#i mean it was kind of triggering but like

[ghostedgwen]

can we have the marauders protecting reader who got drunk during a party and was being taken away by some boys or something? sorry if it's triggering!

note : oh my god, this ask had me rolling on my bed thinking of how I am gonna go about this - thank you so much for trusting me with this request! warning/s : themes of s/a, sensitive content, nothing graphic but heavy implications are there, the marauders are very angry - and protective, mentions of alcohol and parties

You don’t mean to get drunk. It’s not like you came to the party with bad intentions or a heartbreak to drink through - just a need to loosen the weight of the week off your shoulders.

The Hufflepuff common room is filled with golden light, music echoing off the stone, and warm, laughing voices that blend together into something safe.

Marlene handed you a drink, kissed your cheek, and said, “Have fun, yeah?” before disappearing off with Mary toward the exit. You hadn’t minded.

She invited you earlier but you weren't sure if you wanted to attend, you were reviewing your answers to the N.E.W.T.s exam that just took place - but figured it would be better to go party a bit than worry over it.

You arrived around 10 in the evening when the party had started around 7, and Marlene is off to guide a drunk Mary back to the common room where Lily will surely chastise them for getting drunk on a school night.

She was very much against you going, you supposed she was right to.

You remember dancing. Spinning in slow circles with a drink in your hand, head tilted back, lips curved into something that could pass for joy.

The burn of the alcohol made your skin feel warmer. Your arms looser. Your thoughts fuzzy around the edges. You remember boys - older ones = leaning over you at some point. Hufflepuffs you think, and at least one Ravenclaw, judging by the bronze-and-blue bracelet he had on.

They seemed kind at first. Too kind, maybe, but you didn’t notice. Not when they laughed at your jokes or kept filling your cup or told you you looked pretty, which felt rare enough these days to let your guard slip.

You only notice something’s wrong when they start steering you toward the back of the common room - where the hallway narrows and bends toward the dormitories.

“Wait,” you murmur, blinking slow. “I don’t - the exit is that way - ”

“You’re pissed,” one of them chuckles, his hand firm on your lower back. “You’ll just get lost. We’ve got a spare bed upstairs. You can lie down.”

“Or not,” another one says under his breath. You catch the tone before the words.

You freeze. “No - I need to go back.”

The laughter sharpens. You try to step back and bump into someone’s chest. Hands close around your elbows. They’re not hurting you, not exactly - but they’re not letting go. Not listening. There’s too many of them, and your limbs are too slow, and your head feels too full.

You open your mouth to say something else - anything else - when a voice cuts through the corridor like a blade.

The Marauders have taken up residence near the far wall - Sirius perched on the arm of a chair, James cross-legged on the floor with a butterbeer, Remus half-listening to a conversation about Quidditch stats, Peter already dozing lightly against a pile of pillows.

It’s been a good night, by all accounts. A perfect way to send off their N.E.W.T.s exams that they slaved over for months.

At least, until Sirius stills beside them.

His eyes narrow, expression twisting slightly as he tilts his head, watching something across the room. “Isn’t that ____?” he says finally, nudging James with the toe of his boot. “The other Gyiffindor - the one that’s always with Marlene and Mary.”

James looks up, squinting through the firelight. “Merlin, I forget she exists sometimes. Since when was she here?”

“I don’t know. But that’s definitely her.” Sirius’s voice is low now, distracted. “Thought she left already. with Marls.”

Remus follows their line of sight - to a dim corner of the common room, where you’re half-supported by a group of boys from other houses. One of them has his hand curls around your waist, another murmurs something close to your ear that makes you flinch slightly before laughing it off.

James frowns. “She looks. . .drunk, absolutely pissed.”

“She looks done,” Remus says quietly, and something sharp enters his voice.

There’s a beat of hesitation. The kind that stretches taut.

Sirius then surprises his friends when he hops off the chair.

James glances at him. “What's wrong, Pads?”

“We should go get her.”

Peter stirs beside them. “Wait - is she alright?”

“No,” Remus says - uncharacteristically looking like he's about to break something, already on his feet. “She’s not.”

The four of them move, a pack without needing to speak. James starts walking first - not running, not causing a scene. Just moving fast enough that anyone watching would sense something was wrong.

By the time they round the corner, they’ve already watched you try to turn back. Already seen you brushed off. Already watched someone guide you further, not toward the exit - toward the dorms.

That’s all they need to see. And then:

“Let her go.” James' voice broke into your struggle with the other boys.

It’s not loud. But it doesn’t need to be.

The boys pause. The one behind you lets go, not out of guilt - more out of instinct, like he'd been caught wrist deep in the proverbial cookie jar. Something in the tone makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up.

You turn your head - the corridor seems brighter now - and see four figures at the end of the hallway.

James Potter is at the front, wand in hand, shoulders squared like someone raised to command attention. Sirius Black flanks his left, wild-eyed and sharp-jawed, hands clenched into fists. Peter Pettigrew hovers behind, uncertain but alert. But it’s Remus Lupin who moves forward first - and he is furious.

You’ve never seen Remus angry before. Not really. You’ve sat in class beside him once or twice, heard him answer questions in that low, steady voice, seen him nod politely in hallways. But this - this is a different person.

He walks up without hesitation and steps between you and the nearest boy. “I said, let her go.”

“She’s fine,” the Ravenclaw mutters. “We were just helping her back. She can’t walk on her own - ”

Remus cuts him off. “She’s not going anywhere with you.”

James moves in now, calm but firm. “Back off,” he says, voice levelled like a Prefect giving a final warning - the fact remains that he's currently Head Boy. “We’ve got her.”

“You don’t even know her,” one of them scoffs. “This is none of your business.”

“Wrong,” Remus snaps. “I'm a Prefect and James here is Head Boy, the welfare of fellow students is our business.”

There’s a flicker of movement - Sirius stepping forward now, lips curled in something that isn’t quite a smile. “Go ahead. Try saying that again.”

You feel like you’re swaying. Your knees are buckling under you, head too heavy to hold upright. You reach for the wall, but someone steadies you - James. His arm slips around your back gently, guiding you away from the others.

“Let’s not hex them here,” he mutters to Remus, who is still glaring at the boy who spoke up, like he’s imagining a dozen creative curses. “She’s our priority. We can duel them another day.”

Remus doesn’t respond. But he doesn’t lunge forward, either.

You’re shaking. You don’t know why. No one hurt you. They didn’t even say anything cruel. But something about it - the way you’d been cornered, touched, steered like you were furniture - rattles something deep in your chest.

Your eyes are burning. Your throat’s tight. You didn’t think this sort of thing would happen to you.

“I didn’t know,” you whisper, not sure who you’re talking to. “I didn’t think - ”

“Don’t,” James says quietly, steadying you again. “You don’t owe anyone an explanation.”

Remus still hasn’t looked away from the boys, but he speaks - his voice low, furious, directed to them more than you. “You knew what you were doing. Every step of the way. Don’t pretend you didn’t.”

One of the boys sneers towards your direction. “She’s the one who got drunk.”

“Yeah,” Remus breathes. “And you’re the ones who thought that gave you permission.”

James grips your shoulder more tightly. “We’re done here. Let’s get her back to the tower.”

They turn you around carefully, shielding you with their bodies. Sirius walks slightly behind - silent, but furious in the way his eyes stay locked on the boys until you’re safely out of sight.

You don’t say anything as they lead you through the corridors. You’re afraid if you speak, the tears you’ve been holding back will come flooding out.

And something about their silence - angry, awkward, but oddly gentle - makes you feel safer than you’ve felt in hours.

end. masterlist

choosing to end it here as I don't know where else to take this - feel free to send me more requests <3

[thatmexisaurusrex]

If you’re making excuses for what happened last night on 9-1-1, just. Unfollow me. Block me. Whatever.

I’ve never been triggered by a show in my life.

I was in a panicked state the moment that scene started. The claustrophobia of it; the way Eddie talked; the way he moved through that scene - it brought me into the mindset of when I get into arguments with a person who essentially uses any moment I dare show emotion to make me feel immature for even feeling anything and showing it; that what I’m feeling makes me illogical or irresponsible or unable to come up with reasonable arguments.

It took me back to the feeling after those arguments - where I have this deep rooted anxiety need to either clean my entire apartment or jog until I can’t move because if I didn’t I was a terrible person; that I can’t eat because if I did I was a terrible person.

And whatever, you didn’t have that reaction to the scene probably.

I don’t expect everyone to have that feeling.

I don’t expect my reaction to be universal because my reaction was very much rooted in something specific to me.

But the way Buck flinched? The way he shrunk and lost all fight? The way he took it and took it and took all that anger with no way out and with no moment where they work through the fight? Only to be told that a note that sounds like the person is leaving isn’t the reasonable assumption? Made to feel dismissed like an idiot for doing so? The way Eddie blindsides Buck with loved ones in a way that gave him no alternative by to play happy, put together, good host? The love bombing with no remorse on Eddie’s part for how he acted wildly inappropriate the night before?

I don’t care about grief. Grief isn’t a good excuse. Eddie almost killed a man during an illegal boxing match due to his anger. Eddie destroyed a room once due to a PTSD episode. Eddie was supposed to have worked through at least some of this shit years ago in therapy.

What happened was too much. It went too far. There’s working through your feelings, even if it means being angry to do so, and there is using your friend as a verbal punching bag after you did something shitty only to love bomb the friend the next day.

And maybe the fight would not have been so bad if Buck didn’t fucking flinch when Eddie grabbed Buck’s shirt and cornered and crowded him on that kitchen counter. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if Buck didn’t fold to the anger; shrink and take it like he deserves it. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if it didn’t feel like Buck was trying to work through the fight they had the night before only to get an ominous note. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if Eddie didn’t ambush Buck with people he loved right after and made Buck put on a dog and pony show for guests lest he bother them with his fucking emotions he was screamed at for even having the night before.

But that did happen.

And I don’t expect the show to fully apologize for shit or work through it step by step. That’s not practical for the kind of show it is.

But fuck, man.

The panic never left me that night.

That feeling?

That unease in me that the show gave me never left me.

I cried a bit.

On and off.

Throughout the night.

I spent the entire night feeling not quite fight or flight, but frozen and frayed like a live wire; unable to stop moving and forcing myself to eat dinner despite everything in my brain telling me not to.

It never left me.

I had a nightmare last night.

Hell, I’m feeling it come back to me a bit just thinking about it but I honestly woke up so emotionally exhausted. My emotional exhaustion is keeping the feeling at bay.

I loved Eddie Diaz. He was my messy but well meaning guy. I really did love his character.

I’m not sure if I can watch him on screen with everyone being normal and cool with him after what happened last night.

It’s okay if you can.

I just don’t know if this feeling will come back if I see him again. I don’t know. I know I’m never watching that episode again. I’ve never had this reaction to fictional tv shows before. I just don’t want to feel like this again.

So, have your opinions.

Whatever.

That’s your prerogative.

I just don’t want to see them if it’s to defend what happened last night with Eddie.

[prometheus-rewound]

Also like- it’s one thing to just not get along w/ someone because your weirdnesses don’t align. Like autistic or not, you don’t need to get along with everyone. It’s not ableist to just not eat along with people.

I’m autistic, and am highly sensitive, get overwhelmed easily, and can be considered “low empathy”. There are other autistic folk with a different array of symptoms that are really hard for me to be around , and I 100% trigger other people by the way I am bc our symptoms don’t align. And sometimes, personalities can just not click and it can be that simple

Being considerate and kind doesn’t mean you have to even like everyone. It’s okay if you aren’t compatible with someone, disability or not— but what actually understanding disability means that you are kind and have grace with people regardless. It’s recognizing prejudice and bias and standing up for people.

