#and it’s ’less time’ to them overall

[figthoughts]

⟢ — thinking about DEAN needing to pull the impala over on the side of the road because you just can’t keep your hands to yourself .ᐟ

warnings: smut, semi–public car sex, oral (m. receiving), praise, est. relationship (softdom!bf!dean x gf!reader) 18+

𓂃ㅤ . ⟡ ㅤׄㅤ

“i said quit it,” dean muttered and switched off the impala’s engine, the rumbling sound dying out into a smooth silence. he turned to you, and a challenging grin spread across his face, “you just can’t control yourself, can you?”

a hearty laugh bubbled up your throat as he grabbed your wrist, his warm hand pulling it away from the now prominent bulge in his jeans, which strained against the dark denim. “come on, you just look so good today, dean. i can’t help it,” you said through your chuckles.

dean scoffed at your words, pulling you closer. “oh, yeah? you just can't help it? you’re in for it now, sweetheart.”

dean pinned your wrist to your chest, keeping your wandering hand hostage as he dove in and kissed you. you gasped, and dean seized the opportunity, slipping his tongue between your parted lips to tangle with yours, teasing and desperate as he dominated your mouth. his movements were demanding, and you felt the need in his kiss. the frustration.

he moaned wantonly, breaking the kiss and pulling back to look at you. his green irises had shrunk from his blown-out pupils, dilating with desire. he murmured quietly as his eyes searched yours, “in the backseat. now, baby.”

his voice was low, but biting with an eagerness that made your thighs clench. it took the pair of you less than ten seconds to reach the backseat, fervently finding each other’s lips again with ease. your teeth clashed and your tongues fought, the kiss eager and full of need, but not that either of you cared. he managed to pull you on top of him, leaving his hands on your hips, guiding you to grind down onto him. it was desperate and messy, from the need that coursed through both of your bodies, brought on by your incessant teasing and playing.

dean groaned at the feeling of you pressing against the line of his hardened cock, the rough denim rubbing against his angry red tip. fuck, you’d been such a tease. dean was right; you just couldn’t control yourself—your hands travelling up his thigh while he drove, moving in on his dick and palming it through his jeans, all while your eyes not once leaving the road the entire time you played with him, and that wicked smirk plastered on your face. you were evil.

“take this off,” he muttered against your lips, his fingers playing with the hem of your shirt. you slipped it off, no questions asked, as dean took his flannel and shirt off too, discarding the fabric on the floor of the car. he pressed hot open-mouthed kisses to your breasts through your bra as he undid your jeans and pulled them down. you lifted yourself up, helping him pull away the denim.

“yeah, that’s it,” dean grinned and slid his fingers over your clothed pussy as you settled back down into his lap, feeling the warmth of his skin press against you. “just what i thought. no wonder you were touching me like that. wet and desperate just for me, huh?” dean huffed through a smirk, pressing your soaked underwear against your folds.

“okay, yeah... maybe. so what?” you laughed along with him, grinding your cunt onto his fingers more. “can’t you just help me with it?”

dean's lips curled into a devious grin, one that made the heat burn hotter in your stomach, and you knew you were in for it. “course, baby. though i'm gonna have some fun with you first... s'only fair,” he grinned as you let out a scoff, the corners of his eyes crinkling in amusement. “payback’s a bitch, sweetheart," he crooned mockingly, his fingers not letting up on the teasing touches between your thighs.

you groaned at his words and overall demeanour, scrunching your face in frustration whilst he kept toying with you. “no, come on. i’m sorry, just—”

“nope. you’re gonna help me first. consider it… reparations for working me up so much when all you had to do was just ask for my help,” he murmured, his tone smooth but full of smug satisfaction from seeing you so worked up now.

“okay, okay…” you conceded and let your hands undo the button and fly of his jeans. you shimmied them down, along with his boxers too, as much as you could, before pulling out his painfully hard cock. you wiped some pre from his tip, giving his length a full pump. a hiss escaped dean’s lips.

“geez,” you chuckled, “this was all me?”

he huffed with a defeated smile and let his head fall back into the leather seat, soft little grunts leaving his lips as you moved your hand up and down his member.

“baby, you don’t know what you do to me,” he managed to get out through rough breaths. his hips began to buck up into your touch ever so slightly, but his rubbing through your panties didn’t falter; he was teasing you, like you'd done to him, not giving you any proper stimulation that your body was so desperately aching for.

“i need more, dean. please, don’t tease me anymore,” you begged softly, continuing to pump his pretty cock, feeling it throb in your hand.

“mmm,” he pretended to consider your request, “no, i don’t know if you’ve paid your dues yet, my little tease. you knew what you were doing when i was driving.” he rubbed his thick fingers through your damp folds, purposefully pressing the fabric of your underwear against you. the friction felt good, but torturous at the same time; the stimulation just wasn’t enough. you let out a huff. you wanted more. needed more.

“fine.”

you took your hand away from his dick, shuffling back a little on the leather seats. you pushed dean back against the door and settled in front of him. a smirk grew on his face as you bowed down, wrapping your mouth around his cock, though the smirk quickly dropped and morphed into a contorted expression of pleasure as you began swirling your tongue on his sensitive tip, sending hot sparks shooting through his nerves.

“fuuuck… that’s it,” he groaned, trying to get his length deeper into your mouth with small thrusts.

you obliged and took him deeper, trying not to gag on his swollen tip as he thrusted further into your mouth, his head brushing against the back of your throat.

dean’s hands found their way into your hair, scrunching a handful and guiding you to bob on his cock. you let him move you up and down his length, feeling him twitch in your mouth. you wrapped your fingers around the base of his dick, squeezing softly, earning a groan from dean.

you tasted his salty precum, letting your tongue run along his slit. dean let out a deep guttural groan, and his head fell back again, his grip in your hair tightening. “fuck, that’s it, sweetheart. just like that. don’t stop,” he muttered out, his dick still twitching against your tongue. he let obscene words fly from his mouth as his brain began to lose touch with everything but you and the feeling of your warm mouth wrapped around him.

as he tensed against your tongue, you knew it was time to pull him out before he shot his seed down your throat. you pulled him out, earning a groan of protest from dean.

“please, can you just fuck me now?” you looked up at him with your best wide and pleading eyes.

“y-yeah. take those fuckin’ panties off,” he huffed, panting slightly as you sat up, his eyes locked on yours as you manoeuvred yourself to pull your underwear down.

a satisfied grin bloomed on dean’s face the second you flung your panties off. his hand immediately unhooked your bra and pulled it off you, discarding it with the rest of your clothes on the floor, before pushing you down against the seat. he climbed above you, taking in your breasts with a cheeky smile.

“hello, my favourite ladies,” he hummed and kissed your tits before meeting your eyes again, “well after you, of course, my favourite little tease.” he dropped a kiss on your cheek, finding your exposed heat with his fingers again, stroking at your clit.

you chuckled at his dorky comment and looked up at him, feeling his fingers rub at your core. “mmm, no, dean. i need you inside me…. please? i wanna feel you.”

dean nodded, letting his eyes flicker between yours. “yeah, okay. since you asked so nicely.”

he quickly pushed his jeans and boxers the rest of the way down and grabbed his cock, positioning himself at your entrance. he swiped his tip along your cunt, collecting your arousal on the head of his dick, before slowly pushing into you, earning a pleased hum from you as he stretched you out.

“there we go, baby. is this what you wanted?” dean grinned, bottoming out inside you, feeling your walls clench around him, trying to accommodate his size.

“yes… fuck, yes….” you responded breathily, your voice a little winded from the feeling of him finally impaling you.

he took a moment to just look at you, letting his gaze fall over your pretty parted lips, your now dishevelled hair, and your heavy-lidded eyes that met his with silent pleas to move, but also unspoken words full of love and trust. dean finally pulled his hips back before thrusting back into you. he let out a deep groan and continued to watch your flushed face react to the feel of him moving in and out of your cunt.

your jaw dropped as he began to pick up a firm pace. his dick pistoned into your puffy cunt, hitting all the right gooey spots that made you tighten around him. the car rocked with every thrust and filled with loud breathless moans from the both of you.

dean’s hand found your clit again, his thumb rubbing it expertly. he grinned down at you, taking in your face of pure bliss with his own lazy expression.

“mmm, look at you. taking my cock so well, baby. you’re so tight,” he groaned out, thrusting into you with a measured pace, his balls slapping against the fat of your ass.

his green eyes sparkled as he watched your tits bounce around from his quick thrusts; you could see him practically salivating at the sight. his free hand grabbed at your tits, squeezing and palming them with a stupid grin on his face.

“fuck, dean… you feel so good,” you gasped out as you rocked against the leather seats, your body now coated with a film of sweat. he picked up his pace even more, drilling you into the backseat. you couldn’t help the loud moans from flying out of your mouth or the way your hands had found their way to his back, clawing at it, trying to pull him closer to you.

“ohhhh, fuck… squeezing me like crazy, sweetheart,” he said, winded from the feel of his cock being smothered by the warmth of your tight walls. his hand sped up on your clit, desperate to get you off.

sparks flew throughout your body from his touch, and you cried out, “mmm, god… so close, dean! fuck!”

you felt the band snap in your stomach, and you came, gushing around him, leaving a creamy ring around the base of his cock from your sticky fluids. he thrusted into you even harder, watching you ride the wave of your orgasm as he chased his own.

“that’s it… that’s it, baby,” dean cooed softly with a smirk on his face. “that’s what you wanted, huh? to cum on my cock like a good girl? such a pretty girl like this. my pretty girl.”

your tight walls kept fluttering around him as you rode your high, the sensation driving him closer to painting your insides white. his thrusts stayed firm and deliberate, nudging against your spongey walls with expertise, building up that tight feeling in your stomach again without even really trying.

“oh, god... more, dean. please, i—” you sputtered out.

“more, baby?” he grunted with a grin, “you're a horny little thing today, huh?”

“need you to cum in me, dean…” you whined, looking up at him. his smirk grew as he leaned down and pressed open-mouthed kisses along your jawline and throat.

“i’m gonna fucking stuff you, baby, don’t worry,” he muttered against your skin, tasting the saltiness of your sweat on his tongue.

the car rocked back and forth from his harsh strokes. you were sure any passerby would immediately know what was happening inside, but you couldn’t find half the mind to care, not when you were so close to hitting your peak again.

“mmm, god…. sweetheart, you’re so— so beautiful,” dean huffed, still nipping and kissing at your neck.

you whined, unable to find the words to reply to his sweet praise. the car filled with the dirty smell of sex and the sound of him squelching in and out of your cunt.

“m’so close, sweetheart. you almost there?” he groaned, his warm breath tickling your neck.

the feeling of his thick member thrusting into you with quick and calculated movements, paired with his heavy hand on your clit, forced your back to arch up into him, your body begging for him to go deeper—to bury himself completely in your greedy cunt. your desperate hands kept clawing at his muscled back, leaving pink lines of broken skin, urging him to give you more.

dean moaned gutturally, “baby— baby, please. can’t hold on much longer.” his dick twitched inside you, and he kept plunging his swollen tip in as far as he possibly could, feeling your walls clamp around him, sending jolts of pleasure flying throughout his body.

“close. i’m close,” you sputtered out, your heat clenching as he rapidly pumped into you, making your core tighten with a fire that threatened to send you over the edge.

dean whimpered and gave you a handful of powerful thrusts, and his hand rubbed your clit vigorously, desperate to make you finish before he did.

“atta, girl. that’s it. i’m right here, sweetheart. i’m there with you. just let go f’me…. please, baby,” he moaned out, his brain wrecked; half focused on not spilling into you just yet, and the other half focused on pushing you into cumming on his dick again.

his practiced ministrations and soft words of encouragement worked you over quickly, bringing on your harrowing release. loud mewls and moans were ripped straight from your throat as your pussy gushed again, only making the wet filthy noises louder. you wailed dean’s name, unable to control your mouth or body as he fucked you through your orgasm.

dean let out a shuddered moan as you cried out his name and hit your peak, squeezing around him like a vice. his eyes clamped shut, and he gritted his teeth, shooting his load into your cunt. “oh, shit, baby— shit!” he groaned, opening his hazy eyes and looking down at your sweet face.

you felt his warm ropes coat your walls, and you hummed, returning his gaze. his dilated eyes flickered between yours as his movements came to a still inside you, his cock beginning to soften. “fuck… fuck, baby. you’re so—”

you smiled as dean’s post-sex spiel began, the action pushing up your flushed cheeks, making the corners of your eyes crinkle.

“jesus, so good…. so good,” he muttered through pants. “so beautiful. i’m so lucky— jesus, i’m so lucky.”

a quiet but mirthful laugh escaped from your lungs. “i love when you get like this,” you murmured earnestly, your features pulled into an amused expression as dean continued to babble out soft praises and compliments.

“sorry, i just—” he trailed off with a sheepish grin, collapsing on top of you. he buried his face into your neck, pressing gentle kisses to your sweaty skin.

“no, s’alright. i love it, really.”

“yeah? good… cause i can’t help but act a damn fool around you, babe. you make me crazy, i swear.”

a grin grew on dean’s face as he heard your scoff of amusement at his words. his curved lips against your skin sent butterflies down to your stomach, fluttering around from his praise.

“m’serious. i’m crazy for you— crazy for that pussy. she’s mine… all mine,” he murmured into your skin.

another amused laugh escaped you. “yeah, she is. all yours, baby,” you playfully conceded.

“mmm,” he hummed in agreement, then lifted his head to look down at you. your eyes met, and you could see glints of desire still dancing around in them. “no more teasing me now, yeah? we’re even?”

it was your turn to grin; the corners of your lips curled, and you nodded. “yeah, no more teasing, baby… for now.”

fig yaps: need my shit rocked in the back of his car tbh anyway you’re welcome for that gif btw !!!!!!!! i actually have it tattooed on my eyelids so i can watch it every time i close my eyes teehehe anyways this lived in my drafts for months and i still don't love it but yolo dropping this and probably dipping for a few days bc my brain is playing evil tbh

feedback and reblogs are welcome and appreciated ofc !! <3

⟡ taglist: @chevroletdean @fitxgrld @jasvtsc @bluestrd @1-imbroglio @titsout4jackles @faithfulsofi @tortureddarkstar @abellmunsonmovie @legalmente-loca @theoneandonlystonedspiderman420 @manicjk @jensenacklesballsack @minettacreekk @winchester-whiskey @emeraldcrs @freyabear @daylighted @cosmopolitan-thedrink @jwritestuff @suhnisideup @spookyysinsanity @kimxwinchester @bleuatlas @deansbbyx @angelicjackles @deansbeer @artemys-ackles @bluemerakis @star-yawnznn @ambiguous-avery @starzify @littlesoulshine @jays-bonnie-on-the-side @freeluigihesbae @bejeweledinterludes @blossomingorchids @lanasgirlfr @seven7lee @nymphet-quenn @rafessweetgirl @maeji-may @eternalssunshinee @blossomingorchids @benscumgluzzer @soldiersgirl @arcannaa @gibson-g1rl @vmiina @h8aaz + the rest in the comments sorry!

