#learn mean stack development

[datatechexpert]

When Your Tech Stack Becomes Your Make-or-Break Decision

Hey tech fam! Ever had that moment when your app starts wheezing under pressure like an old car climbing a hill? That's exactly what happened to one of our clients recently.

Their patient registration system was literally falling apart during peak hours—appointments timing out, users frantically refreshing, and their MEAN stack crying for mercy.

Plot twist: They switched from MEAN to MERN and suddenly it was like trading a bicycle for a sports car!

But here's the real tea: both stacks are JavaScript powerhouses sharing MongoDB, Express, and Node.js. The real showdown is between Angular and React.

"Choosing a tech stack isn't just a checkbox in your project plan—it can be the deciding factor between smooth scaling and unexpected system failure."

Quick breakdown

MEAN (with Angular): Perfect for enterprise-grade apps with complex requirements and larger teams

MERN (with React): Ideal for UI-focused applications where performance and flexibility matter

Which side are you on? Angular's comprehensive framework or React's flexible library approach?

Check out our full breakdown comparing performance, learning curves, and use cases! We've been in the trenches with both MEAN and MERN.

[amlpopz123]

Reason for choosing Mean stack training in Kerala

MEAN Stack training in Kerala provides aspiring developers with the essential skills to create dynamic web applications using MongoDB, Express.js, Angular, and Node.js. This hands-on program emphasizes real-world projects, ensuring students gain practical experience and confidence in their abilities. With guidance from experienced instructors, participants learn industry best practices and develop a solid understanding of full-stack development. Flexible learning options, including online and weekend classes, make it accessible to both beginners and professionals looking to enhance their tech expertise in a thriving IT ecosystem.

[zooplekochi]

Are you a graduate looking to improve your skills and upgrade your career in the IT field? For a safe and protected career, select the courses that suit your necessary skills. Explore the list of IT-related courses for graduates and choose the one that matches with your career goals.

In this blog, we will discuss the top professional IT courses that you can consider taking after graduation to stay ahead in the competitive job sector for a successful professional path in the IT field.

[itneverendshere]

I love pogue!reader and rafe sm. I’m so excited every time you post them ❤️ what if reader realizes she’s really falling for rafe and it’s getting serious so she’s tries to self sabotage and end it. She’s thinking he’s THE kook and she’s a pogue. It can’t last and she won’t survive that heartbreak. so rafe starts to panic but then realizes what’s she’s doing by ending it so he’s just like lol no nice try I’m not going anywhere

 i would follow you home - r.c

pairing: rafe x pogue!reader (bartender!reader universe) word count: 3.1k

hope you enjoy, i love them too 🩵

It was mid-afternoon, that lull between lunch and dinner when the regulars started to trickle in. Like clockwork, you were wiping down the bar, mindlessly watching the condensation drip from a glass of iced tea when you saw Rafe strolling in.

He always had that walk, shoulders rolled back like he owned the place, which, you guess, technically he did, or at least his dad did.

The Cameron Development Group practically built the country club.

He spotted you and the corner of his mouth lifted in that way that made your stomach flip. God, you hated how it got to you. After months of this—him swinging by the bar at the end of his golf games, lounging around the counter like it was no big deal, driving you home, saving you from the storms, letting you kiss him—your heart should’ve calmed the hell down.

But no, butterflies are still fluttering in your chest.

You tossed the rag on the counter, busying yourself with stacking glasses.

“Hey, stranger.” His voice was all smooth, he knew exactly what effect it had on you.

You were still a shitty liar and he learned that fast. 

You glanced up, trying to keep things casual. “Hey yourself.”

He settled into one of the barstools, his blue eyes locking on yours. “You off soon?”

You shrugged. “Depends. Why?”

The truth was, you knew why. You knew what he was asking.

He was wondering if you would have time after this—to sneak off to that little spot by the docks where you'd been meeting up, where things between you had been getting…a little complicated?

And that was why you needed to end this.

You'd seen it coming. You’d known for a while that whatever this thing was with Rafe, it was headed in a direction you couldn’t afford to follow. He was the poster child for Kook royalty. Born with a silver spoon and all that. Meanwhile, you were the bartender, a Pogue, barely scraping by. 

It started with quick conversations after work, long talks on the drive home, those random texts at 2 a.m. that turned into hours of you two confessing things you’d never say out loud to anyone else. You din’t know when it morphed into this—this weird gray area where everything felt more intense. Maybe when you all but kissed him when he picked you up after the storm. That had to be it.

You knew how this story ended, what happened girls like you fell for guys like Rafe Cameron.

Heartbreak.

You wouldn’t survive that.

“I’ve been thinking,” You blurted out, very aware of the way his eyes were still on you. Too aware. You reached for a clean glass, filling it with soda water to distract yourself. “Maybe we should… cool it for a bit.”

His smirk faltered. “Cool it?”

“Yeah,” You shrugged again, trying to seem nonchalant, even though your heart was hammering so loud you were sure he could hear it. “I mean, this was fun and all, but let’s be real—”

“Be real?”

You nodded, not daring to look up from the glass you were holding.

“We’re not exactly from the same world, Rafe. It was bound to end sooner or later. Might as well rip the band-aid off now.”

Silence. He doesn’t mutter a word, you wonder if you had done it, convinced him that this wasn’t worth it, that he should’ve walked away and left you with at least a sliver of your heart intact.

Then he laughed. It wasn’t a mocking laugh, but it was still a sound you weren’t expecting. Your eyes snapped up to his face, and you saw that damn smirk was back.

“Oh, I see what this is.” He leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest.

You frowned, instinctively grabbing another towel and wiping the counter again, distracting yourself from the way his eyes were making you feel seen.

“What?”

“You’re scared.”

Your stomach dropped. “I’m not—”

“Yes, you are,” he interrupted, standing up and rounding the bar until he was too close, you could smell the cologne clinging to his skin and the fresh grass scent of the golf course. He caged you in with his body, one hand gripping the counter behind you, the other reaching up to tilt your chin so you had no choice but to meet his gaze. “You’re trying to push me away because you’re scared. But newsflash, sweetheart—I’m not going anywhere.”

You swallowed hard, throat tight, because damn it, he was right. He was completely, 100% right, and you hated it. You hated that he could see right through you like that, see all your fears.

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out.

You didn’t know what to say because, deep down, you didn’t want to believe that it mattered to him. You wanted to believe that he saw you for more than just the girl behind the bar.

“Rafe, you’ll get bored,” you mumbled, barely able to get the words out. “You’ll realize this was just… a phase. I mean, we’re friends, right? We can just… go back to that.”

“Go back to that?” He repeated your words slowly, testing them out. And then he laughed—this disbelieving sound that made you grimace. “You’re trying to run.”

“Am not.”

“You are.

“There’s nothing to run from,” You snapped, though even you didn’t believe that.

He was close enough that you had to tilt your head almost all the way back to meet his stare. “Nothing, huh?”

“Nothing,” you repeated, the word coming out more like a question than a statement. The self-doubt you’d been trying to ignore bubbled up, and you hated yourself for it. 

He dropped his head closer, and you could feel his breath against your skin. “If you think there’s nothing between us, then why does it hurt so much to even think about letting it go?”

His words hit a particular spot, you had to bite your lip to keep from gasping. You wanted to argue, he was wrong, you could walk away and be fine.

Okay. You weren’t fine. You weren’t even close to fine.

The whole time you’d been telling yourself this was a fling, some wild phase that would burn out eventually—because that was what made sense. You weren’t supposed to fall for the guy who came from money and lived in a mansion on the hill, while you were still sharing a room with your sister in a run-down house, after yours got destroyed, on the wrong side of the island. 

“You don’t get it. You’ve never had to worry about—about someone like me not fitting into your life. You don’t have people looking at you and thinking ‘what the hell is he doing with her?’”

Rafe’s eyes softened, his thumb brushing a light circle against your waist, sending a pleasant shiver down your spine. “Who cares what people think? I’m not with them. I’m with you.”

You shook your head, more to yourself than to him, stepping back to put some space between you.

"No. No, it’s not that simple. You don’t get it. You don’t get what it’s like to always be the one left behind. You’ll get bored, and then what? You walk away and I’m the one left picking up the pieces."

He opened his mouth to argue, but you weren’t done.

"And don't say you won’t, because everyone does! I’ve seen this before. I’ve been through it. I don’t survive guys like you." Your voice cracked, and shit, you hated how vulnerable you sounded.

It was all spilling out now, the fear you’d kept bottled up.

Rafe’s jaw tightened, there was something different in his eyes. Anger? No, frustration maybe. But not at you. He ran a hand through his hair, trying to keep his temper in check.

“I'm not just some guy playing games. You thinnk I’m gonna wake up one day and decide you’re not worth it?”

You crossed your arms, hugging yourself as if that would protect you from the way his words were hitting you.

“Isn’t that what happens?”

“No. Not with me.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do know that!” His voice rose, you flinched a little, caught off guard by the intensity. He noticed and apologized immediately, his hand reaching for yours but stopping short. "I’m here, with you. Because I want to be. Don’t you get that?"

Your eyes fleeted away, focusing on the floor because looking at him was overwhelming.

"Just let me go," you whispered, "It’ll hurt less now."

A muscle in his jaw twitched, and before you could pull back, he stepped forward, closing the gap between you in one swift move. His hand cupped your face, forcing you to meet his stare, no more escape from the intensity in them.

"No," he said, firmly but quiet. "I’m not letting you go. You’re not pushing me away. I’m not leaving, no matter how hard you try to sabotage this."

Your breath hitched in your throat, you tried to argue, but then his lips were on yours, cutting off whatever weak protest you had left.

Rafe was trying to make you understand something without words. 

 And damn it, you kissed him back, of course, you did.

Despite everything you said, everything you feared, you wanted this, him. But the second you felt yourself giving in, you pushed back, your hands pressed against his chest.

"Stop doing that," you snapped, breathless.

"Doing what?" He sounded just as wounded up.

"Kissing me like you can fix this. It's not gonna make me believe you."

He exhaled, keeping you close. "You don’t have to believe me now, but I’m not going anywhere. I’ll prove it to you, okay? Stop trying to run every time it gets hard."

"I don’t know how to do this," you admitted, hands still resting on his chest, fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt.

"I’ll show you," His forehead rested against yours, your breaths mingling. "Stop pushing me away."

You let yourself be there with him, your defenses crumbling piece by piece. You didn’t know how long it would last, or if you could even survive it...He seemed worth the risk.

You couldn’t help but mutter, "You’re so stupid, you know that?"

His lips twitched into a smile. “And you’re still kissing me, again, so what does that say about you?”

You rolled your eyes, hiding how your lips betrayed you.

“Says I’m just as stupid as you,” you scoffed under your breath, fingers still gripping his polo, afraid to let go. “Do you always go around kissing the saff?” You mumbled out.

Rafe’s hands moved from your waist to your back, it was infuriating how easy it was to melt into him. He raised a brow, “Only the ones who can’t seem to stay away from me.”

You groaned, shoving him with just force to make him stumble back a step. “God, you’re insufferable.”

He caught your wrists before you could pull away completely, his grip gentle. “You seem to like insufferable.”

“Do I though?” You quipped, trying to sound indifferent, but your heartbeat was giving you away. You could feel it hammering in your chest, “I feel like this whole thing is a bad idea. You know, like ‘kiss the rich guy, ruin your life’ kind of bad idea.”

Rafe’s expression softened, the teasing glint in his eyes faded. “Why do you always do that?”

“Do what?” You tried to play dumb.

“Talk like this doesn’t mean something. Like I don’t mean something to you.” His voice was low, but there was a seriousness in it that made you nervous. “We’ve been doing this dance for a while now, and every time it starts to get real, you act like it’s… casual.”

Your throat tightened, “Maybe it is casual,” you said, even though the words tasted like a lie. “We're just two people having a good time, and that’s it.”

He shook his head, the corner of his mouth lifting in that way that made your chest ache in a good way.

“Nah. You’re not fooling me anymore. You don’t kiss someone like you kissed me just for fun.”

“Rafe…”

“And you don’t look at me like that when I walk in unless there’s more to it.” His voice softened as his thumb traced your skin. “Stop pretending it’s nothing.”

“I should be working.”

Rafe wasn’t letting you off that easy.

“Yeah, you probably should,” he said, but his hands didn’t move, and neither did his eyes.

“So you’re gonna let me go?”

“Why’d you kiss me that day?” he asked, "I’ve been wondering.”

You blinked up at him, caught off guard by the question. He was so close, it was hard to think, let alone answer something that felt disarming .

"I don’t know," you groaned, feeling like a cornered animal. "I wasn’t thinking straight."

His fingers traced a slow line down your arm, sending shivers through you.

"You sure about that?" Rafe's voice was quiet, he already knew you were lying, knew you too well for you to hide behind that excuse. "Because it didn’t feel like some random kiss."

You scoffed, trying to laugh it off.

"It was— I don’t know, Rafe. It was just the heat of the moment, okay? The storm… everything." You bit your lip, avoiding his gaze because you knew he wasn’t buying it. "You saved me, and I guess I was—"

"Grateful?" he interrupted, his brow arching. “Is that what you’re trying to say?”

You winced. "I didn’t mean it like that."

“Yeah, it sure sounds like you’re trying to make it seem like it meant nothing."

