still feeling his lips against yours. Your fingertips touched the tingly flesh.

"Silco... that was my first kiss! You asshole!" You pushed him and he did take a few steps backwards. "This is why you can never tell anything to anyone around here!"

Like it was messy he fixed his tie and vest, tugging until they were to his standard again. Then he walked up to you again, his orange eye trained on you like a cat's eye on a little mouse. "Did you hate that I did it? I was never good at asking for permission when I wanted something, or forgiveness. However, if you need an apology from me, I might consider it."

Despite the imposing presence you weren't scared of him at all. "For god’s sake, Silco, I didn't hate it. You could have put more effort in it though. You know, make it more romantic for a lady, sweep her off her feet and take her out to dinner." It was like this man did every romantic thing backwards. He slept with you before he asked you out, he never even asked you out officially, just told you he liked spending time with you, and now this. "You're hopeless sometimes."

When she heard what you said she couldn't help but let out a full belly laugh at it. "Jerk! I'm being serious!" You smacked your fists against her shoulder, which only made the big brawler of a woman laugh more. Sevika never had the most tact or subtlety, or was the best at keeping her emotions in.

"I know you are! Which is why it's so damn funny. I mean shit, sweetheart, haven't kissed anyone? I see you tearing up that dance floor every night with me. You're telling me no one ever got lucky enough to kiss you on the lips? On the other lips maybe?" She wiggled her eyebrows at you.

"You're gross sometimes, you know that." You smacked her on the bicep again, and at the next attempt she grabbed your wrist and pulled you into her lap. Your whole body went hot when her thigh flexed between your legs. "Sevika, what are you up to?"

Sevika grinned wolfishly as her hand grabbed your ass. "I'm about to kiss you. Tell me if you want me to stop." She wasn't exactly asking but she also didn't want to force this on you. When you didn't put up and resistance and tugged her a bit closer by her shirt, she leaned in to capture your lips. Like with everything else she couldn't be gentle, she didn't do gentle. The kiss was rough, passionate, with too much tongue for you who never kissed anyone before. "I'm gonna teach you how to do that better."

"Will you?" You asked all breathless and with wide pupils. One simple kiss made your whole body feel like fireworks were going off. "Better make up for you making fun of me."

Viktor was very perceptive of things that interested him. You were one of those things, even before you became his girlfriend he always listened when you talked about anything. It was his first clue that he liked was in love with you.

He noticed you always seemed to be looking down at his lips more than the things he was writing whenever he was explaining something. "You know, if you want to kiss me, it's as simple as asking." He teased as his fingers traced the pages; he was reading out to you.

"O-Oh. You noticed that did you?" You looked away at the big wall of notes behind him then back at his smiling, knowing face. "Who am I kidding, of course you did. Don't get me wrong, I want to kiss you, Viktor. But I'm also nervous because it'll be my first kiss." He closed the book, with a bit more of a thumping sound than it was warranted. As quickly as he could he crossed the distance between the two of you. His hand lifted yours to his lips.

As shy as he could be with his touches, sparing even, reserved, he found it very easy to touch you and it made your heart skip a few beats every time. Viktor was comfortable with you; he teased you like it was no big deal and would hold your hand when walking through the halls.

"I must confess, darling, I don't have much experience with kissing, or anything of a romantic or intimate nature. I've only been in a few precious relationships before. However, if you allow me, I would love to be your first kiss, today." He emetized the time with a kiss on your fingers, then your knuckles, then across your arm, your jaw. And finally... your lips.

"Do you want to be my first-" You couldn't ask anything more because you heard and saw Jayce drop the hammer he was holding on his foot and was now leaning against his desk, cursing under his breath. "Kiss. My first kiss, Jayce. Get your brilliant mind out of the gutter."

His cheeks got hot when your eyes met across the room. "Your first kiss. Uh... you never kissed anyone before now, babe? Sorry if it sounds like a dumb question but... how? I mean you're the most beautiful, amazing woman I know!"

When he finally put his foot down, confidant that it was okay to do so, he scratched the back of his neck, further adding to his confused look. You sighed. "Thank you for saying all of that. I suppose I wanted it to be special. You told me you've managed to find a breakthrough in your research, so I wanted to reward you, and myself." As you approached him, he got a big, dumb grin that stretched all over his face.

"I see. A reward. If I knew I'd be getting one I'd spend more sleepless nights here." He wrapped his arms around your body when you stepped close and pressed your bodies close.

"No, you wouldn't. I would drag you back to your bed if that's what I had to do to make you sleep properly." And you really would have done that. For right now though Jayce did a good job, and giving him your first kiss was a reward. Jayce approached you slowly, taking great care to be gentle when kissing you, to not get too carried away. He didn't, he kept it to a gentle, long kiss, but quickly got in a few more when you tried to pull away. "You giant dork."

Mel gave you a goodnight kiss but as soon as she felt you stiffen, she pulled back. She frowned when she noticed how nervous you looked. "What's the matter? Darling, are you cold? Your hands are shaking?" She ran her thumbs over the back of your hands.

"Nervous is more like it. That was my first kiss." You said with a shy smile and tried to go in for a second one. But this time Mel stopped you, her hand acting as a barrier between you two. "Hm? What?"