Even if I get physically triggered, I know that person is not out to get me, or that they are a bad person. You can still offer kindness and understanding even if you are unable to be a direct support.

i feel as though some of you dont understand that autism is a disability and thus people with autism will be weird in a non fun way

[yes-no-maybe-soo]

Y'all, Freefall Gambit is so good 😩❤️‍🔥 Loved the return of Onychinus Sylus! He was aura farming so hard in this card, I had to restrain myself from audibly fangirling ijbol. I do feel like this card is sort of preparing us for the upcoming branch, where we'll most likely see alot more of this type of stuff and of this particular dynamic of SylusMC. Of being on opposing sides. Lots of angst and potential for drama, as well as self reflection and growth on especially MC's part.

My sole complaint is that Sylus isn't wearing the suit from the illustration ＿|￣|● I love his Onychinus fit as much as the next person but man... that suit... I will cry if they intend on forever gatekeeping it.

Because I want to avoid spoiling anyone that doesn't have the card yet, I've decided to write down some of my immediate thoughts below the cut.

Let's get the angsty predictions out of the way first – these lines set my alarm bells off. I feel like they are foreshadowing that something of Sylus' will indeed get taken or lost. Or rather someone. That someone ofc being MC, his most precious treasure.

I'll admit that these would not have alarmed me had it not been for certain lines in Sylus' birthday event and in Greedy Heart. I go into why exactly those lines make me uneasy in the linked post, and I just feel like the above ones further reinforces my theory. Call me paranoid or angst obsessed, but I predict pain for both SylusMC and for us in the main story, perhaps even in the coming branch.

On a similar note, just as how Sylus' vulnerability and fear (MC, and MC getting hurt or worse respectively) has been brought up more than once recently, so has MC's. Namely, that Sylus will get caught and put away, or become weak. We see these fears in Valleydream Bloom and in this card, as well as in Where Hearts Live. So things might be building up exactly to that.

I thought it was interesting how MC specifically mentions that the Association have Evol suppressing equipment. Which leads me to believe that said equipment could potentially be used against Sylus at some point to subdue him (provided of course that Sylus' powers are indeed Evol and not demonic/draconic based, but that is an eventual topic for another day). Idk but something tells me that Sylus will get captured whether willingly (most likely) or unwillingly. After all, we do see Sylus behind bars in the music video to Visions Opposées.

Could it be foreshadowing or just a neat visual? Only time will tell.

Me personally though, I am leaning towards the former, and I can see both MC's and Sylus' fears coming to fruition. Maybe even in a connected way (MC gets kidnapped and/or hurt and Sylus jumps in to save her but gets weakened or subdued in doing so, or Sylus gets captured by the Association, MC gets gravely injured trying to save him and maybe in the process triggers Sylus' dragon form and with it MC's memories? Boom. Several birds one stone. Helluva plotline imo)

What I still don't believe will come to pass however is either of them perma dying. This is an otome gacha. The main character nor LI can't die, especially not in a game as young and fresh as Love and Deepspace. So on that front I am not at all worried. Doesn't mean the angst we do get won't hurt a lot, though. But that being said, SylusMC will persevere in the end. Trust. Neither will let the other get torn away from them. Either will move heaven and earth to bring their lover back come what may.

Moving on...

I thought this was a nice callback to Sylus' anecdote

Here Sylus is revealed to actually be a sort of deepspace Robin Hood. We stan.

And the crowd cheered!!!

Also this is actually why Sylus jumped out of the plane. Man needed some cool and fresh air after this comment made all his blood flow south...

This makes me cackle 😭 bro is so unserious. And actually kind of insane, but again, we stan.

MC is living the dream. Do you know what I'd sacrifice to wrap my arms around that waist?? Happy for my girl though 💞 ( and for Sylus, you know that man is on cloud 9 here).

I adore that the card ends on a sweet and nostalgic note, with them gazing at the moon... like they used to in a distant past 💗

[womshame]

Yandere Teachers x Mother Reader

Summary: All she wanted was a simple parent-teacher meeting. A few minutes to talk about her son’s progress, nothing more. But when three different teachers — each charming, each dangerous in their own way — set their sights on her, Y/N’s world spirals into a nightmare disguised as devotion.

Word Count: 11,147

Trigger Warnings: yandere behavior (obsessive love, emotional manipulation), psychological manipulation, coercive control, stalking, non-consensual surveillance, forced/coerced captivity, implied drugging, dubious consent, threats of violence, unhealthy power dynamics, grooming undertones involving parental figures, child emotional manipulation (non-explicit), ambiguous/psychologically complex ending.

The hallway smelled like pencil shavings and bleach.

Y/N adjusted the strap of her bag and checked her phone for the third time. Eli’s teacher conference was scheduled for 6:00 PM sharp, but she’d arrived ten minutes early, nervous and trying not to show it. The fluorescent lights overhead hummed softly, casting a dull glow across the linoleum floor.

The door to Room 107 was open.

She approached with a small knock on the frame.

“Ms. L/N?” A man stood up from behind a desk. His voice was warm, polished. “I’m Mr. Callahan. Please, come in.”

He was tall, maybe in his late thirties, with a clean-cut jawline and glasses perched on a straight nose. A wedding band glinted on his left hand as he extended it.

“Nice to meet you,” she said, shaking it briefly. His grip was firm, a little too lingering.

“I’m Eli’s homeroom teacher—and his literature instructor. Mr. Rivera and Mr. Brooks will join us shortly. We like to hold joint meetings when possible, helps with consistency.”

She nodded politely, taking a seat in the chair across from his. The classroom was neat, the kind that showed effort: posters about classic novels lined the walls, and a stack of well-loved paperbacks rested on a side shelf.

“I have to say,” he began, folding his hands, “your son is bright. Restless, perhaps, but bright. He has an advanced vocabulary for his age, and a very curious mind.”

“That’s��� good to hear. I was worried. He hasn’t been himself lately.”

Mr. Callahan leaned forward, elbows on the desk, gaze gentle and focused. “Sometimes, intelligent children grow frustrated with structure. Especially if they feel misunderstood.”

Before she could answer, the door opened again.

“Hey,” said a second voice—louder, younger. A man with ink-stained hands and paint smudges on his shirt entered with a crooked smile. “Ms. L/N, right? I’m Mr. Rivera. Art.”

His handshake was quick, his fingers calloused. He dragged a chair from one of the student desks and sat close—closer than necessary.

Then came the third: Mr. Brooks, taller than both, broad-shouldered, dressed in a sleek tracksuit that made him look more like a personal trainer than a school employee. He gave a casual nod.

“Evening. Eli’s got good stamina. Bit headstrong, but coachable.”

“Thank you,” Y/N replied, feeling the three men’s attention weigh down on her. Each seemed friendly, professional… but something about the room was off. Maybe it was the way all three had made a point to look her in the eyes. Maybe it was the feeling of being watched, closely, like prey mistaken for a puzzle.

Callahan cleared his throat. “We’ve noticed some behavioral patterns. Not aggressive, but… withdrawn. Occasionally defiant. Have there been any changes at home?”

“Nothing drastic,” she replied, hesitating. “We moved apartments last month. I’ve been working longer hours.”

“That could do it,” Rivera murmured. “Kids are sensitive. He draws a lot of houses, you know. Empty ones.”

Y/N blinked. “What?”

“I mean—it’s sweet. He seems attached to the idea of home. And people in it.” He smiled, then added, “You show up a lot in his sketches. It’s nice. You’re very… detailed.”

Mr. Brooks crossed his arms. “He’s protective of you. I asked him once who’d win in a race—him or you—and he said, ‘My mom, ‘cause she runs everything.’”

Y/N let out a short laugh, unsure of how to respond.

Callahan used the moment to shift the conversation. “We’d like to be more involved. Give Eli support beyond just the classroom. He’s got potential, and with the right guidance…”

“Is that something you’re comfortable with?” Rivera asked. “More frequent updates, maybe. Home activities?”

“I—sure,” she said, too quickly.

“Great,” Callahan smiled. “I’ll make a note to reach out next week.”

They spoke for another fifteen minutes, but the conversation had subtly shifted. It wasn’t just about Eli anymore. The questions were polite, but personal. Did she have help at home? Was there someone else involved in Eli’s life? Did she have time for herself?

As she left the room, three pairs of eyes followed her.

Outside, the night air was cooler. She took a deep breath and told herself not to overthink it. They were just teachers. Caring professionals. Nothing more.

But in Room 107, long after she was gone, Mr. Callahan tapped a pen rhythmically on the desk.

“She’s… attentive,” Rivera said softly, almost dreamlike.

“Smart,” Brooks added. “And tough. I like that.”

Mr. Callahan said nothing, just looked down at the page in Eli’s student file—where Y/N’s contact information was written in black ink.

He traced the number with the tip of his finger.

Eli came home with a gift.

A small, carefully wrapped box, tied with a blue ribbon. He plopped it on the kitchen table and shrugged when Y/N looked at him with a raised brow.

“Mr. Rivera said it was from me,” he mumbled, grabbing an apple from the counter.

“From you?”

“Yeah. I dunno. He said I picked it out.”

Y/N slowly untied the ribbon and peeled back the paper. Inside was a delicate charm bracelet—silver, minimal, with a tiny engraved heart. It was beautiful. Too beautiful to have come from a third-grade art project.

“Did you… make this for me?” she asked carefully.

Eli frowned. “No. I didn’t know it was for you ‘til today.”

Y/N didn’t know what to say. She smiled faintly, thanked her son, and tucked the bracelet back in the box. That night, while Eli slept, she sat on the couch and stared at it for a long time. It was flattering. And unsettling.

The next day, Mr. Brooks caught her after drop-off.

He was waiting just outside the school gate, hands in his jacket pockets. “Hey, Ms. L/N,” he said casually. “You got a minute?”

“Uh… sure.”

“There’s a field event next weekend. Technically it’s optional, but I think Eli would really benefit from it. Bonding, teamwork, fresh air.”

“That sounds good,” she said, then paused. “Should I pack something for him?”

“Well, actually, it’s a family-style thing. Parents are encouraged to join.” His smile sharpened. “Thought you might like the chance to see him in action.”

“Right.” She hesitated. “I’ll check my schedule.”

“You do that.” He nodded once, then added as she turned to leave, “You know… You’re doing a hell of a job with him. That boy idolizes you.”

Y/N nodded with a faint, polite smile. She didn’t notice how long he kept watching her walk away.

That afternoon, a text pinged on her phone. Unknown number.

Hi, Ms. L/N. This is Mr. Callahan. Hope it’s okay I reached out. Wanted to follow up on our chat. Eli seemed happier today—might be that lovely influence of yours. Let me know if you’d like to schedule a home visit.

Her stomach twisted.

He hadn’t said anything about messaging her directly. And a home visit?

She typed a brief reply:

Hi. Thanks for the update. No home visit needed, but I appreciate the support.

He responded within seconds:

Of course. Just want what’s best for him. And you, too.

The next few days, things started to shift.

Mr. Rivera began sending home odd “projects” for Eli—little collages made from old photos that Y/N didn’t remember giving him, or drawings that mirrored things in their apartment. A ceramic mug with her initials carved into the side.

Mr. Brooks showed up at the grocery store, casually leaning on his cart like it was coincidence. “Didn’t expect to see you here,” he said, even though the school was on the other side of town.

Mr. Callahan started emailing after school hours, offering book recommendations. Some of them were surprisingly romantic in theme.

Each interaction was friendly. Innocuous. And yet, she couldn’t shake the growing unease curling under her ribs. Y/N wasn’t new to attention—she was used to the occasional awkward parent interaction, the sidelong glances. But this? This was different.

They weren’t just interested in Eli. They were circling her.

At pick-up one afternoon, Eli ran out with a huge grin.

“Mr. Rivera says you should come see our art wall!”

“Maybe next week, sweetie.”

“He put your picture on it.”

Y/N blinked. “What?”

“Yeah! The one he drew. He says you’re his muse.”

The word hit her like cold water.