You swallowed hard, the lump in your throat making it impossible to respond right away. That kiss had meant something—more than you were ready to admit to yourself, let alone to him.

“You can’t keep acting like you don’t care, because I know you do. You wouldn’t have kissed me if you didn’t.”

“Why do you care so much? Why does it matter?”

He frowned, like you had just asked the stupidest question in the world. “Because it matters to me.”

Your chest tightened at that, "I don’t want to get hurt, Rafe."

"I’m not gonna hurt you." His voice was serious, a promise, but you’d heard promises like that before. "I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t care. I’m asking for a chance, one chance. I’m not going anywhere.”

“I’m scared."

“I know,” he murmured, “I’m scared too, okay? I want to be with you. So, please, just… give us a shot.”

You closed your eyes, breathing him in, your mind racing a hundred miles per hour. Your heart was telling you to stay.

 “Okay.”

“Okay?”

You opened your eyes, “Yeah, okay. I’ll give you a chance. Don’t screw it up.”

Rafe’s lips curved into that stupid blinding grin, “I won’t. I promise.”

You wanted to roll your eyes at him, but instead, you found yourself smiling back. 

This was crazy, maybe you were setting yourself up for heartbreak or....you’d really found yourself a soulmate.

[sweetheartspence]

planetary alignment - s.r

spencer was expecting a day of solitude researching in the library during his day off, not... whatever that was.

pairings: spencer reid x librarian!reader

genre: fluff? i think

cw: swearing, fem reader, not proofread

word count: 1.4k

a/n: this is my first spencer fic! constructive criticism is welcome, please feel free to share your thoughts! this one is third person but i'd like to try out second as well :) dividers by @cafekitsune ! thank you!

Spencer Reid does not believe in love at first sight.

Lust, sure. Infatuation, perhaps. But love?

Love was a whole other problem, an equation he knew by heart and yet had never been able to pinpoint.

It had fascinated him for years, and still did, if he was being quite honest. He's got sticky notes pressed into romance novels, quotes of descriptions underlined and highlighted, Jane Austen and Emily Bronte lining his shelves. He'd long learnt to stop asking about it. Even though it was out of pure fascination, of the drive for learning, people tended to see it as pathetic, as him grasping towards something he would never have. One too many times, he asked, "How do you know if you're in love?" And one too many times, he was met with a fond, exasperated, somewhat condescending smile.

"You just know."

You just know. What a stupid response. That's the kind of response you get from people who aren't educated enough to articulate themselves properly, Spencer thought. Or maybe they thought it was funny, to leave him in the dark. One thing that they understood that he never would. Something that they could have a leg up on, something that they could hold over his head when he had rattled off one too many statistics.

Or maybe it was him, who was too stupid to understand.

And Spencer has learned to be okay with that. It's not like he doesn't have enough to worry about, enough interests to pore over and obsess about and keep him occupied. And that's exactly what he intended to spend his weekend off on: the conceptual mathematics of the planetary system, developed by 16th and 17th century astronomer Johannes Kepler.

Now, Spencer doesn't consider this an obscure topic, per se, but it certainly isn't one that people were tripping over themselves to check books out about at the library. Which means that he's once again found himself in an abandoned aisle of the non-fiction section of the city library, leafing through a somewhat untouched biography. There's a thick layer of dust adorning the cover, and his long, thin fingers run down the pages, marking his progress through the book. And that's when he hears it.

A sneeze, followed by a loud bang, a soft curse, and some unintelligible muttering.

Spencer's curiosity is instantly piqued. A sneeze is nothing to be concerned about in the dusty shelves of the library, but the crash that had followed certainly was. He tentatively makes his way to the end of the aisle, poking his head around the corner.

Sitting on the ground, surrounded by a pile of books, is a woman. Her hair is pushed off her face with a pair of glasses, and she is haphazardly stacking the books, muttering something about how the government needed to reallocate resources and funds. Next to her lays a broken stepstool. Spencer's heart immediately starts to beat faster. She's pretty, even if her eyebrows are currently pinched in a frown.

She looks up at the noise of Spencer's footsteps, and her cheeks instantly color with embarrassment. She hops up from the ground, dusting off her hands on her pants, and offers him an apologetic smile. "I'm so sorry. The stepstool broke right under me. It was a faulty hinge, I think, or the screw might have been rusted..." She trails off, crouching down again to examine the stepstool.

Spencer isn't quite sure why he's still standing here. He's found the source of the noise, determined that no one was hurt, and that no one needs his help. So why can't he force his feet to move? Or his mouth to form words?

The woman looks up again, her cheeks still colored at the realization that he hasn't moved. "Uh- I'm sorry. Am I in your way, or...?" She trails off again, looking adorably confused.

Spencer snaps out of his daze. "No! No, I just- I heard the noise, and I wanted to- to make sure no one was hurt, or needed help, and honestly, I hadn't even realized that anyone else was in this section, considering it's at the back of the library and no one even really comes back here, unless they're looking for something specific, or-"

She cuts him off with a soft laugh. The most beautiful sound he's ever heard, he thinks, and quickly snaps his mouth shut. Now it's his turn to blush.

"Were you, then?" She asks, quirking an eyebrow. She's looking at him with a certain look in her eye, interest, maybe, or fascination, or maybe amusement. He can't quite tell. But she's looking at him, her full attention on his face, her gaze fixed to his eyes. There's a small smile playing at her lips. He finds that he doesn't care what she's looking at him with, as long as she keeps looking at him.

"Was I... was I what?" Spencer asks, a bit stupidly. His brain feels a bit like mush.

"Looking for something specific," she clarifies, tilting her head, flashing him a real smile. Spencer finds he can't breathe for a moment. He holds up the book he had been reading.

"Oh! Uh, yeah," he manages, nodding. "Kepler. Applied mathematics in the planetary system. This one is more of a biography, but I was hoping to find something that includes more of his conceptual work..."

She brightens, straightening up again. "I might be able to help with that, actually," she tells him, and his stomach does some kind of weird flip.

"You... know Kepler?" Spencer asks, unable to contain his excitement. His voice comes out more high pitched than he would have liked.

She laughs, her nose wrinkling. "No, no. I'm- I'm not that smart. I know the system, the organizing system? For the books." She's grinning, and Spencer can't bring himself to tell her that he has the system memorized too, of course.

"Oh, wow," he says instead, giving her a smile that he hopes doesn't look too lopsided. "That would be great."

She nods, abandoning the pile of books in the middle of the aisle, and gestures for him to follow. She walks like she's on a mission, leading him a few aisles down, and running her fingers along the spines of the books. Her hands are much smaller than his. Her nails are painted brown, Spencer notices. Understated, yet well taken care of. They match the aesthetic of the library, and he can't help but wonder what her hands would look like wrapped around his own-

"Here we are!" She says brightly, tugging a book off of the shelf. "I think the whole shelf here is on conceptual mathematics, but this one looks like it's on planetary alignment specifically. Um-" Her brow furrows for a second, and she pulls a second book from the shelf. "I recognize this author, I know he gets a lot of circulation..." She looks over at Spencer quizzically, and Spencer realizes he hasn't said a word.

"Yeah, these are perfect," he tells her earnestly, taking the books from her hands. Their fingers brush for a fraction of a second, and Spencer can't help the blush that creeps up his neck. "I'm Spencer, by the way. Spencer Reid."

He's rewarded with a name. Her name. He rolls it around in his mind, and decides he likes the way it fits into his brain.

"It's nice to meet you," she says, extending a hand for him to shake. He opens his mouth to give his usual spiel about pathogens, but his words die in his throat. Would that be weird to say? He wonders. I don't want her to think that I'm odd. I could just suck it up this once, and besides, there was a bathroom on the way in. I could just shake her hand, and go find the bathroom, and wash my hands-

Spencer's thoughts are interrupted by her smile faltering, and her hand dropping. He curses in his mind. Way to go, idiot. Now she thinks you're weird regardless, and she's not going to want to talk to you anymore, and-

A pager buzzes where it's clipped to her waistband, and she clicks a button on the side of it. She gives him yet another apologetic smile, but this time, it doesn't quite reach her eyes. "Sorry. Duty calls. It was nice to meet you, Mr. Reid." And then she's breezing past him, her hips swaying as she walks away, without looking back.

It's doctor, actually. The words are on the tip of his tongue as he watches her leave, but they never come to fruition. She's out of earshot before he can get his bearings.

Spencer sighs, leaning against one of the bookshelves. He's suddenly not as interested in reading about Kepler.

[roach-works]

Why did wheat become a widespread staple crop given that it's difficult to harvest/transport/etc? This is not meant to be snarky or combative in any way, it's a genuine question. Are there any books you'd recommend for learning more about this kind of economic and technological history? Thanks.

sorry, i've long since forgotten all the actual books i've read about it, but i will always recommend This Guy:

also as very much a non-expert, my semi-informed opinion on Wheat is that growing complicated and difficult compared to going to the grocery store, and doesn't stack up very well to living in a food forest like north and south americans managed, either.

however, wheat is a grass, and grass grows in a lot of places that people also like to live in, and so wheat farming isn't as crazy a venture as it might otherwise seem.

in a lot of climates, it's possible to plant the grass, harvest the grass seeds, and store the seeds long enough to get you through the part of the year where there's nothing much to eat. if you manage your social and material technology right, you can store a lot of the seeds, and you can even transport them around before they rot, meaning you can now export the seeds from places where grass grows into places where it doesn't. the stalks of the grass that you can't eat provides food for the animals you need to help you grow the grass. and transport the seeds, too.

the social structure required to grow wheat in bulk (a steep and violent hierarchy) does three things: feeds everyone in it with enough extra that the guys on the bottom of the organization can survive to grow more wheat next year, and allows the guys on the top can sequester the rest as profit, consolidating their power. the third thing is that as land is converted to wheat fields, it stops yielding any other food but wheat, which locks people into the system for good. once a people depend on a staple cereal grain for their main source of calories, there isn't an easy way back: forests are chewed away for more wheat fields and those woodlands that remain are shifted towards hardwoods for agricultural tools, rather than food forests with fruit/nuts/shrubs, and even those maintained as game preserves still can't support the needs of entire villages.

in arid and semi-arid conditions, it's even harder to step away from dependence on grain farming because there the agricultural development is along rivers where the land can be irrigated, and the population of people supported by grain production is extremely concentrated into those small areas rather than spread across the entire biome.

in the northern parts of eurasia where grain couldn't be produced at scale because it was too rocky and too cold, people mostly went fishing, and when they grew stuff it was hardy root crops like beets and turnips.

DISCLAIMER: this is all very approximate. but now you know as much as i know.

P.S actually here's the last thing about wheat: it probably all started as a way to reliably source and produce beer, which was invented a long time before bread. bread was invented from wheat when the guys who were producing the beer seeds wanted to start exporting beer seeds to people who wanted beer far away, so they baked the seeds into tablets you could easily transport and then ferment with water once you got to your destination. eventually the traders who were transporting the beer kits started eating them, too, and crackers as a snack food really took off. look up the wikipedia article on beer if you don't believe me.

[casscainmainly]

My Top 10 Batgirl (2000) Moments

This is my list of top 10 Batgirl (2000) moments!! There were so many to choose from, but these are my personal favs :)). Counting down from 10 to my absolute favourite.

10. Volving

An absolute classic. Perfectly encapsulates what Cass does throughout the entire run, and more writers should play with Cass' use of language like this!

9. Beat Up Every Mob In Gotham

Perfect encapsulation of the early Barbara-Cass dynamic, and one of the funniest moments in the series. Just love the expressions and the way this shows so much of Cass' character.

8. Choosing to Write

The entirety of issue #2 builds up to this heart-wrenching moment. After delivering a dead man's final message to his wife, Cass sees the wife's reaction to the written message and decides to learn to write. A foundational moment for her character, and a nice motherly Babs scene too.

7. Alpha Redemption

Capping off issues 35 + 36, Batgirl unmasks herself to convince Alpha (an amnesiac villain) that he doesn't have to be defined by his past. Brilliantly displays her core belief that people can change, and the fact that her belief pays off makes this moment extremely moving.

6. For God's Sake

Possibly a controversial pick, but I really like this moment because it underscores some of the fundamental conflict between Babs and Cass. They love each other, but they don't always understand each other, particularly in regards to each other's disabilities. A painful moment that should have been explored more.

5. Fight For Your Life

My favourite Stephanie and Cass moment in this run. You can feel Cass' grief throughout this hallucination, but there's also so much hope and love (for Stephanie and for herself). It's an amazing conclusion to Cass' initial suicidal tendencies: instead of desiring death, she now actively fights to live.

4. Darknight Detectives

This interaction sums up a lot of Bruce and Cass' best moments. Cass' unwavering moral beliefs, Bruce's pride, their instinctive understanding of each other; they just get each other in a way few others do. I picked this one instead of the 'instinct/good answer' moment because it also marks Cass' development in her detective ability. From Moment 8 above to here, the confidence in her mental capacities has grown so much. She really volved!

3. Perfect For A Year

I mean of course this had to be here. These lines literally take up 90% of my brain space, it's an incredibly tense moment that illustrates Cass' desire to be perfect, her need to be useful and good. This issue is also just awesome.

2. You're... Not

Another absolute classic. Illustrates Cass' compassion and her belief that people aren't defined by their lineage, which is particularly personal to her, given her own dad. This struggle between good/bad, parent/child defines many of Cass' best stories.