"Your first kiss. And you only tell me that after I've kissed you. Have I known I wouldn't have rushed into it." She sighed heavily and looked almost guilty. She kept replaying her interactions with you in her mind, you were very confident on your date, you flirted with her quite boldly too. And when you kissed her hand, she thought you wanted more.

"What? No, Mel, I'm happy my first kiss was with you! It was perfect!" You quickly spoke up to assure her. "If I didn't want it, I would have stopped you before. But holy crap, do you have any idea how much I wanted to kiss you?! I mean honestly, do you! I hardly worked up the nerve to ask you out tonight." You scratched your cheek nervously and avoided her eyes. This felt a little embarrassing to admit when you worked so hard to remain calm and project and air of confidence with her.

Chucking into her hand, Mel cupped your cheek with the other. "Is that so? If that's all then I'm glad. You don't have to pretend with me. I can assure you too, if I didn't like you, I wouldn't have said yes to our date. Much less kissed you. However, if you would allow it, I would like to re-do that kiss." Mel took your chin between her fingers and brushed her thumb against your lower lip, parting your lips just a bit before kissing you again.

[luna-azzurra]

How To Write A Chase Scene

Before anyone takes off running, the reader needs to know why this matters. The chase can’t just be about two people running, it’s gotta have a reason. Is your hero sprinting for their life because the villain has a knife? Or maybe they’re chasing someone who just stole something valuable, and if they don’t catch them, it’s game over for everyone. Whatever the reason, make it clear early on. The higher the stakes, the more the reader will care about how this chase plays out. They’ll feel that surge of panic, knowing what’s on the line.

Sure, a chase scene is fast, people are running, dodging, maybe even falling. But not every second needs to be at full speed. If it’s too frantic from start to finish, the reader might get numb to the action. Instead, throw in some rhythm. Use quick, sharp sentences when things get intense, like someone stumbling or almost getting caught. But then slow it down for a second. Maybe they hit a dead end or pause to look around. Those brief moments of slow-down add suspense because they feel like the calm before the storm kicks up again.

Don’t let the setting just be a backdrop. The world around them should become a part of the chase. Maybe they’re tearing through a marketplace, dodging carts and knocking over tables, or sprinting down alleyways with trash cans crashing behind them. If they’re running through the woods, you’ve got low-hanging branches, roots, slippery mud, and the constant threat of tripping. Describing the environment makes the scene more vivid, but it also adds layers of tension. It’s not just two people running in a straight line, it’s two people trying to navigate through chaos.

Running isn’t easy, especially when you’re running for your life. This isn’t some smooth, graceful sprint where they look cool the whole time. Your character’s lungs should be burning, their legs aching, maybe their side starts to cramp. They’re gasping for air, barely holding it together. These details will remind the reader that this chase is taking a real toll. And the harder it gets for your character to keep going, the more the tension ramps up because the reader will wonder if they’ll actually make it.

Don’t make it too easy. The villain should almost catch your hero or the hero should almost grab the villain. But something happens last second to change the outcome. Maybe the villain’s fingers brush the hero’s coat as they sprint around a corner, but they manage to slip out of reach just in time. Or maybe your hero almost gets close enough to tackle the villain, but slips on some gravel, losing precious seconds.

And Don’t let the chase end in a way that feels too predictable. Whether your character gets away or is caught, it should be because of something clever. Maybe they spot a hiding place that’s almost impossible to notice, or they use their surroundings to mislead their pursuer. Or, the person chasing them pulls a fast one, Laying a trap, cutting off their escape route, or sending the hero down the wrong path. You want the end to feel earned, like it took quick thinking and ingenuity, not just dumb luck or fate.

[cheriecoke]

nanami kento, who hates dating, and didn’t do much of it in his early twenties. but now, he’s almost thirty, watching all the people he works with settle down, have kids, and he thinks he wants that. so he might as well try.

so satoru sets him up on a few dates — friends of friends, he calls them. and at the end of every one of the dinners, kento goes home empty, exhausted, because he knows what they want is not the same.

still; he thinks maybe he’s being a little self-destructive, maybe too picky, maybe he just got so used to being alone. with satoru’s insistence, he gives all the women another call, invites them over to his apartment.

the first time was a disaster… kento had barely set the dinner on the table before his cat had hissed at her, scratched her down the arm in a thin gash. and though it did draw blood, it was hardly enough to warrant that reaction.

he didn’t even try to stop her as she picked up her bag and left, huffing like she’d been morally offend. kento, though, could only smile to himself in amusement.

because maybe kento was a poor judge of character, a man who was secretly hoping nothing would pan out — but his cat could certainly tell the good from the bad.

it became a little game to him, after that. seeing if anyone could win his pet over, and if they could, perhaps they were the one. his darling animal was a fickle thing anyway. a bit too defensive, quick to bite anything threatening after years on the streets.

naturally, no one came back twice.

he was close to giving up, accepting his solitude because he was tired of empty conversations over dinner. but then, he ventured out over the weekend to a new coffee shop, during hours he normally didn’t spend out of his home, and met you.

though you only talked for a moment, kento felt like maybe he’d known you in a past life. a part of him thought maybe it was strange, the way he kept coming back to talk to you, catching you at the end of your shift to see if you wanted to grab a coffee sometime.

by the second date, kento started to think you could turn out to be his best friend.

by the third date, kento wondered if soulmates were real.

on the fourth date, almost two months later, an appropriate time to get to know someone when you were as reserved as kento, he invited you over for dinner. it was, perhaps, the final confirmation he needed to let himself be with you.

he let you through the door, smiling softly as you told him about the book you were reading, and hung his coat on the rack. a moment later, you stopped, distracted, hands covering your mouth in a gasp.