↑ comment to be added / removed (zero judgement) !

[alternate-real-ities]

Hey, something's happening in my office... my coworkers are disappearing, or I guess, maybe the office is shifting? It seems like there's less office guys around and more and more guys from the warehouse division showing up, although why'd they show up to the office park is beyond me. Just more huge, asian dudes keep coming. I was asked to direct them over to shipping department, they all seemed nice enough but man, they stunk. Think my clothes need a wash now, I can still smell them on me.

I feel like I'm one of the last guys around in button down and a tie. If you can help explain what's going on, just look for me, I'll be the only short, lean, clean cut, Mexican American guy trying to keep this office above water.

Investigation Report: Office Outbreak

To the distressed individual who reached out for help - We are truly sorry, but by the time our team arrived at the scene, it was already too late for you. Your family has been notified and dully made to forget about this incident. We are now working on containing this outbreak and preventing it from spreading further. May you be at peace in your current state.

Overview

An investigative unit was dispatched to assess the circumstances unfolding at the corporate office of [REDACTED], now Subject C. Unfortunately, Subject C was not found at the office when the team arrived, but substantial evidence was gathered from the scene. Camera footage from the building's security system allowed the team to piece together a timeline of events leading up to Subject C's current state.

The following report thus details the team's findings and a possible timeline of events that led to the current situation. For physical reference, we include an old photo of Subject C, which was found in their office.

Timeline of Events

[48 Hours Prior]

The video footage of 2 days prior shows Subject C entering the office with a noticeable change in demeanour. He appeared to be bothered by something, constantly looking over his shoulder and fidgeting with his clothing. The office was relatively quiet at this time, with only a few employees present.

Our team's observations suggest that Subject C was already experiencing the effects of the Asian Flu at this point, though the symptoms were not yet severe. This is deduced from his contact message, where he mentioned his encounter with a new group of employees from the warehouse division. It is likely that Subject C was exposed to the virus during this encounter.

Video footage from this time period also shows Subject C seemingly struggling to focus on his work, sweating profusely, and exhibiting signs of confusion. These are common early symptoms of the Asian Flu, which can cause disorientation and cognitive impairment in its early stages to distract the host from the virus' effects on the host's body.

As the day progressed, surveillance footage shows Subject C subtly changing in appearance. His clothes seemed to fit a bit tighter than usual, hinting at a slight increase in muscle mass and overall body size. However, these changes were not drastic; he simply appeared more filled out and energetic compared to his typical demeanour. Subject C also exhibited increased activity levels, frequently getting up from his desk to pace around the office or stretch, as if excess energy was coursing through his body.

The rest of the workday passed without incident, and Subject C left the office at the usual time. However, the changes in his physical appearance and behaviour were becoming more pronounced. Video surveillance shows Subject C leaving the office filling his shirt more than usual, while sweating heavily.

[24 Hours Prior]

The video footage from the day before Subject C's current state shows a significant escalation in his symptoms. Upon entering the office, Subject C was visibly larger and more muscular than the day before. The increased height and bulk are evident in the footage, as previous recordings can be compared to his current state. He came in with his sleeves rolled up, revealing his newly developed biceps and forearms. He had also forgotten to wear his tie, which was unusual for him. The office remained mostly empty like the day before, with only a few employees present.

Our team's analysis of the footage suggests that Subject C's transformation was accelerating rapidly. Footage from the rest of the day shows Subject C exhibiting increasingly aggressive behaviour against his computer, which he seemed to be struggling to operate. He was also seen pacing around the office, but his remaining colleagues appeared to be avoiding him. This may have been due to his probable newly acquired scent, which was likely becoming more potent as his transformation progressed, as some people are seen holding their noses or coughing when he passed by.

Our team also caught an interesting moment in the footage where Subject C seemed exhausted and sat down at his chair, his shirt now straining to contain his growing muscles. He was sweating profusely, and his breathing was heavy. He appeared to be in pain, clutching his chest and grimacing. His facial features appeared to be changing as well, with his hair physiology changing, becoming more curly and darkening, and his face becoming more masculine and asian-like.

We believe that Subject C was nearing the final stages of his transformation at this point, as his symptoms were becoming more severe and his behaviour unpredictable. The office was completely empty by the time Subject C left. He was seen exiting the building, his pectorals straining against his shirt, as his shirt's top button had popped off. He was still sweating heavily, however, his breathing had become more controlled. Our team also captured moments where Subject C seemed to be sniffing the air, as if he was tracking something, however, he was most probably smelling himself. This behaviour is consistent with the heightened sense of smell that is a common symptom of the Asian Flu.

[Present Day]

Our team arrived at the office the day after the last recorded footage of Subject C. The office was in a state of disarray, with furniture overturned and papers scattered everywhere. No employees were present, and the building was eerily quiet. We discovered Subject C's discarded clothing in front of the warehouse entrance, which was open and unguarded upon our arrival. A strong, musky scent lingered in the air, which is consistent with our knowledge of the Asian Flu's effects.

Upon further investigation, our team noticed a glistening trail leading from the discarded clothing towards the open warehouse door. The viscous substance was unmistakably semen, suggesting that Subject C, in his transformed state, had left a trail as he moved about. Following the trail inside, we were greeted by a scene that defied belief. The once orderly warehouse was now filled with muscular Asian men, all visibly transformed by the Asian Flu.

And there, standing amidst this chaos, was Subject C. But he was barely recognizable in his new form. Gone was the scrawny, unassuming man from the office photos. In his place stood a colossus of rippling muscle and tanned, glistening skin; he was easily 6'5" with a physique that could only be described as grotesquely exaggerated. His pecs were each the size of watermelons, glistening and flexing independently under his sweat-slicked skin. Ropes of muscle rippled down his eight-pack abs to his V-cut hips, disappearing into a waistband straining to contain an impressive bulge.

His bronzed skin seemed to emit an almost supernatural glow, beaded with exertion under the harsh warehouse lights. High cheekbones and almond-shaped eyes hinted at his East Asian heritage, now exaggerated by the virus's influence into a face of rugged, masculine beauty. A light dusting of dark hair across his chiselled jawline framed full, sensuous lips curved in a predatory smile. The scent emanating from him was overwhelming - pure, concentrated pheromones that would have made our team swoon if not for our protective gear. Subject C's transformation had not only enhanced his physical form but also amplified his masculine allure to dizzying heights.

Behind Subject C, the rest of the warehouse was a sea of similar forms - the other office people he had once worked alongside, now transformed into muscular, sweaty Asian bros like himself. They lounged against pallets stacked high with boxes bearing cryptic markings in languages we didn't recognize. Others stood in loose groups, engaged in low conversations that were punctuated by "bro speak" and the occasional burst of laughter.

They hefted pallets and machinery with ease, their bodies built for hard labour rather than office work. The air hummed with a symphony of grunts, groans, and the clanking of metal. It was clear that in this new form, Subject C and his crew were thriving. Their minds may have been dulled, but their bodies were powerful tools, perfectly adapted for manual labour. In this world of grunts and muscles, critical thinking was obsolete. They only needed each other now, their minds unaware of the world they had left behind.

Conclusion

The evidence gathered by our team suggests that Subject C was exposed to the Asian Flu virus during an encounter with a group of warehouse employees. Incubation time took approximately 48 hours this time, during which Subject C exhibited common symptoms of the virus, such as hyperhidrosis, cerebral cellular decay, and a heightened sense of smell. His transformation accelerated in the final 24 hours, culminating in his current state as a muscular, Asian bro (as he calls himself).

A containment squad has been dispatched to the warehouse to secure the area and prevent further spread of the virus. The sweaty beasts within will be quarantined and studied to better understand the virus's effects and potential treatments. The investigation team will continue to monitor the situation and provide updates as necessary. The situation is dire but not hopeless. We recommend a thorough decontamination of the office space and a review of existing safety protocols to prevent future outbreaks. This concludes the investigation team's report on this recent outbreak of the Asian Flu virus.

Please refer any further inquiries to the investigation team's lead, Dr. Ming.

[End Report]

[softnspiky]

Trafalgar Law Headcanons

(That no one asked for)

☆ He has generally good hygiene and showers often, but Law is bad about washing his hair. It feels like a waste of time, since he wears a hat constantly. He uses a lot of dry shampoo to look presentable. Everybody has one hygiene thing they're lazy ab, and for Law, it's his hair.

☆ Socially awkward. Anytime this man has rizz, it's because he rehearsed in his head beforehand, or got lucky/accidental. (It's ok, we love him anyway)

☆ Carries hand sanitizer (he gets unscented, but bonus points if his significant other gets him one of those glittery rubber holders in the shape or a polar bear or something, and gets some scented ones for him to try. If people comment on what smells so good, he never admits that it's his hand sanitizer, but he DOES use them and secretly likes them.)

☆ He's highly perceptive/tuned in to the people around him. He may not be participating in the conversation, but he's following every word and picking up on emotional queues from people's tone. (This is bc of his time in the Doflamingo family. I headcanon Robin this way, too. They developed this habit to survive.)

☆ Wants to be COOL (if the tattoos aren't evidence enough, look at how this man presents himself.) If his design didn't have to be re-drawn so much, I fully believe it would include more jewelry: rings, necklaces, bracelets, a belt chain. This man shops at hot topic; have you seen his under-eye makeup? But ye, very much wants to be perceived as cool, mysterious, and powerful.

*This is largly a coping mechanism he picked up bc of the Doflamingo family, where keeping up appearances and having a cool exterior was literally a method of survival.

☆ Calculation has become second nature to him in social situations, so it's hard for him to relax and "be himself" when he's in a safe space to do so. The Heart Pirates and the Straw Hats must often remind him. "It's just us, you're safe, no judgments here, relax," ex.

☆ Probably goes without saying, but he absolutely has trust issues and struggles to be vulnerable.

☆ In a relationship, his love languages would be quality time and acts of service (giving), and words of affirmation and physical touch (receiving).

☆ Law typically refrains from smoking or drinking alone, but he will sometimes partake if offered in a social setting.

☆ However, Law does drink caffeine excessively. Definitely has a caffeine addiction even though he knows it's bad for him. Tries to spread his caffiene into different formats bc it feels less like an addiction if he doesn't have to confront the "i had 3 monsters today" issue in his mind (because instead he had a monster and a coffee and tea and snacked on caffeinated chocolate.)

☆ He struggles with insomnia and has a hard time getting real deep sleep that's uninterrupted by unpleasant dreams or sounds from the crew. He's a light sleeper even without any caffeine and doesn't typically find much relief from sleeping.

☆ Sharing a bed would be a big thing for him in a relationship. He would sleep much more deeply with another presence in bed. A physical reminder of his safety keeps him grounded. (He slept so well when he traveled with Cora for this reason.) His s/o would also be able to help convince him to come to bed, simply to receive snugs. This has a positive impact on his overall mental and physical health.)

*I see Law not getting enough rest/not allowing himself to rest as a subconscious form of self harm/punishment from his survivor's guilt. :(

☆ He is a sucker for cute things. Look at Bepo. Heck, look at the Polar Tang. He tries to keep this under wraps bc it would humanize his mysterious, uncaring Surgeon of Death persona. Here's a list of things I think Law would secretly adore: beanie babies, keychains, patterened socks with sushi or Sanrio characters on them, *hidden under his boots and skinny jeans

☆ Law runs cold. Perhaps it's a side effect of his disease that never quite went away after he cured himself. I know he would be used to the cold after spending so much time in a submarine, but he's usually in a big coat of some kind regardless. At the very least, he has poor circulation to his feet. His s/o would be in for a shock, brushing up against his toes when sharing a bed. Those mfers are CLAMMY.

☆ Definitely has shrimp posture

☆ Has some mother hen habits as a result of being a doctor. He reminds his crew (through gritted teeth) to drink water, wear sunscreen and sunglasses, eat enough protien ex. They know it's his way of showing he cares for them, so they don't mind. He usually receives a chuckle followed by an "Aye-aye Captain".

☆ Law carries a fanny pack. (Hidden on his back beneath his coat) I cannot explain how I know this, only that it is true.

☆ I see him being a trinket guy. He has a drawer of random stuff that he's picked up from the islands he's been to. Bits of nature, ephemera. To the untrained eye, it's a drawer of useless items, but to him, they're mementos. Law doesn't have many good memories, or much of anything from his childhood, so he holds onto items that have significance, even if he probably doesn't need to. (Hence the hat) He does open the drawer from time to time and look through them, especially if he's feeling lonely.