She walked Eli to the car, quiet the entire drive. That night, she looked up each of their school bios online. All three had spotless records. Callahan had been teaching for over ten years, his LinkedIn profile filled with glowing endorsements. Rivera had an art show once, mostly abstract portraits. Brooks was a former semi-pro athlete turned educator. Married. Single. Single.

Harmless, on paper.

And yet…

At bedtime, Eli asked, “Mom?”

“Yeah, baby?”

“Why do my teachers ask so many questions about you?”

Y/N paused. “What kind of questions?”

“Like… what do you do when you’re not working, or if you like flowers, or if you ever get lonely.” He looked up at her. “Is it bad if I answer?”

“No,” she said softly, brushing his hair back. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

But deep down, she knew this wasn’t normal.

And if it was attention—why did it feel like a trap?

The café was her sanctuary.

A little spot tucked between a florist and a laundromat, ten blocks away from her apartment—far enough from the school that she could sip her coffee in peace, answer emails, and feel like more than just someone’s mother.

Y/N slid into her usual corner booth, ordered a cappuccino, and pulled out her phone. For a moment, the world was quiet.

Then she heard the door chime.

“Wow. Small world.”

She looked up slowly.

Mr. Brooks stood in the entrance, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder, wearing a hoodie and joggers. He smiled like this was completely natural—like they always ran into each other on Saturdays.

Her heart sank.

“I didn’t know you lived around here,” he said, stepping into her space before she could answer. “Mind if I sit?”

She hesitated. “I was just about to—”

“Just for a minute,” he insisted, already pulling out the chair.

She smiled tightly, hoping he couldn’t see how fast her pulse was ticking under her skin.

“Long week?” he asked, glancing at the book on her table—Wuthering Heights.

She nodded, sipping her coffee to avoid answering.

“I read that in college,” he said. “Dark, right? All-consuming kind of love. Unhealthy as hell. Still… kind of beautiful.”

He said it like a confession.

Y/N looked at him closely. There was something behind his smile—something intense. He wasn’t just making small talk. He was watching her.

“You really didn’t know I lived near here?” she asked finally.

“No idea,” he said, too quickly. “Total coincidence.”

But when he left—after buying her a second cappuccino she didn’t want—she saw him cross the street and head not toward the subway, but toward the parking lot behind the building. No gym bag. No gym.

That night, she didn’t sleep well.

At school the following Monday, she tried to brush past it. Told herself to focus on Eli, on the week ahead. But it got harder.

Mr. Rivera cornered her in the hallway after drop-off.

“I have something to show you,” he said, leading her to the art room.

She hesitated at the door. “I’m really not—”

“It’ll just take a second.”

Inside, the walls were filled with colorful drawings, sculptures, mosaics. He walked her to the far end, where a new display had been pinned.

Her.

It was her.

Charcoal sketches of her face—three, maybe four—each more detailed than the last. Her eyes, her hands, the curve of her smile. All drawn from memory.

“I didn’t mean for this to be weird,” he said, voice low, like they were sharing a secret. “You just… have that kind of presence. The kind that sticks.”

“Mr. Rivera—”

“Call me Adrian.”

She stepped back.

“I appreciate the… art,” she said, carefully, “but I don’t think this is appropriate.”

His smile didn’t falter. “You inspired me. That’s not something I get often. You should be flattered.”

“I’m not,” she said, voice firm now.

For a second, something flickered in his expression—something sharp, like rejection was unfamiliar to him. But then he smiled again, softer.

“I’ll take them down. Of course. Just… don’t tell anyone, okay?”

She didn’t respond. She just walked away.

At pickup that day, Mr. Callahan was waiting beside her car.

He looked more formal than usual—shirt tucked neatly, tie tight, that same composed, unreadable smile.

“I hope I’m not intruding,” he said, stepping closer as Eli ran toward them from the building. “I wanted to talk. Just for a second.”

Y/N unlocked the car and motioned for Eli to climb in. “I’m in a hurry.”

“It’s about Eli,” he said. “He’s been mentioning nightmares. About losing you. Do you know anything about that?”

Her heart clenched.

“He’s been clingier,” she admitted. “I thought it was just stress.”

“I think he’s afraid,” Callahan said softly. “Afraid something might happen to you. That you might leave him.”

She looked up sharply. “Why would he think that?”

Mr. Callahan held her gaze. “Children feel what we hide. If you’re overwhelmed, if you’re struggling—even if you don’t say it—he knows.”

Y/N swallowed. “I’m doing my best.”

“I know you are.” His voice dropped to something intimate. “But you don’t have to do it alone.”

There was a long silence between them.

“I appreciate your concern,” she said finally. “But I’d prefer to keep things professional.”

For a brief moment, she saw the crack in his expression. A twitch in the jaw. But it was gone in an instant.

“Of course,” he said smoothly. “Just let me know if that changes.”

He turned and walked back toward the school, his posture calm, controlled—but she knew something had shifted.

All three of them—Brooks, Rivera, Callahan—they weren’t just stepping over lines.

They were drawing new ones around her.

Y/N kept her door locked at night.

It wasn’t something she used to think about—living in a safe neighborhood, third floor walk-up, decent building—but lately, it felt necessary. She’d started checking the windows twice, pulling the curtains tighter, even placing Eli’s shoes closer to her bed.

She hadn’t told anyone about the sketches. Or the café incident. Or the conversation with Callahan.

What would she even say?

“My son’s teachers are obsessed with me”?

Who would believe that?

Still, the pattern was unmistakable now. Each of them—Mr. Rivera with his hungry artist’s stare, Mr. Brooks with his casual stalking, Mr. Callahan with his perfect words and impossible calm—had made it clear in their own way: they weren’t just interested.

They wanted her.

And they weren’t going to stop.

On Wednesday morning, Eli’s backpack was heavier than usual. She opened it before drop-off to make sure he hadn’t stuffed in toys or half the bookshelf again.

There was a small envelope tucked in the front pocket. No name. Just her address handwritten across the front.

Inside: a folded note.

I watch the way you move when you think no one’s watching. You’re always so tired, but still so beautiful. You shouldn’t have to do everything alone. You’re not alone anymore.

No signature.

She didn’t know which of them sent it.

That night, she didn’t sleep at all.

⸻

The school’s field event took place on a gray, windy Saturday.

Y/N had debated not going. Every instinct screamed stay home, but Eli had been so excited—picked out his own sneakers, laid out his water bottle the night before, begged her to run in the parent race. She couldn’t take that away from him.

So she showed up, dressed in a sweatshirt and jeans, forcing a smile when other parents waved at her. The open fields behind the school had been turned into stations—races, obstacle courses, even a small art tent.

Eli ran ahead.

She scanned the area and immediately spotted them.

Callahan by the sign-in table, clipboard in hand. Rivera near the painting area, smiling at the children. Brooks already in athletic gear, tossing a football with a few dads.

Her stomach turned.

They hadn’t seen her yet. She turned to leave—to pretend she’d forgotten something in the car—but then a familiar voice called out.

“There you are.”

Callahan.

He looked pleased, as if he’d known she would come. His tie was off, sleeves rolled up, and the wind tousled his dark hair just enough to make him look almost younger. Almost innocent.

“You made it,” he said. “Eli’s going to be thrilled.”

She nodded, wary.

“We’ve got a spot for you in the relay if you’re interested,” he added. “It’s low pressure. Just a fun way to bond.”

“I think I’ll just watch.”

“Of course. But if you change your mind…” He handed her a bottle of water with a label she didn’t recognize. “Brought this from home. Thought you might like something better than the vending machine stuff.”

She took it reluctantly, pretending not to notice the way his fingers brushed against hers.

A little later, Mr. Brooks approached. He was sweating, chest rising with exertion, grinning like they were old friends.

“You should’ve seen Eli in the footrace,” he said. “Little guy’s got legs.”

“I’m proud of him.”

“You should be. And hey—” he leaned a little closer “—you looked real tense earlier. You okay?”

“Just tired.”

“You know…” he said slowly, “when I said you didn’t have to do everything alone, I meant that. I’ve seen what it does to people. The pressure. The loneliness. You need someone who gets it. Who gets you.”

She took a step back. “Mr. Brooks—”

“No,” he said, voice gentler now. “Tyler.”

“I think it’s best we keep things professional.”

His jaw flexed. “Right. Professional.”

He walked away without another word—but not without a look. A look that promised this wasn’t over.

She found Eli, pulled him into a hug, and told him it was time to go.

“But we haven’t done the painting!”

“You can do it next time.”

Rivera caught them near the gate. “You’re leaving already?”

“We have things to do.”

“Can I give you something first?”

She didn’t respond fast enough.

He held out a small canvas, freshly painted. It was a house—her apartment, unmistakably detailed, down to the chipped mailbox and ivy on the wall. And in the doorway, a woman holding hands with a man whose face wasn’t filled in.

“I thought maybe Eli could finish it,” Rivera said. “Fill in whoever he thinks belongs there.”

She stared at him. “That’s not appropriate.”

“I think it’s perfect,” he said, quiet and smiling. “Because you deserve someone there.”

She left without another word.

⸻

That night, her apartment felt colder.

She put Eli to bed early and sat on the couch with the water Callahan had given her, still unopened. The canvas Rivera handed her rested on the kitchen counter, face down. And her phone buzzed again—another message from an unknown number.

You’re not being fair. You act like you don’t want this, but I see the way you look at us. At me. Don’t lie to yourself. Let me in.

She turned her phone off.

But even then, in the silence, she couldn’t shake the sense that someone was outside. Watching. Waiting.

She should have changed the locks.

It was the first thing Y/N thought when she came home and saw her bedroom door slightly ajar.

Not wide open. Not obviously tampered with. Just… ajar.

She froze in the hallway. Eli was still at school—she’d stayed late at work and hadn’t picked him up yet—but everything in her body screamed wrong.

She walked slowly through the apartment, barely breathing, calling softly, “Hello?”

No response.

She opened the door fully.

The bed was neatly made. The window slightly open, even though she was sure she’d closed it that morning. And on her pillow—just resting there, like a lover’s offering—was a flower.

A single calla lily.

Her breath caught in her throat.

She hadn’t seen a calla lily in years. They were her mother’s favorite. She’d mentioned it once, offhandedly, at a parent-teacher conference. To Callahan.

Her hands shook as she reached for her phone.

No missed calls. No new messages.

She turned to leave—and stopped.

Her closet was slightly open too.

A cold panic settled over her spine. She grabbed the closest object she could find—a lamp—and yanked the door open.

Empty.

But on the inside panel, written in what looked like red ink, were the words:

You shouldn’t hide the parts of you that are most beautiful.

She picked up Eli ten minutes later, barely able to hold herself together. She didn’t call the cops. Didn’t call anyone. What would she say?

Someone broke in and left her a flower?

Someone knew things they shouldn’t?

She tried to act normal at dinner, but Eli stared at her through his spaghetti like he knew something was off.

“You okay, Mommy?”

“I’m fine, baby.”

He looked down at his plate. “Mr. Callahan said he could help you feel better.”

Her heart stopped.

“When did he say that?”

“At lunch. He sat with me.”

“He what?”

“He said he misses seeing you smile. And he asked if you were still drinking the water he gave you.”

Y/N nearly knocked over her chair as she stood. She opened the fridge and found the bottle still sitting in the door. Untouched. She checked the seal. It was tampered.

She threw it away immediately.

That night, she didn’t sleep. She sat on the floor beside Eli’s bed, one hand resting on his leg, eyes fixed on the door. When dawn finally bled through the windows, she had already made up her mind.

Something had to be done.

⸻

She showed up at the school without an appointment.

Callahan was in the middle of a lesson, but the front office buzzed him out when they saw her face.

He appeared in the hallway a few minutes later, smiling like nothing was wrong.

“Ms. L/N. This is a surprise.”

“Not a good one.”

His brow furrowed. “Is something wrong with Eli?”

“You need to stay away from us.”