“kento! she’s the cutest cat i’ve ever seen, you didn’t even show me pictures!” you exclaim, and, a few feet away, crouched down. “look at her pretty eyes…”

“careful,” kento said, “she’s not very—“

but the cat approached your outstretched hand, sniffed once, before letting you scratch her under her chin, purring loud enough for kento to hear across the room.

“shes such a sweetheart, you told me she was mean!” you smiled, making a cooing noise as you threaded your fingers through her fur. “kento’s a liar, isn’t he… you’re so precious.”

a few moments later, she snapped her jaw at you in a biting motion, and you only laughed, withdrawing your hand. “alright, i get it, i won’t bother you anymore.”

though she still brushed against your legs, just as she did kento’s, and seemed to communicate some sort of message to him.

“do you want any help cooking?” you ask, tucking your hair behind your ears. “i’m a disaster in the kitchen, but—“

“sure,” kento said, his chest tightening as he blinked back at you, only in his apartment for minutes and already looking as at home there. he wondered if it was possible to fall in love so quickly. “but only if you want to.”

[astrolook]

Some Astrology Behind Your Looks

Note: These are just my personal observations over the years, so let me know in the comments if anything hits home! Your Ascendant alone (or just its ruler or the planets sitting in your 1st house) isn’t enough to define your appearance. You gotta look at the aspects to the Ascendant, the planets in the 1st house, the chart ruler, and its aspects too.

The ascendant is like your default character design. Think of it as a "default skin" in a video game. The ASC ruler is like your stylist who works behind the scenes and the mastermind behind your look. The planets in your 1st house, the aspects to your ascendant and to the planets in 1st house is the DLC pack that really customizes your look.

Saturn in 1st/conjunct ASC - Stiff posture. Ages in reverse. Looks 30 at 20 but looks 40 at 60. Deep-set eyes. Wrinkles before 30. Knees, joints, or back always ache even if they are sitting doing nothing. Looks better with age. Ugly duckling as a kid/teen. Sharp defined bone structure as an adult.

Moon in 1st/conjunct ASC - BIG eyes. Puffy cheeks that people want to pinch even when they're grown adults. Pouty lips. Gets sweaty easily. Face constantly changes with emotions so lying here is impossible. Weight fluctuations. Baby face for way too long. Look cute even when crying. Wavy hair but changes with their emotions. Skin is super reactive like blushes easily, bruises easily, sensitive to everything. Round or Moon face.

Pluto in 1st/conjunct ASC - Either scary hot or hot scary. No in-between. A face that barely moves. Either angelic or villainous eyes. Hair is either jet black or deep red or whatever dark shade they wanna color their hair with. Born with a resting face. Unbothered style. Skin either pale as a ghost or deeply striking.

Neptune in 1st/conjunct ASC - Either dreamy or look like they haven't slept in days. Messy at home. Prone to get mysterious acne out of nowhere. Spaced-out eyes. Skin glows weirdly like sometimes as a built-in instagram filter sometimes greasy. Gliding instead of walking. People mistakes them for someone else sometimes.

Uranus in 1st/conjunct ASC - Hair does whatever it wants and never behaves. Either noticeably tall or noticeably short. No in-between. Posture that either as stiff as a board or slouches like a hacker. Randomly winks, raises brow, smirks or stares into nothing.

Sun in 1st/conjunct ASC - Hairline so perfect it looks like CGI. Looks expensive even when broke. Aging slows after 30. Laugh is as contagious as a virus. Neck slightly longer than average. Skin tans fast. Cheekbones pop when smiling. Looks like Greek statue in side angles.

Venus in 1st/conjunct ASC - Dimples, even in weird places. Hips curve like a renaissance painting. Balancing proportions. Gains weight only in right places. Natural symmetrical face. Baby hairs lay perfectly. Doesn't even need nail polish as they can rock without it. Shoulders have a graceful rounded slope. Weight gain makes them hotter. Wide hips, thick thighs and butt. THICC body.

Mars in 1st/conjunct ASC - Forehead vein pops when mad. Prone to random scrapes and scars. Operate at 1.5x speed. Dressing style depends on their mood. Formal when composed, bitchy when annoyed, angelic when warm and boyish when fun. Also hairstyles depend on their mood too. Struggles with hair fall in mid 20's.

Mercury in 1st/conjunct ASC - Mouth is slightly open even when they sleep. Snores. Blinks fast. talk with their hands. Looks younger than they are. Eyes move like they're reading subtitles in real life when talking. Fine or wavy hair sometimes its messy. Nails might be bitten, tapped, or fidgeted with constantly. Short eyelashes. Switchy emotions like smiles one second serious the next.