1. Who Do You Think You Are? + Father's Day

What else would number 1 be?? Issue 33 is my favourite in the entire run, and the entire thing is stacked with moments that could fill up this list. I just love 'who do you think you are' because it's all of Cass' rage spilling out, and yet she still loves David Cain in her own complicated way (and he reciprocates, too). Then we have the ending, which is the BEST Bruce and Cass moment ever. The sparse, meaningful dialogue, the expressions, the reveal of the TITLE: comic book writing at its finest.

Honorary mention to the Shiva/Cass fight, which just narrowly missed out.

[p0orbaby]

We No Speak Italiano

summary: you’ll never miss a day of Duolingo again

warnings: are language barriers and miscommunication warnings?

a/n: based on this request ! also thank you to @onsomenewsht for inflating my ego and helping navigate italian !

word count: 2.1k

-

Alexia looks at you like you’ve just dropped the biggest bombshell in the history of bombshells. Her eyes are wide, mouth slightly agape, and she’s got that look, like she’s trying to figure out how to assemble a piece of IKEA furniture with no instructions and half the screws missing.

“Estoy embarazada,” you say again, because you’re pretty sure that’s the right way to tell her you’re mortified after spilling your entire glass of wine on her brand-new sofa.

Your high school Spanish teacher would be so proud.

But instead of the expected response, maybe a nervous laugh or string of expletives, Alexia gasps, and her hands fly to her mouth like she’s just heard the Virgin Mary is back for round two. Her eyes flick down to your stomach and back up to your face. The calculation going on behind her eyes is something like 2 + 2 = 5, but you have no idea why.

“I… Oh my God,” she says, her voice all wobbly, like she’s about to cry. “I didn’t… I mean, this is… Are you okay?” She’s speaking in slow, deliberate Spanish now, like you’re suddenly a toddler and not a grown-ass woman who just spilled wine.

You blink at her. “Sí?”

“Madre mía”

-

It starts with a breakfast that makes no sense.

You wake up to the smell of something cooking in the kitchen, which is odd because Alexia barely knows how to operate a toaster without supervision. You stumble out of bed, groggy, and follow the scent of food.

What you find in the kitchen is nothing short of alarming: Alexia, apron-clad and concentrating so hard that she’s actually sticking her tongue out a little, is stirring something in a pot while a blender whirs ominously next to her.

“Buenos días,” she sings out when she notices you standing in the doorway. She’s all smiles, too bright for this early in the morning, and you immediately get suspicious.

“What’s going on?” you ask, eyes narrowing as you take in the sight of an overfull fruit bowl, a plate stacked with multigrain toast, and what appears to be an entire carton of eggs scrambled and ready to be eaten.

“Sit, sit,” she insists, pulling out a chair for you like you’ve suddenly developed a bad back and need assistance. “I made breakfast”

“You… made breakfast,” you repeat, eyeing the smoothie she pours into a glass and slides over to you. It’s an unsettling green color, like pond scum, and you’re not sure it’s fit for human consumption.

“Sí. You need to start your day with lots of nutrients.” She’s practically bouncing on her toes, like a Labrador eager to please.

You blink at the smoothie, then back at her. “Since when did you learn how to use the Nutribullet?”

She doesn’t answer directly, just gives you an encouraging smile that feels a little too close to a grimace. “Drink up. It’s good for you”

You take a tentative sip, and it’s like drinking liquid grass mixed with what you can only hope is kale. “Are you trying to kill me?”

“No!” She’s almost offended, but there’s a hint of nervousness in her voice that you can’t quite place. “It’s full of vitamins. Good for… energy”

You stare at her, but she just stares back, eyes wide and almost… expectant.

“Okay,” you say slowly, deciding to let this weirdness slide, for now. Maybe she’s on a trendy new health kick. Or maybe it’s an early birthday surprise gone wrong. Either way, you down the smoothie in a few brave gulps, trying not to think about the fact that it tastes like lawn clippings.

Alexia beams at you when you finish, like you’ve just accomplished something monumental. “Bien, bien. Now, sit tight. I’ll get the rest”

She practically skips back to the stove, where she starts piling eggs and toast onto a plate. You don’t even bother asking why she’s suddenly turned into Martha Stewart; you’re too busy wondering if you’ve somehow walked into a parallel universe.

It’s only later, after you’ve forced down an absurd amount of scrambled eggs, that she starts talking about how “important it is to stay healthy” and how she’s “going to take care of everything from now on,” which sounds sweet but also vaguely threatening.

You brush it off, chalking it up to some kind of weird phase. After all, everyone gets weird sometimes, right?

-

By day two, you’re starting to suspect that something is seriously wrong.

It begins with a confrontation over laundry, specifically, the fact that you’re not allowed to do any. At all.

“I’ve got it,” Alexia says, practically wrestling the basket out of your hands when you attempt to head for the washing machine.

You try to grab it back, but she holds it over her head like some ridiculous game of keep-away. “What is with you?”

“You shouldn’t be lifting heavy things,” she says, so earnestly it makes your brain short-circuit for a second.

“It’s a basket of clothes,” you argue, “not a sack of bricks. And I lift heavier things at the gym every day”

She shakes her head, not budging. “No. Let me do it. Just relax”

You gape at her, watching as she carries the laundry to the washing machine like it’s a ticking time bomb. She’s being weirdly gentle, placing the clothes in like they might shatter if she drops them too hard.

Then there’s the vitamin situation. You’re sitting on the freshly cleaned sofa, flipping through channels, when Alexia plops down beside you with a clatter of bottles and packages.

“Take these,” she says, handing you an array of supplements that looks like it belongs on the shelf of a pharmacy. There are multivitamins, folic acid, omega-3s, and some other pill you can’t even pronounce.

“What is this?” You hold up the folic acid like it’s a foreign object. “I’m not trying to hatch an egg here”

“Just take them,” she insists, pushing the bottles toward you. “They’re good for you”

“I’m pretty sure the only thing these are good for is draining my will to live,” you mutter, but she gives you that look, the one that’s all big hazel eyes and soft smiles, and you end up taking them just to get her to stop hovering.

When you try to go for a run that afternoon, she practically tackles you at the door.

“Maybe you should rest,” she suggests, like she’s trying to steer a toddler away from a busy street. “You know, take it easy for a bit”

“Take it easy?” You raise an eyebrow. “I’m not 80. And since when do you care about rest days? You’re usually the one dragging me to the gym at 6 AM”

She opens her mouth, closes it, then opens it again like a fish gasping for air. “It’s important to be careful”

“Careful of what, exactly?”

She hesitates, and you catch a flicker of something in her expression, nervousness, maybe? Fear? Whatever it is, it’s weirding you out. “Just… you know, careful”

You’re about to argue, but she gives you a kiss on the forehead, all soft and sweet, and you end up staying in just to avoid making things even more bizarre.

-

By day three, you’re done. Absolutely, 100% done.

It starts with the breakfast smoothies, again. This time, it’s a vibrant pink concoction that tastes like liquid chalk mixed with berries, and you’re pretty sure it’s the same smoothie you saw in a TV ad for pregnancy supplements once.

When Alexia starts lecturing you on the importance of hydration, while handing you a liter of water with electrolytes, you decide it’s time to get to the bottom of this.

“Alexia,” you say, setting the water down with a definitive thud, “we need to talk”

She glances at you, clearly nervous, and you know you’ve hit the jackpot. “About what?”

“About why you’re acting like I’m a fragile little baby bird that needs to be protected from all the big, scary things in life,” you reply, crossing your arms.

Her face flushes, and she avoids your gaze, fidgeting with the hem of her shirt. “I just-, I want to take care of you”

“I appreciate that,” you say, softening just a little, “but you’ve gone full-on helicopter mode. And it’s freaking me out”

She looks at you for a long moment, then sighs like she’s been carrying the weight of the world.

“You didn’t tell me,” she says, voice soft like she’s whispering state secrets. “How long? I mean… when did you find out?”

You stare at her, a mental Rolodex flipping through every interaction you’ve had over the last few days, searching for the moment when you apparently lost your mind. “Find out what?”

“That you’re…” She trails off, wide-eyed, and then whispers, like she’s on a soap opera, “Pregnant”

There’s a beat of silence. And then another one. You feel like someone just turned off the power in your brain. You’re pregnant? No, no, no. Last you checked, you were just really bad at pouring wine.

“Wait,” you finally say, holding up a hand to stop her from offering you yet another pillow or maybe a foot rub. “Pregnant?”

Alexia’s eyebrows are practically in her hairline. “You said you’re embarazada”

Oh. Oh. Oh no.

“Alexia,” you say slowly, enunciating like you’re the one explaining the IKEA instructions now. “I said I’m embarrassed. Not pregnant. Embarrassed. Mortified. Humiliated because I thought I ruined your sofa with a ten-euro bottle of red”

She looks like she’s buffering, trying to load what you just said. “Embarazada… means pregnant, in Spanish”

Ah, the joys of faux amis, false friends, words that sound like they should mean the same thing but are actually waiting to sabotage you like linguistic landmines. Your high school Spanish teacher can take a hike.

You wipe away a tear, trying to catch your breath. “Alexia… I told you I was embarrassed. Imbarazzato doesn’t mean pregnant in Italian, it means mortified. Humiliated. Just how I felt when I spilled that wine and thought I ruined your furniture”

“Wait,” Alexia says, her brow furrowing in that cute, confused way you’d normally find adorable if she weren’t in the middle of thinking you’re harbouring a tiny human in your uterus. “So you’re not…?”

“No!” You laugh, a little hysterically because, seriously, how did you get here? “I’m not pregnant. We’re both women. How would that even work? I mean, unless there’s something about human biology I missed in school, I’m pretty sure that’s not in the cards for us”

Her eyes widen as the realisation hits, and then she groans, burying her face in her hands. “Dios mío, I’m such an idiot”

You’re still laughing, but you manage to pat her knee reassuringly. “An adorable idiot, but yeah, kind of”

“Well, you did say ‘embarazada,’” she points out. “How was I supposed to know you just meant you were embarrassed?”

You shrug. “Maybe when I didn’t start eating pickles and ice cream? Or asking for your jersey for when the baby arrives?”

“Touché.” She’s still grinning, that big, beautiful smile that makes you forgive her for thinking you were about to drop a baby bomb on her. “So, you’re just embarrassed”

“Yes. Very. And I’m also very much not pregnant. I’m sorry for confusing you”

She sighs, exaggerated like she’s relieved, and you both start laughing again, the awkward tension from the past few days melting away. But there’s still a mischievous glint in her eye, one that makes you a little wary.

“What?” you ask, knowing full well you’re about to regret it.

“Well, since you’re not pregnant,” she says slowly, leaning closer with that flirty smirk you love and hate in equal measure, “how about we do something about that embarrassment?”

She wiggles her eyebrows, and you roll your eyes. “Oh, so now that I’m not a fragile incubator, you’re all over me?”

“Exactamente,” she says, pulling you into her lap with surprising ease, even for someone who regularly benches more than your body weight. “Besides, I have to make sure you’re really not pregnant”

“Alexia,” you say, trying to sound stern but failing miserably when she starts nuzzling your neck, “that’s not how this works, remember?”

She grins against your skin, pressing a teasing kiss to your collarbone. “Are you sure?”

“Positive.” You push her back just enough to meet her eyes, raising an eyebrow. “But if you want to keep treating me like a queen, I’m not going to complain”

“Deal,” she says, her voice softening, her hand resting on your cheek. “But next time you’re embarrassed, can you please just say it in Italian, or English?”

You laugh, pressing a kiss to her lips. “Sure, but only if you promise not to freak out the next time I spill something”

“No promises,” she murmurs, pulling you closer, “but I’ll try”

[goblinontour]

Twilight

to climb back up from my oblivion

warnings: 1st person pov, talks of pregnancy, miscarriage, feelings, and sex. 

word count: 7k

It is the last day of winter.  

The sun should have shown itself by now, should have crept back into the creases of the earth and returned his freckles stolen by the cold, made us blush under its rays. But the sky remains bolted shut and there’s nothing on his face other than the purple that now seems embedded under his eyes. Shadows where warmth used to be. I bet mine looks just the same — though I still refuse to look in the mirror. I don’t need the confirmation. I know what I’d see: a face that doesn’t belong to me anymore, a stranger carved from sleepless nights and something nameless.  

For two months now, I’ve been paralysed with fear. I think I am living a nightmare, a dystopia. A world where things are just a little off-kilter, where reason slides just out of reach. I read, I listen, I try to understand the impossible. I try to untangle the logic of things that seemed reasonable before, but which oneself can no longer reach with feasible arguments. It’s like running my hands along a wall looking for a door that isn’t there. And all around me, people keep pretending. Pretending to be going about their lives, pretending all is business as usual, pretending they don’t hear the static growing louder.  

I keep looking out to winter trees, bare and brittle, skeletal in their stillness. And he…he is seeking achievements one after the other, as though that will fill the space. As though stacking accomplishments brick by brick will build something strong enough to hold him up. But I see what he’s doing. He’s turning off the soul — too much transparency bothers, you see. Too much honesty, too much feeling, and it would all come apart. So he moves forward, while I remain here, watching the trees, feeling the wind hollow me out.  