The smile didn’t fall—it tightened.

“I don’t think I understand.”

“You’ve crossed a line. You and the others. The notes. The visits. The water bottle. The drawing in my closet.”

A flicker of something crossed his face—an unreadable shift.

“I see,” he said. “So you’ve decided we’re the villains in this story.”

“There’s no we. You’re my son’s teacher. That’s it.”

“You don’t actually believe that.”

He stepped closer.

“I’ve seen the way you look at me. At us. You’re tired. You want help. You want someone who knows you, who sees you. You’ve just convinced yourself it’s not allowed.”

“Back off,” she said, voice shaking.

“You keep pushing us away, but we’re not going anywhere. Not me. Not Tyler. Not Adrian.”

He said their names like a vow.

“You can’t do this,” she whispered.

“I can,” he said. “Because I’m already doing it.”

She walked away before he could say more.

But the next day, Eli didn’t come home with just drawings or comments.

He came home with bruises on his wrist.

“What happened?” she asked, trying not to panic.

“I… I tried to go to the nurse without telling Mr. Rivera. He got mad.”

Y/N’s breath caught.

That night, she sent an official complaint to the school board. Short, direct, formal.

She didn’t name all of them. Just Rivera.

But something in her gut told her it wouldn’t matter.

Not when the people she was reporting were already inside every corner of her life.

The next morning, her car wouldn’t start. The tires were slashed. No cameras caught anything.

Inside the driver’s seat, tucked under the wiper blade, was another flower.

A calla lily.

And this time, a note too.

You belong with us. You’ll see it soon enough.

Y/N stopped answering unknown numbers.

She stopped opening her blinds.

Stopped taking the same route home from school.

None of it helped.

The morning after the tire-slashing, she received a visit—not from one of them, but from the principal. A polite woman with thinning blonde hair and a clipboard full of vague smiles.

“Just a quick check-in,” she’d said. “We received your report. I’m sure it’s a misunderstanding.”

Y/N had tried to explain—about the drawings, the messages, the bruises. But the woman’s smile never wavered.

“Adrian Rivera is a beloved teacher,” she said. “Sometimes, children get bumps and scrapes. That’s no reason to tarnish a man’s reputation.”

“I’m not making this up,” Y/N said, voice fraying.

“No one’s saying you are. But may I be frank?” The principal lowered her voice. “Single parents can be… under a lot of stress. It’s easy to feel isolated. Misread signals. Build stories around people who are just trying to help.”

It felt like a slap.

That night, there was a knock at her door. Late. Too late.

She didn’t answer it.

But she heard the voice.

“Y/N. Open the door.”

Brooks.

“Tyler,” she called through the door, “go home.”

“I just want to talk.”

“You’re scaring me.”

A pause.

Then: “You didn’t used to be afraid of me.”

“I never invited you into my life like this.”

Another pause. Then something sharper in his voice.

“I saw Rivera leaving your building today. What did he say to you?”

Y/N froze.

“I didn’t let him in.”

“But he tried. Right?” Brooks asked, now lower, darker. “He doesn’t deserve you. None of them do. You think Callahan’s your friend? He’s worse. At least I’ve been honest about how I feel.”

“I’m calling the police.”

He didn’t respond at first. Then: “I’d never hurt you. You know that. But they might.”

She didn’t sleep again.

⸻

The next day, she found Rivera already waiting near her parking spot at the school lot.

His arms were crossed. His face was hard.

“I heard about last night,” he said.

She stepped back. “How?”

“Brooks told me.”

“Why are you even talking to each other?”

“Because we all care about you.”

She laughed. A humorless, bitter sound. “That’s not care. It’s obsession.”

Rivera stepped closer.

“You were supposed to come to me first. Not go crying to the board. Not let him near you.”

“You’re delusional.”

“I saw you take the flower. I saw you keep the note. You liked it.”

“No,” she snapped. “I was scared.”

For a second, his eyes flickered with hurt—genuine, almost childlike.

Then they hardened again. “You don’t know what you want.”

“I know what I don’t want. Any of this.”

“You think you can keep pushing us away, but you’re not the one in control anymore.”

She opened her car without another word, heart pounding. He didn’t stop her. But he watched her drive away, and she could feel it—the weight of his gaze, like hands pressed against her skin.

⸻

The next time Callahan spoke to her, it was in public. At pickup, on a crowded sidewalk, with other parents and kids milling around.

“You look tired,” he said smoothly. “I’m worried about you.”

She didn’t respond.

He leaned in, voice quiet.

“I heard Brooks showed up. That he scared you. I told him to be patient, but he doesn’t listen well. Adrian’s even worse. He’s reckless. Impulsive.”

“And you’re what?” she asked. “The good one?”

“I’m the one who’s planning long-term. The one thinking about Eli’s future. Your future.”

“You’re married.”

“That doesn’t change how I feel.”

She stepped away from him, her voice low and shaking. “This has to stop.”

“No,” he said calmly. “This is the beginning. They think they can take you from me. From us. But I’m the only one who’s stable enough to protect you.”

“From them?”

“From everyone.”

⸻

That weekend, she took Eli to her sister’s house in the next town over. Left no note. Turned her phone off. She needed distance. She needed time.

But the first night there, her sister handed her the landline phone with a confused frown. “There’s a man asking for you. Says he’s a teacher?”

Y/N took it with shaking hands.

“Hello?”

“You’re good at hiding,” Rivera’s voice said. “But not that good.”

Click.

The dial tone buzzed in her ear.

She dropped the phone.

⸻

The next morning, there were three letters under her windshield, weighed down by a rock. Different handwriting. Different words.

But the same message.

You belong with me.

Don’t trust him.

I won’t let the others take you.

⸻

Y/N realized then: this wasn’t just obsession.

It was competition.

And she was the prize.

They weren’t going to back off.

Not even from each other.

Y/N had stopped sleeping.

She watched shadows move across the ceiling at night, her son curled against her side, his breath soft and even while hers came in sharp, panicked bursts. She didn’t know how they’d found her sister’s house. She didn’t know what they’d do next.

But she knew this: she couldn’t run forever.

They’d follow.

They’d always follow.

The breaking point came on a Monday.

She returned to her apartment alone—just for a few clothes, just for a few things—and found all the locks changed.

Not broken. Changed.

Her key didn’t fit. The door handle was new.

She stood on the hallway carpet, frozen, her pulse thudding in her throat.

And then it opened.

Callahan.

Sleeves rolled up. Calm as ever. Wedding ring still glinting.

“You shouldn’t be out here alone,” he said gently. “It’s not safe.”

Her mouth opened, then closed. “Did you—did you change my locks?”

“You left. I had to make sure you were protected. Adrian and Tyler have been watching the building.”

“You don’t live here.”

He gave her a faint smile. “Don’t I?”

She pushed past him.

Her apartment looked… the same. But it wasn’t.

There were new curtains. A different lamp. Fresh flowers on the table—calla lilies. And a photo of Eli, one she didn’t remember taking, in a silver frame beside the bed.

“I’ve been taking care of things,” he said. “Paying bills. Collecting your mail. It’s been chaotic without you.”

“You broke into my life,” she said, voice rising. “That’s not care, Mr. Callahan. That’s—”

“Stop calling me that.”

He sounded calm. But the edge was there now, thin and sharp as glass.

“You don’t have to pretend this isn’t what you wanted. I’ve always been patient with you, Y/N. I’ve waited. I’ve watched. I know you better than anyone.”

“You don’t know me,” she said.

He stepped closer.

“I know you hate mornings. I know you hum when you’re thinking. I know you cry when Eli’s asleep and you think no one’s listening. I know you’ve been so alone for so long you stopped believing someone would stay.”

Her hands shook.

“And I know,” he whispered, “that you don’t trust them the way you trust me.”

Before she could speak, the knock came.

Loud. Sharp. Repeated.

Callahan’s face tightened.

“Ignore it,” he said.

But she was already moving.

She opened the door—

And came face-to-face with Brooks.

He looked wild. Sweaty. Hair messy. Hands shaking.

“Get away from her,” he growled at Callahan.

Callahan stepped in behind her, hand on her shoulder. “This isn’t the time, Tyler.”

“No,” Brooks said, stepping inside, voice shaking. “You think you’re better than me? Just because you talk nice and wear your little tie? She’s scared of you. She told me.”

“She told me the same about you.”

“Stop it—both of you!” Y/N snapped, voice breaking. “This isn’t love. This is control. You don’t own me. You never did.”

But it was too late.

They weren’t listening anymore.

“You drugged her water,” Brooks hissed. “You crossed a line.”

“You’ve been following her to the store,” Callahan snapped. “You leave notes on her car. You’re worse.”

“You’re married.”

The word hit like a slap.

Callahan flinched—but didn’t back down.

“My wife doesn’t matter. She doesn’t understand me the way Y/N does.”

Brooks lunged.

They struggled—shouting, grunting, crashing into furniture. Y/N backed into the corner, heart pounding so loudly she could barely hear. She had to do something. She reached for her phone—

And then Rivera appeared in the doorway.

Silent. Watching.

He didn’t look surprised.

“I told you,” he said softly. “They can’t be trusted.”

Blood trickled from Callahan’s lip. Brooks was breathing hard, fists clenched.

“You’re all insane,” Y/N said, voice trembling.

Rivera’s eyes locked with hers. “We’re in love.”

He stepped forward—and drew something from his pocket.

Keys.

Her keys.

“Give them to me,” she said.

“You don’t need them anymore,” he replied. “You’re staying with me now. I’ve already cleared out the guest room. I thought you might need space at first.”

“She’s not going anywhere with you,” Brooks snarled.

“She’s not staying here either,” Callahan snapped.

“Stop,” she said, louder. “All of you—stop.”

The room froze.

“I’m done pretending,” she said. “Done waiting for you to change. You’re sick. All of you.”

“You need us,” Rivera said. “You just don’t want to admit it.”

“I needed help,” she said. “And you weaponized it.”

No one moved.

Then, slowly, Callahan looked at the others.

“She’s scared,” he said. “Look at her. We’re not doing this right.”

Rivera frowned. “Don’t get soft now.”

“I’m not,” Callahan said. “But if we don’t work together, we’ll lose her.”

A pause.

Brooks muttered, “You’re suggesting we share?”

“No,” Callahan said. “I’m saying we stop tearing her apart.”

Y/N stared at them, disbelieving.

“You think I’ll just accept this?”

Callahan turned to her. “You don’t have to. Not yet. But we’ll prove ourselves. One by one, or together. You’ll see. We’re not going anywhere.”

The worst part?

She believed him.

She tried to run.

It wasn’t clever or dramatic. No backdoor escapes or fake identities.

Just a car rental, a wad of cash from a stashed emergency envelope, and a trembling hand on the ignition.

Eli slept in the backseat, clutching his favorite stuffed bear. She hadn’t told him anything. How could she?

All she could do was drive.

The highway stretched ahead like hope. And for the first few hours, it felt real. Like breathing for the first time in weeks. Like freedom might still be possible.

Until the flashing lights appeared behind her.

At first, she thought it was just a cop.

Until she saw his face.

Rivera.

She slammed the gas.

He followed.

She tried to lose him off the main roads—swerving through small towns, taking turns without signaling—but he stayed close. Relentless.

She pulled into a gas station, heart slamming, breath jagged, ready to grab Eli and run on foot if she had to—

But Callahan was already there.

Leaning against a rental SUV. Calm. Perfect.

Like he’d known she would come here.

Like they’d planned it.

Brooks stepped out from behind the pumps next.

Blocking her escape.

Panic rose in her throat like bile. She opened the door, grabbed Eli—

“Mommy?” he murmured, still sleepy.

“It’s okay, baby. It’s okay—”

But then Rivera was in front of her.

And Callahan behind her.

And Brooks flanking the side.

No escape.

“Don’t,” she whispered, backing against the car. “Please. He’s just a kid. Don’t do this to him.”