Jupiter in 1st/conjunct ASC - Gains weight faster than they lose. Rounded or slightly protruding belly if gained even a little weight. Laugh is impossible to ignore. Full wide cheeks like they store snacks there. Broad forehead. Big teeth or an over-exaggerated smile like they are in a tooth paste advertisement. plump lips. Gives "big presence" energy. Large hands and feet.

Sun square ascendant- Face would look slightly irritated even if they don't mean to. Sometimes force their smile or just look like that even when real.

Moon square ASC - Face bloats easily, especially under the eyes. eczema, redness, or dry patches are common. Cheeks puff up randomly.

Venus square ASC - Would think they are not good looking enough. Insecured about their looks. Weirdly pretty. Sometimes looks AI generated. You get me? Lips too big or nose too sharp. Beautiful but off.

Mars opposite ASC - Bad boy/girl vibes. Can look pissed off even when happy.

Sun opposite ASC - Silent but strong type. Can come off either intimidating or bossy.

Uranus square ASC - Unusual eye color, shape, or one bigger than the other. Can't really tell if they are attractive or really unique. It's like features are drawn by different artists.

Neptune square ASC - Can look slightly sleepy or like a fever dream. Soft features but slightly off focus. Look different everytime.

Moon opposite ASC - A living emoji. Puffy under-eyes are permanent.

If you’ve got multiple planets in your 1st house with a ton of aspects, you’re basically ramen noodles - complex, tangled, and impossible to replicate.

DM me for a complete astrology reading! ✨ Check out my pinned post for pricing. 💫

[fictionadventurer]

Genuinely think the only way to approach art is to like the things you like instead of tearing down what other people like.

"You should read classics because those are real literature unlike that TikTok garbage." Bad. Turns people away from reading the classics because it makes them sound stuffy and boring and makes you sound like a snob.

"You should read classics because this book is amazing! I love the characters and the story, and it's so cool to read a story that uses different techniques than modern fiction does." Good. Makes people want to read the classic. Suggests there's something good in this story instead of just suggesting that other stuff is worse.

"You don't like the modern art? That's because you're an unwashed plebeian who only likes what's pretty." Bad. Puts down the person and makes them even less likely to be interested in this type of art.

"Wow, I love this painting! Look at the technique! I love the message behind it!" Good. Helps the person to appreciate what might not be obvious at first glance, instead of shaming them for not automatically knowing this.

"You should watch this show because it's so much better than that other garbage show." Antagonizes people who like the garbage show and makes them less likely to feel positively toward the show you like.

"You should watch this show because it has great writing/characters/plot etc." Good! Tells people what makes this show appealing and makes them want to try it.

"I listen to this music because it's real art and not that manufactured pop garbage." Bad. Makes your genre seem like an exclusive club of snobs that I don't want to join.

"I listen to this music because I like the sound. Here, listen to this song." Good! Shows me something good within the genre and may encourage me to explore further.

There's a place for criticism. You don't have to like or approve of everything. But it's not a great technique for getting people to like art. Hating on the things that are bad just drives people away. If you want to draw people toward something, you have to help them to appreciate what's good.

[hylemorph]

Anna and Friedrich in Nosferatu (2024)

In a previous post I mentioned how important I think Friedrich is in the story as a representation of the patriarchal ideal, and how it/he crumbles when confronted by everything that has been suppressed in Ellen (manifested in the unavoidable, terrifying form of Orlok). I also think he is a mirror to Orlok in some ways: he says twice how he just cannot resist Anna, he subtly frames his desire for her as an unwilling "affliction." He also defiles Anna's body and his sacred marriage vows by engaging in necrophilia, because his appetite for her is so consuming - he can't resist her even when she's not even there anymore. Ellen's necrophilic act with Orlok represents her unification with the parts of herself that are suppressed/rejected by the men in her life, good and bad. It's dark and fucked up but metaphorically transformative, and consent is absolutely central. Friedrich's necrophilic act involves no consent, no Anna, and it lacks any metaphorical power. He didn't accomplish anything, he just succumbed to his own horror and amplified it.

Friedrich's unhealthy approach to his relationship with Anna consumes them both, and I think this theme is especially evident in the way Anna's pregnancy is discussed. Friedrich tells Thomas that they are expecting but doesn't want it mentioned in front of Anna or Ellen, probably because it wasn't supposed to be public yet. In victorian times people would rarely confirm a pregnancy before the woman was "showing" both because it was considered a private matter and because miscarriage was way more common. But Friedrich tells Thomas early anyways, because he is excited and proud, which is understandable but also selfish in this context. Furthermore, Anna says that "little Friedrich" is "very hungry, just like his father" and later on after Orlok has fed on her, she passes it off as feeling drained by the baby. Even though she seems happy and loves her family, she associates pregnancy with being drained.

This alienated way of understanding parenthood is also evident in the way Friedrich and Anna treat their girls (Louise and Clara I think?) They obviously both adore the girls, but they ignore their terror and assume the monster they see in their room is totally unrelated to all the other scary shit going on, because they're just silly little kids imagining things, right? One girl literally says "I can hear him breathing under my neck!" and they beg Anna not to leave them alone at night, but they are just hushed and told that they're totally safe. It's exactly the kind of dismissal Ellen has been getting her whole life, and so it's not surprising that the girls are haunted by Orlok before anyone else. It's not enough to adore little girls, they will never be safe until they are heard and believed.