☆ Despite this, he generally doesn't have a lot of possessions. He's used to traveling and wandering, not settling. He packs light, and most of his stashed items are back at the Tang. If he picks up keepsakes, they're nearly always pocket sized. (Fanny pack, I'm telling ya)

~~~

That's all for now! Lmk what you think in replies :>

The art is an edit of a piece by Gokujounomaguro on Twitter! They make sooo much gorgeous Law fanart 😍

[identifying-deer-in-posts]

Cervid Accuracy Test: Red Dead Redemption 2 (2018)

One of my favorite games of all time, incredible story and characters (Charles my beloved), brain-chemistry altering. Could talk about it all day. But we ain't here for that. Rockstar put an insane amount of detail into the animals in this game, including the 3 species of deer. But just how realistic are they?

Disclaimer: These ratings aren't meant to tear down the game in any way, they're just for fun!

White-Tailed Deer

Okay, you can definitely tell what these guys are meant to be. Good form, glad to see different models for bucks and does. Nice broad, fan-like tails -- bonus for holding them up when they run. No visible glands on the legs, but that's minor. The bucks are much more detailed, less flatly-colored than the does. White mouth rings are just a bit too far back. Antlers are...interesting. Three points on a tine? That's like a whole other rack, brother, save some for the rest of us. Much more accurate in the 1 and 2 star variants. But overall, pretty faithful to real life.

Rating: You're a good deer, Arthur Morgan. 8/10

Rocky Mountain Elk

Devious smirks on these fellows. Nice form, appropriately fluffy necks, broad noses. More woolly than coarse. But ☝️ peep those pedicles, cows and bulls share the same model. Gotta dock points for that. A little pale for Rockies, especially their faces, but the color is better on other variants. Antlers are great, classy, not over the top like the 3 star whitetail. Bonus for adding 1 stars with broken antlers.

Rating: Impish, pasty individuals. 7/10

Western Moose

One of the rare opportunities we get a distinct subspecies of moose! I'll be real, I barely ever see these guys when I play, so I'm not too familiar with all the variants. Nonetheless, they have great models, realistically big humps and surprisingly well-anchored ears, damn. Large, sledge-like hooves. But again ☝️ peep those pedicles. Same models for bulls and cows, making the cows' dewlaps too large. Nice gradient colors like this subspecies has irl, though the darks could be a little darker and start higher up on the body. Missing stockings. Antlers are again just yuge, but at the same time could have wider palms to look less like spoons and more like paddles.

Rating: In desperate need of socks, but looking good despite that. 7.5/10

Mule Deer

Rockstar forgor

Rating: Depressing. 0/10

[yellowhoothoot]

2025 book bingo, courtesy of @batmanisagatewaydrug! decided i will keep track of what i read that can fit on here, and maybe use this for inspiration when i go to the library if i don't have specific ideas for what to check out.

so far:

fantasy: monstrous regiment by terry pratchett i'd never actually read any discworld before and this one got recommended to me. i wrote a short story with a similar premise one time so i figured i should give it a shot. it was fun! pretty easy read, i read it basically in one afternoon sitting in my hammock down by the river.

science fiction: dawn by octavia butler this category was never going to be hard for me. a lot of what i read these days is sci-fi, ever since i racked up a huge list of mostly-sf recommendations from a professor. octavia butler is one of my best friends' favorite author and previously i'd only read parable of the sower by her. i wasn't sure if i liked this when i finished it but i wanted to read the rest of the series to figure it out.

sequel: adulthood rites by octavia butler i liked this a little better than dawn but still wasn't sure if i liked it or not. i went through it quickly, though. when i read parable of the sower it was for an environmental literature class, and this series has a lot of the same environmental lit elements.

20th century speculative fiction: imago by octavia butler the last of the lilith's brood series. this one, i definitely liked; it's my favorite of the series. having finished the whole trilogy i think i do like it overall, and i'm leaning more towards "yes i did like this" for each of the previous books, but i think i like them better with the context of the full series. i think the different perspectives in each of the three books really helps to round out the story and give a deeper understanding of what people in general are like in the world of lilith's brood, rather than only understanding what each individual narrator is like. it's a series i've really enjoyed thinking about and working through my feelings and opinions on, even a couple weeks after i finished reading them.

animal on the cover: the world as we knew it: dispatches from a changing climate, edited by amy brady and tajja isen this could fit a few boxes so i might move it later. it's a collection of essays about climate change. it's kind of depressing, a lot of them are a little bit more doom-y than i typically like in environmental writing. i think some of that is useful in environmental and climate communication to emphasize the issues people are talking about, but i find it less effective when people act like nothing can be done. i like a balance, is what i'm saying. these essays are mainly personal accounts of experiences and parts of nature that the authors have experienced changing, though. a lot of the doom isn't just vague "we're destroying things, can't do anything about it" and is focused in on those feelings of loss or uncertainty. even though they are often sad and depressing accounts, they mostly don't fall into that "nothing can be done" area that i don't like. i think it's a well curated collection which is what i like in a collection of short stories or essays.

read & make a recipe: slow roasted soy glazed salmon from salt fat acid heat by samin nosrat i got this cookbook as a graduation gift last year and i love it! i don't make a lot of recipes from it but the main part of the book that talks about how to use the different elements of cooking is really interesting and helpful. the recipes i have made from the cookbook part have been really good though. earlier this year i made the slow roasted salmon with a lemon garlic seasoning for my roommate's birthday, and it was super good and is now my go-to way to cook salmon. we had some extra salmon and i was making fried rice so i tried one of the variations, which was a soy glaze, to make the salmon to add to the fried rice. very tasty. definitely recommend.

[masorciereviolette]

Undeniable Echos Of Us

Pairing: AU Agatha Harkness x Reader

Warnings: Soft Domestic Moments, Fluff, Reassurance, Comfort, Soft Agatha, Protective Agatha, Time Jumps, Happy Endings.

Word count: 13.3k

A/N: I hope you enjoy!! The first day of school and a sick day that were previously requested on ao3. I had to split the request to cover ground, so you got the previous part of the request posted first :))))

Summary: The following are the years that unfolds in a beautiful blur of chaotic and heart stopping milestones. Including Maeve’s first day at daycare, her fourth birthday party as well as her personality development up to age five. There’s definitely more but I’m not gonna spoil it all ;)

Taglist: @ambessas-doll @milflovers4 @graceful-witch07

Previous Part In The Series

Returning to work after a year of diapers, midnight feedings, and whispered lullabies felt less like crossing a threshold and more like stepping off a cliff. You’d tried to prepare.

Packed Maeve’s daycare bag the night before—her bunny blanket, her favorite snacks, an extra pair of socks with the little stars on the toes that she liked. You’d laid her outfit out on the dresser: soft pink overalls, the white onesie with the tiny heart stitched over her chest, and the socks.

You told yourself it was fine. Normal. That this was healthy. That it was good for her to be around other kids, good for you and Agatha to return to your rhythms, your purpose, to something beyond nap schedules and the smell of formula on every shirt you owned. You told yourself that a thousand times. But all of that rational preparation disintegrated the second Maeve’s tiny fingers curled around your collar and refused to let go.

The daycare entryway was bright and cheerful, with little hand-painted murals of animals on the walls and a paper sun cut out above the coat hooks. The air smelled like apples and Lysol. A woman in a floral cardigan greeted you with a too-sunny smile, clipboards in hand, calm voice practiced.

“She’ll be just fine, really. Transitions are always a little bumpy at first.” You tried to answer. But your throat was too tight. Maeve clung to you with everything she had, her arms wrapped around your neck like vines, legs locked around your waist, face buried in your shoulder.

“Mama,” she whimpered, her voice wet and trembling. “No… no…” Your heart cracked so loudly you thought it might echo.

“I’m right here,” you breathed, trying to keep your voice steady. You pressed your forehead to hers, breathing her in, trying not to fall apart. “You’re okay, sweetheart. I’m not leaving you for long. It’s just a little while, just a few hours. We’re coming back. I promise.”

Agatha stood behind you, normally so composed in her sharply tailored suit and heels, but today… she looked undone. Her shoulders were tight, her lips pressed thin, her hands shaking so slightly only you would’ve noticed.

Maeve had started crying the moment you stepped through the doors. Not loud. Not angry. Just… broken.

Confused.

Afraid.

“I can’t,” you whispered. “She’s not ready. She’s not ready, and neither am I.”

Agatha crouched beside you, her tone impossibly gentle. “She’s going to be okay,” she said, reaching out to brush Maeve’s curls back with a trembling hand. “Books, songs, other kids. She’ll boss them around in five minutes. You know she will.”

But her eyes were glassy. She wasn’t convincing you. She was convincing herself. Maeve lifted her head just enough to reach toward Agatha. Her little hand curled around Agatha’s fingers like a lifeline, her bottom lip trembling.

“Oh, baby,” Agatha murmured, her composure shattering as she gathered Maeve into her arms. “You’re going to be so brave, okay? Just for a little while. And I’ll be counting the minutes until I can pick you up. One by one.”

Maeve sobbed against her chest, tiny fists bunching the lapel of her coat, and Agatha held her close, eyes closed, swaying gently. You watched them through a blur, every muscle in your body screaming to reach for your daughter, to undo this, to call in sick and take her home and keep her little forever.

But you didn’t. Because this was what you’d prepared for. This was what came next. Even if it felt like your chest had been cracked open. Agatha kissed Maeve’s head one last time, then slowly, gently, turned to the daycare assistant and handed her over.

Maeve whimpered again, her eyes wide and tracking you both like the ground had been pulled out from under her. She didn’t scream. She didn’t thrash. But her silence—her small, shuddering breath—was somehow worse.

The assistant murmured softly to her, bouncing her lightly in her arms as she walked toward the play area. Maeve craned her neck, still watching you through the doorway as it slowly, painfully, swung shut.

The moment the door clicked behind you, you turned and buried your face in Agatha’s shoulder. “I hate this,” you mumbled, voice ragged.

“I know,” she whispered, wrapping her arms around you, her own body shaking. “Me too.”

You held each other in the hallway of that bright, cheery building, surrounded by finger paintings and backpacks too small for anything useful, and let the ache settle into your bones.

Let it hurt. Because letting go just for a few hours—felt like letting go of a whole lifetime you weren’t ready to end. But this was love, too. The hard parts.

The necessary goodbyes that made room for the hellos waiting at the end of the day. And even though you hated every second of it—you knew you’d be back. Just a few hours later. The rest of the day passed in a fog—dense and slow and suffocating, like the world had been wrapped in cotton and left too far away to touch.

Your precinct felt louder than usual. The phones rang sharper, the coffee tasted burnt, and even the rhythm of your typing didn’t sound right anymore. Like something vital had been muted, just below the surface. You were back. Back in your chair, your title newly etched into the nameplate outside your office. Back in your element. But not really. Because your body was here, sure.

But your heart? Your heart was still at daycare, pressed against a glass window, watching your daughter cry as the door shut behind you. Your phone sat on the desk like a lifeline. You told yourself not to check it every five minutes. You checked it every three.

Between meetings, during coffee breaks, and once—shamelessly—while pretending to tie your shoe in the middle of the hallway just so no one would see the tremble in your fingers as you swiped down on your screen. Nothing. No updates. No photos. No panicked calls about inconsolable sobbing or sudden fevers. Just… silence.

By lunch, you hadn’t eaten more than a protein bar and a stolen bite of someone else’s bagel. Your stomach ached, but your hands wouldn’t stop twitching, like your body was stuck in a loop it didn’t know how to escape. That’s when your phone finally buzzed.

Aggie: I miss her more than I’ve missed anything ever. I keep looking at her picture like it’s a portal. You stared at the message for a full thirty seconds before your vision cleared enough to type.

You: I almost cried when I found a puff snack in my pocket. This is war.

The reply came fast. A photo. It was the same puff snack—slightly crumbled, wedged in the crease of Agatha’s leather handbag.

Aggie: They’re everywhere. We’re not safe.

You burst into quiet laughter that immediately cracked into something else—something wobbly and a little too tender. You pressed your thumb to the photo like you could feel her through the screen. Like you could reach across the hours and hold her hand. You stared at it longer than you meant to.

Not because of the snack. But because you could picture her perfectly—sitting behind her desk at the law office, heels kicked off under the table, hair slightly falling from its pins. That faint crease between her brows that only showed up when she was trying not to cry. And you realized—she was hurting just like you. This wasn’t easier for her. She was just better at hiding it.

You opened your camera roll and found a picture from two nights ago: Maeve asleep in Agatha’s arms, her thumb in her mouth, her hair tangled into Agatha’s collar, both of them breathing in perfect sync. You sent it without a caption.

A minute later, the typing bubbles appeared. Then stopped. Then came back, Finally, a message.

Aggie: I think we made the best thing in the world.

And for the first time since leaving that daycare, your chest finally loosened—just a little. Because you had. You’d made something perfect together. And no matter how hard today was, no matter how much it ached to be away—you’d made it through half the day.

The other half? You were going to fight your way through it, one snack crumb and blurry photo at a time. Together. By the time you pulled into the daycare parking lot that afternoon, your stomach had twisted itself into knots.

The day had moved slowly, achingly so—every hour dragging its feet. The guilt, the worry, the what-ifs. You had barely made it through your shift, still half-expecting a phone call telling you to come back, that Maeve hadn’t stopped crying, that you were needed.

But the call never came. And now, as you shut the car door behind you and jogged toward the front entrance, you saw Agatha already climbing the steps, her court heels clicking too quickly for someone normally so composed. She’d clearly gotten there just seconds ahead of you, her bun a little looser than it had been that morning strands of hair framing her sharp features, her blazer unbuttoned, crooked where it had slipped to the side in her obvious rush.

She glanced back and gave you a tight, breathless smile. “She probably thinks we left her forever,” she said, her voice cracking under the weight of her laugh. “She probably thinks we moved and forgot to bring her.”

You caught up to her in two strides and grabbed her hand, squeezing it once. “She probably got distracted by a shiny object and forgot we existed by noon.”

Agatha turned toward you slowly, scandalized. “Don’t say that. How dare you.”

You both stopped outside the classroom door, hearts racing, palms sweaty. You could hear the distant murmur of kids’ voices, a laugh, the clatter of plastic toys on linoleum. The door creaked open, and there she was. Maeve spotted you instantly. Her face transformed—eyes wide, mouth open, joy bursting through her in a full-body squeal.

“Mamamamama!” The sound hit you like a thunderclap.

She barreled forward in that unsteady, toddling run, her tiny shoes tapping out a frantic rhythm on the floor, her arms outstretched like she could leap right into both of you.

Agatha crouched just in time to catch her, falling back slightly as Maeve launched into her arms and gripped her shirt with little, desperate fists. “I missed you too, Squish” Agatha whispered, laughing as the tears spilled over, unbothered, unstoppable.

You dropped to your knees beside them, one hand on Maeve’s back, the other reaching to cup Agatha’s jaw. You kissed your daughter’s cheek, then pressed your forehead to Agatha’s temple, eyes squeezing shut.