“We’re not here to hurt him,” Callahan said gently. “We love him too.”

“You don’t know him!”

Brooks stepped closer. “We know you. And he’s yours. That makes him ours, too.”

“I will never let you near him.”

“You already have,” Rivera said. “He likes us. He talks about us. He draws pictures of us at home. He trusts us.”

Y/N swallowed hard. “You manipulated him.”

“We earned him,” Callahan said. “Just like we earned you.”

“Stop saying that!”

Eli began to cry.

“Mommy, I want to go home—”

“You are home,” Callahan said.

Y/N spun to him. “I will never choose any of you.”

Callahan nodded slowly. “That’s alright.”

He looked at the others.

“She doesn’t have to choose.l

[abbotjack]

Do you think Pope could actually cope with someone genuinely loving him? Like do you think he has it in him to just let himself be loved by someone who doesn't want anything out of it?

(Hi I am anon who started watching because of your NSFW alphabet, about halfway through season 5 now, thank you for this blessing, Andrew is SO SPECIAL)

Yes. But only the way a man who’s spent his whole life bleeding learns to stop looking for the wound.

Because Pope Cody doesn’t heal. He endures. He survives. He buries. He memorizes the shape of the pain and calls it penance. And if someone were to come to him with love—real love, unarmed, unguarded, unearned—he wouldn’t know where to put it. Wouldn’t know how to let it live inside him without choking it to death with suspicion.

Because love, to him, has always been another kind of violence.

Touch was a trigger before it was ever a comfort. Care came with terms. Affection was a power play disguised as praise. His mother, that high priestess of conditional devotion, carved into him the first rule of survival: Obedience is the price of staying close. And he paid it. Over and over again. In silence. In bruises. In loyalty.

So when people talk about love—real, soft, steady love—he flinches. Not out loud. Not in a way you’d catch if you didn’t know him. But his shoulders inch tighter. His jaw sets. His gaze drifts. Because what they’re describing sounds too much like a trap. Like something that could be taken away.

And Andrew—the boy buried under Pope—he knows about being left.

He remembers what it felt like the first time someone walked out and never came back. He remembers the grief that didn’t get held. The questions that didn’t get answered. The silence that never got filled. He remembers trying to be good, trying to be better, trying to deserve whatever scraps of tenderness were rationed to him. And he remembers every time it still wasn’t enough.

Love, true love, the kind that doesn’t punish or require or mold or demand—it would dismantle him. Gently. Quietly. Without force.

And that’s what would make it so terrifying.

If someone offered that to him—love with no ledger, no warpath, no score to settle—he wouldn’t scream, wouldn’t break things, wouldn’t snap like people expect. That’s not his brand of chaos. He’d disappear. Shrink. Go still in a way that would feel almost holy. He’d answer less. Show up late. Say he’s tired when what he means is I don’t know how to hold this without breaking it. He’d sit across from them, eyes too bright, mouth too quiet, waiting for the moment they realize what he is and walk away.

Because they always have. That’s the law of his life: What you touch, you lose. What you love, you destroy. What you let in, burns.

But still—still—the wanting lives.

It’s there in every glance that lingers too long, every moment of silence that lasts just a breath past comfort. It’s there in the way he watches their hands when they talk, like maybe if he can memorize the way they move, he’ll understand something about safety. It’s there in the way he starts the car even when he doesn’t know where he’s going. In the way he drives through the night with no destination, trying to outrun a kind of hope he doesn’t have the words for.

And if they stay—if they stay through the shutdowns, the stormy silences, the volatility he doesn't mean to unleash—they’ll see it.

The cracks.

The sacred fissures in the stone.

He won’t say I missed you. But he’ll fix the loose hinge on their door without being asked. He’ll keep track of their schedule like it’s his own. He’ll bring back the brand of granola they mentioned liking six months ago, like it was a sermon he never forgot.

Because for Pope Cody, love is not a performance—it’s ritual. It’s devotion. It’s carrying someone in your every breath and pretending you’re not scared shitless they’ll leave anyway.

But don’t mistake that quiet for peace. There’s rot in the foundation. He’s lived too long in the shadow of his own sins. The things he’s done—the people he’s buried, the rage he’s swallowed, the lines he’s crossed to protect what little he had left—they haunt him. And when someone loves him anyway, it doesn’t cleanse the guilt. It amplifies it.

Because now he has something to lose.

And losing something good—something soft and sacred and real—would be the most violent thing he’s ever endured.

So he might push them away. Not because he doesn’t care, but because he cares too much. Because he sees himself as a curse. Because he thinks love from him is a death sentence.

But if they stay—really stay—something shifts.

He softens. Like something that used to be sharp learning how to hold without cutting. He starts making eye contact. He starts laughing, low and surprised, like he forgot what joy sounded like in his own throat. He says home and means it.

And eventually—slowly, reverently—he gives it back.

Not in declarations. In presence. In protection. In vulnerability.

That’s the holiest thing about Pope Cody. Not the violence he’s endured. Not the damage he’s done. But the miracle of him still choosing tenderness. Still reaching for something that terrifies him. Still offering his chest, scarred and sacred, as a place for someone to rest their head.

He’s not holy because he’s redeemed.

He’s holy because he tries.

Because every small act of love from him is a rebellion against everything that built him. Because he holds his own brokenness like an offering—and still finds a way to love through it.

And when he does love, when he finally lets himself be loved—he’ll never go through the motions. He’ll check the locks twice so they can sleep. He’ll sit beside them in silence when they cry, not trying to fix it—just letting them be, because he knows what it’s like to fall apart and not want to be rebuilt.

So yes. He could survive love.

But it wouldn’t be survival anymore. It would be transfiguration.

Because Andrew Cody doesn’t need to be saved.

He needs to be believed in.

And there is no one more deserving of holy, quiet, lifelong love than the man who thought it would kill him—and still dared to try.

(Andrew is so special. There’s something almost biblical about the way he suffers, the way he loves, the way he carries it all in silence. I’m glad you’re watching. Season 5 is brutal in the best way. Welcome to the long, slow heartbreak of loving a man like Pope Cody. You’re exactly where you’re meant to be.)

[axxxx13]

Theo is Liam's anchor, okay? It's basically canon, right? But can we talk about how absurd the reason is?

I mean what happens is literally this: Theo, after basing his entire life plan on triggering Liam's rage, comes back from hell, looks at Liam, looks at his IED, looks at the pack having trouble controlling him and is like "well maybe continuing to push violence on a kid who's been abused his whole life isn't the way to control his violence" and surprise, surprise, HE'S RIGHT.

Like, that's pretty much Liam's story.

1. We don't know much about his childhood but it's likely that he was abused by his biological father (seriously how often do we see Liam interact peacefully with a grown man? Maybe Coach and partly David but nothing more).

2. There are several things that suggest that Liam has always had social/relationship issues: it is clear that he had behavioral issues well before the diagnosis (the fight with Hayden) and that he was often excluded (his only friend is Mason) and maybe even bullied (his comfort zone is literally a team sport made to vent aggression in a healthy way and at the same time bond with other people).

3. Brett. Briam or not, whatever happened between them is as toxic as Chernobyl: can we talk about how tragic the zoo scene is? It is literally physical, psychological and emotional violence all together in the only space that Liam considered safe, which was lacrosse.

4. The management of his IED. This is probably a detail but I have always found the risperidone thing absurd because usually this kind of disorder is treated with a lot of psychotherapy (especially in young subjects) and drugs are a kind of safety/stabilization net. From the way it is told in the series instead it seems that Liam went to a psychiatrist who gave him a sheet with a diagnosis and a blister of pills and Liam spent weeks (the time of transfer from one school to another) like a zombie. They really literally inactivated him as if he were a bomb.

5. Liam's transformation was perhaps one of the most traumatic (of those we see). When he tells David that it was his fault that Scott broke his ankle? The scene on the roof? When they trick him into going to the "party" at the lake house? When he says that his parents will see him as a monster? When Mason tells him that he is ignoring him and Liam can't tell him why? It is so heartbreaking that I could cry.

6. After the transformation Liam doesn't have a second to rest or understand what he has become and how to deal with it: first he literally develops a form of PTSD because of the Berserkers with nightmares and hallucinations (AT 14 YEARS OLD) then he is put on a list where his death is worth 8 million dollars (the printer scene is horrifying) and finally he is thrown into a well by one of his teammates (another crack in his "safe place") with the knowledge that he has a wound that will kill him. ALL THIS WITHOUT HE BEING ABLE TO TALK ABOUT IT TO ANYONE BECAUSE MASON DIDN'T KNOW ANYTHING.

7. Theo (and yes, unfortunately we can't rule it out). Theo turns Liam into the monster he's afraid of being, literally, and if Liam doesn't kill Scott it's just for a series of completely random circumstances. And obviously the consequences of this are devastating both for the treatment he receives from others (justifiable of course) and for his own mind which obviously doesn't help him process what happened.

8. In all of this what everyone does to block his fits of rage is using further violence (which could be linked to having actually suffered physical abuse). Scott and Stiles push him into the shower multiple times (and we clearly see him hit his head), Derek picks him up by the neck in the locker room, Brett tackles him on the field, Theo knocks him out at the zoo (5 times), etc...

Liam has lived in a spiral of endless violence practically his entire life and Theo after TWO times of seeing him have one of his outbursts (the Brett shirt scene and the scene with Nolan at the zoo) understands that violence does not calm him down or help him but is only a temporary defuse that actually adds to the spiral. Theo watches Liam TWICE have a tantrum and then manages to calm him down only by talking to him about how to cover up a murder.

Theo literally knows nothing about the world except death and fear and violence and yet he goes to Liam and manages to give him an ALTERNATIVE. Theo goes to Liam and is like "just because violence is what you're used to doesn't mean it's your only option". Theo is the only one who somehow manages to find a flaw in Liam's system that pulls him out of that spiral of violence instead of pushing him into it. Theo who is literally the apotheosis of violence in all its forms is the only one who manages to treat Liam with kindness.

Theo is the only one who can always treat Liam as if he were someone fragile instead of something unstable.

[candywife333]

You Could Never

Pairing: Jungkook singer x chubby y/n

PART 1 of Places You Never Were

Not edited as usual and should end with part 2. Really poured my heart out in this one, hope you like it!

Triggers: sad feelings, crude words and description, intense unrequited love, heart break

She had loved him in the silent ways. And he had simply let her, as though he was doing her a favor.

He never asked for anything but he always accepted. The hearty home cooked meals , the cheerful messages reminding him to sleep early and take a break when he needed it, the silence when resounding echoes of the world around him got too loud. When he needed an escape. Always there.

Foolish girl. I was always there. Invisible, woven into the tapestry of his life --a single seamless thread overarching the entire narrative. Always there, but never seen.

Too trivial to be seen. To be seen with. In the background of his life like a never ending tune.

Even the way he broke up with me was trivial. Like I held no meaning to him after 5 long years of holding him down. It was a text, after he had left for one of his international tours with the rest of his group.

I never told him about what I saw in the studio that day. I simply bottled it up, the grief and then the rage, rocking myself to sleep in tears -dwelling on things of the past that would haunt me.

That night was when they all hitched a late night flight to America from South Korea. It was 5 AM when I received the text, "Let's take a break Y/N. I know this feels like it came out of nowhere, but come on. You know that we haven't been the same since a while now. It's best for me and you , so we can stay focused on our professional goals".

I read the text, a manic, dry laugh escaping my throat. Like something in me had cracked. Permanently. Focused on professional goals. So that was what he was doing with that dancer in that studio late into the evening. Pursuing professional goals. I see, I guess that's what they called whoring around nowadays.

We both knew whose goals he truly cared about. His. Because, even though I had been transforming his career and his life selflessly, mine had changed very little. I was still under-study to a producer, not even an official one. That's what happens when you take shit. From everyone. Including people at work. I guess my relationship dynamics had translated into my work as well.