Anna as a character apart from her role as wife and mother is a bit harder to parse out, but I think she is also a mirror for Ellen. Ellen's spiritual power is the catalyst for everything that happens, and von Franz says that "in heathen times you might have been a Priestess of Isis." Anna's spiritual inclination is less obvious, but it's there: she seriously listens to Ellen and believes that she is perceiving something real, she just assumes it must be God. Later when she lets Ellen stay with her for the night, she says "God is with us Lenny, I know it." On some level Anna is also in touch with that supernatural, suppressed feminine truth, and she seems to see through the patriarchal facade that Friedrich represents to some degree. But ultimately Anna wants to convince herself and Ellen that the night terrors were just caused by Thomas' absence, and that Ellen just needed her husband back and all would be well. When Thomas does return and Ellen has her faculties again, Anna is very eager to put it all behind them; 'no more talk of demons please, let's just focus on Christmas and being a happy family'. Anna's downfall is that she puts all her faith in the Christian patriarchal narrative even when she can clearly see that there's more going on. Her faith in the Christian God contrasts Ellen's "heathen" spirituality - both women have an innate spiritual sense, but one is more willing to make it fit into the values of their society. Ultimately Anna was consumed by the horror of their alienated position in society just like Ellen was, she just died with less agency.

[solxamber]

Idia cater and octanivelle (seperate) with a reader s/o who gets cuteness aggression towards their boyfriend, dragging him to privacy if they arent already in it so they can smother to boy with kisses and then just leaving them be like they just did the most normal thing, leaving the characters to react in their own ways perhaps please?

Cuteness Agression with: Idia, Cater, Octatrio

a/n: i loved the ask omg i was giggling the entire time i was writing it. sorry for the really long wait and i hope you like it

Part 2: Malleus, Rook, Lilia, Jamil, Riddle, Leona

Idia Shroud

Idia had never considered himself cute. If anything, he was the exact opposite of what someone might find remotely attractive—awkward, perpetually hunched over, and most likely to combust if too many people looked at him at once. But then, there was you.

You, with your sunshine-like enthusiasm and boundless energy, who had the audacity to look at him—his mess of blue flames, oversized hoodie, and permanently slouched posture—and declare him the cutest thing you’d ever seen.

At first, he thought it was a joke. Surely, you couldn’t be serious. But as time passed, it became glaringly obvious: you were dead serious.

It started on a quiet afternoon. You’d found Idia tucked away in his room as usual, gaming with a focus so intense he didn’t even notice you entering. His lips were pressed into a slight pout, his brows furrowed, and his hair glowed faintly with concentration.

And that was it. Something in your brain snapped.

You didn’t even say anything, just marched over, grabbed his wrist, and pulled him out of his chair.

“H-Hey! What are you—?!” Idia stammered, flailing as you dragged him out of the room and down the hall. “I’m in the middle of a raid! I can’t just leave! My party’s gonna—”

You shoved open the door to an empty lounge, ignoring his protests, and pushed him onto the couch. Before he could even process what was happening, you pounced.

“You’re so cute, I can’t stand it!” you half-yelled, squishing his cheeks in your hands and pressing a flurry of kisses all over his face.

Idia froze. His brain blue-screened. “Wh-What—?!”

“Nope, no talking,” you said, absolutely drunk on how adorable he looked when he was flustered. You kissed him again, your hands cradling his face like he was some precious, fragile thing. “You’re so cute, it’s criminal! I’m putting you under arrest.”

“Th-That’s not—! Y-You can’t just—!” Idia’s protests were muffled by your relentless affection. His flames sparked and flickered wildly, betraying just how utterly overwhelmed he was.

After several long moments, you finally relented, leaning back to admire your work. Idia’s face was a brilliant shade of red, his hair practically sparking like fireworks. He looked dazed, his wide golden eyes staring at you like you’d just dropped from the sky.

“See? Absolutely adorable,” you said smugly, crossing your arms like you’d just won some grand debate.

Idia sputtered, burying his face in his hands. “Y-You can’t just ambush me like that! W-What if someone saw?!”

You grinned, leaning forward to gently pull his hands away from his face. “No one saw, and even if they did, so what? You’re my boyfriend, and I reserve the right to smother you in kisses whenever I feel like it.”

Idia groaned, though there was no real heat behind it. “You’re gonna give me a heart attack one day, I swear...”

“Worth it,” you teased, poking his cheek playfully.

From that day on, Idia learned to recognize the look.

Whenever your eyes lit up with that dangerous mix of adoration and mischief, he knew what was coming.

“Wait, wait, wait—” he’d say, hands raised as if to fend you off. “Let’s talk about this! Let’s be rational—!”

But it was always too late.

No matter where you were—whether in the library, the cafeteria, or even in the middle of a gaming session—you’d drag him off to a secluded spot, showering him with affection until he was a stuttering, blushing mess.

And the worst part? He couldn’t even be mad about it.

Because, deep down, a part of him liked it.

Liked how unapologetically you loved him. Liked how your touch, your laughter, your relentless affection made him feel like maybe—just maybe—he was worth all the trouble.

Even if it left him blushing for hours afterward.