There’s a lot of negative emotion I am feeling. 

But that word — negative — doesn’t quite capture it. It’s not just sadness or simple dread. It’s something continually sprawling and seeping into everything. I keep wondering how this collective psychosis is possible? How the world can split in two, between those who see it and those who refuse to? And him. How can he believe that ignorance is the one thing that embodies the solution to all worries, problems, anxieties, and fears that your absence caused? He wants to un-know what has already carved itself into the marrow of things. He wants to believe he can choose not to feel it. And maybe he can. Maybe he’s learned something I haven’t. 

I feel like a cat looking at a calendar, staring at the little squares marked with days and not understanding the meaning of them. Time is streaming, spilling, slipping, and I don’t know how to be or what to do in the remaining time I have to urge for myself. To claw something back before it’s too late.  

I wish I could say it directly.  

But ultimately, I believe that in these circumstances, it is the only choice — to keep it buried, to play along. So that we can continue in the paradigm of the perfect reality and not in the nightmare of despair we’ve been given. Because to accept it, to speak it out loud, would be to let it consume us whole.  

I didn’t realise until now that souls could have a patina.  

Perhaps it’s that thing where you get wiser with age and experience, and so maybe your soul develops a patina over time. A thin film of time and sorrow, a dulling of the once-bright edges. It’s kind of a beautiful idea, in theory, to think of the soul as having a patina. It sounds very poetic. But I just wish it would have come to me in a different way, a more pleasant way. Not like this. Not when I had to come to terms with the fact that I’m dealing with sleepless nights not over someone else’s crying, which should have been yours, but my own.   

There’s a kind of exhaustion that sleep doesn’t fix.  

You have no way to know, but it’s the kind that settles in your bones when your days are filled with things that don’t move you, but they settle, deep and slow, like water sinking into wood until it ultimately starts to rot. It’s the kind that lingers in the hollow of your throat and makes you choke on nothing. It’s not the tiredness that comes from doing too much, but from doing too little of what makes you feel alive. And the worst part is that I don’t even know what that is anymore. I try to go through the motions like before. Ticking off everything on my to-do list, fulfilling obligations, pretending the structure is enough. But something essential is missing. And maybe it’s not that I need more rest, but that I need more of myself in my own life — more of the things that once made time disappear, made my heart race in my chest so hard I thought it might burst out, those that remind me why any of this matters in the first place. But I can’t find the thread to pull myself back. I said a time “before”, before you that was, but now I realise there’s no before, for there’s no after. 

There is only this.  

It is not a metaphor I’m trying to make out of this ache. It is not something that can be translated into prettier language, not something that can be softened. It is simply what it is. It hurts in a way I’ve never known before. No animal could be as cruel as a man. No man could be as cruel as God. No God should have ever taken you away from me.  

It’s as though the world wants to calcify me.  

To make me hard, to make me unfeeling, to coat me in layers until nothing raw is left. But I don’t want to be unfeeling. I don’t want to be numb. I just don’t know how else to survive…

What have I done?

It was one of those March days when the sun shines hot and the wind blows cold. 

When it is summer in the light and winter in the shade, and you don’t know which season you belong to, caught between the thaw and the lingering frost. The first days of spring in the non-astronomical season, in that strange liminal space where the earth is undecided, as if hesitating to commit fully to warmth.  

It felt childish, but early in the morning, I asked Alex for a willow tree in our garden, which I know is too small for one — the roots would surely outgrow the space, the branches would brush against the house, probably the neighbours’ too. Much too wild, too untamed for something so contained as the space we live in. But I wanted it anyway. I wanted something that would sway with the wind, that would bend but not break. Something that I could watch bloom despite it all…He said he would do it when he wasn’t so afraid of letting something he planted grow again.  

It broke my heart, the little of it that was left still holding itself together.  

We cried together in bed for a while after that, though I think we had stopped crying for you. It was starting to feel like we were crying only for ourselves, for the versions of us that had existed before this grief you hollowed out of us. For who we had been before loss turned us into something else. And maybe that was the most unbearable part of it all — not just losing you, but losing ourselves in the process.  

Since then, I only cry alone in my own selfishness. I do not let him see it. I keep my grief contained with my fists tightly held, which I refuse to unclench. 

But I know he cries too. I hear it sometimes, even through the shut door of the bathroom, even through the thick silence we pretend is nothing. The muffled gasps, the sharp intakes of breath. The way he presses a towel to his mouth to keep it all inside. As if sound alone is what makes it real. It seems acknowledging you would break him entirely.  

I feel sick looking at him.  

Not because I do not love him, but because I do, I love him. I love him so much that it is unbearable to witness his suffering and be powerless against it. Because I know what it feels like to sit with grief alone, to let it consume you piece by piece in the dark, and I can’t stand the thought of him feeling that same emptiness.  

I just want to touch all his loneliness and suck it out of his body, just for one night, at least. I want to hold it inside me, let it settle in my lungs, let him breathe freely for a little while. I want to fill myself with all of his sorrow, let it flood through me, and then press my mouth to his and give it all back. Let him drink it from me and know who he is by seeing it reflected in my eyes.  

I love him.  

And I think I love him enough to try and hold both of us together through the pain.  

I’ve never loved anyone like this, and I never thought there would be anything that could eclipse it. We weren’t ready to love someone more than we loved each other. But we did. We loved you more. That love, when it is that enormous, does not simply disappear. It does not simply dissolve into nothingness like you seemingly did. It lingers with nowhere to go. He made me love myself once. And maybe all of it together — the way he loved me, the way I loved him — caused this much love for you to spark in such a short time. We only just got to know you.

I don’t love myself anymore.  

To be loved is to be known, I know that. But I also know now that love is not always gentle. Love, even in its purest form, can wound. 

At night, I often dream of such a time where I got to love you, where I held you properly and you knew me in return. And then I wake, disgusted by the immensity of my own yearning, by the vast, hollow ache that stretches inside me. It makes me sick, this hunger. So I deny it. I tell myself I do not want it. Because to want would mean to recognise the impossibility of it.  

I think I’m afraid that if I admit I wanted you, I will have to admit that I won’t, and can never, have you.  

And I know — God, I know — that this hunger of mine is not love in its purest form. Not like the love you have shown me. This is something else. It’s possessive, I know. A need to take and take, to grasp at what is left until I am sure my fingertips have memorised every remaining trace of you. Until I have devoured what still lingered and made it part of me, hoarded it like a secret I refuse to let time erode. An act that, in the end, would mean forsaking your existence. 

To keep you only as something I consume, something I ache for, something that I refuse to let go of…

Would that mean I never really let you be real at all?

It was summer when we planned you.  

The whole city was empty, as if it had been invented just for us. The kind of stillness that only happens when the heat chases everyone indoors, leaving behind only the sound of bugs and the distant hum of traffic and us brave ones. Our footsteps echoed on the warm asphalt, his hand trembled slightly when I touched him — it was subtle, but I knew him too well — I felt it in the way his fingers tightened around mine for a second before loosening again.  

The sun was slowly going down, stretching out the day in that lazy, golden way it does in the thick of summer. It put on a real show that afternoon, casting him in gold all over. It made everything feel like it was plucked out of an old film where the colors are richer, the emotions sharper. I could feel Alex’s warmth from a mile’s distance, though the sweat prickling on the inside of his palm and onto mine gave him away regardless. He always ran warm, but that evening, it felt different. Like he was burning from the inside out.  

I stopped near an old swing I always saw in the path we walked but never dared to touch before. One of those rusted ones that creaked under the weight of me and of time. I laughed and let my dress slide a little, not for him, not for anyone, but because it felt good to let the air hit my skin, to pretend the world didn’t matter. As if time could stand still. And maybe it did, but only for a moment. It was just me and him, us, and that included you — the thought of you, the unspoken idea of you that had been forming between us long before we had the courage to say it out loud.  

When you finally came around, the time to tell your still out-of-the-loop soon-to-be daddy also did. I wasn’t the most inspired, but you were too much to keep hidden any longer. 

I told him on a drive back home — I don’t even remember where from. Maybe we had just been aimlessly driving, filling the silence with half-finished conversations and songs hummed under our breaths.  

He threw his half-smoked cigarette out the window and didn’t say a word until he saw us safely parked in the mostly vacant parking lot of a nearby restaurant, the closest spot where he could pull over.  

“Did I hear you right?”

I nodded, staring at the dashboard, my heart hammering so loudly I swore he could hear it.  

He exhaled sharply, dragged a hand through his hair, then turned to look at me like he was memorising my face in real-time.  

“Say it again.” he murmured, like he needed to be sure he hadn’t imagined it.  

So I did. And the second time, it felt more real.  

His face changed. I wish I had a better way to describe it, but that’s the only way I know how to say it — it changed. His whole body, too. Something inside him had just shifted, reorganised itself to make space for something bigger than either of us. It was like his organs rearranged themselves to make room for you spiritually, whereas I was deemed the one to take care of the physicality. 

His hands, always so steady, shook as they reached for me. He held my face so delicately it made me feel like I was the sole thing worthy of such a touch. He looked at me like had just given him the entire universe.  

“Are you scared?” I asked.  

“Terrified.” he admitted, his lips twitching like he wasn’t sure if he should laugh or cry. And then he did laugh, it just broke him open at the edges and spilled over with something too big to contain. “But God, I’ve never wanted anything more.”

You made him the happiest I’ve ever seen him.  

Nowadays, when I drive to nowhere, or when I smoke by the window alone on silent evenings, I still see you, and I still see him, smiling as he was, like a movie running endlessly. A loop of something untouchable, something I’ve since lost. 

Sometimes, when the radio plays a song we used to hum absentmindedly in the kitchen, I catch myself looking at the passenger seat, half-expecting to find him there, fingers tapping against his knee, lost in thought, or nervously checking on you in the backseat. I can almost see it, the way he would have glanced back every few seconds, pretending he wasn’t checking as often as he was, pretending he wasn’t entirely consumed by the sight of you. I can even hear him…Alright back there, love? That soft, careful voice of his he would have reserved just for you. 

The phantom weight of your presence is so vivid in my imagination that, for a second, I forget the truth. I’m alone. He’s never here. Just the ghost of him, of you, of a life that almost was. And then the song ends, and the silence that follows is deafening.

It’s summer again now.  

And I miss you…but I miss him too.  

I feel him in the warm light that covers the city, in the empty streets where there’s no one left, in the sunsets that always look like I might see you again if I hold onto that hope. I miss when the world was brighter, when mine and Alex’s affairs were less convoluted, when love was something simple and reckless and ours.  

I see the sudden speeding up of cars below, the slowing down of people as the world gives way to heightened sensations, to feeling everything I have not been letting inside. And then, inevitably, the process of becoming desensitised to it all over again. I miss him, but I do not need any part of him in sharing this sacred moment. I do not deserve to, not when I am with you.  

Even sitting with just who I have become feels unbearable. 

So, I smoke, and I numb myself to my surroundings, looking for a recluse from being myself. The person I am sickens me. I flick the ash onto the windowsill, watch the embers fade, and tell myself I’ll quit tomorrow. But I won’t. Because there are too many things I should have quit by now. This longing, this version of myself that I don’t even recognise anymore…

This grief is part of it too, isn’t it?

It is Friday, late at night in autumn.  

Outside it is raining as if someone is trying to wash the city of its sins. It beats down on our windows so harshly that I can’t drown it out no matter how hard I try. The sound is relentless. The wind howls between the buildings, rattling street signs and bending trees, and for a brief second, I think the whole world is grieving with me. The lamplight outside flickers against the puddles, casting reflections that shimmer and distort — nothing stays still, nothing holds its shape. I stare at them for too long, hoping that they will.  

It wasn’t too late in the pregnancy when it happened. We barely got to enjoy you before you got taken away from us. That, I’ll never forgive myself for. I keep thinking if I had done something differently — if I had been more careful, if I had paid more attention, if I had just…known — maybe things wouldn’t have turned out like this. Maybe you would still be here, a weight in my arms instead of a distant feeling.  

He didn’t take it well, and that made me take it worse than if he did, I think. He shut down, locked himself away in the quiet, unreachable space inside him, and I was left outside, pounding on his door. There was no nursery to go and mourn in. We hadn’t even got around to that yet. There was no crib waiting for a future occupant, no tiny clothes tucked into drawers, no soft lullabies humming through the walls. There was not a body to go and cry over except each other’s…nothing left but him and I and the memory of you, and you were both slipping from me.  

I am left with empty hands — that’s the story of my life. The feeling of absence clings to me. I feel envious of everyone around me. I feel envious of the ones who got to have a headstone, a place to go, a physical marker that proves their loss was real. I wish you would have at least given me that. You gave me nothing, and yet, somehow, you took everything.  

I think about love and not-love. About how love is supposed to hold, to comfort, to shelter. Alex won’t look at me anymore. I lost my dignity so miserably, and I don’t know how he can pretend that we are always ‘fine’. When everything else isn’t, I just want him to be kind to me again — Please be kind to me. Nobody is to blame, least of all me — I wish he would understand that.  

He’s sitting in a corner now, among stacks of books and cigarette smoke, a bottle of whiskey on the floor beside him. The room smells of old paper and burnt tobacco, of rain-soaked fabric and something faintly metallic — that’s probably from the storm. The lamp beside him flickers, the glow catching in the glass of the framed photo we never took down. I don’t look at it. I can’t.  