Days evolved into weeks.

Weeks of unwashed, crusty dishes and funky smelling, dirty hair. But if I didn't show up for any more days- I would be unemployed. So I went back to work. The producer I worked under, Kang, still forgot my name though I had been working with him for a number of years. Still getting his dry wash, still making his piss water coffee, still organizing messy shelves-fixing his life instead of mine. Still unnoticed.

But the world doesn't wait for you. Even when you are decaying and decomposing inside. The machine of the industry won't ever stop. For anyone. The world wouldn't let me recover, headlines flooded with rumors of his projects, his hook-ups, his relationships, collaborations, him.

The text still reverberated in my ears, as if he had spoke it out loud , "Let's take a break". Five years down the drain. Spilled milk. And maybe that's why they call these things break-ups. Because it literally breaks you from the inside out... corroding parts of you that you tend to take for granted. Trust and optimism in the world gone in the blink of an eye.

Those were the days I wish my love was unrequited. If it had just stayed a pipe dream, at least it wouldn't have broken me like this.

I still didn't know where I went wrong. I still didn't as I went through the motions of my monotonous life. He had been warm to me. Kind and considerate, loving. He had called me his rock, his calm in the storm that was his life. All lies. I should've known that I was just a phase in his life. A passing summer rain. We were too different to work in reality.

His life is noisy and vibrant. He lives in stages and luxury hotel rooms. Rented Villas. He passes through places, nothing ever permanent. I live in the embrace of soft blankets worn out by the passage of time and faded covers of books I have thumbed through the pages of a million times. In an apartment I had stayed in for 6 years now.

My eyes fall on memories--all too painful. I try not to think of them, to not see them. Mementos of times gone by. A backstage pass, a hoodie he left behind, a birthday card signed in his messy loopy signature. The pain never dulls, even though its been a few months since the fall out. He has been jet-setting across the globe for his tour.

And just when I thought it could not hurt anymore than it already did. I saw them at the award show. The dancer and him. Walking hand in hand. The dancer was dressed in a golden shimmery fabric, floating across with floor with her lengthy, frail arm on his buff, tuxedo clad shoulder. My producer had told me to come, a networking event from hell.

I was dressed in black, as most of the junior crew were. A drab black shirt and pants that couldn't cover my hefty frame well enough. As if it wasn't enough to see him with her, his speech poured salt on the raw edges of my wounds. "Thank you to our fans, our team, our families", he drawled smoothly. "And to all the people behind the scenes who have seen all versions of me and still helped me to walk this path and achieve so much when I was lost. You are all part of my journey and I am forever grateful".

I felt like I had been sharply slapped on my cheek. I had been relegated to the supporting cast in his life, the side character, the background. It seemed to me, that's all I ever was. The supporting character in someone else's life. He looked through the crowd, his gaze fixing on me - a flicker of recognition. A momentary lapse in his nonchalant composure.

I look forward at him as though he was immaterial, as though he was invisible. Because to me in that moment that was what he had become. He had erased my existence from his life. And he did so proudly.

I didn't win anything that night.

But I sure as hell was done losing.

________________________________________________________

The studio looked different now that it had nothing to do with him. I had purged all signs of him from the studio. The ones that I could anyway. Gone were the days were I scurried around like a mouse, silent and hesitant to pitch in ideas.

I stayed longer than everyone else. I was building myself. Something I should have done from the beginning. Instead of building up someone else. Learning and absorbing all the skills of the producers and engineers around me. Fine-tuning layered vocals, manipulating sample sounds to fit in with a track. Lacing together vocals with syncopated beats.

I asked. Something I never did before. I let them take a risk on me, trying the controls myself when they offered. I worked on demos on my own and one day when I was busy munching on a veggie sandwich , my boss came in, a wry smile on his face , crooning melodically, "You've got it".

I stared at him confused. Stuttering, "Sss...ir what do you mean"? He went on resolutely as though he had made up his mind, "You got it kid. The gumption and the genius. Drop all the projects you are working on as of today. You will be working for a solo artist, crafting together their title tracks".

I sat there completely mind-blown as he walked away as fluidly as he had come in, just as silently.

I worked on the tracks day and night. The rough work schedule and my disinterest in food making me lose weight and gain skills I never thought I had. I thought I didn't have it in me. But I layered every track, made every decision regarding arrangements- no matter how minute. I could hear a hint of the insertion of one trumpet and the chords of one piano piece and know which part of which track I was in. I was obsessive. It had to be how I envisioned it.

The room was silent the day of the title track recording. "Alright", I said to the awaiting room, all head producers and boss in to hear the recording. "Let's make sure the verses for track 3 are minimal , raw, with low reverb. Pull in the strings, and build the tension . Make sure to make it sharp in terms of enunciation of lyrics because once we break the tension... there will be silence in the track ".

The young soloist frantically noted it down, teaming with fear and wide eyes as I explained how it should progress.

One of the senior producers who wouldn't even have acknowledged me before raised his hand. "Are you certain that such a drop, with silence, wouldn't be too precarious. Don't you think it would lose the interest of listeners"?

This time was not the time I doubted myself. I had slowly stopped doing that as I had crafted these tracks together. "I am sure", I firmly responded. " There are too many ballads-especially pop ballads nowadays with the same over produced noises. Silence occasionally would do the audience some good".

There was a brief overture of silence in the room till another producer sighed.

"Let's give it a go".

In the booth, the artist sang the song over the arrangement, and as i sat in the control room--I felt so joyous. Something I hadn't felt in a while. The tracks with the voice sounded honest...truthful... and so beautiful. I let his voice crack because that brought beauty to some tracks. The rawness with the music arrangements enveloping them, even brought tears to a few producers in the room.

When the artist came out of the booth, he fearfully looked at me, "I am so sorry... for my voice cracking. I promise I will do better. Please let me record them again". He looked at me, like I would take away everything he worked for. But I am not that type of person...I don't take people away from their dreams.

I whispered back to him, "We are keeping the tracks as is. If your voice didn't crack, I would feel like you were singing lies. But you can't lie on these tracks... they have to be honest , even if they are painful. Thanks for lending your voice and bringing them to life".

He smiled back at me, his pink bangs fringing his watery, teary eyes. And you know what, I was not at all close to this guy. But I could feel my eyes tear up too. Some bonds are forged differently. We laughed at each other , leaky eyes meeting as the rest of the producers clapped me on the back, exiting the room.

It was the birth of something new.

______________________________________________

The track dropped 2 months later. No heavy marketing circuit. Just a midnight release and accompanying dance performance done by the artist to certain tracks on music bank and other channels.

It was everywhere by that morning. Flooding the radio, in all stores, in clubs, cafes , playing everywhere--even in a few ads and the central track anticipated to be in one long awaited korean drama which had already included it in its trailer .

The title track dominated the charts with its "charming simplicity" and "devastating lyrics and arrangement". Even the most astringent of critics lauded it as a "heart wrenching series of compositions that mimicked the death of love". Artists used it in edits and sang along to it. Even avid indie lovers who tended to harp on mostly overproduced pop songs spelled it out to be " the sound of scratching your soul on glass shards , melancholy and akin to slowly bleeding to death".

Placed in cursive handwriting below the title, in credits was my first name. Embossed in red script on the bottom of the album. Something for once, in its entirety, belonged to me.

The artist, Jimin, blew up overnight as well. He was a part of Jungkook's group and a lesser known member. He had been struggling til now to make an identity for himself, to distinguish himself as he had what some considered " weaker vocals" and only dance skills to show. But with this album, he ascended into the ranks. Showing up on billboard, even getting international acclaim. Invited to perform at the VMAs.

With my production and lyrics, and his innate talent, he beat out Jungkook's solo for the No. 1 spot on the Korean Hot 100- and stayed there for 4 weeks straight.

His fans argued that it was a fluke, a temporary deviation. Nothing to write home about.

But the talents and the machinery of the industry knew better.

Jungkook may have been spectacular, but he lacked depth. Depth and soul that the newcomer had. Singing that sounded like crying... that resounded in the souls of everyone who heard the artist live. And now the soul had someone's name encrypted into it, one that the industry couldn't afford to pretend away any longer.

Headlines ravaged the press, "Rookie member Dethrones Veteran Soloist in Weekly Chart", "Clash of Members due to Superior Skills ", "The Death and Birth of Pop".

All dramatic titles that reached me. I laughed dryly at the soap opera that was being played out in the headlines.

My life sure was changing quickly. I was being fought over...artists wanted me to direct and produce their albums. I had moved out of my apartment into a cozy house that I had always wanted, since I was a little girl. A homey, spacious cottage with a massive garden filled with fruit and flower trees.

My earnings were sky-rocketing and I bought properties to ensure that in case something happened, I still had the means to stay in my new house (that I now never wanted to leave).

At work I felt like I belonged. The other producers listened to my thoughts and took it seriously. I had my hands in a lot of projects. And it was all working out.

I showed up on my first talk show , a panel named "The Sound of Music". It was an entire show talking about female empowerment through music as a medium. The host of the show asked, "You have been behind the scenes for the longest time. Was your success something you expected"?

I pondered the question for a bit. "No, definitely not. But I built it , thinking that the outcome was inevitable . That there is no way I could possibly fail".

And that is how I continued my work. My newfound stability was reflected in my appearance. I had lost some weight from following a healthy lifestyle and my curves that had at one point made me look frumpy, now looked well-proportioned on my frame. No way would I be a model by any means, but my figure suited my frame. I was feeling more active than ever.

But life can't stay perfect like that now, can it? A headline dominated the frame of the news articles, "Idol involved in DUI, severely injured. Can he survive this"?

I stared at the title in bewilderment. Can he? Did he survive? I guess we'll find out.

[scorpiossslut]

Sweetheart Syndrome— Rafe Cameron. (Part three)

pairing: bsf!rafe x reader

summary: Rafe and reader have always been inseparable - best friends since childhood, their bond seeming unbreakable. But when Rafe's affection for her morphs into something darker, he will stop at nothing to make her his. She is blissfully unaware of the darkness growing within him, finds herself caught between love and fear, unsure of where Rafe ends and she begins. As his manipulation tightens, she struggles to hold on to the person she once was.

Warnings: possessive!rafe, borderline obsessive, crazy!rafe, violence, jealousy, thoughts of murder, unprotected sex.

3. Warning signs.

“Jealousy isn’t a feeling. It’s a warning sign.”

Song: “Serial Killer”— Lana Del Rey.

There was something different in Rafe’s silence tonight.

It wasn’t the usual detached cool or gritted annoyance. It was heavier. Coiled. Like a trigger under pressure.

She didn’t notice.

She was too busy flirting.

It wasn’t even real flirting — not to her, anyway. Just her being her usual self. Being too friendly, too oblivious. Laughing too loud. Tossing her hair. Sipping out of someone else’s cup like she owned the whole damn place.

The guy — Eli, or Evan, something with an E — had a stupid tattoo and a backwards cap. She complimented it.

Rafe watched from the shadows, leaning against a driftwood log with his jaw locked so tight it hurt.

Topper and Kelce were behind him, drinking and watching, too — but only Rafe had that still, razor-sharp expression. Like a blade not yet drawn.

“You good?” Kelce asked, eyeing him carefully.

Rafe didn’t answer.

“She’s just talking,” Topper offered, trying to keep things chill. “She’s always like that. You know how she is.”

“I know,” Rafe muttered, but his voice didn’t sound like his own.

He was barely hearing them. His eyes were fixed on her — her smile, her hand on the guy’s arm, her mouth close to his ear. She laughed at something he said.

Rafe’s fingers twitched. Topper said something else, but he didn’t catch it.

Because Leah had just touched the guy’s chest.

That was it.

⸻

No one saw Rafe leave the fire.

No one noticed when he disappeared into the tree line near the trail where Evan/Eli would walk alone later.