Cater Diamond

Cater Diamond loved attention. Loved being in the spotlight, basking in the glow of likes, comments, and shares. What he didn’t anticipate was being the target of your unique brand of attention—a combination of relentless affection and an overwhelming urge to smother him every time you deemed him too cute to function.

Which, as it turned out, was all the time.

It started with something simple: Cater had been showing you his latest MagiCam post. He was talking animatedly about angles, filters, and hashtags, and his grin was so radiant, his enthusiasm so infectious, that your brain short-circuited.

“Cute,” you muttered under your breath. But then you looked at him again—the sparkle in his green eyes, the playful way he stuck out his tongue as he scrolled through his phone—and it hit you like a freight train.

“You’re so cute, I can’t handle it!” you practically yelled, grabbing him by the wrist and pulling him out of the classroom before he could protest.

Cater stumbled after you, his phone clattering to the floor. “Whoa, whoa! What’s the rush? Did I—?”

You didn’t let him finish. The moment you found an empty hallway, you spun around, cupped his cheeks, and peppered his face with kisses. “Why are you so cute all the time? It’s illegal. Illegal, Cater.”

His cheeks flushed pink as he let out a surprised laugh. “Uh… I didn’t know being adorable was a crime? Should I call the guards?”

“Yes,” you huffed dramatically. “Call them. Tell them I’m guilty of having too much cuteness aggression, and you’re the victim.”

Cater blinked, momentarily stunned into silence, and then broke into a grin so wide it could’ve lit up the entire school. “Wow, you’re like my personal hype squad! This is the best day ever.”

From that day forward, Cater learned to recognize the warning signs.

Whenever you got that look—the one where your eyes sparkled and your hands fidgeted like you were holding yourself back—he knew he was in for it.

“Let’s chill for a second,” he’d say, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “We’re in public! Don’t you wanna save this for, I dunno, somewhere private?”

You’d smile sweetly. Too sweetly. “Nope.”

And before he could escape, you’d grab him and whisk him away to some hidden corner of the school.

“Seriously, what did I even do this time?” Cater would ask, though his laughter betrayed any attempt at indignation.

“You exist, Cater,” you’d reply, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “And you’re cute, and I can’t stand it, so hold still.”

Cue more kisses, and more of Cater melting into a giggling mess under your relentless affection.

One afternoon, you found him lounging on the couch in the Heartslabyul lounge, scrolling through his MagiCam feed. He’d tossed on one of his oversized sweaters, and his hair was slightly mussed like he’d just rolled out of bed.

It was too much. Your self-control snapped like a twig.

“Okay, that’s it,” you said, marching over.

Cater looked up just in time to see you barreling toward him. “Oh no, not again—! Babe, wait! Let me post first—!”

You tackled him onto the couch, smothering him in kisses as he laughed and squirmed beneath you. “You’re insane!”

“And you’re adorable!” you shot back, holding his face like it was the most precious thing in the world. “It’s a problem.”

Cater gave up resisting, his arms wrapping around your waist as he laughed breathlessly. “Well, I guess there are worse problems to have than being attacked by my cute, affectionate partner”

You kissed the tip of his nose, grinning down at him. “That’s right. You should feel honored.”

“Totally,” Cater said with a wink, though the flush in his cheeks and the soft look in his eyes betrayed how much he really meant it.

Cater might have been used to playing roles, putting on masks to charm the world, but with you, there were no masks. No filters. Just him, basking in your unfiltered love, and loving every second of it. Even if it meant being smothered in kisses every time you found him too cute to handle.

Which, to your credit, was all the time.

Azul Ashengrotto

Azul Ashengrotto prided himself on being composed, professional, and, above all, respectable. He was a businessman, a contract wizard, a man of strategy. What he absolutely wasn't prepared for was how you, his beloved, had a penchant for completely derailing his carefully curated image with something as ridiculous as cuteness aggression.

And by the Sea Witch, you were relentless.

It started one evening in the Mostro Lounge. Azul had been reviewing paperwork behind the bar, his brow furrowed in concentration, glasses perched delicately on his nose. His pen moved with precise efficiency, the soft scratch of ink on parchment the only sound as he reviewed the latest inventory reports.

You were supposed to be helping, but instead, you found yourself distracted. Watching the way his fingers tapped lightly on the countertop, how his silver hair gleamed under the soft lounge lighting, and the faint pout of his lips as he puzzled over a tricky calculation… it was too much. The man was criminally adorable.

“Azul,” you said suddenly, voice tinged with barely suppressed glee.

He hummed, not looking up. “Yes, my dear?”

You didn’t reply, instead marching over to him with a determined look.

Azul glanced up just in time to see you close the distance between you, a dangerous gleam in your eyes. “W-Wait, what are you—?”

Before he could finish his sentence, you grabbed his wrist, tugging him out of his chair with surprising strength.

“Hey!” he yelped, stumbling after you. “I’m working! The reports—!”

“Can wait,” you interrupted firmly, dragging him into one of the private booths.

“Honestly, what has gotten into—”

His protests were cut off as you shoved him onto the cushioned seat and cupped his face in your hands, your eyes sparkling with adoration.

“You’re so cute,” you said, and the way your voice wavered with sheer affection sent Azul’s heart racing.