I’ve been staring at the ceiling for a while, going through nearly everything I’ve ever said to him in hopes of finding where I wronged him so badly. I replay every conversation, every glance, every touch that might have led us here. Maybe if I can pinpoint the exact moment it all started slipping, I can drag us back to the surface.  

“Want some?”

His voice cuts through the silence. He offers his hand to me, holding the cigarette in such a manner that it almost urges me to put my lips on it. I would do it only to feel his fingertips on my bottom lip. His fingers are stained with nicotine, his nails uneven. He’s been biting them again. His eyes fixate on me, ever so slightly curved at the corners, telling me that this offer is all but a test, and that he doesn’t actually want me to take it. His face betrays his intent — he wants no part in me ruining myself.  

For that, I am grateful.  

“Everything okay?” I ask from my spot, refusing to play along.  

“Yeah, why?”

I look at him, and he understands the anger I’m feeling. I don’t know if he’s being thick on purpose to get a rise out of me or if he truly is so out of touch with reality — more than I ever thought he was.  

“Everything’s fine. You don’t have to worry about me.”  

He says it like a fact. It’s his script he’s rehearsed so well he almost believes it. The hand holding the cigarette now hangs by his side rather than near his mouth. It’s still burning, consuming its own life with each passing moment. The ash at the tip grows longer, dangerously close to falling onto the carpet. A part of me wants it to catch on fire and burn everything down, starting with me and him, just so we don’t have to figure out the solution to this game we’re forced to take part in, given no instructions and no way to cheat our way through it.  

“Okay.”

I don’t think I can hold my breath anymore. I’d have to do it until everything around me fell apart, which the majority already has, but I can’t let this happen. I won’t become immune to his sweet sound of ignorance.  

“I’m standing around like an idiot waiting for you.”

I almost yell it at him, but I think it ends up coming out softer than I would have liked. He doesn’t flinch.  

“Waiting for what?”

“Waiting for you.”

“Waiting for…what? What do you want me to do?”

“I’m waiting for you to get rid of me, Al-” I shake my head before he can interrupt. “No, no, don’t you look at me like that. I don’t want your pity. God knows what I’ll do, so please, do not…do not look at me like that.”  

I hold my head high, face up, storing tears in the back of my eyes.  

He looks at me with his own eyes that once made me believe I would matter. The ones that used to look at me like I was the only thing in the world worth seeing. They’ve dulled. Still beautiful — still him — but something has shifted beneath the surface and I am terrified it is irretrievable.  

The rain keeps falling. The cigarette smolders in his hand. The physical distance between us that has become too long for comfort is now shorter, but I am still waiting for him, far from an answer.  

We kiss, the taste of whiskey and fatigue lingering between us, while his cold hands ghost over my warm skin. I’ve been setting myself on fire for this heat in his absence, hoping the flames will keep me warm, hoping fire will heal my soul. When we break apart, the flame has burnt out.  

“If you want to light your cigarette, use the fire in my heart.” I tell him.  

He smiles, and it makes me proud. It makes me feel like I still have something left to give. But there’s a thought at the back of my mind — a quiet, creeping fear I can’t shake…

What if it burns out before he gets here, deep inside me?  

It’s November 2nd. 

You don’t have to know this, but today he made me feel alive.  

The room was cold. An inescapable kind of cold that settles in these buildings that are too old to hold warmth properly. The radiator rattled in protest, working though barely giving off any heat. I pulled the blanket tighter around me, but it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t the kind of cold wool could fight off, or that could be solved by adding another layer. This kind came from the inside out. 

I held a stuffed animal to my chest. It wasn’t meant for you, it was my own — mine only. Small and soft, something to press into the empty spaces where nothing else fit. It was old, one ear slightly torn, stuffing uneven from years of being clutched too tightly. I had it when I was a child, had it through every heartbreak, every sleepless night, and now it was here with me, in a bed that had never felt bigger.  

At some point, I let it slip from my grasp. Let my fingers move lower, sliding beneath the waistband of my pyjama pants. I could pretend I felt ashamed, that I felt dirty doing it. But I didn’t.  

The focus was not to evoke layers of hidden emotion. It wasn’t about longing or sadness or grief. It wasn’t about loss, either. It wasn’t even about wanting him. I’m not going to act like it was anything other than what it was — movement and sensation. A way to fill the time and carve out a moment where I wasn’t haunted by everything I had lost. I didn’t want to think. I didn’t want to feel. I just wanted to slip away for a little while, to exist in a space that was mine and mine alone, away from the eternal tragedy that we play in without ever understanding it and away from those nocturnal and demented thoughts that torment me. 

I wished to taste the sweet glory of release again. 

What you think is more important than what is real. It might not be the healthiest thought, or the fairest, but in moments like this, it brings me peace.  

“People always think we look for love at our lowest to distract us. I am convinced we do it because we want someone to look us in the eye, to look our ugly in the eye and still choose us.”

That was what I wanted.  

Not to forget. Not to cover up the truths we lived in. I didn’t want to ignore that I was still here, still surviving, even without you. I wanted him to see me as I was — this mess, this wreckage, this person who didn’t know how to hold onto anything anymore. I wanted him to see himself. I wanted him to see me and still believe I was something worth loving.  

I wanted him to tell me that he loved me, even after how I had failed you both.  

I didn’t stop touching myself when I noticed him standing in the doorway. I didn’t pull away or adjust my clothing or pretend like I wasn’t doing exactly what I was doing. I didn’t even flinch. 

He was watching, not in judgment or disgust. 

And so I continued as he stepped closer. So close now that there was no more debating what was happening, that I was fingering myself and crying. I didn’t even stop when he was near enough that I could feel his breath, see the way his hands flexed at his sides, like he wanted to reach out but wasn’t sure if he should. Not when he knelt beside the bed, either, when he kissed my thigh, lifting the blanket slowly with just the lightest touch of his fingers. I had my knees up in the air, bent at the caps, arching my back a bit as Alex climbed next to me. 

The mattress shifted under his weight taking its occupancy as he moved up the bed. He kissed me on the lips, softly, his taste warm and familiar. He covered my mouth with his palm, quieting my sighs, and replaced my fingers with his own between my thighs. I hadn’t felt his touch in so long, I had almost forgotten what it was like. He spread me apart, and though I was still empty — he kept his fingers only on the outskirts of me — I came close to feeling whole again.  

He unbuttoned his jeans, hastily, fumbling. Then he stopped. Rolled over onto his back beside me, one arm draped across his face as if shielding himself from something too bright and painful in the darkness. I turned toward him, reaching down before he could take himself out in his own eagerness, guiding his hand away so that I could be the one to touch him instead, to play with him just as he played with my softest parts. I put my hand down his jeans and talked to him in the way only I could. 

There was a streetlamp just outside the window, its light cutting through the slats of the blinds, casting striped shadows across his form. His eyes were darker in this lighting, his lashes flickering as he watched me, his mouth parting slightly every time I moved my hand. I could hear the distant hum of the occasional car speeding down the street, tires splashing through puddles. 

The world outside was still moving. Indifferent and unchanged.  

But inside this room, time had slowed.  

He took his rightful place above me, pushing me so hard in the process that I nearly rolled off the bed. He was there to catch me.  

He almost said something to me. He looked straight at me, his lips parted, his breath caught in his throat, and for a moment, I thought he might speak. His top lip quivered. He changed his mind and started undressing me. Whatever words he had, he swallowed them down, chose instead to press his mouth to my shoulder, my neck, my jaw. Maybe he knew that words wouldn’t rewrite the past, wouldn’t undo what had already been done and they would change nothing when he had his body there, speaking to me so tenderly. 

The stress that kept us awake all day and all night was dissipating. Maybe it helped to know that we’re all, both of us, we’re all feeling it. That it’s okay to be afraid and we don’t have to be strong.  

We don’t have to serve as role models. 

We didn’t lay down expectations or reshape our mindsets to redefine what was acceptable, didn’t brace for impact in this big approach. We just let it happen, let ourselves fall into each other like we always had.  

I slid across the sheets, curling up into myself, and Alex followed. He took me from behind, his forehead resting against my spine, his hand smoothing over the small of my back and lower onto my bare body, tracing over the dimples his fingers had pressed and carved into my skin so many times before.  

We had sex with one another for the very first time — not as the people we used to be, but as the people we had become in the aftermath of everything, these new versions of ourselves we had yet to discover. 

It was so overwhelming.  

Not just for me, but for him, too.  

I felt the moment it hit him, the exact second everything he had built inside of himself collapsed. He grabbed onto the blanket and pulled it over us like a shield, muffling the sounds that broke free from his throat. He started crying. And when he did, I felt something shatter in my chest. I knew then that he might leave again. That he would get up in the morning, sit on the edge of the bed, run a hand through his hair, and tell me that maybe, in another life, in another city, in another room, things could have been different and we would have had a different fate. 

But we didn’t have another life, we would never have another chance, just this one, and we got it wrong, but that didn’t mean we had to quit trying to make it right. Or, at the very least, make it bearable in its current state.  

He’s the only one who matches my sweetness, who feels emotions so deeply they tear him apart from the inside out. I sank my teeth into his skin, and he listened when I whispered in his ear.  

“Please bite me in return.”

I spoke to him in code, but not only. I wanted him to bruise me. I wanted him to say: Let’s sabotage each other, let’s pretend we don’t know each other, and then let’s kiss.

“I missed your pretty mouth so much.” he told me.  

He moved himself inside of me, and through that shifted the very foundation of who I was. It felt as though our hearts had fucked our brains, untangling every thought, until we were nothing but raw feeling, instinct, and need. There was no logic left between us, no fear, no past or future — only this. The warmth of his breath against my neck, the weight of him pressing into me, the unspoken language of skin on skin, heart to heart.  

It was the most genuine and honest act that had ever taken place between us. The last barricades we’d built to keep ourselves from feeling too much had dissolved in the heat of our bodies. We surrendered — not just to each other but to everything we had been running from. And I think that’s when you know it’s real. When reason drowns in the flood of unfiltered emotion, when desire stops being something you perform and becomes something that simply overtakes you, consumes you, makes you its own.  

We kissed sloppily and fucked lazily, moving slowly. We had all the time in the world. We weren’t just trying to claw our way back to something that had once been whole anymore. His hands, rough and familiar, mapped me out, relearning the territory he’d been forced to forget. Our moans tore through the air, shamelessly, mingling with the occasional quiet sobs we were too far gone to suppress.  

At one point, he pulled back just enough to look at me. His lips were swollen, his eyes dark with something that was more than just lust. “You still feel like home.” he murmured, almost like he didn’t want me to hear it.

I swallowed hard, threading my fingers through his hair, tugging lightly. “Then don’t leave.”

His breath hitched slightly. “I never wanted to.”

He kissed me again, harder this time, to swallow the space between us and make up for every second we had spent apart, every moment wasted on silence and avoidance. 

I wrapped my legs around his waist, pulling him closer, deeper, until we were no longer just touching but fully entwined. Tears clung to our cheeks, and I wasn’t sure anymore if we were crying from everything else or just from the overwhelming relief of this moment, of still having this, of still knowing each other in this way. He buried his face in the crook of my neck, and I ran my fingers through his hair, nails scratching lightly against his scalp.

“You’re shaking.” I whispered.

He let out a short, breathy laugh against my skin. “So are you.”

I wanted to hold him there, to keep him stuck to me forever in this way, to stop time from moving forward, because for the first time in so long, we weren’t ghosts in our own lives.  

For the first time in so long, we were real.

I didn’t understand him for a while. But now I know that to love in silence does not become reprimanding. The way I feel about him is beyond words and I understand his need for silence. In a manner of speaking, semantics will just never be enough. Not for this. Not for us. Not for the things we have lost. There comes a point when words just won’t do for human beings, for our inherent yearning and need, what only a crescendo can. A pinnacle. A peak. A release so raw that you have to beg the ones above. 

The ones that tell me nothing, the ones that tell me everything…

Oh, why won’t you give me the words?

It’s been a year.  

I didn’t want to be here for another winter. It was too much you and none at all.  

I suggested to Alex that we run off to the countryside. It seemed like a good idea to get out of this place, to slip away before the first snowfall could remind me of what we lost. There were no bags packed, no plans made — we set off with just one extra set of clothes stuffed into the backseat and no set destination in mind, only the silent, mutual agreement that we would let the road decide where we belonged.  

Alex drove, one hand on the wheel, the other resting between us, fingers occasionally grazing my thigh, making sure I was still there and letting me know that he was too. He put on the soundtrack of some Wes Anderson film and let it play, its whimsical, melancholic strings filling the car in place of words we weren’t ready to say. I let myself sink into the passenger seat in the quiet, lulled by the soft hum of Ennio Morricone drifting from the speakers, by the low vibration of the wheels rattling beneath me, carrying us somewhere — anywhere.  

I must have fallen asleep.  

When I wake, the sky outside is thick with gold, clouds gathered around the sun like whites cradling a yolk. Eggy. It strikes me as unusual. It’s an odd thing to see in winter, when the evenings are usually a wash of pale pinks and deep blues, cold and distant. There hasn’t been snow this year either, and I wonder if the world feels as upside down as I do.  