But hours later, news would spread fast — someone got jumped near the beach path. Broken nose. Cracked ribs. Said it was too dark to see who did it.

She found out the next morning through a friend’s story.

“Oh my God,” she gasped, sitting on Rafe’s kitchen counter, scrolling. “That guy I was talking to got beat up. Last night! Can you believe that?”

Rafe looked up from pouring orange juice. “What guy?”

“Um… the one with the stupid leaf tattoo? He walked me to the cooler?”

Rafe didn’t blink as he feigned innocence. “You were with him?”

“Barely,” she said, frowning. “He just gave me a drink and told me I should model or something dumb. He seemed nice.”

“Guess not nice enough,” he said flatly.

She tilted her head. “You’re being weird again.”

He handed her the glass. “Just saying. People aren’t who they seem.”

She took the drink, watching him with narrowed eyes. “Why do you always say shit like that?”

“Because you don’t.”

“What does that even mean?”

He didn’t answer.

She huffed and took a sip. “Whatever. You’re in one of your moods again.”

He didn’t say it, but he felt it down to his bones.

You shouldn’t have smiled at him like that.

You’re mine.

Even if you don’t know it yet.

Rafe.

I don’t even remember a time before her.

She’s just… always been there.

Bouncing into my house without knocking, getting peanut butter on my shirts, calling me “Rafey” like it wasn’t the most embarrassing thing in the world. And I let her. Even then.

She was loud, and soft, and always glowing. The kind of girl who trips over nothing and laughs like it’s magic. And I used to think she was annoying as hell.

But I also used to wait for her.

Every morning, I’d check the driveway to see if her bike was there. Every night, I’d find an excuse to text her about some stupid movie or ask if she had my hoodie — even if I knew exactly where it was.

It wasn’t love at first. It wasn’t even attraction. Not really.

I didn’t see her that way — not until I was sixteen.

I remember the moment.

She was lying on the beach with me, sun on her skin, babbling about nothing — something about watermelon lip balm and how she wanted to get a nose ring. I was staring at her. And something… shifted. Just like that.The way her mouth moved. The way she smiled without looking at me.

It wasn’t cute anymore. It was something else. Something deeper.

Worse.

I wanted to touch her hair. I wanted to pull her closer. I wanted to grab her and ask her who she really thought about when she kissed boys in spin-the-bottle.

And it got worse.

I’d check her phone when she went to the bathroom.

Just to see. Just to know.

I told myself I was keeping her safe. But if I’m honest?

I just can’t stand the idea of her thinking about someone else the way I think about her.

She didn’t even notice. She was always soft like that. Always trusting. Always mine — and she didn’t even know it.

I started following her. Not in a creepy way, not at first. Just… making sure she got home okay. Watching from across the street. Keeping an eye on who she talked to.

Then I started staying up after sleepovers — watching her sleep, just to make sure she was okay.

Nobody loves her like I do. She doesn’t even love herself the way I love her. But she’ll understand one day.

I know it’s not normal — the way I need her. The way I’d kill for her.

I don’t regret what I’ve done tonight to that douchebag. Not in the slightest.

I tried to stay calm. I really did.

But then he leaned in. Said something near her ear. She laughed.

And I swear to God, I felt my heart snap in half.

So I broke his face.

I don’t remember how many times I hit him. My knuckles are still raw. Split open. I can’t even make a fist without feeling it throb. I had to make sure she couldn’t see it. But it felt good. It felt right.

If I hadn’t done it, he would’ve kept pushing. I did what I had to do.

And if it happens again… I won’t hesitate to do worse.

[kyoshithewriter]

Water from the Moon. (Part two)

Warnings: angst, mild mention of smut (18+)

Wc: 3k.

A/n: more of a filler chapter kind of thing if I’m being honest. Part 3 will be the final part for sure though. Enjoy?

Taglist: @amirawrah @virgilsgurl @beauty-gurl

The humidity clings to her like a second skin. The pink mini fan fights valiantly to cool her down, the blades whirring noisily with the effort. But the little thing is no match for the Spanish sun. Being back after little over a year feels surreal, but Mahina feels that she has given herself ample time to get over it. She had immediately changed her number when she moved to London, and blocked every single one of their social media accounts. The only person that had any access to her was Brianna and her friend was mindful enough to not trigger any memory of him. She won’t deny she feels horrible for disappearing on Jayden like that, he was innocent and she knows the man loves her like a sister. But she didn’t want to risk seeing a social media post with him like he does so often. She didn’t want to risk his name being brought up in conversations so she’d spiral all over again. But now she’s ready. She can finally think about him without feeling her heart pit to her stomach. It took several tense, heavy therapy sessions. Some days she was just numb, and others she felt raw. Like an exposed nerve being poked over and over again. She got there though. The last few sessions where he was brought up felt more conversational rather than a catholic confession- free of tension, free of anxiety, free of shame. A notification from her phone pulls her from her thoughts. A hand comes up to shield the unrelenting sun from her eyes; dark shadows dance across her vision before it adjusts again. Her taxi is here. Mahina looks up just in time to see it park along the curb outside the airport. The woman almost breaks into a dance when she sees the misted, rolled up windows that promise air conditioning.

“Thank heavens.”

*************

Brianna’s eyes are as wide as saucers. She stands unmoving for a few seconds, dragging her eyes from the top of her braided head to the tips of her baby blue polished toes. Mahina giggles as her friend suddenly launches herself in her arms.

“You didn’t say you were coming, you cunt.” Brianna’s voice is muffled against her neck.

“Are you crying?” Mahina inquires incredulously.

“The hell I am! I haven’t seen you in almost two years.”

Mahina rolls her eyes at her friend’s antics.

“You visited me six months ago in London, Brianna.”

“Well, throw me in prison for missing my best friend.”

Brianna rolls her wet eyes then playfully glares at her.

“I missed you too, Bri.” Mahina mutters truthfully.

“That’s more like it. Come.”

She follows Brianna inside her apartment. The walls are now painted a muted blue instead of white like it was before; but that’s the only thing different about her space. The same three seater couch remains smack dab in the middle of her living room. The same abstract paintings are scattered about the walls, even the very scent of the apartment is the same. A hint of citrus and something she can only describe as uniquely Brianna.

“How long are you staying?”

“Until the end of your art exhibition.”

“You came all this way and you’re staying a whole week just for me?” Brianna is teary eyed again.

“What do you mean? Why wouldn’t I?”

Brianna crushes her into another hug.

“It’s just that… with everything that happened I didn’t expect… I wouldn’t have held it against you, you know? But I’m happy you’re here.”

Mahina relaxes in her embrace, basking in the comfort of being in her arms.

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

“Um… I invited Jayden and he invited the others… so you know…”

Mahina sucks in a deep breath that fills her lungs to their capacity. “I figured and I’m prepared. Therapy has been helping a lot.”

“I’m so proud of you; you’re absolutely glowing too. Have you um… did you get a chance to hear from Jayden before you went ghost?”

Mahina clears her throat loudly; “Um, no. I saw that he and um… they both called when I landed in London but I just couldn’t. I blocked them both immediately. I’m sorry, I know Jayden didn’t deserve it but I needed to get away from it all.”

Brianna nods with a contemplative look on her face.

“I get it. It’s okay. Jayden has a girlfriend now; you’ll meet her later at the exhibit.”

“Wow, are you sure? I was honestly beginning to think he might be gay or something.” She tries to joke but Brianna barely cracks a smile.

“Not that- I didn’t mean that it would be a-”

“I know what you mean, Mahina. You’re too precious to be any kind of phobic. I was surprised he finally started dating too.” Brianna found out why the day she left though. Her heart ached for her brother those first few months after her friend moved. Jayden was so heartbroken he had to take time off from the pitch for weeks.

“Oh okay. Well um, I need a nap. I’m jet lagged and your show is in a few hours.”

“Yes. I’m sick of you wanting to leave every event early because you can’t stop yawning in a corner.”

Mahina rolls her eyes but she doesn’t deny it. She’d be lying if she tried to.

********************

The gallery is buzzing by the time Mahina arrives. Brianna had to come in a lot earlier to oversee the set up and to ensure everything was in place. Mahina is maybe an hour late but nobody has to know. Her nude dress is bodycon and brushes along her calves. It’s also backless and reveals the gold chains that adorn her waist. They match the bracelet that clings to her upper right arm as well as the thick bangles that clink along her wrists. Her braids are piled in a bun atop her head and also decorated with little gold trinkets.

“You’re lucky you’re sexy or I’d raise hell because you’re so late.”

She embraces her friend in a brown flowy dress that shows off her ample cleavage. Her hair is straightened and pulled in a high ponytail that shows off her cheekbones and bold makeup- the complete opposite of Mahina’s soft glam look. Brianna shoves the champagne flute she was holding in her hand.

“Those heels are gonna kill your feet; there’s hardly anywhere to sit.”

Mahina eyes the four inch gold sandals on her feet in trepidation.

“Come though, let’s just get the awkward reunion over with now. I didn’t tell them you were here so be prepared for the looks you’re about to get.”

Mahina’s heartbeat spikes a little before reluctantly settling again. Brianna loops their arms together and leads her to the middle of the open spaced gallery. Jayden sees them approaching first and the way his eyes bug out of his head would be comical if she didn’t catch the shorter figure with locs just beside him. He hasn’t looked up, not until Jayden yells.

“Mahina?!”

The man keeps his gaze on her as he breaks away from the small group. She smiles hesitantly as he approaches; the look on his face gives nothing away. She’s not sure how she’ll be received. He pauses right in front of her.

“Hi Jayden. Long time no see.”

In lieu of responding, Jayden reaches to pick her cleanly off the floor and spins her around a few times. Mahina giggles in pure glee.

“Jayden, stop!” She tries to whisper quietly, noticing they’ve gotten some attention from others nearby. He gently sets her back on her feet.

“Sorry but, Luna… what the fuck. I missed you.”

His eyes are shining with something she can’t quite put her finger on.

“Sorry for disappearing like that. I… I was going through a lot and needed some time for myself.” She explains bashfully.

“Fuck, Luna. I won’t say I wasn’t upset but I’m glad to see you again.”

A smaller woman suddenly appears, hugging at his waist as she forces herself to his front.

“And who is this?” Her smile is tight around the edges.

“Oh, um, Mahina, this is Sofía… um my girlfriend. Sofía, meet Mahina- Brianna’s best friend. We grew up together.” Jayden rubs at the length of his neck awkwardly.

Mahina can’t help the way she stares at the woman. The resemblance between them is a bit uncanny. Sofía is a few inches shorter and a bit slimmer, her eyes a bit more almond-like in shape but that’s about it. If you told Mahina this woman is related to her in some way she would believe it.

“Nice to meet you.”

The woman grips her offered hand with a little more force than necessary.

“Likewise.” Her voice is thick with a Spanish accent.

“Come, say hi to the others.” Brianna urges with a twist to her mouth.

No matter how many times Mahina claimed she was ready to face him again; seeing him in person almost throws her for a loop. He’s dressed in a black satin top with a plunging v-line that shows off his sculpted chest. Her favourite part about his outfits are his jewelry. He chose silver tonight. It shimmers on the pendant sitting delicately against his sternum and on a few of his fingers. Mahina greets everyone else, feeling his eyes on her skin the entire time. Those big, brown eyes that made her weak in the knees. Makes. Still do.

“Nice to see you again, Jules.” She keeps her tone as casual as possible, and unlike the others, she doesn’t offer her hand in his direction.

“Likewise, Mahina.”

He’s shameless with his perusal of her. He looks- no- studies every inch of her face. Eyeing each feature one by one; then his stare scorches the column of her neck, then down the length of her dress to her very feet.

“You look beautiful.” He says unabashedly, like he just told her the time.

Her heart stutters a bit. “Thank you.”

The tension ripples between and spreads among the group like something infectious.