Maeve babbled at a mile a minute, her hands patting at your collar, grabbing your earrings, then reaching for Agatha’s hair, like she needed to re-anchor herself to every inch of you. Like she was saying, You came back. You really came back.

“She’s okay,” you whispered, brushing her curls out of her face. “She’s really okay.”

Agatha nodded, though her throat was too tight to speak. The teacher watched from across the room with a soft smile, mouthing She did great, before stepping back to give you your moment. And in the middle of that chaos—Maeve clinging to you both, your heart barely holding it all together you knew

She survived the day.

So did you.

Barely.

You carried her out into the late afternoon light—her face flushed, her arms wrapped tight around your neck and followed Agatha to the parking lot. Her car sat two spots over from yours, both of you parked hastily and crooked, the way only worried parents do.

You lingered beside Agatha’s car while she opened the backseat, adjusting the car seat and brushing goldfish crumbs from the cushion. Maeve peeked over your shoulder to supervise the operation, one thumb wedged in her mouth and the other hand tangled in your shirt.

“I don’t want to drive away from her again tomorrow,” Agatha admitted quietly, eyes focused on the straps. “I don’t know if I can do it.”

You leaned your cheek against Maeve’s hair, voice thick. “We’ll do it together. Like we did today.”

Agatha looked up at you then, eyes tired but warm. She reached across the gap to brush your cheek, her thumb catching the last of your tears. “Same time tomorrow?” she asked.

You nodded. “Always.”

And as she buckled Maeve in and kissed her head for the third time in two minutes, you took one last look—at your wife, your daughter, the small miracle of having made it through.

The first of many goodbyes, the first of many returns. The hard ones, the necessary ones, the kind that hurt because they matter. The kind that prove love always circles back.

Always.

It started as a trickle. At first, you and Agatha were too buried in the day-to-day shuffle to notice, too busy juggling court dates and case files, daycare pickups, groceries, Nicholas’s school projects, and bedtime stories that always ran two pages too long.

You were just trying to survive the schedule. But slowly, in the quieter spaces between the chaos, something began to show.

A look.

A gesture.

A perfectly timed side-eye.

Maeve was watching you. And not just watching—absorbing you. It was Agatha who noticed it first. One sleepy Sunday morning over breakfast, Maeve dropped her spoon and folded her arms across her chest—elbows sharp, jaw locked, brow furrowed like a tiny lawyer in mid-argument.

“This,” she declared gravely, “is outrage.” You nearly choked on your coffee, coughing into your sleeve.

Agatha froze, blinked over the rim of her mug, then slowly turned toward you. “That’s me,” she said, both impressed and vaguely concerned.

You wiped your mouth. “No, no. That’s me when we run out of coffee pods.”

Agatha tilted her head. “The dramatics? That’s definitely me.” Across the table, Maeve had already moved on to inspecting her oatmeal with a wounded expression, as if it had personally betrayed her.

You and Agatha just sat there, dumbfounded, wondering when the mirror you’d accidentally made started learning how to talk back. Pickup at daycare became its own version of story time. There was always something—always a new quirk or surprise waiting in the doorway.

One Friday afternoon, you got there early. You’d wrapped your day up quicker than expected and found yourself driving on autopilot toward the daycare without thinking twice. The knot in your stomach—a familiar mix of love and longing—always loosened the moment you saw her.

You were barely through the door when the front desk aide, a woman named Lynn who’d taken a liking to Maeve from day one, caught your arm with a knowing grin. “She really is something else,” she said fondly.

You raised a cautious eyebrow. “What’d she do now?”

Lynn chuckled. “One of the new girls was crying during story circle. Maeve sat beside her, rubbed her back, and said—and I quote—‘Sometimes you cry it out. Then breathe. Keep going.’”

You blinked, your throat catching. That was you. Nearly word for word. You’d said that to Maeve once, on a night when her teeth hurt and the world was too loud and the only thing she could do was scream into your collar and clutch your shirt like it was the only thing keeping her here.

You swallowed the sudden lump in your throat. “She listens,” Lynn said softly, as if reading your mind. “To everything.”

Later that night, while you and Agatha curled up on the couch with Maeve passed out on your chest, you told her what happened. Agatha smiled, lips trembling just slightly. “She listening to everything. Even the things we don’t mean to teach her.”

You looked down at your daughter, warm and soft and impossibly small, and whispered into her curls, “No pressure, huh?”

By the time Maeve was three and a half, the pieces had become language. Actual words. Little declarations full of certainty and opinion—like she’d been waiting her whole life for her turn to speak.

It was a rushed Friday morning that cemented it. You were running late—again—your blazer wrung over your arm and your purse half-zipped, coffee forgotten on the counter. You’d kissed Maeve goodbye already, telling her to behave and be kind to the new kids.

Agatha was still in the bedroom getting ready. It was her week for drop-offs, and you’d agreed to handle the pickup that afternoon. All very civilized. Maeve stood near the hallway in a ridiculous ensemble of her own choosing: a structured jacket clearly borrowed from Nicholas, a tutu beneath it, purple leggings, and sparkly shoes that didn’t match. She had one hand on her hip and the other gripping a juice box like it was a gavel.

Then she called out, loud and firm, toward the bedroom “Let’s go. The courtroom waits!”

You froze. Then blinked. Then burst into full-bodied, hysterical laughter. “Oh my god,” you gasped, bracing yourself against the kitchen counter. “She’s quoting you!”

Agatha emerged from the bedroom, mid-buttoning her blouse, a stunned smile stretching across her face. She stared at Maeve for a second—posture, tone, shoes and all, then let out a shaky breath.

“No,” she said softly, grinning. “She is me. Look at that posture.” You laughed so hard you nearly dropped your keys. Maeve, meanwhile, sipped her juice calmly, utterly unaware that she had just rewritten the rest of your lives.

And from that moment on, you both knew Maeve wasn’t just becoming her own person. She was becoming you. Little pieces. Subtle mannerisms. Sarcastic comments said with too much timing for it to be coincidence. Empathy that stretched far beyond her age. Curiosity so sharp it cut.

She was all of it. The best parts of you, the boldest parts of Agatha, all tangled together in a tiny human body with jelly-stained fingers and colorful pins in her hair. Apparently she was only just getting started.

It started with glitter…..Not the tasteful kind. Not the light shimmer of responsibly used craft glue. No, this was glitter warfare—the kind of sparkle that invaded your clothes, your furniture, your hair follicles. The kind that would haunt you well into the next decade.

You stared down at your phone, blinking at the chaotic Pinterest board Maeve had “helped” create. Helped, of course, meaning she’d pointed at every unicorn, rainbow, and spark-shooting cake with the unyielding decisiveness of a tiny dictator.

“That one!” she’d shouted, breathless with excitement, every time a new pastel monstrosity loaded on the screen. “And that one! And that one but with more purple!”

Now, surrounded by a battlefield of streamers, metallic balloons, and party favors that looked like they’d been vomited on by a unicorn with a glitter intolerance, you sighed and held up a sequined banner that sparkled so violently it nearly blinded you.

“I think we’ve gone too far,” you muttered, squinting as it reflected a laser beam of light into your eye. Agatha didn’t look up from her laptop—her glasses sliding down her nose as she typed out a work email with the practiced speed of someone who was clearly multi-tasking for survival.

“Too far?” she repeated, one perfectly arched brow lifting with precision. “Darling, we passed ‘too far’ when she asked if the cake could explode with sparkles. Literal pyrotechnics.”

You groaned and slumped back against the dining room chair. “It’s a fourth birthday party, not the Met Gala.”

Agatha finally looked up, her smirk slow and smug. “She’s ours. Of course it’s both.”

You gestured helplessly to the piles of iridescent confetti and the unicorn piñata currently looming in the corner like a pastel surveillance drone. “Do you think she’s aware that some of these things are logistically impossible?”

Agatha shrugged, returning her focus to the screen. “She believes in magic. And that we can pull off anything with enough duct tape and sarcasm. Again—she’s ours.”

“She asked if the bouncy castle could have chandeliers inside,” you deadpanned.

“To be fair, I said no.” You stared at her, raising an eyebrow.

“Eventually,” Agatha added, sipping from her wine glass.

You stood and grabbed the glitter banner with the kind of weary resignation that only a parent attempting to meet toddler expectations could understand. “I hope you know you’re truly enabling her.”

“She calls me her ‘boss mama,’” Agatha said without apology. “I consider it a professional title.”

You dropped the banner dramatically onto the table. “God help her future prom committee.”

Agatha didn’t miss a beat. “She’ll run the committee.”

“Or by fear.”

“She’ll negotiate first. Then rule by sheer charisma.”

You leaned across the table, stealing a grape from the snack tray between you. “Do you think if we just… made her a cupcake and gave her a balloon, she’d notice the difference?”

Agatha blinked at you. “Do you want to break her heart on her birthday?”

You sighed. “Fine. Unicorn gala it is.”

Just then, a voice echoed from the hallway, high and delighted. “Momma!? What about the glitter cannon?!”

You and Agatha shared a slow, mutual look of horror. Agatha closed her laptop with a resigned snap. “That’s your side of the family.” And with a deep breath, you dove headfirst back into the glitter storm, half-laughing, half-panicking, and entirely wrapped in the chaos of raising the world’s most fabulous four-year-old.

There would be cake, there would be tears. There would be sparkle in places you’d never be able to clean. But most of all? There would be joy. Because she was yours and this was her world. You were just living in it—with confetti in your shoes.

The week leading up to the party was a whirlwind of checklists, glitter-stained hands, and far too many Target runs. You and Agatha had started with one cart. By midweek, you were both sprinting down separate aisles with your phones on speaker yelling, “Did you get the balloons or the juice boxes?!” while Maeve dramatically wept over a unicorn tiara that “didn’t sparkle enough.”

The living room became a war zone. Crayons on every surface, bits of ribbon clinging to the baseboards, and confetti creeping into your socks. You could barely sit on the couch without a plastic crown poking you in the thigh.

Maeve, in full party-planner mode, took the job of making the invitations very seriously. She sat at the table every night with a pile of cardstock, a mountain of star-shaped stickers, and exactly zero regard for spatial organization.

Some cards had a star in every corner. Others had scribbled rainbows, smeared glue, and indecipherable messages that looked like coded runes. She’d hum to herself as she worked, tongue poking out of the side of her mouth, fully immersed.

You tried, once, to throw away one that had dried juice running through the center and three clumps of chewed sticker edges stuck to the back. Agatha caught you red-handed. “She worked very hard on those,” she said, voice calm but edged with warning.

You held the sticky card between two fingers like it might explode. “This one looks like it survived a natural disaster.”

“She’s three,” Agatha said, not looking up from tying pastel ribbon into neat bows. “That’s called expressionism.”

You stared at the card again. “Alice and Jen do not need a glue-covered abstract jellyfish.”

“They’ll frame it,” Agatha replied with zero irony. And knowing them? They probably would. Alice and Jen were the first to RSVP. Not only did they respond within minutes, but Alice also texted: Can we bring anything? Prosecco? Band-Aids? Both?

Then came the cascade of names from Maeve’s pre-K class: Remy, Delilah, Charlie, Lily, twins named Harper and Hudson who Maeve insisted were her “minions,” and a boy named Julian who, according to her, “smelled like markers but in a good way.”

Every morning, more little rainbow cards were stuffed into backpacks with careful instructions whispered by Maeve as you zipped her coat “Tell Remy she can’t wear her sparkle boots. And you have tell Julian he’s not allowed to eat the glue at this party.” You didn’t even ask.

The night before the party, the house looked like Barney exploded. Streamers crisscrossed from wall to wall, tape barely hanging on. Half-inflated balloons littered the floor in varying stages of deflation. The kitchen table was buried under tissue paper and snack bags, and the dining room chairs were now just platforms for piles of favors and capes.

You stood in the middle of it all, hair pulled back and sleeves rolled up, holding a unicorn piñata with one horn significantly lower than the other. “This guy looks drunk.”

Agatha, barefoot and determined, tied a final ribbon to a stack of glittery gift bags. “He’ll be decapitated by toddlers by noon. Let him live his truth.”

From the hallway, Nicholas emerged—five feet of sarcasm and preteen ambivalence—dragging his hoodie sleeves over his hands. He paused in the doorway, looking around the room like he’d stumbled into a very sparkly fever dream. “You guys look like you’re planning a preschool heist.”

Agatha didn’t even blink. “We are.”

Nicholas snorted. “What’s the target? Cupcakes? Control of the glitter cartel?”

She stood tall, hands on her hips. “Joy. Pure, unfiltered joy. And maybe some themed napkins.”

You glanced over from the couch, where you were currently untangling a string of fairy lights from a slinky and what looked suspiciously like a half-eaten sticker. “You want in, kid? We could use some help.”

Nicholas grinned, walking over to plop down beside you. “Only if I get hazard pay. This much purple glitter feels like a health risk.”

You reached over and ruffled his curls, earning a dramatic groan. “Consider it a bonding opportunity. You were her age, like, ten minutes ago.”

He rolled his eyes. “I was never into glitter.”

From across the room, Agatha held up a photo on her phone: a much-younger Nicholas in a tutu and a tiara, covered head-to-toe in fairy dust. His eyes went wide. “Okay, *first of all—that was entrapment.”

Maeve, from the hallway, peeked in and gasped with glee. “You have a tiara photo?! Mommy, show me!”Nicholas flopped onto the carpet face-first.

Agatha beamed. “Welcome to siblinghood.” And the night continued like that, with laughter echoing through your too-small living room. With frosting on the countertops and plans scribbled across sticky notes.

With a family made not just of blood, but of joy and effort and love, party was coming. The chaos was just beginning. But in that moment—surrounded by crooked unicorn horns, lopsided balloons, and people who would do anything for one little girl—It already felt like a celebration.

The House had transformed overnight. Streamers crisscrossed the ceiling like magical vines. A large banner in pastel bubble letters. A table by the window held an impressive spread of snacks, fruit kabobs, juice boxes, and a unicorn-shaped cake that took you three YouTube tutorials and a near mental breakdown to frost.

Maeve wore a tutu so full it bounced with every step, sparkly wings that glittered with every turn of her shoulders, and a tiny crown that had already slipped halfway down her forehead by the time the first guests arrived.

She didn’t seem to notice—or care. “I’m four now!” she declared proudly to every single person who walked through the front door, arms flung wide like she was announcing the new age of an empire.

Alice arrived with a rainbow gift bag dangling from one hand and her son, Billy, perched on her hip—his curls sticking out in all directions and one shoe suspiciously missing. He had a crayon in his mouth like it was a cigar and a look that said he’d already lived through several lifetimes in the car seat.

“I come bearing chaos,” Alice announced.

You stepped forward and hugged her tightly. “You’re late,” you whispered into her hair.

“I brought caffeine,” she whispered back.

All was forgiven. Jen followed a moment later, one hand on the diaper bag and the other holding two travel mugs. “We brought extra napkins, wet wipes, and ibuprofen,” she said dryly as she handed you one of the coffees. “We come prepared.”

You stared at her like she’d descended from the heavens. “You’re my favorite person right now.”

She shrugged modestly. “I try.” The living room transformed in minutes—music playing just low enough to avoid a headache, voices stacking on top of each other, little feet darting between parents, crashing into balloons and chasing each other around the coffee table.

Nicholas took on big brother duty like a seasoned professional—pointing out where the bathroom was, helping kids find lost shoes, and redirecting them from high-risk zones like electrical outlets and Agatha’s bookshelf of ancient legal tomes.

Agatha flitted from group to group with the grace of someone who had argued in federal court and planned enough parties to know how to make everyone feel like they belonged—even if they were three feet tall and had frosting on their fingers.