The music is gone, I realise. In place of it I hear Alex humming softly, a sound so familiar and low that it feels like a memory playing on repeat. When I turn to look at him, I notice it instantly — the skin beneath his eyes is raw and there are dried tracks of old tears have settled into his cheeks. He’s cried in his time spent alone behind the wheel. 

He notices me staring and wipes at his face, exhaling like he’s annoyed at himself. “I’m not sad.” he says. He really needs me to believe it.  

I don’t say anything. I just watch him.  

“I cried because…” He pauses, choosing his words carefully, measuring their weight before handing them to me. “Because I have the privilege of watching someone I love very much, even in sleep, and knowing I’ll get to talk to them again.”  

There are a million things I could say, but none of them would be enough, none of them would fit into the space that his words have carved between us. And before I can try, before I can even begin to think of how to hold all of this, the immensity of what he’s just said, his hand is on my cheek, warm and steady. The tactile sensation of it all overtakes me. 

“I was here first.” he declares. 

And you…you are the ubiquitous pest.  

Love can’t be created or destroyed — we’ve established that already. It lingers, even when it’s unwanted, even when it curdles into something unbearable. It stays until it evokes fear and it tears you apart, until you’re left with nothing but the pieces of what it used to be.  

You want me to love you still, but I can’t. I’ll soon catch the rot of you deep inside me that I’ve been too scared to face. Someone has to leave, and I won’t let that be us. I will love you forever, but I can’t. I can’t. I can’t — I won’t — I’m afraid I’ll catch your disease. 

A few months. That’s all it was.  

And yet — sometimes, just sometimes — I wish it would hurt for you too. At least a little. Just enough to make it fair. Just enough so I wouldn’t have to carry all of this alone. But now, it’s all I can do to push you away, to shove you off so I can live knowing that, for once, I saved someone. Even if it couldn’t be you.  

I saved me.  

I saved him.  

I saved us.  

I look out to the sun waving at us as it veils itself behind the clouds, casting long shadows over the quiet stretch of road ahead. I watch it disappear, a slow, deliberate exit, and I think—  

How lucky we are to have known someone that makes saying goodbye so hard.

a/n: Inspired by this request. This is definitely influenced by a lot of what I’ve been reading and seeing recently. I reference ‘God’ and concepts related to that quite a bit, I’ve noticed, it’s something that’s present here as well, and though I’m not at all religious I find it to be an interesting subject when it comes up in fictional situations. I mentioned the other day that I wrote a sentence I really liked, it’s the one at the end of the paragraph about the willow tree. I don’t have much else to add here :)

[writingoddess1125]

Ok, I just have to ask you. Can we have more daddy Mihawk? 🫠🔥

Please 🥺

You Got is Sugar!

Mihawk x FemReader +OOC Children

Liniște! {Be Quiet!}

Since Mihawk is Romanian 🇷🇴 I thought him speaking the tongue/culture would be fun!

If I got shit wrong PLEASE tell me!

• Most people do not realize this, because Mihawk keeps it behind closed door. But- He is very heavily tied to his culture of birth.

• Most of the time at home, Mihawk has developed the habit of just speaking his native tongue. Feeling comforble enough to do so- As well as wanting to pass it on to his children.

• Mihawk summoning Alucare to his study one frosty morning, humming a song from his youth as he has a stack of papers and books before him. The gloomy teen stepping in and raising a brow at his father-

• "Închide ușa" (Close the Door-) Mihawk said calmly waving to his child who stares at him confused. "What language are you speaking old man?-"

• "From now on I'm only speaking my native language to you. So you learn or you starve-" He says calmly as he hands his son the book. "You've got to be kidding-"

• "Nu glumesc" (I'm not kidding-)

• He adores you and will speak with you privately in his native tongue, teaching you important words that will only ever be used for you-

• Does not use tradional physical punishments. Truthfully he doesn't believe in them- Yes he will be a harsh teacher in training since that is different.

• Laying next to you in the soft silks of bed whispering "Te iubesc" Softly to you. Teaching you the meanings of every word, as well as being more vocally affectionate in this language.

• "Well at least youre learning the language" Mihawk said with a heavy sigh looking at Alucare who got his ass handed to him-

• "Face din nou" (Do it again) Mihawk says calmly tapping his sword clean as Alicare laid on the ground trying to get up.

• "Du-te dracului!" (Go to Hell) Alucare growls out.

• Mihaela is constantly in his arms. He truthfully refuses to let her go, doting on her heavily and seeing her as his star in his sky.

- Mihawk walked into his father's study, raising a brow at seeing the man holding Miha still while going through papers. Mihawk glancing up at his eldest rather quickly-

• He is delicate and handles much of Mihaela nightly upkeep. Letting you sleep throughout the night since you worked so hard during the days.

• Changing diapers, getting bottles, dealing with any midnight fussiness. He handles it all with grace and making sure you sleep- As well as takes this time to clean up the nursery or the bedroom so it's something you don't stress about.

• He will immediately wake up at the first sounds of his darling daughter fussing. Walking calmly to her nursery and always greet her the same way-

• "Scumpa mea~" (My treasure) Mihawk smiling at his fussing daughter. "So beautiful, like your your mother-" before scooping her up in his arms.

• Spoils Mihaela fucking ROTTEN- The whole house does really but Mihawk is the worse..

"Seems girls ate favored in this family" Alucare muses, his words having no mallace and just a simple jest at how his sister was so heavily spoiled. Mohawk raising a brow at this and staring at his child-

"Favored?" He questioned rather calmly.

"Yeah like favorite chil-"

"No-" Mihawk said calmy but firmly, cutting off his son. "Miha is my Sun, Bright, Innocent and Sweet but clearly with a fire of an attitude. You are my Moon, Smart, Ambitious and Loyal but can be cold. And your mother, She is my sky. Day or Night she guides me and holds the two most important things in my life. You are all equally needed and important to me. Without one or another all would be lost" He clarified rather sharply.

Alucare face getting a hint of pink at the rather kind words his father spoke. Now unsure how to respond or explain to his father he was just making a joke.

Bonus!-

Mihawk notices his cigars are missing- While he doesn't personally smoke he does have expensive cigars for guest or have gifted to him as gifts-

He knew he had counted 30- yet he had only 27 in his collection. Irritation hitting him as he closes the box and calmly grabs his hat-

On the otherside of the Island, Alucare is sitting on one of the old abandoned pillars- a place he had turned into his hide out were he could relax. Currently with one bottle of wine he had snuck from his father's secret stash and a cigar.

This had turned into his favorite pass time. Drinking directly out of the bottle and taking a mouthful of smoke as he sat there looking over the gloomy island-

However this was soon to end when a menacing shadow with glowing yellow eyes stood behind him- Alucare feeling his hair stand up on end as he slowly turned to see the invision of the devil himself there.

"O să număr până la trei-"

(I'm gonna count to Three-)

[contemplatingoutlander]

Noam Chomsky on "Lesser Evilism"

“There’s another word for lesser evilism. It’s called rationality. Lesser evilism is not an illusion, it’s a rational position. But you don’t stop with lesser evilism. You begin with it, to prevent the worst, and then you go on to deal with the fundamental roots of what’s wrong, even with the lesser evils.” [color emphasis added] —Noam Chomsky | Scheer Intelligence podcast | Jan. 17, 2020

Chomsky further explains why it is a rational decision to vote for the lesser to two evils:

"Even if there’s core, deep problems with the institutions, there still are choices between alternatives, which matter a lot. Small differences in a system with enormous power translate into huge effects. Meanwhile, you don’t stop with a lesser evilism; you continue to try to organize and develop the mass popular movements, which will block the worst and change the institutions. All of these things can go on at once. But the simple question of what button do you push on a particular day? That is a decision, and that matters. It’s not the whole story, by any means. It’s a small part of the story, but it matters.” [color emphasis added] ——Noam Chomsky | Scheer Intelligence podcast | Jan. 17, 2020

We witnessed how "small differences in a system with enormous power translate into huge effects" in the first Trump administration, as evidenced by how Trump's decision to stack the Supreme Court with far-right justices has resulted in Roe v. Wade being overturned, the Voting Rights Act being weakened, and the Bruen decision further weakening the nation's ability to control guns.

And Trump did all that damage just in his first term, when he still had "adults" in his administration willing to rein him in.

Imagine what changes to our nation Trump could make with only sycophants in his administration who want to implement Project 2025, just for starters.

Noam Chomsky's message is important to remember as we approach the 2024 election. If you are on the left and choose to sit out the election or vote for a third party because you view Biden as a "lesser evil," you are wittingly or unwittingly supporting the "greater evil" that is Trump. We learned that the hard way in 2016. Please don't let history repeat itself. Our nation could not survive a Trump dictatorship.

___________ Norm Chomsky image source (before edits/ quote)

[getaandlucius]

A brief taste of Honey (Geta x Lucius)

Summary: Geta is staying on the island with his uncle and learns of the aliance made with the Alamanni and of his brother Caracalla's fate.

Geta's POV

Geta and Caracalla, 8 years old

They were spending the season in Sicily. Their parents were both there, along with fifteen servants, all stuffed into a grand white villa near the sea. Its courtyard was adorned with an outdoor bath surrounded by lemon trees which was where Geta and Caracalla spend most of their time.

Both sat on the edge of the bath, their feet dangling in the water. Caracalla was playing with a carved wooden bear while Geta attempted to read. Both were privately tutored, but Geta was a far quicker learner than his brother. Caracalla preferred games and animals to arithmetic and literature.

Geta yawned. The heat was oppressive, and he had slept poorly the night before. He always struggled to adjust to unfamiliar surroundings. He placed his book in his lap and gazed at his pale legs submerged in the water. His skin, untouched by the sun, was milky white from spending so much time indoors. Though it was only the beginning of June, Geta preferred the palace halls, wandering through their vast expanse, discovering hidden alcoves where he could escape his parents and immerse himself in his studies.

Lost in thought, neither he nor Caracalla noticed the servant calling them for supper, the rustling leaves masking the sound. Suddenly, their mother appeared. Geta squinted against the sunlight. She looked furious.

"Why are you ignoring the summons?" she demanded.

Geta swallowed and glanced at her sheepishly. "You called?"

"Yes!"

He exchanged a look with his brother, who was suddenly pretending to be deaf, stacking his wooden animals into a precarious tower. The fox kept falling.

"We did not hear it, Mother. I am sorry," Geta tried.

"Lies," she hissed, shaking her head.

Geta looked past her at the trees, unable to hold her gaze. Looking at her was like facing Medusa. His mother had a lifeless kind of beauty—her features symmetrical and refined, her cheekbones high—but her eyes were cold and unyielding.

Defending themselves was futile. She never listened. Caracalla continued stacking his wooden animals as if he were somewhere far away, though Geta noticed his right hand was trembling slightly.

Without warning, she grabbed Caracalla by the armpits and hauled him up. "Look at me when I am speaking to you!" she seethed.

Caracalla still refused to acknowledge her.

Then, she backhanded him so hard that he fell sideways, his cheek striking the stone edge of the pool. The impact made a sickening sound.

"Both my children have no respect for me. Do you know how that makes me feel?" she asked, though Geta knew it was not a question that required an answer.

He remained silent, his breath shallow.

Geta rushed to his brother, rolling him over carefully. A small cut just below Caracalla’s cheekbone had already started to bruise. Geta bit his lip to stop himself from crying. His mother was already gone, but he did not need to turn around to confirm it—he had developed a keen sense for her presence over the years.

"I want to go home," Caracalla murmured, his voice thick with tears.

Geta knew he did not mean home exactly. He meant away—from the pain, the rejection, the cruel indifference of a mother who did not love even a single part of them. They had only ever had each other.

"I shall find the healer after dinner," Geta promised, helping his brother up.

Caracalla nodded distantly, then looked at him. "Can I sleep in your bed tonight?"

Geta nodded without hesitation. "Of course."

Geta's POV - The Dinner in Sardinia

Geta sat down at the lavishly decorated table. Before him lay a feast—roasted meats, fresh fruit, rich wine, and golden bread, all accompanied by fragrant thyme branches. He barely glanced at it.

"First, let us eat," his uncle said, pouring himself a glass of wine. Agrippa was absent—Aelius had insisted this be a private dinner.

Geta was not hungry. His body felt hollowed out. He picked at an apricot and took small bites while watching his uncle.

When Aelius finished his plate, he wiped his mouth. Two young women entered, their breasts bare, carrying honeyed cakes. His uncle smiled and placed a hand on the younger woman’s arm. "Thank you, dearest."

Then he turned to Geta. "Very well, then. While we enjoy these, I shall tell you what you wish to know."

He picked up a honey-soaked cake, biting into it. "Let us begin with the alliance, as it concerns you most."

Geta swallowed and tapped his foot nervously. "You spoke with Caracalla? How is he?" he asked eagerly.

Aelius exhaled. "Besides his illness, which still lingers, he fares well enough. He was upset, of course. But I am not certain he truly understands the situation. I tried to explain, but it did not seem to… take hold."

Geta nodded, waiting.

"Naturally, I wish for my nephew to be safe. Both of you." His uncle scratched his neck. "So I asked them how we might secure his release. They knew Caracalla still held value—remnants of the power you both once possessed. And I assured them that, yes, there was still potential, still something to gain." Aelius took another bite, watching Geta closely. "I have men, a small independent force, but compared to Rome’s, to Lucius’s, it is insignificant, as you can imagine. So I asked what else I could offer. They requested intelligence. A spy within the new Senate. Inside information."