“I—what?” he sputtered, his composure crumbling.

“You’re so cute,” you repeated, practically vibrating with energy. “I can’t stand it. I have to kiss you. Right now.”

Azul’s face turned a brilliant shade of red, his glasses slipping slightly down his nose. “T-That’s hardly appropriate—!”

You didn’t let him finish, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead, then his cheeks, then his lips.

Azul went completely still, his brain scrambling to process what was happening. His carefully constructed persona, the one he worked so hard to maintain, was nowhere to be found. Instead, he was just a blushing, flustered mess, completely at your mercy.

When you finally pulled back, his wide-eyed expression made you giggle. “There. Much better,” you said, sitting back with a satisfied smile.

Azul blinked at you, utterly speechless. He adjusted his glasses with trembling fingers, trying—and failing—to regain some semblance of dignity. “Y-You can’t just… do that!”

“Sure I can,” you replied, unrepentant. “You’re my boyfriend. It’s in the job description.”

Azul opened his mouth to argue but faltered when he saw the way you were smiling at him—like he was the most precious thing in the world. His heart stuttered, and he looked away, flustered beyond belief.

“You’re insufferable,” he muttered, though there was no real heat behind his words.

“And you love it,” you teased, leaning in to steal another kiss.

From that moment on, Azul realized he had to be on high alert.

You had a habit of striking at the most unexpected times. Whether he was mid-negotiation, organizing the lounge staff, or simply trying to enjoy a quiet cup of tea, you always found a way to pull him aside and smother him with affection.

“We’re in public,” he’d hiss, his face bright red as you kissed his knuckles in the middle of the lounge. “What will the customers think?”

“They’ll think I’m the luckiest person in the world,” you replied with a grin, completely unfazed.

“You’re impossible,” Azul groaned, burying his face in his hands.

But despite his protests, there was a small, secret part of him that loved it. Loved the way you looked at him with stars in your eyes. Loved the way you laughed when he got flustered. Loved the way you made him feel like he was more than just a businessman, more than just the awkward, insecure octo-mer he used to be.

He would never admit it aloud, of course—his pride wouldn’t allow it. But the next time you grabbed his hand and dragged him away with that mischievous glint in your eye, Azul didn’t resist nearly as much as he claimed he would.

Because, really, who was he to deny you?

Jade Leech

Jade Leech was many things—elegant, composed, a touch unnerving when the moment called for it—but "cute" wasn’t exactly the first adjective that came to mind for most. For you, however, the sight of him was downright devastating.

The poised way he carried himself, the sly curve of his lips when he smiled, the faint glint of mischief in his mismatched eyes—it was all so unbearably adorable that it practically short-circuited your brain.

And it wasn’t like you could keep it to yourself. No, you had to act on it. Every time.

The first time it happened, you were sitting in the Mostro Lounge, watching Jade work. He moved with his usual grace, balancing trays, speaking softly to patrons, and wearing that infuriatingly charming smile that made your heart race.

“Are you alright?” His smooth voice cut through your daze. He was standing right in front of you now, head tilted ever so slightly, curiosity evident on his face.

You blinked, realizing you’d been staring. “Uh… yeah! Just… appreciating you.”

Jade’s smile widened. “How flattering. And what, pray tell, have I done to earn such attention?”

Oh, no. He was being cute and smug about it. That did it. You couldn’t take it anymore.

Grabbing his wrist, you tugged him behind the lounge counter, away from the prying eyes of the customers. “Jade, I can’t—I need to—just stay still!”

He raised an eyebrow, clearly amused but also intrigued. “Stay still for what, exactly?”

You didn’t answer, too busy cupping his face and pressing kisses all over it. His forehead, his cheeks, his nose—every inch of him was a target.

“Oh...” His voice trailed off, his usual composed demeanor slipping as he blinked down at you, utterly flabbergasted. “What… are you doing?”

“Kissing you, obviously,” you mumbled between smooches, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Jade chuckled softly, the sound vibrating against your lips as you kissed his jawline. “I see that. But why the sudden… enthusiasm?”

“Because you’re too cute,” you declared, pulling back just enough to look him in the eye. “And if I don’t do this, I’ll explode. It’s science.”

Jade’s smile shifted into something softer, warmer. For a moment, he didn’t say anything, simply studying your flushed, determined face. Then, with a low hum of approval, he gently wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you closer.

“Well, far be it from me to stand in the way of scientific necessity,” he teased, leaning in to steal a kiss of his own.

From that point on, your "cuteness attacks" became a regular occurrence.

Whether he was reorganizing the terrarium in the Mostro Lounge, brewing potions in the lab, or simply enjoying a quiet moment with tea, you always found a way to interrupt him with your overwhelming affection.

“Dear,” he said one evening, as you practically tackled him onto the couch in the lounge’s VIP room. “You know I had work to finish, yes?”

“Uh-huh,” you replied, pinning him beneath you as you kissed his nose.

“And you’re aware this is highly disruptive?”

“Yup,” you said, grinning as you kissed the corner of his lips.

Jade sighed, but the way his arms came up to wrap around you betrayed his true feelings. “You are incorrigible,” he murmured, his voice fond.

“Thank you,” you replied cheerfully, planting one final kiss on his forehead before letting him sit up.