You caught her crouched at one point, laughing with a group of kids as they tried to stick foam unicorn horns to her forehead. She let them. Smiled through it. When Maeve declared her “Queen of the Birthday Castle,” she straightened her posture and announced, “Then I shall decree extra cupcakes for all!”

They cheered like it was law. From across the room, you watched her—your wife, your best friend, your chaos partner in all things glitter—and caught her staring right back at you. Her eyes were soft, amused, overflowing with love. She lifted her juice box in a slow, dramatic toast. You raised your coffee mug in return.

Marriage.

It happened somewhere between the third round of pin-the-horn-on-the-unicorn and the impromptu hallway singalong led by a group of sugar-fueled toddlers who couldn’t quite agree on the lyrics. You stood near the snack table, brushing crumbs from your shirt, watching Maeve spin in dizzy, delighted circles. Her wings flapped like she believed they could lift her off the ground, and her giggles rang out like music—bright and alive and full of light.

“She’s glowing,” you whispered. A moment later, you felt Agatha beside you. She slid her hand into yours without needing to look, her thumb brushing gently along the back of yours as she followed your gaze. “Look at her,” you murmured.

“I do,” Agatha whispered, voice full and thick with awe. “She’s the sun.”

You looked at your daughter—radiant, fearless, sparkling. And then you looked at Agatha. Her lashes were damp, her smile quiet and stretched soft across her lips. “She’s ours,” you breathed.

Agatha turned toward you. Her hand found your cheek, just for a moment, thumb grazing the skin like she couldn’t quite believe you were real either. “We made that,” she said softly. “We made her.”

Your throat tightened, you didn’t cry. But God, it was close. So you leaned into her side instead, shoulder to shoulder, as Maeve launched herself into another spin and nearly collided with a balloon arch. “She’s going to remember this forever,” you whispered.

“She’s going to rewrite every definition of joy,” Agatha replied. And in that moment—with her hand in yours and your daughter twirling like a whirlwind made of sugar and stardust—you believed it.

Later, after the last favor bag had been claimed, the last juice box emptied, and the final balloon surrendered its battle with gravity, the living room looked like the aftermath of a glitter-fueled revolution.

Confetti blanketed the floor like tiny pastel snowdrifts. Streamers hung half-fallen from the ceiling, clinging desperately to tape that had long since given up. Crushed cupcake liners were scattered near the snack table, along with two party hats that had clearly been through war. One lone unicorn balloon bobbed gently near the hallway, tangled in ribbon and regret.

In the center of the chaos lay Maeve—curled up on the couch in her now-wrinkled party outfit, her sparkly wings askew, her tiny crown tilted so far to one side it nearly covered her eyebrow. Her cheeks were still pink from running around, her curls frizzed from static and excitement.

She blinked sleepily at you as you knelt beside the couch, your knees landing with the heavy thud of a parent who had given everything that day. “Did you have fun, birthday girl?” you asked, brushing a curl from her cheek.

She nodded, thumb already halfway to her mouth. “Mmmhmm.”

Agatha crouched beside you, letting out a long breath as she tucked the slipping crown back into place. “Was it everything you dreamed it would be?”

Maeve blinked at her, then pulled her thumb out just long enough to whisper, “Better.”

You and Agatha shared a look that said worth it. Every ounce of chaos. Every hour of planning. Every crumb and glitter flake still embedded in the floorboards. It had all been worth it.

You carried Maeve to bed together, one arm behind her head, the other under her knees. She didn’t stir, just mumbled something about cake and held tighter to the plush unicorn tucked beneath her arm. You laid her down gently, pulling the blankets over her, careful not to dislodge the glitter tangled in her curls. She smelled like frosting and sleep. Her breathing evened out in seconds.

Agatha leaned down and kissed her forehead. You followed with one to her cheek. As you turned out the light and closed the door behind you, the silence of the house hit all at once—thick, heavy, peaceful.

Back in the living room, the mess felt almost insurmountable. Wrapping paper was still piled in corners. Crumbs dusted the coffee table. Ribbons and popped balloons littered the floor. You started to bend down to gather a handful of paper plates when Agatha’s voice stopped you. “Don’t,” she said softly.

You looked over. She had already sunk onto the couch, her body stretched out across the cushions, one arm draped behind her head. Her shoes were off, her blouse untucked, and she looked like every bone in her body had finally exhaled. She lifted one hand toward you, wiggling her fingers. “Come here.”

You hesitated, glancing around at the wreckage. “I should at least clear the—”

“No,” she interrupted gently, her voice like velvet. “Let it wait.” You opened your mouth to protest again, but the way she looked at you—soft, tired, full of love—cut you off. “Just lay with me,” she whispered. “We did it. She had the best day of her life. Everything else can wait till morning.”

You crossed the room in a few quiet steps, letting her pull you down on top of her. She curled an arm around your waist as you shifted against her, sighing as your body finally gave in to the fatigue you’d been pushing through all day.

Your head rested against her chest, her fingers brushing up and down your arm. The sound of her heartbeat was steady and warm, grounding you as your breathing slowed. The house around you was a disaster. But in that moment, wrapped in her arms, nothing else mattered.

You closed your eyes, the scent of frosting and fabric softener still hanging in the air, the echo of laughter tucked somewhere deep in your chest. Agatha pressed a kiss to your temple, murmuring, “You give her magic. You know that?”

You smiled against her. “So do you.”

Another kiss. “Then we’ll keep giving it. Every year. Every mess.” And in the middle of the glitter, the crumbs, the love—you let go of everything else. You let the mess be messy, you let the joy be enough. And with her heartbeat in your ear and her arms holding you still—you let yourself sleep.

Exactly one week after the party, it was Agatha’s turn for pickup. You had meetings back-to-back and had texted her in a rush between them: Tag, you’re it. She didn’t complain. Just sent a thumbs-up and a heart, followed ten minutes later by: Let’s see what kind of chaos she’s brewed today.

When she returned home, the front door opened with a flourish, and Maeve burst inside in a whirlwind of glitter-speckled energy and triumph. “I conquered snack time!” she announced to the hallway, arms spread wide like she’d just led a victorious siege.

Agatha followed behind her with a tired grin and a slight shake of her head. She still hadn’t taken off her heels or coat, but she was laughing softly, the car keys swinging from her finger. “She told one of her teachers her apple slices were, quote, ‘a bit underwhelming, but she would persevere.’”

You looked up from the couch, blinking once. “That’s… definitely you.”

Agatha smirked and leaned down to kiss the top of your head. “Apparently she also reorganized the art corner. Said the crayons were, and I quote again, ‘emotionally chaotic.’”

You snorted into your palm. “That’s absolutely you.”

Maeve, still twirling in the middle of the living room like a dramatic princess who’d just hosted a tea summit, threw her arms into the air. “I did it all by myself!”

“Yes, you did,” Agatha said, walking past and plucking Maeve’s glittery backpack off her shoulders with practiced ease. “And I have a very emotionally balanced finger painting to prove it.”

Maeve beamed with pride as she plopped down onto the rug, kicking off her shoes and humming under her breath. You watched her for a long moment—her curls, her confidence, the absolute surety in her every move. She wasn’t even five, and already she radiated purpose.

“She’s only four—” you whispered, half in awe, your voice catching just a little in your throat. “And she’s gonna run the world.”

Agatha had just hung her coat by the door. She paused, turned slightly, and looked at you—eyes soft, full of something deeper. “She already runs mine,” she said quietly.

Nicholas had grown, too. You’d blinked, and suddenly he was nearly taller than both of you—more limbs than coordination, shoulders getting broader by the day, voice in that strange in-between phase where it crackled unpredictably and caught him by surprise.

He was quieter now. Not distant. Just thoughtful in a way that pulled him inward more often than before. You’d find him curled on the couch with a sketchbook, headphones around his neck but no music playing, pencil tapping against the page as he doodled in the margins of half-finished homework.

He still played with Maeve—still made her laugh so hard she hiccupped and fell over. But now he also lingered longer in his room, and sometimes when you called him for dinner, it took a moment before he came out, like he’d been deep underwater and needed a second to break the surface.

One evening, after a long, messy dinner that involved chicken nuggets, spilled milk, and a full-fledged debate between Maeve and Agatha about whether unicorns needed lawyers, Nicholas stood beside you at the sink, helping dry dishes. He was quiet at first, passing plates and wiping them carefully. Then, softly “Do you think I’ll still be cool to her when she’s a teenager?”

You paused, the plate in your hands still dripping. “She already thinks you’re the coolest person on earth,” you said gently.

Nicholas frowned. “Yeah, but… what if she doesn’t? Later, I mean.” You looked over at him—at the boy with the artist’s hands and too much kindness in his eyes and saw the unspoken fear behind the question. That ache of change. That knowledge that Maeve wouldn’t stay little forever, and neither would he.

Agatha stepped into the kitchen then, still holding Maeve on her hip, the little girl half-asleep from the day’s adventures. She kissed the top of Nicholas’s head in passing and handed him a dish towel. “If she ever forgets,” Agatha said quietly, mussing his hair with affection, “you just keep showing up. That’s what brothers do.”

Nicholas looked down, face flushed, then nodded slowly. “Okay.” You caught Agatha’s gaze over his shoulder and saw it there—the quiet pride, the knowing sadness, the deep, endless love for a boy who was growing up right before your eyes.

He handed you the last clean plate, now dry and warm from his hands. And for one perfect moment, everything felt full, not loud, not flashy. Just full. Of change. Of growth. Of all the little lives you were building side by side.

By the time kindergarten came, Maeve was no longer just a spark—she was a full-blown flame. Confident. Curious. Unapologetically herself. She radiated that rare, uncanny mix of Agatha’s poised elegance and your steady warmth, moving through the world like she belonged in every room she entered. As if no part of it could surprise her. As if she was already thinking three steps ahead.

You should’ve known drop-off wouldn’t go the way you’d imagined—not a clinging goodbye or a tearful glance back. No. Maeve approached the school gates like a seasoned diplomat on her way to a treaty meeting.

Her backpack was nearly the size of her torso, a bright pink canvas covered in hand-sewn patches and crooked keychains she insisted on keeping—“for decoration.” Her shoes sparkled with silver sequins and bore tiny doodles Maeve had drawn herself with a marker she’d stolen from Nicholas’s desk. Her jacket was too big, the sleeves slightly rolled, and her hair—God, her hair—was braided just the way she liked it, with three glittery clips along the side, tied expertly by Nicholas that morning after insisting he “had the touch.”

You crouched beside her to zip her coat, your fingers brushing against the soft lining. Her cheeks were flushed with excitement, eyes darting to the crowd of children gathering near the entrance. You blinked hard, swallowing the knot in your throat. Agatha stood behind you, dressed for work, scarf looped neatly around her neck, one hand gently pressed to the center of your back. A steadying anchor in a moment that felt like it might send you adrift.

“Are you ready?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper as you tugged the zipper to her chin. Maeve’s eyes swept across the sea of tiny humans swarming around the front lawn. She crossed her arms, weight shifting to one hip with a confidence that didn’t seem possible in someone so small.

“Yes,” she said with a firm nod. “I’m going to make four friends today. Maybe five. And maybe start a club. But only if the snacks are good.”

Behind you, Agatha snorted, muffling it quickly into her scarf. You bit your lip to keep from laughing and leaned forward to press a kiss to Maeve’s forehead, your lips lingering just a second longer than usual.

You inhaled the scent of her shampoo—something fruity and floral and entirely her. “We’ll be back as soon as school’s done,” you whispered, trying to sound steady. “Okay?”

Maeve looked up at you, eyes wide and unshakably serious. “I know. I trust you.”

She meant it, fully. Completely. And then, without fanfare, without hesitation, she turned—And ran. Straight for the doors. Her backpack bounced with each step, her sparkly shoes flashing like she was leaving a trail of stardust in her wake. She didn’t look back. Not even once.

You stayed rooted to the spot, your knees still bent, your hand clenched in the air like you might call her back if you just whispered her name. The doors swallowed her whole.

Silence settled between you and Agatha, loud and soft all at once. You stood slowly, your shoulders tight, tears threatening the edges of your vision.

Agatha stepped closer, and you leaned into her without thinking, your temple brushing against her cheek, your hand still gripped tight in hers. “She’s so much like you,” you said softly, voice breaking in the middle.

Agatha’s lips curved into a smile you couldn’t see but felt all the same. She turned toward you just enough to press a kiss to your hair, lingering there for a long, quiet moment. “No, darling,” she murmured. “Like us.” And somehow, that made it easier.

Because she wasn’t just a piece of one of you—she was the best of both. She was your courage and Agatha’s fire. Your steadiness and her sharp wit. She was wild and tender and entirely her own, but rooted in the love that built her.

You squeezed Agatha’s hand one more time before finally turning back toward the car, your steps a little lighter now, your heart still aching—but full. Because letting her go meant trusting what you’d given her. And what you’d given her… was everything.

It was just past noon when the knock came at your office door—sharp, confident, and unmistakably Agatha. You didn’t even glance up from your report. “If that’s another form that needs signing, I swear on everything holy, I’m throwing it out the window.”The door creaked open anyway.

“I brought congratulations,” came Agatha’s voice, smooth as ever, silk-wrapped mischief in every syllable.

You blinked. And then looked up. She was standing in the doorway like she owned the building—black slacks pressed sharp, navy coat open just enough to reveal the edge of a silk blouse beneath, hair tucked neatly behind one ear, and a take out bag in one hand like it belonged in a courtroom exhibit instead to be consumed on a lunch break.

She looked less like someone delivering takeout and more like someone who had just out-argued a judge and decided to reward herself…….with you. Your brow lifted. “What are you doing here?”

“I was in the neighborhood,” she said innocently, stepping inside and shutting the door behind her with her heel. “And by ‘neighborhood,’ I mean I canceled a meeting and told my associate I had urgent matters of the heart.” You gave her a look, she only smiled.

“And,” she added, crossing the room with the sway of someone who knew exactly how her presence derailed you, “I thought my newly-promoted lieutenant wife could use a hot lunch and some enthusiastic praise.”

You groaned, standing up from your desk as she placed the paper bag down. “You’re not seriously making a thing out of this.”

Agatha looked positively delighted. “Oh no. It’s already a thing. I’m just adding snacks to the celebration.”

You opened the bag and the scent hit you instantly—your favorite sandwich, still warm, with a side of the exact chips you always pretended not to eat but always did. A small, folded napkin sat on top with your name scribbled on it in Agatha’s handwriting, complete with a tiny heart in the corner. Your smile was soft and inevitable. “Okay, you get points for attention to detail.”

“I should,” she said smugly. “I’ve been studying you for years.”

You sat back on the edge of the desk, unwrapping the sandwich while shaking your head. “It’s just a promotion. I didn’t pull five kittens out of a burning building.”

“No,” Agatha replied, taking a step closer, “you earned a leadership role after years of navigating the broken systems of this city. You’ve protected strangers. You’ve run headfirst into danger. You’ve come home bruised and exhausted and still held our babies like the sun rose and set in their eyes.” She leaned in and placed a hand gently on your chest. “That’s not small. That’s not just anything.”

You exhaled, the weight of her words hitting harder than you’d expected. “It’s just… after watching Maeve walk into school this morning like she owned the world, everything else kind of faded. My chest still hurts from that.”