He let the words sink in before continuing. Geta's eyes went wide. This was unthinkable. This could not be.

"At the time, I was unaware of your… bond with Lucius," Aelius said, his tone pointed. Geta shook his head slowly, not wanting to know where this was heading. "But rumors reached me. Very interesting rumors. So I returned with a proposal. If I could supply them with battle plans, strike points, army sizes—would they free Caracalla?"

Geta slumped in his chair, his face drained of color. "You want me to become a spy? To betray Lucius?" he whispered in horror.

"Yes, Geta. Because this is our chance to retrieve Caracalla."

Geta shook his head. "You cannot ask this of me. This cannot be the only option."

Aelius leaned in, voice smooth as silk. "Then tell me. How do you plan to retrieve him? Will you storm their fortress? Slip past guards? Do you truly believe they will show mercy?"

Geta’s mind raced. He felt like he was falling, spiraling into something dark and endless. He stared blankly at the table, the honeyed cakes, the wealth surrounding them—such stark contrast to the cruelty in his uncle’s voice.

"Laurentius is part of the alliance too." Aelius then added, making Geta gasp. His entire world was collapsing. He was used to betrayal, but this was different. Laurentius was one of Lucius's closest confidants. This was not possible.

"Since when?" He whispered, then remembered Lucius had told him Laurentius had not forwarded Geta's message when he had asked the guard to tell Lucius Geta was leaving the fesitivities to speak to his uncle.

"A few weeks before I visited you."

Geta shook his head in disgust. "What did you do to him."

"Nothing worth shearing dear nephew. Let's just say there are high stakes for him as well as his new wife.

Geta did not know what to say, just stared at his uncle in disbelief.

"I know this is a lot to take in, but sleep on it," Aelius said then, placing a heavy hand on Geta’s head. "Stay here at the house. Think it through. Then, we shall talk."

====

That night, Geta lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, feeling as though his soul were being ripped apart. He felt an intense sense of guilt. He had done nothing yet, and still he felt like the worst person alive.

By the fifth day, he realized he had already made his decision. Perhaps he had even made it the moment he heard the news.

And when he understood that, he wept the entire night.

Eighteen days passed before he felt ready to return. When he reached the shore and saw Lucius waiting, he let himself be pulled into the water, disappearing into his arms. He fought not to cry.

Do not cry. Whatever happens, do not cry.

Lucius held him, stroking his back, speaking softly of how he was glad to have him in his arms again. Nothing felt better and nothing felt worse than to be held by him in that moment.

Geta broke the embrace first. He avoided Lucius’s gaze but failed. Lucius immediately saw that something had changed.

But Geta could not tell him.

The following days were agony. He had rehearsed his lines, but he could not speak them. Ulysis visited once when Geta was alone in the garden. It startled Geta but he should have seen it coming. Ulysis did not have an intense character. He did not push for information, or forced Geta to do anything. But he did not have to. Geta could feel the claws of his uncle from all the way oversees, the nails digging deep into his skin making everything hurt and bleed. He told Ulysis what he knew, which was not much as he had isolated himself so much the past days. Ulysis thanked him for the information about the size of the current army and the location of the their strongest defense posts and left.

The next morning Geta did what he was expected to and asked Lucius where he was going next. They were taking a break while sparring on the fighting grounds. Though they were still using practice knives, Geta was rapidly improving. Both were breathing heavily from the physical exertion, wiping away the sweat from their foreheads, their tunics drenched.

“I have to go away for a while,” Lucius told Geta, slowly straightening, giving Geta an easy opening to jump in.

“Where are you going this time?” Geta turned his practice knife over in his hand, not able to meet his eyes. His heart was beating rapidly in his chest. “Still fighting the rebels, or somewhere else this time?” Forcing out the words was like swallowing his own vomit. He could feel Lucius' eyes burn and looked up briefly.

Lucius furrowed his brow. He was pondering whether to tell him, Geta could see it in his face: all the emotions traveling through there. Confusion, rejection, hurt.

“Talk to me Geta.” Lucius pleaded. “Tell me about Sardinia, and I’ll let you know,” His eyes were begging and Geta felt like he was stabbing him and twisting the knife.

“It’s okay.” Geta shrugged, forcing carelessness. “I don’t need to know.”

Lucius shook his head and laughed a hollow laugh to himself. Then, with frustration, he smashed his practice knife into the sand. “Well, fuck this then,” he bit out, before walking off, not looking back.

Geta stayed there, feeling a weird sense of relief and panic. Knowing anything meant having to pass it along and puting Lucius at risk. Not knowing anything was dragging out Caracalla's imprisonment. No matter what he did, Geta felt like his soul from this point onwards could not be saved. It'd be tainted forever. He'd be awful, forever. He wanted to collapse then and there and never get up.

===

That night Geta could not sleep.

He kept torturing himself, thinking out every worst possible scenario. Receiving knews that Caracalla had been killed by the Allimani because it was taking too long and they had broken the alliance. Watching Lucius leave for battle and getting defeated, and then hearing back how he was stabbed to death on the field and Geta would never be able to hold him in his arms again, or look at his peaceful face while he was asleep.

His thoughts spiralled so out of control he eventually started hyper ventilating and could not get any air in. He fisted the sheets, gasping for breath, silent tears streaming over his cheeks. When calmed down enough to sit up straight he wiped his face with the back of his hand and walked over to Lucius' sleeping quarters. Without thinking it over he knocked on the door. He was certain he was not able to get through this night on his own.

As he was let in he knew he was being selfhish. It might have been the most selfish thing he had ever done but he was not in his body anymore. His thoughts were not his own.

Lucius was eying him wearily, confusion lacing his face. He was laying on his back, propped up on his elbows, looking almost angry. He was not happy to see him.

Anger Geta could deal with. Anger was good. He could make him more angry. But he also needed to feel him. Maybe one last time. He did not deserve it but he was going to ask for it anyway.

“Can you please pretend not to hate me for tonight?”

He stood before the bed and only then realised he was crying again.

Lucius did not say anything. He just looked at him in silence.

Geta wiped his cheeks, eyes not leaving Lucius’s. Then his hands went to his robe, he untied it and pushed the fabric over his shoulders. He did not know what he was doing. He was acting from instinct, from pure need. He stood there, completely naked, letting Lucius look at him, let him hate him.

‘I know you do not trust me." Geta said. "I’m not asking you to. But please pretend you love me for tonight.“ He breathed and added nercously, "You can have me in any way you want.’

Lucius' throat bobbed. His fingers were digging in the mattress. He looked in pain almost.

'Come here.' He said in a quiet voice. Geta wondered if he was on the verge of crying. Lucius gestured to the side of the bed and went to sit on the edge himself. Geta lowered himself on his knees inbetween Lucius' legs until their arms and legs were touching.

Lucius hand traveled over Geta's wet cheeks until it rested under his jaw, cupping his throat.

One tear slipped out of the corner of Lucius eye en he sniffed once. He looked so hurt Geta regretted coming here. He could not take it. Lucius' hand stayed posessivily around Geta's throat, keeping him in place.

'What is going on with you huh?'

Love to hear your thought in the comments :) x Murphy

[with-my-calamitous-love]

AND I WONT CONFESS THAT I WAITED…

ryunnosuke akutagawa x reader

you watch as your lamp burns by the window, waiting for your lover to return.

celebrating his return to the manga <3

inspired by peter

normally, ryunnosuke wouldn’t have anyone to return to.

sure, his sister would be there, but that was a given. or maybe stacks of paperwork or copious pent up coughs would greet him. but for the most part, he was used to returning home alone.

and he liked it that way. or so he told himself.

when you come home alone, theres never the pain of realizing your house is empty. he was the only entity within his walls, the only soul that wandered the place. he was the only person who could break his own heart, the only one who could enter his home and take parts away from him. when you shut everything out, the only person who can you is you.

but he’s learned to build his heart up from steal. if his lungs continuously failed him, he’d shield his heart and freeze it with ice no one could penetrate. was he safe or was he broken?

he finds himself face to face with that question when he meets you.

so after 2 long years of melting that ice with sunlight, you found yourself waiting by the window.

he said at most, a few days. he was on some port mafia mission, involving the were-tiger with chopped up hair. that he’d be facing off some old man with a particularly powerful sword and a particularly powerful team. a strange generalization, you thought.

days developed into weeks. then, inevitably, months.

was it something you did?

the cool night air greets you as you thrust your windows open, then same ones that akutagawa loved to look out onto the world through. he’d stumble into your apartment, a cup of tea already brewing for him. he never spoke much, not even to you, but he showed his affection through actions more.

he’d greet you in the bedroom, offering a peck to your forehead. he’d scold you about keeping your windows open, especially in autumn. he complains its only worsening his lungs, but he can’t help but love the way the moon reflects off of your irises.

and he tells you about his life, underneath those stars. about his past, his sister, and all the darkness he kept within like a locket. he tells you that falling in love was not for someone like him.

“..love.” he mutters under his breath, almost scoffing when you bring up the subject. he’s standing behind you, arms encasing you between him and the window. though he’d never tell you, he’s trying to keep you warm. the night are was often not very forgiving to kind folk like you.

your brows furrow, but you understand where he comes from. “yes, ryu. love.” you reaffirm. “i’m in love with you.”

he blinks for a moment. first, he thinks what terrible taste in men you have. and how lucky he is to be that man.

he sighs, his throat running dry. though he does prompt to press his lips to your forehead once more, staring at you with a light in his eyes you’ve never quite seen before. no one in the mafia would know that the demon ryunnosuke akutagawa was also a gentleman, one who gently ushers you to bed and puts you to sleep with a kiss to your knuckles.

he waits for you to fall asleep before he leaves a letter, and bids you farewell.

[y/n],

you’re kindness will be the death of both of us. i don’t know why you’ve decided to show me kindness, or any semblance of love for that matter, but you have.

a spot in my heart is reserved for you. and my heart, that i knew to be cold and unwelcoming, beats for you. thank you for showing me what it means to love.

…i’ll come home soon.

and when i do, i’ll tell you all about it. about that damn were-tiger i swore i’d beat down, or that former mentor whose approval only comes second to yours. you’ve changed so much for me. you’ve given me something i want to live for.

thank you.

i’d write that i love you, but i’d rather you hear it from me.

yours,

ryunnosuke

the goddess of timing, unfortunately, has a cruel heart. and so the moment akutagawa admitted his feelings for you, he was pulled away from the one thing that made the air around him breathable.

you read his letter everyday. at first, you cried to it, and clutched it to your chest. then, after the first few weeks, you wondered if he had been lying. your ribs get the feeling he did.

how poetic is it, that both of you thought it was just goodbye for now.

while he’s away, he swears he’ll grow up. that he’ll change and be better. that, for what little time his lungs give him, he’ll love you more. he’ll let you teach him what love is, and love you back tenfold. and once he’s done that, he swears he’ll come find you. promises oceans deep, but never quite to keep.

and though he’d never admit it, he thinks about you every damn day. he wonders if you’re still a mind reader, able to steal the scene of every room you’re in. he’s heard great things from whispers and rumours, and he’s glad that life was easier on you than it was on him. you deserved it, after all.

and as weeks develop into months, selfishly, he hopes you wait.

and you do.

you let that lamp burn every night while your life dances around you. you hope, deep in your heart that he’ll return. that he’ll drink your shitty tea and scoff at your shitty jokes. that he’ll put you to bed and linger around in the morning, planting a kiss to your forehead like always. you hope that he’ll return with his feet on the ground and with stories to tell, because you never lost a single ounce of love for him.

you tried to hold onto it. and its true. you never lost any love, even after you draw the curtains, and turn down the lights.

you hope he forgives you.

[ignitesthestxrs]

this is not a post that is a life lesson exactly, but it is like. an update on my life and how glad i am to have had options in this situation, and it can also be a metaphor if that metaphor is helpful to you

anyway, in mid february my boss was like 'hey do you have time for a catch up in at 11.30', and i had to do my regular self talk down of 'you're not getting fired lol clam down' except

(okay i didn't get fired, but i did get laid off.)

(read more because i've never told a short story in my life)

which. positive news, i got laid off in aotearoa nz and not america, but it is still the worst job market my case worker at the ministry of social development has seen in 20 years, so i wasn't feeling like. hype. about this situation.

the specifics of my career are that it's not really a career so much as it is a place i started working at when i was 17, and then didn't leave. it had nothing to do with my degree and wasn't doing anything i was especially interested in, but it was a job, and i was comfortable there, and it paid for half a surgery i needed and dealt with a solid decade of my unmedicated panic attacks, so like. solid work. a job that did essentially what i needed it to when i needed it.

that being said this left me in the position of: not having done a job search, ever! not having a CV! not having comprehensive knowledge of my own skillset because i learnt half a programming language on the job and only knew how to use it with my company's bespoke software! i was not feeling confident!

the huge caveat to this is that i DID receive 38 weeks severance. and when i say huge, i mean that was the safety net/prize that allowed me to do literally anything after the point of being laid off. like. had i not had that financial cushion, i had enough of a governmental safety net to fall back on if necessary, but it would have been high tension misery and panic the whole way through. at no point would i have dealt with any of it with grace (and frankly, no one should have to).

but because i did have that safety net, i had options, and i also just had the ability to...start dealing? my main concern was like, okay, given that this is happening, am i going to be able to continue living pretty normally for the next few months? yes? okay then, the only thing to do is to start doing.