But Jade wasn’t one to let you have all the fun.

One afternoon, after dragging him away from his duties yet again to smother him with kisses, you found yourself suddenly spun around and pinned gently against the wall.

“Now, now,” he said, his voice low and teasing as he leaned in close. “It seems only fair that I get a turn, wouldn’t you agree?”

Your breath hitched as his mismatched eyes glinted with amusement, and before you could respond, he leaned in to press a kiss to your temple. Then your cheek. Then your jaw.

“J-Jade!” you stammered, your face heating up.

“Yes, my dear?” he replied, entirely too smug as he trailed his lips to the corner of your mouth.

“This—this isn’t how it’s supposed to go!”

He chuckled, finally pulling back to look at you. “Oh? And how is it supposed to go?”

You pouted, crossing your arms. “I’m supposed to be the one attacking you with affection, not the other way around!”

Jade smiled, a rare, genuine expression that made your heart skip a beat. “I suppose turnabout is fair play, wouldn’t you say?”

And as he leaned in to kiss you again, you decided that, yeah, maybe it was.

Floyd Leech

Being in a relationship with Floyd Leech meant two things: chaos and spontaneity. But what Floyd didn’t expect was the level of cuteness aggression you’d unleash on him daily.

It started innocently enough. Floyd would flash you one of his sharp-toothed grins, or he’d laugh that unhinged laugh of his, and you’d feel your entire brain short-circuit.

His mismatched eyes, the way his hair fell over his face, the effortless energy he carried—it all combined into something so painfully adorable that you couldn’t handle it.

And you didn’t.

The first incident occurred in the Mostro Lounge during a busy shift. Floyd was juggling three trays like a circus act, laughing at a poor customer’s flustered expression. You were seated at the counter, watching him, and suddenly, it hit you.

“Shrimpyyy! What’re ya staring at?” Floyd called, his grin only widening as he caught you watching him.

Bad move. That grin. That grin was your undoing.

You slammed a tip down on the counter and marched straight up to him. “Floyd. Put the trays down.”

“Huh? But—”

“Put them down,” you said, grabbing his wrist and dragging him behind the counter before he could even think to protest.

“Oi, Shrimpy, what’s the deal?!”

“You. Are. Too. Cute!” you hissed, before cupping his face and attacking him with kisses.

“Wha—hey!” Floyd’s laughter echoed through the empty kitchen as you smothered his cheeks, nose, and forehead with kisses. “You’re so weird! I love it!”

By the time you were done, Floyd’s face was flushed (a rare sight), and his laughter had turned soft, almost shy.

“Shrimpy,” he said, his voice quieter than usual. “You’re lucky I like ya so much. Otherwise, I’d squeeze ya for embarrassin’ me like this.”

You grinned, pulling him in for one last peck on the lips. “You love it.”

“…Yeah, I do,” he admitted, the grin returning full force.

This became a regular thing. Anytime Floyd did something that struck you as particularly adorable—whether it was his lazy, stretched-out posture during naps, the way his lips pouted when he was annoyed, or even the way he lit up like a kid when he got his favorite snacks—you’d pounce.

“Shrimpy, you’re at it again!” he’d laugh, squirming in your arms as you peppered kisses all over his face. “What’s the big idea, huh?”

“You’re too cute. I can’t stand it,” you’d reply every time, as if that explained everything.

And for Floyd, it kind of did.

One particularly memorable incident happened during a basketball game. Floyd was on fire, scoring point after point while practically dancing across the court. His energy was infectious, and you couldn’t help but cheer louder than anyone else in the stands.

When the game ended and his team won, Floyd looked up at you, his grin wide, sweat dripping down his face, and he yelled, “Did ya see that, Shrimpy?! I’m the MVP!”

That was it. That was the moment. You didn’t even wait for him to come to you. You climbed down from the bleachers, sprinted across the court, and tackled him in a hug.

“Shrimpy! What’re ya—”

“You’re so cute when you’re excited!” you exclaimed, kissing his sweaty cheek.

The entire gym went silent as everyone stared, but Floyd? Floyd cackled so loudly that it echoed off the walls.

“Ha! You’re unbelievable, Shrimpy,” he said, hugging you back tightly. “But I like that about ya. Keep it comin’!”

It wasn’t just in public, either. Even in quiet moments, Floyd basked in your affection.

One night, as the two of you lounged on the couch in your dorm, Floyd rested his head on your lap, dozing lightly. His peaceful expression, the way his lashes rested against his cheek, the soft rise and fall of his chest—it was too much.

“Floyd,” you whispered, nudging him gently.

He opened one eye, looking up at you. “Hmm? What’s up, Shrimpy?”

“You’re adorable,” you said simply, leaning down to kiss his forehead.

He chuckled, shifting to wrap his arms around your waist. “Man, you’re obsessed with me, huh?”

“Yep. Totally obsessed.”

“Good,” he said, pulling you down so you were lying on top of him. “’Cause I’m obsessed with ya too.”

Floyd might have been unpredictable and chaotic, but there was one constant in his life: you, and the relentless affection you showered him with.

And if anyone dared to comment on it, Floyd would just grin, throw an arm around you, and say, “What? Shrimpy can’t help themselves. I’m irresistible, duh!”

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