Agatha’s hand moved from your chest to your shoulder, grounding you. “You think your accomplishments matter less now that our daughter’s in kindergarten?”

You gave a weak shrug. “I think the spotlight’s moved, that’s all. And maybe that’s okay.” Agatha didn’t speak right away, she just watched you.

And then, with deliberate grace, she stepped between your knees, her hands rising to cradle your face. “Hey,” she said softly. “Look at me.” You did and she kissed you.

It wasn’t a hesitant kiss, or a quick kiss meant to reassure. It was steady. Certain. One of those kisses that folded time in half and reminded you who you were underneath the titles and the exhaustion. Her hands were warm against your jaw, her thumbs brushing your skin like she was drawing invisible stars.

When she pulled back, her eyes were shining. “You are still you,” she whispered. “Mother, yes. Wife, yes. But you’re also a force of your own. And today, that force got promoted. And I get to love her.”

Your breath hitched in your throat. “Okay,” you murmured, your voice thick with affection. “Maybe it’s kind of a big deal.”

Agatha smiled. “Exactly.”

You wrapped your arms around her and pulled her into a full embrace, burying your face in the crook of her neck. “Thank you for showing up.”

“I’ll always show up for you bunny,” she said into your hair. “In heels, if I must. And with provisions preferably.”

You laughed, muffled by her blouse. “God, I love you.”

“I know,” she murmured. “Now eat. You’ve got justice to serve and crumbs to drop all over your self.”

You both moved to sit on the couch, knees touching, eating lunch as the soft murmur of the precinct moved just beyond your door. Outside, the world spun—fast and loud and demanding. But in here? It was just you and Agatha.

The woman who celebrated you even when you forgot how. The woman who knew every version of you, and loved each one just as fiercely. And as she stole a chip out of your bag with a satisfied grin, you reached over and laced your fingers with hers. Because no matter how far life moved forward… You’d never stop making room for each other. Not in this lifetime. Not ever.

Fridays had a rhythm. The slow hum of Maeve’s sleepy grumbling as Agatha gently coaxed her out of bed. Nicholas slumping into the kitchen already half-dressed, hair still wild, offering a grunted “morning” in exchange for toast. Agatha’s heels clicking softly down the hall as she juggled coffee, court notes, and juice pouches.

And you—usually in sync with it all. But today, something was off. You stood in front of the bathroom sink, one hand braced against the cold porcelain as the other hovered near your forehead.

You hadn’t dared grab the thermometer—confirmation would make it real. Instead, you blinked at your paled reflection and swallowed hard, trying to ignore the burning in your chest, the heavy throb behind your eyes, and the shiver in your spine that hadn’t stopped since you got out of bed.

You felt like hell. But today wasn’t an option. This case had been building for months—layers of red tape, long hours, and enough pressure from city hall to crack concrete. The mayor was breathing down your captain’s neck, and in turn, yours. There were depositions scheduled, a witness to prep, and a mountain of files that still needed cross-referencing.

You couldn’t miss today. So you did what you did best—you compartmentalized. Splashed cold water on your face. Brushed your teeth slower than normal to keep from gagging. Ignored the way your limbs felt disconnected from your body.

From the hallway, you heard Agatha’s voice, muffled but moving closer. “Bunny love, have you seen my case files from Wednesday? I think I left them in—wait, is the bathroom door locked?”

Panic tightened your chest. You cleared your throat, forcing something steady. “I’m in here! Almost done!”

Pause. Agatha was silent for a beat too long. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you called back, too quickly. “Just… running behind.”

“Okay…” Her voice sounded hesitant now, a question laced behind the word. “Don’t forget to eat something.”

You shut your eyes. You couldn’t let her see you like this. “I will,” you said, reaching for your shirt with shaky fingers. “Love you!”

From down the hall, you heard Maeve’s voice, high and bright: “BYE MAMA!”

Nicholas mumbled something about going to spending the night at a friends tonight, and the front door creaked open. Agatha lingered just a moment longer. Then “Love you more. See you tonight.” The door shut behind them. You exhaled—long and shaky—and braced yourself on the counter once more.

You made it through the morning on sheer willpower. And caffeine. And—if you were honest—pure adrenaline and spite. But by lunch, you were crashing. Hard. Your skin felt too tight. Your head was pounding with every heartbeat. The room tilted slightly every time you stood up.

You’d answered the same email three times before realizing you hadn’t hit send. Someone had asked you a question, and you weren’t sure if you’d nodded or actually responded out loud. The fever was no longer a quiet burn. It was a full wildfire now. You leaned back in your chair, trying to will the world to stop spinning.

That’s when your office door opened again.“I come bearing food,” came a voice you hadn’t expected—and dreaded, all at once.

You blinked, eyes struggling to focus. Agatha stood there in the doorway—coat unbuttoned, scarf loosely hanging, lunch bag in hand. Her smile faded the second she saw you. “Jesus Christ,” she breathed, already crossing the room.

You sat up straighter, like that could hide how wrecked you were. “Hey. What are you doing here?”

“I had a feeling,” she muttered, setting the food down without looking. She reached out, fingers brushing your cheek. Her jaw tightened. “You’re burning up.”

“I’m fine.” You tried

“You’re a terrible liar.” You opened your mouth again, but your body betrayed you—shoulders slumping, breath catching, a tremor running through your hands. She caught both of them in hers and stared at you like you’d just broken her heart.

“I knew something was wrong this morning,” she whispered. “You were too quiet. You didn’t even say goodbye to bug properly.”

“I couldn’t—if I did, you would’ve known.”

“I always know,” she snapped, voice cracking. “I just didn’t know how bad.”

Silence settled. You dropped your eyes. “Aggie, I have to finish this case.”

“No,” she said softly. “You don’t. Not today.”

She took a slow step closer, brushing the hair from your forehead with fingers that trembled just slightly. Her expression was fierce, loving, desperate. “If you collapse in this precinct, do you think anyone’s going to give a damn about your case notes?”

You didn’t have the energy to argue anymore. So when she reached down and gently tugged your coat from the chair, you let her. She wrapped it around you and whispered, “Come home,” crouching beside you and pleading softly , “Please let me take care of you,” your last ounce of pride dissolved. You nodded.

She helped you stand, steadying your weight with both arms around your waist. And as she guided you out of the office, one step at a time, your body limp against hers, you closed your eyes and leaned into her. Because she was right. She always knew when to push, and when to pull you back in. And when your strength gave out, hers always rose to meet it.

Agatha didn’t give you a choice about the car. The second she helped you out of your chair, her voice left no room for debate. “I’m driving. You’re not getting behind the wheel like this.”

You tried to argue—you really did. Something about it being just a short drive, that your car was already in the lot, that it was fine. But she turned her head slowly, her stare flat, voice cold as winter rain. “You’re running a fever high enough to make your eyes glass over. Do you really want me to let you operate a motor vehicle right now?”

Your jaw immediately clicked shut. “Good,” she said, already tucking her arm around your waist and guiding you toward the door. “Your car can stay here. I’ll bring you back for it when you’re not dying.”

You muttered something about drama and dictatorships as she helped you into the passenger seat of her car, buckling your seatbelt like you were a sullen child. She kissed your forehead before shutting the door. “That was for the attitude.”

The ride home was quiet at first. You let your head rest against the cool glass of the window, the rhythm of the tires and the faint hum of traffic lulling you into something almost close to sleep. Agatha kept glancing over at you—checking your color, your breathing, your hands tucked into your lap.

Halfway through downtown, her phone rang over the Bluetooth system. She tapped the steering wheel once to answer.

“This is Agatha.” A pause, Then her body went still. “Yes, this is Maeve’s mother… oh no—yes. Yes, of course. I’ll be there soon.”

Your eyes opened slowly. You didn’t need to ask. Your stomach twisted anyway. Agatha hung up the call and gave you a brief, side-eyed glance. “That was the school. Maeve has a fever. They said she’s lethargic, flushed, and asked if someone could come get her.”

Your heart sank like a stone. “God. I gave it to her.”

Agatha’s voice softened. “You don’t know that.” You swallowed hard, leaning forward as if that would take you back in time to the moment you kissed her goodbye that morning.

“I’ll go get her,” Agatha said, like it was already done. “I’ll drop you at home, get her, and then we’ll figure this out together.”

You tried to offer something—an argument, maybe. An apology. But your chest was tight with guilt and fever, and the ache behind your eyes had sharpened to a stabbing throb. “I should’ve stayed home,” you whispered.

Agatha reached across the console and slid her hand into yours. “We’ll handle it.”

By the time you got home, every step felt like wading through sand. Agatha helped you into the house, settled you gently onto the couch, and placed a blanket over your lap with all the tenderness of someone wrapping a precious gift.

“Stay put,” she said, already grabbing her keys again. “I’ll be back soon—with our girl.”

You nodded weakly. “Text me when you have her.”

“Only if you promise not to try to do anything until I get back.”

You gave her a flat look. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Good,” she said, then bent down and kissed your temple. “Rest. I’ll be fast.”

She wasn’t gone long. Fifteen minutes, maybe twenty five. You were barely coherent when the front door creaked open again—but the second you heard Maeve’s soft sniffle, you forced yourself upright.

Your daughter looked small in Agatha’s arms, her face pressed to her mother’s shoulder, her sparkly sneakers dangling limply with every step. Her curls were damp at the edges, her cheeks flushed.

One tiny arm was wrapped around Agatha’s neck while the other dangled, limp and listless. She didn’t lift her head until they were right in front of you. “Mama…” Her voice was hoarse and thick, barely more than a whisper. “My tummy feels mean.”

“Oh, baby…” You opened your arms without thinking. Agatha gently transferred her over, her fingers grazing your skin as she helped you shift. Maeve curled into your chest without hesitation, her cheek resting right where your heart beat too fast.

“I gave her some water,” Agatha murmured, crouching to tuck the blanket around both of you. “She didn’t want much. I think the nap hit before the fever could.”

“She feels just like I do,” you said, kissing the crown of Maeve’s head. “Poor thing.”

“She’ll be okay,” Agatha said softly, smoothing a hand down her daughter’s back. “You both will.” Maeve gave a soft sigh and snuggled tighter, her little fingers curling into your shirt.

You leaned your head back against the couch, eyes fluttering closed as Agatha sat beside you. One of her hands found yours again—cool, steady, grounding. And even though your skin burned and your body ached…You were home. And for now… that was enough.

The fever broke sometime after sunrise. It wasn’t sudden—more like a slow unwinding. Your body stopped aching quite so violently, your thoughts stopped swimming in fog, and the cold sweat that had soaked your hairline faded into a clammy warmth. You were still weak, still heavy-limbed and off-kilter, but the worst had passed.

Beside you, Maeve was still asleep, sprawled across your lap like a tiny starfish, her cheek pressed to your stomach. You kept your arm around her out of habit and love, fingers tracing gentle shapes into her back as she breathed softly against you. The living room was dim, curtains drawn, the TV glowing low with a loop of animated animals that neither of you were watching.

And Agatha…God, Agatha. She was everywhere. At some point in the night, she must’ve turned the couch into a fortress of pillows and blankets. There was a side table now lined with medicine bottles, tissues, a thermometer, and two nearly empty mugs of tea. Your favorite sweatshirt was draped over the armrest. Maeve’s stuffed unicorn had been tucked between the cushions like a sentry.

Agatha reappeared quietly from the kitchen with another mug in hand, her hair in a messy braid and a pair of soft leggings that looked like they belonged to you. She’d kicked off her heels at some point and was barefoot, her every movement purposeful and quiet. Gentle. She paused in the doorway the second she saw you sitting upright. Her shoulders lowered. “You’re awake.”

You offered a tired smile. “Mostly.” She crossed the room in three strides and crouched in front of you, setting the mug down and reaching for your face before you could blink. Her palm pressed to your forehead, then your cheek, then the curve of your jaw.

Still warm, but no longer burning. Agatha exhaled. “You scared me.”

You closed your eyes as her thumb brushed beneath your eye. “Sorry. I just… I didn’t want to worry you.”

Her lips twitched, equal parts tired and amused. “Yeah too late for that.”

You opened your eyes again, catching the faint shimmer of sleep-deprivation under hers. “You didn’t sleep.”

She leaned her head against your knee, one hand still on your face. “I did. Between doses and thermometer checks. And chasing you off when you tried to get up at 3 a.m. to check your email.”

You winced. “In my defense, I thought it had been a dream.”

“It was a fever dream. And you tried to make toast using the TV remote.”

You groaned. “God.”

Agatha chuckled softly, the sound warm against the quiet hum of cartoons in the background. “You’re lucky you’re cute when you’re delirious.”

Maeve stirred against your chest then, letting out a tiny whimper before blinking up at both of you with bleary eyes. “Mama…” she mumbled, voice scratchy. “Why do I feel like pudding?”

You kissed her temple. “Because you’re getting better, baby. And pudding is soft.”

“I don’t wanna be pudding,” she sniffled. “I wanna be a lion again.”

Agatha reached over and tucked Maeve’s curls behind her ear, her tone soothing. “You will be. After another nap, some juice, and maybe a tiny bite of oatmeal.”

Maeve considered it, then sighed dramatically and nestled closer to you. “Okay. But I want ice cream later.”

“We’ll find a way to make that happen,” Agatha promised. Later that day, after Maeve had dozed off against the sofa cushions and your strength started to return enough to make it from the couch to the bedroom without swaying, Agatha helped you to bed.

“No, I’m not staying on the couch,” she said firmly when you tried to suggest it. You didn’t argue long. The bed was soft. The sheets were cool. The pillows didn’t smell like crackers and cough syrup. And the moment she settled beside you, one arm curling protectively around your waist, your whole body exhaled.

You were asleep within minutes. And when you woke a little while later, still warm but finally clear-headed, Maeve had been carried in between you—still drowsy, cheeks pink and eyes sleepy. Agatha lay on her side, one hand resting over your hip, the other gently stroking Maeve’s back.

“This is nice,” you mumbled, voice scratchy from sleep.

“It’s heaven,” Agatha whispered. “And if either of you try to move before you’re fully recovered, I will bind you both to this bed with my bare hands.”

You smiled. “Kinky.”

She rolled her eyes and leaned in to kiss your forehead. “Sleep, lieutenant.”You did.

The next morning was still and slow. The kind of morning that felt wrapped in cotton—soft light peeking through half-closed curtains, the faint hum of the dishwasher running in the background, the distant thrum of city traffic muffled by thick glass and deeper sleep.

Maeve was curled between you and Agatha in your bed, one arm thrown across your stomach, her face buried into the side of your pillow, her fever breaking just a few hours after yours. Now, she was cool and still and snoring gently—tiny, rhythmic puffs of breath that made the edge of your shirt rise and fall.

You stretched carefully, muscles sore but no longer aching. Your head still throbbed lightly, your limbs heavy, but you were rested. And more than that—you were warm. Held. Agatha was already awake, one elbow tucked under her head, eyes trained on you like she had been waiting. “You’re awake,” she said, her voice quiet and rich with relief.

You blinked slowly. “You’re staring.”

“I’m monitoring,” she corrected. “You’re recovering. She’s recovering. I am, by default, the monitor.”

You smiled, then reached over and brushed Maeve’s curls off her cheek. “She looks better.”

“She does. You both really scared me, you know.”

“I know.”

Agatha’s fingers skimmed over your wrist, finding your pulse without even thinking. “You’re still warm.”

“Don’t start,” you teased gently. “I’m alive warm. Not boil the tea on my skin warm.”

She gave you a look that said she didn’t appreciate the joke but was too relieved to argue.

You tried to sit up—but a hand pressed to your chest. “Nope.”

“Agatha—”