(there are many things to do in this situation, but it did help me to picture having one path, and that path was Forward).

so idk i used my ten years of reading ask a manager on breaks and started writing cover letters and applying for jobs and now i have one. this is a simplification of a process that was at times miserable, and always deeply fucking boring, but i also think that the nature of just getting a rolling application process started helps with the overall brain-work of not taking rejections personally. like, if you're applying to everything that your skillset vaguely fits, your feelings can't be too hurt if a company comes back with 'skillset too vague bitch, nice try'.

anyway the job i ended up landing - and it was One Job, but You Only Need One - has ended up being something in the public sector that in the process of learning it existed, i became weirdly enthusiastic about. it also has a week more holiday than my last job, pays 10k more, and is in the same suburb i live in. it has more opportunity for career growth, and apparently i can also get free eye tests? that sounds nice. and i landed it quickly enough that i still have a stack of that severance money left for savings and also purchasing a celebratory build your own wooden pinball machine set.

all this to say, getting laid off was weirdly the best thing to happen to me this year. perhaps in many years.

which. that's LUCK, so much of this is luck, and location, and random happenstance. but also, you know, some of it was mindset and work also. some of it was due to decisions i made about my job and my mental health over a decade ago. i am a person who was able to deal with this situation pretty okay today because of decisions i made as a much less stable and unmedicated young adult.

this is what i mean about this being a useful metaphor if you want it to be. on account of the luck and the happenstance etc, i would never want to say 'this bad thing that happened to you is secretly a chance for a good thing to come!' because: i genuinely don't believe that.

but i know i have been a person in the past who fucked up in ways i had to trust my future self would be able to deal with and built on. i have had difficult and bad situations in my life that had very little to do with any power i had over those situations, and i had to pick a direction and start walking, because the other option was to lie down and not move.

and that process has been habit forming. allowing myself to take breaks when i could afford to, even if it meant not keeping up, meant that i could built up my tolerance to risk and disaster at my own speed, befitting my own capacity.

i am haunted by the version of myself that i believe could exist if i wasn't weighed down by everything that i am. a hannah who is less tired, more focused, less mentally ill, more supported by generational wealth and opportunity. she sits just out of reach, and occasionally she looks back and says, a little concerned, 'aren't you worried you're just making excuses, though? don't you think if you were a little more disciplined, you could be me? are you going to be so kind to yourself that you forget you even wanted to be me in the first place?'

i am: always worried about these things. but i am the person who is here, and i am moving forward at the pace i am able. for the most part, it's working out.

[noideabutsims]

Add on set! <3

🌟 Introducing Donut Co. Preschool Play Set - Add-On Nesting Block Set! 🌟

Elevate your Sims' playtime with Donut Co.'s Preschool Play Set - Add-On Nesting Block Set! This delightful addition to your game features a set of versatile and engaging nesting blocks, crafted from the same beloved blocks as our main Preschool Play Set. Perfect for infants and toddlers, these nesting blocks promise endless hours of fun and learning for your little Sims!

🧩 Stack, Nest, and Build!

These functional nesting blocks are more than just toys – they're a gateway to a world of creativity and discovery. Watch as your Sims' infants and toddlers stack, nest, and build towers, castles, and anything their imaginations can conjure. These blocks fit perfectly together, encouraging spatial awareness and fine motor skills in the most playful way possible.

👶 Perfect for Little Hands

Designed with the tiniest Simmers in mind, our nesting blocks are easy to grasp, hold, and manipulate. Infants and toddlers will delight in the tactile experience of stacking and nesting, all while developing crucial hand-eye coordination. These blocks are a fantastic addition to any nursery or playroom, providing endless opportunities for exploration and growth.

🌈 Colorful and Captivating

Each block in this mini set is bursting with vibrant colors, making playtime visually stimulating and irresistibly fun. The cheerful hues and whimsical designs will capture the attention of your youngest Sims, turning every play session into a joyful adventure.

🕒 Hours of Engaging Play

With Donut Co.'s Preschool Play Set - Add-On Nesting Block Set, your Sims' infants and toddlers can spend hours immersed in imaginative play. Whether they're building the tallest tower or nesting blocks into neat, satisfying stacks, the possibilities are endless. This add-on set ensures that playtime is always fresh, exciting, and full of wonder.

🎁 Enhance Your Game

Donut Co.'s Preschool Play Set - Add-On Nesting Block Set is the perfect complement to our Preschool Play Set, adding a new dimension of play to your game. Whether you're expanding your Sims' toy collection or introducing new activities to their daily routines, this set is a must-have for any family-focused gameplay.

Ready to add a touch of magic to your Sims' lives? Bring home Donut Co.'s Preschool Play Set - Add-On Nesting Block Set and watch as your little ones' imaginations soar! Order now and let the stacking, nesting, and building fun begin! 🌟 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Disclaimer: Please note that some clipping issues may occur in-game, as depicted in the photos. This is why the Nesting Block Set is separated and treated as an add-on set. We are working to resolve these minor visual glitches to ensure the best possible experience for your Sims. Thank you for your understanding and continued support! ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ HUGE thank you goes out to@TaurusDesigns because they truly saved the day on this set. They worked with me alot to help me fix countless meshing errors, shadow problems, in game errors, ect. Taurus went out of their way to help me make sure this could be published, and it would mean alot if you could go check out their stuff because they definitely deserve it! @NicAtNite88 helped me out with testing these items in game so i wanna give them a shoutout as well! They grabbed some of the photos attached in the previews! <3 (All of our CC can be found by typing " Donut " into the search bar! All 8 items are New meshes, and have all shadows and LODs. There is a slight glitch in the shadows on a few objects, but it only occurs BEFORE placing them down in game. Once they are placed, they are perfectly fine! you can find examples in images! <3

Infants that can sit up can play with all block items, toddlers can play too! Most of my images have my reshade on - it changes the color minimally, so white may look a little off in photos, but in game it will look white/normal!! In images you can find the non-reshade example! <3 You can size them up and down using the bracket keys. [ ] <- these ones.  I personally, use the tool mod to size my items up and down, and specifically with these if you are wanting them to be "perfectly sized" i would recommend you grab the tool mod by twistedmexi! If you would like to use it in build-buy mode, you'll need BBB!)Re-colors, and using this item as a mesh/base is fully allowed! you can include the mesh, and do what you please with the item, as long as you link back to the original. There are posts for all of our cc on our main 3 platforms (Tumblr, curseforge, patreon. ), So there is no reason not to link back!

Will be releasing more content soon! stay tuned! ❤️ (NOT affiliated with EA or Maxis in any way! We just make CC! ) ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Main set: https://www.tumblr.com/noideabutsims/754032309525774336/its-heeereeeeee-introducing-donut-cos?source=share ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ DOWNLOAD: Curseforge: https://legacy.curseforge.com/sims4/build-buy/donut-co-preschool-play-set-add-on-nesting-block Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/posts/106703964?pr=true Google Drive: https://drive.google.com/file/d/1G2-xxqEz7y-ymMQ_mslu2m84iThOxXy6/view?usp=sharing

@alwaysfreecc @taurusdesign

[the-nox-syndicate]

SysNotes devlog 1

Hiya! We're a web developer by trade and we wanted to build ourselves a web-app to manage our system and to get to know each other better. We thought it would be fun to make a sort of a devlog on this blog to show off the development! The working title of this project is SysNotes (but better ideas are welcome!)

What SysNotes is✅:

A place to store profiles of all of our parts

A tool to figure out who is in front

A way to explore our inner world

A private chat similar to PluralKit

A way to combine info about our system with info about our OCs etc as an all-encompassing "brain-world" management system

A personal and tailor-made tool made for our needs

What SysNotes is not❌:

A fronting tracker (we see no need for it in our system)

A social media where users can interact (but we're open to make it so if people are interested)

A public platform that can be used by others (we don't have much experience actually hosting web-apps, but will consider it if there is enough interest!)

An offline app

So if this sounds interesting to you, you can find the first devlog below the cut (it's a long one!):

(I have used word highlighting and emojis as it helps me read large chunks of text, I hope it's alright with y'all!)

Tech stack & setup (feel free to skip if you don't care!)

The project is set up using:

Database: MySQL 8.4.3

Language: PHP 8.3

Framework: Laravel 10 with Breeze (authentication and user accounts) and Livewire 3 (front end integration)

Styling: Tailwind v4

I tried to set up Laragon to easily run the backend, but I ran into issues so I'm just running "php artisan serve" for now and using Laragon to run the DB. Also I'm compiling styles in real time with "npm run dev". Speaking of the DB, I just migrated the default auth tables for now. I will be making app-related DB tables in the next devlog. The awesome thing about Laravel is its Breeze starter kit, which gives you fully functioning authentication and basic account management out of the box, as well as optional Livewire to integrate server-side processing into HTML in the sexiest way. This means that I could get all the boring stuff out of the way with one terminal command. Win!

Styling and layout (for the UI nerds - you can skip this too!)

I changed the default accent color from purple to orange (personal preference) and used an emoji as a placeholder for the logo. I actually kinda like the emoji AS a logo so I might keep it.

Laravel Breeze came with a basic dashboard page, which I expanded with a few containers for the different sections of the page. I made use of the components that come with Breeze to reuse code for buttons etc throughout the code, and made new components as the need arose. Man, I love clean code 😌

I liked the dotted default Laravel page background, so I added it to the dashboard to create the look of a bullet journal. I like the journal-type visuals for this project as it goes with the theme of a notebook/file. I found the code for it here.

I also added some placeholder menu items for the pages that I would like to have in the app - Profile, (Inner) World, Front Decider, and Chat.

i ran into an issue dynamically building Tailwind classes such as class="bg-{{$activeStatus['color']}}-400" - turns out dynamically-created classes aren't supported, even if they're constructed in the component rather than the blade file. You learn something new every day huh…

Also, coming from Tailwind v3, "ps-*" and "pe-*" were confusing to get used to since my muscle memory is "pl-*" and "pr-*" 😂

Feature 1: Profiles page - proof of concept

This is a page where each alter's profiles will be displayed. You can switch between the profiles by clicking on each person's name. The current profile is highlighted in the list using a pale orange colour.

The logic for the profiles functionality uses a Livewire component called Profiles, which loads profile data and passes it into the blade view to be displayed. It also handles logic such as switching between the profiles and formatting data. Currently, the data is hardcoded into the component using an associative array, but I will be converting it to use the database in the next devlog.

New profile (TBC)

You will be able to create new profiles on the same page (this is yet to be implemented). My vision is that the New Alter form will unfold under the button, and fold back up again once the form has been submitted.

Alter name, pronouns, status

The most interesting component here is the status, which is currently set to a hardcoded list of "active", "dormant", and "unknown". However, I envision this to be a customisable list where I can add new statuses to the list from a settings menu (yet to be implemented).

Alter image

I wanted the folder that contained alter images and other assets to be outside of my Laravel project, in the Pictures folder of my operating system. I wanted to do this so that I can back up the assets folder whenever I back up my Pictures folder lol (not for adding/deleting the files - this all happens through the app to maintain data integrity!). However, I learned that Laravel does not support that and it will not be able to see my files because they are external. I found a workaround by using symbolic links (symlinks) 🔗. Basically, they allow to have one folder of identical contents in more than one place. I ran "mklink /D [external path] [internal path]" to create the symlink between my Pictures folder and Laravel's internal assets folder, so that any files that I add to my Pictures folder automatically copy over to Laravel's folder. I changed a couple lines in filesystems.php to point to the symlinked folder:

And I was also getting a "404 file not found" error - I think the issue was because the port wasn't originally specified. I changed the base app URL to the localhost IP address in .env:

…And after all this messing around, it works!

(My Pictures folder)

(My Laravel storage)

(And here is Alice's photo displayed - dw I DO know Ibuki's actual name)

Alter description and history

The description and history fields support HTML, so I can format these fields however I like, and add custom features like tables and bullet point lists.

This is done by using blade's HTML preservation tags "{!! !!}" as opposed to the plain text tags "{{ }}".

(Here I define Alice's description contents)

(And here I insert them into the template)

Traits, likes, dislikes, front triggers

These are saved as separate lists and rendered as fun badges. These will be used in the Front Decider (anyone has a better name for it?? 🤔) tool to help me identify which alter "I" am as it's a big struggle for us. Front Decider will work similar to FlowCharty.

What next?

There's lots more things I want to do with SysNotes! But I will take it one step at a time - here is the plan for the next devlog:

Setting up database tables for the profile data

Adding the "New Profile" form so I can create alters from within the app

Adding ability to edit each field on the profile

I tried my best to explain my work process in a way that wold somewhat make sense to non-coders - if you have any feedback for the future format of these devlogs, let me know!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Disclaimers:

I have not used AI in the making of this app and I do NOT support the Vibe Coding mind virus that is currently on the loose. Programming is a form of art, and I will defend manual coding until the day I die.

Any alter data found in the screenshots is dummy data that does not represent our actual system.

I will not be making the code publicly available until it is a bit more fleshed out, this so far is just a trial for a concept I had bouncing around my head over the weekend.

We are SYSCOURSE NEUTRAL! Please don't start fights under this post