“I mean it,” she said, full lawyer-voice now. “You are staying in pajamas, under covers, for the rest of the day. You will read books. You will nap. You will not check your email or say the word case file. Are we clear?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Are you staying in pajamas?”

“I’m making a gracious exception,” she said, pulling the blanket back over you with flair. “But only so someone can make soup and manage the chaos.” You laughed—then winced and coughed into your elbow.

Agatha’s hand was instantly on your back, rubbing slow circles. “Exactly why you’re not allowed out of bed.” The rest of the day was slow, sweet, and peppered with those little domestic moments that made life feel whole.

Nicholas padded in around mid-morning with his sketchbook in hand and a cautious look on his face. “Is she okay?”

“She’s perfect,” Agatha said, already pulling back the blanket to let him crawl onto the bed. He slid in beside you, settling close enough to read without jostling Maeve.

Maeve eventually woke with a dramatic groan and a request for “crackers, but not the kind that crunch weird,” and Agatha took that as her cue to officially assume full control of the household. She wore an apron you hadn’t seen in months, hair twisted into a bun, sleeves rolled up as she moved through the kitchen like she was preparing a five-star meal instead of canned soup and toast.

She refused to let anyone help—not you, not Nicholas, not even Maeve, who tried to “stir the soup with her wand” and got politely redirected with a juice box and an episode of Bluey. Agatha returned with bowls and spoons and the kind of glare that dared you to try getting out of bed again. You didn’t.

Instead, the four of you now curled up on the couch, wrapped in blankets and warmth, Maeve in your lap, Nicholas nestled beside Agatha, your hand resting in hers between you. The TV played quietly. The city carried on just beyond your windows. But inside—it was just you. Healing. Together. Still tired, but safe.

And when the sun dipped low, painting the walls gold and soft, Agatha brushed her fingers through your hair and whispered “You’re allowed to rest. You know that, right?” You nodded, your head resting on her shoulder, Maeve’s weight heavy and sweet against your chest.

“Good,” she murmured. “Because I’m not going anywhere. Not today. Not ever.” And you believed her. The house was finally still. Maeve had been tucked into bed with her unicorn lamp casting a soft glow across her sheets, and Nicholas had insisted on handling it himself.

“Sit down,” he’d said sternly, already taking her by the hand. “You guys rest. She asked for the dinosaur book—we’re doing voices.”

Agatha had raised an eyebrow. “Voices?”

Nicholas gave her a flat look. “I’ve been training for this my entire life.” And sure enough, a few minutes later, muffled giggles and the sounds of roars and stomps echoed faintly from down the hall.

Now the laughter had quieted. The lights were dim. And your room, at last, felt like the inside of a lullaby. You lay on your back in bed, the sheets cool against your skin, the low hum of the night pressing gently at the windows. Agatha was half-draped across you, her cheek resting just above your navel, her arms loosely wrapped around your waist like she could hold you there forever if she just squeezed softly enough.

You’d been threading your fingers through her hair for what felt like hours, slow and rhythmic, your palm warm against her scalp. She made little sounds every now and then—tiny hums of contentment that vibrated through you. Her breathing was even. Grounding. She was still wearing the oversized shirt she’d changed into after dinner, sleeves pushed up to her elbows, the hem rising up slightly over her hips as she melted into you.

You looked down at her—tousled and flushed,messy hair, cheeks still faintly pink from the day’s chaos. Beautiful. Safe. Yours. “Hey,” you murmured.

She didn’t open her eyes. “Hmm?”

“I know I’ve said it before,” you whispered, “but thank you.”

Agatha shifted slightly, nuzzling deeper against your stomach. “For what?”

“For showing up. For seeing through. For taking care of Maeve… for dragging my stubborn ass home.”

She let out a soft exhale, almost like a laugh. “Of course I dragged you home. You were burning up and trying to go over case notes like your skull wasn’t melting.”

You smiled. “You could’ve just scolded me and gone back to work.”

Her arms tightened around you. “I will scold you. Eventually. But not tonight.”

You kept massaging her scalp gently, watching her relax under your touch. “It scares me sometimes, how much I need you.”

She opened one eye at that, lazy and soft. “Good.”

You blinked. “Good?”

Agatha smirked, her lips brushing your skin as she spoke. “Because I need you, too. And now we’re even.” You were quiet for a long moment, just letting the warmth of her soak into you, your hand never stopping its soothing movement through her hair.

Then, softly “I love you so much it physically hurts sometimes.” Agatha didn’t answer with words. She lifted her head just enough to lift your shirt and press a kiss just beneath your ribs—slow and reverent. Then another, just above your waistband. Then she rested her head again and whispered, “You’re my home.”

Your breath caught. And with her arms wrapped around your middle, the weight of her grounding you in the now, you finally let yourself settle. Because everything that mattered—Agatha, Maeve, Nicholas, this love—was here. And for tonight… that was everything.

———————————————

Note: I truly hope y’all enjoyed, lmk your feedback!!

[stephbanana]

A lot of Buddhism revolves around the idea that desire (wanting something, or your expectations) is the root of all suffering. That doesn’t mean that there are not things that are worth suffering for. Nor does it mean that feelings are bad. But all things are ultimately temporary, and learning to let go of your attachments means you more readily accept things as they are, and reduces your pain. By accepting your emotions as they are and letting them pass, you find the root of your feelings, and can better understand what it will take to resolve them.

It’s equally important to not hold onto happiness as a state of being OR your pain and trauma. Happiness, just like sadness, is a temporary state. So if you’re constantly striving for or defining yourself by your happiest moments, who are you when you are sad? Alternatively, if you’re holding onto your pain and trauma, who are you when you experience joy? If you cannot let go of your happiness, you can not let go of your sadness.

So, for Aang, his love for Katara isn’t inherently bad. But, by letting go of his attachment to her, or rather his want for her to reciprocate, he would be better able to accept his role as the Avatar, and that would cause him less strife in accepting it. It doesn’t mean that he gives up his love for her. It just means that he gives up his ideas and expectations for what he wants from that love. His love becomes unhooked from his want for reciprocation, and just is. He may also change his perspective and see that by fulfilling his duty to the world as the Avatar, he shows love for Katara, as she is a part of that world as everything else is.

Aang shows this reluctance to give up his wants overall through the show - he wanted to be a kid, he wanted to have fun with his friends, and he didn’t want all that responsibility. But his role as Avatar demands that he give up himself and his wants as the individual to serve a larger purpose. His central conflict is the tension of internal wants vs external needs.

He doesn’t really gain back his powers until after he and Katara kiss and then sort of broach the topic of his feelings for her, and she says she needs more time to figure it out. By respecting her boundaries, he learns a little bit about letting go of his want for her to reciprocate. Katara being in his life is more important than his desire for her to return his feelings, and so he lets it go. That, in essence, is what letting go of attachment means. He doesn’t stop loving her, but he lets go of that want, for the sake of their friendship. It’s only then his chakra is opened emotionally, and is then opened “physically” (I guess?) with the rock.

i still think atla is a good show but i really feel like they left the whole….avatar state emotional attachment thing unresolved. like, he doesnt let go of his attachmentsm but he just…gets to access the avatar state anyway cuz he hit his back on a rock

[seris-the-amious]

MULTI-MC! LaDs AU!

[AKA Love and Multispace!]

MAIN POST

// Welcome to the Lore Post! Had this burning idea a few days ago about giving my LaDs men their own MCs with different lore and dynamics!

[UDCPT] = UNDER CONCEPTUALIZATION!

[Will Edit Post once I draw them or get more info :3]

Posted on 2-28-25

<Zayne's MC>

Anhausen Evol: Reso-Blast [Resonance + Blast]

Work: Deepspace Huntress

The ability to literally and temporarily take a portion of an Evolver's evol and dispel of it in the form of a burst

Cons: Depending on the Evol extracted, it has a chance to destroy the evolver's body if the ability hasn't dispeled fast enough or if the Evolver extracts more than their body could handle. The other party whom the Evolver will extract from may also be affected depending on how much was taken

// Comment: Eheh- Zayne is never going to catch a break when it comes to his mc, huh.

Trope: Haywire Evol x (Temp)Evol Supressor

Fun Fact: She has the most deathflags among the other boy's MCs! :D

Note: HE'S NEVER BEATING THE ANGST ALLEGATIONS WITH THIS ONE! But overall theyre wholesome 💜

<Sylus's Mc>

Anhausen Evol: Field Resonance or Disruption

Work: Onychinus Secretary | Spy from Hunter's Association [Ik it's cliche but HEAR ME OUT]

[UDCPT] Enhances the range of a person's evol at a price

Cons: The field in which the Evol is being enhanced becomes unstable making the supposed benefitting Evolver lose control if not careful, the more evols present the more dangerous the field.

// Comment: But mama i'm in love with a criminal--

Trope: Mafia Boss x Spy

Fun Fact: They have the most smut potential. Yes. I said what i said. 🥰

Note: He knew. Always did.

<Rafayel's MC>

Simulation Evol: Projection

Work: Digital Artist | Evol Police

[UDCPT] Simple, whatever the Evolver has seen or better yet can draw, they can project it from their eye/gadget and manipulate their creation/vision

Cons: To make effects have more physical consequences/interactions, it takes more time and stamina leaving the user very fatigued if not fit

// Comment: Yall have no idea how much I fw this trope sm, 3 years ago in my wattpad days I was originally supposed to write something with their trope for Modern!Albedo from Genshin Impact :))

Trope: Traditional Artist x Digital Artist

Fun Fact: [UDCPT] This MC's insecurities are probably the most prominent among the rest (a.k.a that plays a roll in their story)

Note: Possibly the MC who Caleb grew up with!

<Xavier's MC>

Evol: Possibly None! [UDCPT]

Work: Convenience Store Worker or multiple Blue Collar Jobs (Like Waitress and Barista)

She encounters Xavier alot

Cons: Xavier is concerned he encounters her alot.

// Comment: this was deffo the most fun to tinker and imagine with! Raaah their dynamic will be hella fluffy.

Trope: Regular Customer x Worker

Fun Fact: Lmao so yall know how Xavi is basically dying, since this MC is Evol-less she can't do nothing about it! :D...

Note: [UDCPT]SIKE, THERES NO FLUFF W/O ANGST!

<Caleb's MC>

Psychic Evol: Telekinesis

Work: Farspace Fleet

Self Explenatory.

Cons: Mental and Physical Health greatly affects how much can be manipulated at a time(especially with heavier objects)

// Comment: *Sniifff* is that... Romcom?

Trope: Rivals to Lovers!

Fun Fact: People thought they had the same Evol, Caleb being the prick he is played along which led to their rivalry especially he was appointed there out of the blue

Note: Still deciding weather or not this is the MC he grew up with

|MASTERLIST|

// My head be running laps on their story and lore, who's annecdote/story would you want to see first? [Will turn (all of)them into an "x Reader" in the future >:)) ]

[somepsychopomp]

venting rn but in the last 2-3 years I've noticed a huge increase in people who seem like they barely want to engage in fandom creations anymore. To be clear, there are still a lot of really great people out there and they certainly make up the majority of my fic readers & commenters!

But in the comments of my stories, I've noticed more and more people in recent years telling/asking me:

to summarize the chapter for them because they didn't understand it

to clarify very simple plot points

to clarify plot points that span multiple chapters

proudly admitting to skimming my works

proudly admitting to skimming my stories because they had "too much detail"

skimming because there was no romance subplot

skimming, skimming, skimming. (Look, if a story just isn't grabbing your attention and you feel compelled to skim it, that's fine. But for the love of god don't tell an author that you did that? It's so fucking rude?? I feel like it was common ettiequte a few years ago to just not say this sort of thing but nowadays I'm getting comments about skimming almost every month)

praising me for interesting writing descriptions which they "don't usually read"... which like... that's all a book is. a series of descriptions of characters, conversations, settings, etc. what are you even saying to me at this point

asking me when an event in the story happened, either in the very chapter that the event happens in or shortly thereafter (probably because they skimmed)

wanting zero ambiguity in the story by asking me to clarify exactly what I meant when I wrote X, or what I meant when I had a character say Y, etc. Even if the purpose of said ambiguity was to enhance the plot or build intrigue. Or god forbid, spark the imagination.

ignoring whatever I say in any of my author's notes, even if I leave a lengthy note or multiple notes, for the sake of begging/pestering/demanding another chapter, another sequel, or what have you. They just want more, more, more. (again, this has always been a thing in fandoms. I've been writing fics for almost 10 years now and I'm mostly used to ignoring it by now. But I feel like people are far less shy nowadays about ignoring an author's wishes just in the off chance that bothering us will give them more content to consume)

Overall, it's just extremely sad to me that a growing faction of people in fandoms simply want to be spoon-fed every last drop of the material they encounter. They do not want ambiguity, uncertainty, complexity, unhappy endings/emotions, wait times, or to put effort into engaging with their fellow-fandom goers. They seemingly want everything chatgpt-ified for them.

I have no statistical data to back up this theory but I just have to assume this is mostly coming from kids or prior-normies who are just now entering fandom spaces and only know how to treat us as commodities, not a community.

So all I can say to that is: I'm still going to take my time writing weird, unusual, or even unhappy stories because they fill me with joy and I know no matter what I write or how fandoms change over time, there'll always be other people who will enjoy my stories too!

[croquettish]

Ohohohohohoho this is a WONDERFUL addition, BLESS YOU for this!!! I love those little physical details so much. Like I know we're all just 🔍 over here looking at the tiniest thing but the game packs in so many tiny subtle things that it makes it impossible not to assume that this stuff was intentional, esp for a cinematic moment like that which was so important too... 😭

As for Henry's awareness of his feelings, I 100% agree with you. In fact, there are several hints throughout KCD2 that Henry is well aware of the fact that same-gender attraction exists (and has the option of acting on his own same-gender attraction). We also get a tiny hint in the Amorous Adventures of Sir Hans Capon that Henry does find Hans attractive:

Mind you, this is said after Hans breaks out from an allergic reaction and Henry has to pass a check to convince him of this, but HENRY DIDN'T HAVE TO SAY IT THAT WAY!!!! Good lord, Henry!!!

But let's assume that this was subconscious and Henry was unaware of his attraction at this point, we get so many indications of Henry's Awareness of queerness in the sequel:

When he learns the legend surrounding Brunswick's armor, Henry is told:

And he has the option of saying he doesn't understand, but he also very much has the option of saying that YEAH, he gets it!

Later on, Henry encounters a blatantly gay man (Black Bartosch) and even has the chance to accept his advances:

To add to all this, Henry has the opportunity to meet a gay man who was more or less run out of Troskowitz in the Best For Last quest, Herbalist Barnaby. He specifically mentions that the guy who figured out that he was gay viewed gay men as animals.

If he hadn't beaten them all up after, they would have killed him.

Henry can tell him that this was TMI for him but he can't tell him that those fucks weren't wrong, that they should have killed him.

And even after Henry reassures him, Barnaby explains that he's the only one who thinks that. Perhaps in his life overall! There's a good chance that Barnaby (unlike Henry) never found anyone to even be with, let alone anyone who is like him.

Go back and tell him you're bi, Henry!!!!!

Barnaby even tells him that this treatment does bother him, being stuck in that hut and being treated like an outcast and a freak, but it's fine enough so long as no one is burning his home down.

Unless Henry really plays stupid and plugs his ears at every mention of anything gay or goes out of his way to willfully avoid that stuff... by the time that things start heating up with Hans he's going to know not only that this is something that can and does happen, that he might well be interested in such things, and also that there can be serious consequences if those things are acted on (and, in Barnaby's case, even if they're not acted on!).

So in light of all of that perspective and knowledge that Henry goes in with, it makes sense that he would worry about what would happen if he acted on his feelings (which often comes with consequences for him). Even with all the little hints from Hans along the way in their romance it must have been impossible not to go "no, that's probably just my imagination, no there's no way he meant it like that" because Henry has so much proof that Hans is THE STRAIGHTEST MAN POSSIBLE, PAY NO ATTENTION TO THE GAY MAN BEHIND THE CURTAIN, HENRY, and also that if he was gay it could be real, real, REAL bad for both of them, but especially for Hans 😭

Why Henry pushes Hans away at first

I keep thinking about Henry pushing Hans away after he kisses him and why he might do that. After much rumination I think I might have figured it out (though anyone is welcome to chime in with their own ideas!!!).

Apologies in advance-- this got quite long, as it analyzes Henry's view of Hans' romantic behavior through both games and the DLCs (expect spoilers).

ETA: I've expounded a bit on all of this here and here as well!

Henry, better than just about anyone, knows that Hans is a massive flirt.

In Next to Godliness, Hans justifies his desire to go to the bathhouse by mentioning Klara and how pretty she is:

Upon arriving at the bathhouse, Henry learns that Hans hired a bathhouse wench and did his best to undress her via dice before failing and thus recruiting Henry into it.

Zdena tells Henry that Hans regularly goes about such behavior there, so much so that the other girls there are used to it:

We get other little nudge nudge wink winks from Hans who is very determined to show off his masculinity and just how straight he is:

At this point Klara enters the picture, and we learn due to the events that follow that she's the one woman at the bathhouse who doesn't act as a sex worker there in any capacity. Henry would most likely take notice of the fact that the one woman who doesn't let Hans have what he wants is also the one that he likes best.

He then declares that Klara deserves flowers and asks Henry to get her some. Now, if that ain't blurring the lines already...

Fast-forward to The Amorous Adventures of Sir Hans Capon when Hans declares passionate love of a woman he barely knows but who he again insists is different from other women:

He insists that secret courtship is all the rage right now in France and as a result he just has to get in on that trend. Nothing about this sounds sincere to Henry, but Hans is very insistent that no, she's the one! There's no station but the heart! So much so that he wants to gift her his great-grandmother's necklace.

When Henry delivers the necklace, Hans informs him that he already knew of this happening after the fact on account of his spies having informed him of this already.

He insists that he wants her feelings to grow naturally and that he's not planning on doing all of this too fast:

Henry is to get him a potion that'll guarantee his success because Karolina is just that worthy of his affections. He further insists that even if that potion makes every woman faint at his feet, he's only interested in one.

Things don't go entirely according to plan and quite frankly, a lot of this could be seen through the gayest lens possible, but at one point while headed to the rendezvous point, Hans asks Henry about his conquests, prompting Henry to have the option to deflect. Hans surely has had so many more conquests than he, after all!

Wow! Hans must be very invested in this!

Along the way to Karolina's house they come across another, and Hans makes this comment, which might have tipped Henry off to a certain extent (if he hadn't been already tbh) just how in love Hans really is:

So... what you're saying, Hans, is that if she was available, we'd be doing this same song and dance with her?

Huh!

Things go... uniquely over at Karolina's house with Henry feeding him lines of poetry from a bush (to varying degrees of success), and we're treated to these lovely line from Hans:

Depending on which lines Henry fed him, the quest can either end successfully or not. If it is successful, Henry checks on him again the next morning and asks him how things went. He declares:

Well! That sure sounds promising. And so magnanimous of you, Henry! He asks when Hans will see her again and is told the following:

Henry is, understandably, baffled at this.

Hans insists that he had good reason for just ditching the love of his life, namely the fact that she turned out to be illiterate:

Personally, the Hansry shipper in me absolutely thrives at this because oh, Henry is worthy of his poetry? He's giving bawdy poetry to Henry? This could not possibly gayer! (said tam from the past, who had not yet experienced just how gay KCD2 would get)

(Mind you, the poetry is fucking godawful, as we later see again in KCD2 when he actually does write poetry about Henry.)

We fast-forward again.

After their breakup in KCD2, Henry finds him again at the wedding (if not sooner), at one point having what looks like a date with a woman he has given another affectionate nickname:

And then keeps flirting with this girl right in front of Henry's salad after a bit more drama:

As soon as Henry leaves, he goes back to his date.

In other words, Henry knows Hans. He has had his number since early in the first game.

In his eyes, based on the knowledge he has, Hans is an incorrigible flirt who doesn't take love seriously whatsoever. As my gf pointed out, this vibe of "love? I never knew love till now!" [five minutes later] "love? I never knew love till—" can be VERY indicative of queerness. Of course you haven't found the right girl because you're not looking for a girl at all!

Even in his godawful poetry in the second game, Hans admits that

He's a flirt, he sleeps around a lot, he claims that any given woman is the love of his life one moment before being discarded the next...

To Henry, this could easily look like something Hans did on impulse and based only on the fear of losing Henry. Something he didn't mean. Something that could fuck up both of their lives just because of one of Hans' whims. Worse yet, what if he did it just because he was horny and wanted to let off some steam in light of all the anxiety surrounding the circumstances of that moment?

Knowing Hans, he could have kissed him for so many reasons that aren't just that he wanted to kiss Henry because he's hopelessly in love with him.

So Henry pushes him away (for his own good, most likely), walks away, and then--

Hears how genuinely distraught Hans sounds. If his Amorous Adventure with Karolina fails, he knows what Hans sounds like if he's rejected. And it's sure as shit not like this. Things like that usually just don't seem to affect him at all, rolling off him like water off a duck's back.

He expected Hans to brush this off and for him to move on more or less instantly. To scoff at Henry's rejection.

But he doesn't.

And faced with a remorseful and distraught-sounding Hans, he locks the door and turns around. Doesn't even hesitate for one second longer.

[youngyoo-apologist]

I like this scene because when I was writing it I was thinking about how fun everything would be once Alberu joins the party ahaha

This poor guy will not only have to deal with Regressor Cale, but Regressor Choi Han AND Kim Roksoo. Those three will never let the opportunity to tease Alberu slip by. Also I find this one scene really funny because Alberu is absolutely thinking to himself ‘what the hell was that’ when he made eye contact with Cale, the young master of the Henituse family who is famous for his brutal honesty and words, is smiling at him in a way that reminded Alberu too much of himself.

Realistically, there should be no way the young master knows anything about him, not when they had only exchanged a few greetings in passing. Sure, the Henituse county was rich, but they had no reason to dig for information on him unless he provoked them. So why did it feel like Cale Henituse knew something very important about him?

[theplushiefox]

I'm so sorry, I can't find it to link here, but I saw a post where someone pointed out how at the end of the movie, Raph, Donnie and April kind of stare at Leo, surprised to see as him acting silly and then Raph smiles because his little brother acts like himself

And they also pointed out that Leo acts differently after the extremely traumatic Kraang invasion, so I thought about how he'd never really return to being the silly goofball he was before and it made me sad so here, you get to be sad too!

Please, if someone has the post, send it as a reply to this post so I can link it! Thanks!

[plushie-lovey]

FINALLY!! At long last, I've gotten my hands on a Pumpkin Kitty, after a whole year of wanting and waiting.

Her name is Latte! (Short for Miss Pumpkin Spice Latte) You can also call her Miss Spice!

[spywhitney]

How I sleep knowing I'll never trust anyone that hates Sydney but worships Richie:

[mitigatedchaos]

Consider the humble bear, @nianeyna.

The bigger a bear is, the more easily he can win in a fight against another animal - or intimidate another animal without needing to fight. This is a double-edged sword. The bigger a bear is, the more he needs to eat to sustain himself.

If all the bears on an island are large, and there is a drought leading to a shortage of food, then all the bears on that island could die out.

If all the bears on an island are small, and there is an abundance of food, then some other animal that gets bigger faster could outcompete the bears, and then all the bears on that island could die out.

Since climate and food conditions change from year to year, and from decade to decade, in terms of the overall survival of some number of bears on the island in general, rather than the survival of any specific bear in particular, it would be best if there were a range of variation - if bears came in various sizes, from small to large.

It would also be good if this range could re-emerge spontaneously. For example, if all the large bears were killed off in one generation due to an extreme weather event (perhaps the explosion of a nearby volcano), it would be good for the long-term survival of the bears on the island in general if the bears could start getting bigger again when food abundance returns.

This is part of the point of sexual reproduction, which produces a natural range of variation. (That sexual reproduction produces a range of variation, and that this may contribute to population survival, is not merely my own personal theory; it's textbook biology.)

All of the bears will be similar, not only due to limits on the rate of change and the necessity of reproductive compatibility, but also due to shared environmental pressures. All of them will breathe oxygen, because that's metabolically efficient. There will be certain kinds of food that are more easy to get in the area by having the size, shape, metabolism, and mentality of a bear.

At the same time, all of the bears will be different. Each bear will be, more or less, genetically unique, allowing for variations in things like the thickness of their coat, or their size or build.

Humans are the same.

We are similar, but different.

It is not desirable for all human beings to naturally have the exact same mentality, for a similar reason that it's not desirable for bears to all be the same size. If every human being were a blank slate, born by nature with the exact same level of stubbornness, then all it would take was one bad enough ideology, one time, to completely wipe out humanity.

An emotionally compelling ideology could come along that was entirely against having children, and there would be no one to stick his middle finger up at society and have kids anyway.

That human beings are different from each other does not mean that you cannot choose peace (most of the time).

A difference in scale is a difference in qualities. Simply by virtue of being larger, humans are capable of being more complex. Part of that complexity, brought about by other factors, is that we are capable of a level of abstract reasoning, communication, and cooperation on a level beyond that of effectively every other creature on Earth.

As a human being, you have the option to choose peace where another animal could not. However, you will have to choose peace. Making and enforcing peace, bringing people together on a deal and then enforcing that deal, is actual work. If you want it, you will have to impose your will on the world in order to get it, and become strong, not only physically, but also mentally, emotionally, and spiritually.

What does this have to do with "educational parity," that is, equality of educational outcomes?

We don't currently know how to create equality of educational outcomes. (Not reliably, not entirely, and not at scale.) If you don't believe me, then go read the education literature for yourself.

As suggested by learning loss from the pandemic, schooling helps... up to a point. Beyond that, more money on its own doesn't seem to get you better outcomes. At the low end, obviously you can have problems from things like malnutrition, but once you've exited the region of malnutrition, more food doesn't make you smarter, it just makes you fatter.

(Argumate mentions differences in language, which can also be a factor (requiring additional spending), but he also mentions "long term" productivity. That's a strange combination, as open borders is all about near-instant mobility. Perhaps he just assumes that in the future, everyone on the entire planet will speak passable English?)

Human beings are different, but they're also similar.

Everything is interconnected and multicausal. It's possible that a switch to a different learning style (perhaps mastery-based learning with AI tutoring?) could produce better outcomes. It's also possible that it won't move the needle enough to matter.

(The emergence of AI might eventually put all humans at a disadvantage. It's difficult to determine at this time.)

Human beings are similar, but they're also different.

and yeah a lot of people are just hella racist (or have constructed highly technical alternatives to racism that somehow magically produce identical prejudices).

How damaging the theory that all human beings are exactly the same is depends on what you're doing with it and how much force you're applying.

It could range from anything from being nice to everyone, to explicit racial healthcare rationing. If it's asserted that everyone is the same, and then some people are different, then this difference becomes something to be explained. These explanations may attribute malice, bias, weakness, or immorality to people, falsely, based on their race. They may be used by politicians or political operatives to push for discrimination.

You can't escape doing injustice to others just by following a rule as simple as "every human being is exactly the same."

This isn't just a matter of protecting the weak - it's also a matter of protecting the strong, because there is no such thing as a human being who is perfectly strong. (Strength is contextual and directional. A bear might beat a human in a fight, but might be vulnerable to a bear-killing virus that the human is immune to.)

Progressives who sort everyone from weak to strong, and say that the weaker is always morally superior, are the complement to conservatives who sort everyone from strong to weak, and say that the stronger is always morally superior. Together, they form a dynamic system.

Surpassing conservatives or right-wingers who value the strong and not the weak means learning to respect both the strong and weak (neither exist only to serve), understanding the value of strength (strength is not only a means to oppress), and understanding values other than strength.

A full discussion of this practical morality is beyond the scope of this post. However, I hope that I have communicated to you that it isn't the end of the world if human beings are different, and that your choices aren't limited to either hating the weak or hating the strong.

what is this "educate to parity" thing do you know because to me it sounds like either word salad or extreme bigotry (or both?) either way I've never heard the phrase before people started repeating it in your reblogs

parity in education typically refers to gender parity, since in many jurisdictions female children are granted fewer educational opportunities, although that has improved greatly over the past few decades and in some jurisdictions there are fewer boys attending school than girls.

of course access and attendance is only the starting point, we would also hope for parity in educational outcome, which gets complicated when there are gender differences in subject choice at the higher levels of school and tertiary education.

anyway, the people using this phrase in reference to immigration are expressing concern that immigrants will underperform locals (or in rare cases that immigrants will outperform locals).

recent immigrants can face disadvantages in educational achievement due to language barriers and occasionally socioeconomic factors, but I don't think these pose a long term obstacle to productivity; I'm probably biased on this question though given that I've been living amongst educated immigrants my whole life, as have many people in the broader Anglosphere of course.

and yeah a lot of people are just hella racist (or have constructed highly technical alternatives to racism that somehow magically produce identical prejudices).

[can-of-slorgs]

The other researchers are also here! (magical edition!)