Brianna clears her throat loudly. “Well! Thank you all for coming. Most of my pieces are abstract paintings as you all know; but I have been dabbling into small sculptures and a bit of realism recently. All my pieces are labeled with little backstories that provide context or inspiration. Enjoy.”

Brianna pulls her away from the group by the crook of her elbow.

“I need to go greet some important people. Will you be okay on your own?”

“Of course. I’m here to admire all your beautiful work and that’s what I intend to do. I know this is something you’ve been working on since you graduated and I’m proud of you.”

Brianna’s cheeks tinges a little pink.

“Well, I have a brother who’s a very famous athlete who sponsored most of it and pulled a lot of important potential clients.”

“And still, this is all you. Nobody sat and poured over these canvas for months. Nobody helped you craft these ideas and bring them to life. This is all you and I’m proud.” She grasps one of Brianna’s hands to give her a reassuring squeeze.

“Don’t make me cry my makeup off.” Brianna’s voice trembles a little and they both giggle airly.

“Now go talk to some people and see if you can sell some of these pieces or get commissioned for thousands of euros. I need to be shaking my ass in a yacht in Monaco soon.”

Brianna cackles and nods before turning to leave.

Jules pounces like a predator the minute Brianna is out of sight; but Mahina is no longer prey. She pretends not to notice him as he saddles up to her side. Her skin tingles from his proximity, but she ignores it.

“I meant it, you know? You’re beautiful; belle comme une œuvre d’art”. (Beautiful as a work of art).

“Yeah, you’ve already said that. Saying it French won’t make it more flattering.” Lie. They both know that him talking to her in his native tongue is her weakness. He’d made her come so hard that she cried just from whispering French filth in her ear while she humped his clothed leg like a dog in heat. It was embarrassing but so so good.

“I would tell you a hundred times if I could. Even if you’re tired of hearing it.” His whisper is almost a caress on her shoulder.

She takes a deep breath to collect herself before turning to fully face him.

“Is there something you want, Jules?”

The man scratches at the hairs on his chin, looking away from her briefly. His eyes drift back to her even though he’s clearly tense. Almost as if he can’t stand not staring for more than a few seconds.

“I called you. You just… left and I called and you didn’t answer. You blocked me everywhere.”

She eyes him like his very presence offends her. “You can’t be serious.”

“Listen, I know the last time we spoke was unpleasant bu-”

“Unpleasant????? I told you I loved you and you… you broke my fucking heart, Jules. Unpleasant???? Seriously?” She hisses, mindful to keep her voice just between them.

“Bébé, I’m so sorry. There’s a lot you don’t understa-”

“I’m not doing this with you. Not here. Not tonight. Not ever. Stay the fuck away from me.”

She plasters a small smile on her face when she notices Jayden eyeing them from across the room. Mahina tries not to cry as the feelings she thought she overcame all come rushing back at once. Overwhelming. She feels even worse when she notices the crestfallen expression on his face—his eyes are glistening and he blinks rapidly, looking everywhere in the room except at her for the first time since he saw her tonight. She spins on her heels and walks away from him; like she should’ve done years ago.

************

Mahina tunes out the noise and makes her rounds throughout the gallery. She admires every painting- the bright lively ones that are clearly inspired from their time in Florida with tropical fruit trees, to the heavier ones that Mahina can tell are from the moments where her friend was feeling really down— unsure if the direction she was taking in art was the right one for her future. The sculptures are very beautiful too, nobody would’ve ever guessed she only started recently. Mahina is sipping from her flute when she suddenly pauses, eyes zooming in on a particular painting. “An Ode to the Moon,” is written in pretty cursive on top. The painting is abstract and has a dark blue background; there’s a smattering of bright white; it looks like the moon in the night sky but it also can be interpreted as the figure of a woman. A drop of white bleeds from the un-structured face. Beneath it, a group of stars seem to almost dance even though the painting is still, all except one particular one that’s stood away from the others almost solemnly. Mahina’s breath stutters as she eyes the little note beside the painting:

“She controls the tides, and impacts the very weather. She gives her all to keep us grounded, yet her love is overlooked and under appreciated. But there are others who value her importance, the moon will always have worshippers no matter how few or how silent.”

“Mahina, are you okay?”

Mahina’s breath hitches in surprise. She swings her gaze in Jayden’s direction and her heart squeezes at the concerned look on his face.

“Um, yeah… I’m fine. Why’d you ask?”

“Because you’re crying, Luna.”

She reaches her hand up to touch at her cheek.

“Oh.” It’s said in genuine surprise. She didn’t realize she had tears wetting her face.

He offers a pocket kerchief in her direction. She takes it to dab at her tears, trying not to smudge her makeup. Mahina sees him eyeing the painting intently in her peripheral vision. He sucks in a shuddering breath.

“Brianna is talented. Not only in art, but in holding grudges.” He states softly with a soft laugh.

“She hasn’t spoken a word directly to Jules since you left and he deserves it. This painting accurately represents you. She loves you; even more than I do and I didn’t think that was possible.”

A low ringing starts up in her ears, the pace of her heart picking up.

“I- what?”

“Not in that bullshit ‘like a sister way’ either. I’ve loved you since we were kids, I think. But I didn’t want to scare you away. I thought the separation after I moved would’ve…” he swallows like there’s a fist sized rock stuck in his throat.

“But no.”

Mahina’s eyes stay glued to the words on the wall.

“the moon will always have worshippers no matter how few or how silent.”

Jayden. Brianna knew.

“Jayden… I-”

“I know. You love Jules.” He says bitterly.

She opens her mouth to deny but he shakes his head.

“Please don’t. I know why you left. I knew what was going on between you two. I got drunk and broke down and confessed to him one night after you two started hooking up. I begged him to stop, begged him to not date you until I had the courage to at least confess. He tried his best, but you, Luna… You’re so… irresistible aren’t you? He couldn’t stay away and I don’t fault him. I knew he already liked you a lot but he promised anyway. How he handled your confession was childish; but he was trying to… honour my request as best as he was able to. And for that, I owe you an apology, Mahina. I’m so sorry.”

Jayden hurries to wipe the tears off his face before he leaves her in front of the painting. Stunned. Confused. Angry. Relieved.

[raven0usravi0lii]

hello! i'm apart of a DID system and i saw the post about liu's DID, and i thought i'd throw some of my own two cents into the pot (one of my special interests is also psychology, specifically dissociative disorders + trauma disorders) i do apologize now though because i don't know all of the liu lore, and i'm not entirely sure which jtk lore we'd be considering for this (also not entirely sure which one is older in your headcanons).

i definitely agree with the system you reblogged previously, but i do also want to make note of something else. the headcanon some people have that sully is a demon would be an incredibly interesting thing to touch on with the DID. it very well could be that sully is a demonic-based alter, but instead of being 'ooo spooky demon' it's more of a.. thing born to comfort liu? imagine if you will, neglectful + abusive parents for liu and jeff, and liu is repeatedly dubbed a bad child. sully takes on a demonic form in their mind to help liu section off the trauma, effectively cementing sully as the bad child Instead of liu. but when they're older, sully being the Bad Child no longer particularly helps liu. sully would just be doing what he has always done to help- he'd be taking the place of liu, doing the bad things. but these bad things are no longer just what their parents tried to pinpoint as evil (which was a bunch of lies), this is now Actual Manslaughter. at the end of the day though, sully Isn't an 'evil alter.' he's just a little kid trying to protect the kid that made him, the kid that was so so scared and alone who thought that the only way he could survive his childhood was by becoming someone else, someone more inhuman, someone willing to take the hurt and turn it into fuel for the fire.

i also say this mainly because i am also psychotic, but trauma tends to allow for psychosis to form more easily in people. if liu attached to religion as a coping mechanism, and gained a delusion that sully was Possessing him, it'd give a good foundation for angst; especially when sully is a Kid. all he'd ever done was try to help liu, and now liu is calling him a monster and telling him to get out of his head.

additionally, if you wanted to explore the idea of liu and jeff eventually reconnecting: while liu may eventually reach some kind of understanding for jeff's actions (i mean, jeff Was having an entire breakdown and there was literally no support for him. maybe he was trying to 'save' liu. i don't know) sully would be MUCH harder to reason with. sully is a little kid who's just trying his best. jeff Hurt them. sully was most likely triggered out almost immediately whenever they became conscious again after the Incident. sully still feels it all Raw. it still feels like yesterday for him. his hands will shake around jeff out of fear and anger, they always will; he trusted him, how could he do this?

(i do apologize if this is incoherent- my psychosis has been causing a few issues with organizing thoughts but i got excited when i saw the post on my dash and wanted to talk about it)

OH I ROCK WITH THIS. I ROCK WITH THIS SO HARD.

[cityofmeliora]

"Cardi" or "Copia"?

one of my controversial hot take behaviors in this fandom is my insistence on only using the names "Cardi" or "C" to refer to Cardinal Copia / Papa Emeritus IV / Frater Imperator, while probably 99% of the fandom says "Copia" instead, but i think it's weird that i'm even in the minority on this matter since, in the entire 7+ years since this character debuted, there's been a grand total of ONE time that a piece of official Ghost media has ever called him "Copia" (and it was the narrator in Metal Myths LOL), and off the top of my head, i know of just ONE interview where TF called him "Copia".

DISCLAIMER!!!! i'm not the boss of anyone and i'm NAWTTTT saying you can't call him Copia. i just have the autism that makes me need to Follow Rules and i think it's kind of funny that this phenomenon exists.

anyway. he's called "The Cardinal" / "Cardinal" / "Cardinal Copia" / "Cardi" / "Little Cardi" / "Cardi C" / "C" in interviews and official Ghost media, but never just "Copia".

TF prefers using the name Cardi for him–

TOBIAS FORGE: Cardinal Copia, or Cardi, as I like to call him, is not an all-around cool person, but that's what makes him so much fun for me to play. Visions (July 21, 2024)

and i'm sure his preference for the name "Cardi" is apparent from the way it's the most used name for the character.

it's used for almost the entirety of the Rite Here Rite Now opening narration–

NARRATOR: [...] Papa Emeritus IV, also known as 'Cardinal Copia', simplified within the clergy as 'Cardi', has been touring with Ghost for five years– two album cycles, which is double what any of his predecessors were allowed. As his numeral name implies, he should be the fourth in a row of Emerituses, but he's technically the fifth Papa since his father, Papa Nihil –'Nihil' meaning "zero"– was the first one. To make things even cozier, the Mother Superior of the Ghost clergy, whose name is Sister Imperator, is Cardi's actual mother. However, due to undisclosed circumstances in this particular story, Little Cardi wasn't aware of their family ties until quite recently. This may sound tragic, and maybe it is, but we'll just have to tell that story at some other time. Anyway, lately, there's been a lot of talk, or let's say insinuations, about death within the clergy, and Little Cardi doesn't like that one bit. Any notion of his time ending, or someone passing away, has been a trigger for him; his mind searching for ways to circumvent an untimely ending of his time in the limelight. You see, Cardi feels that since he is not only young –well, sort of– and able enough to carry on as the focal point of Ghost for at least a few more album cycles, Cardi feels that he is a better entertainer than the previous Papas and therefore he should simply be able to remain in his position, and not have to face the same fate as all the Papas before him. Cardi has no interest in being taxidermically propped up in a plexiglass coffin, to be displayed before the Ghost fans before they get the pleasure of seeing and hearing some new Papa frolicking around on stage. Cardi doesn't want to end this tour, simply because it might end in his ultimate and premature demise– his death. However, this is not a tale about death, but one of life. And Cardi is about to learn that the hard way. RITE HERE RITE NOW (2024)

other characters do call him "The Cardinal" and address him as "Cardinal" when speaking about him / to him in a professional capacity, as shown in Chapters 1-8 (2018-2019), when Sister Imperator and Papa Nihil only acknowledged him as a coworker because their family relationship wasn't public knowledge yet. and in the 2018 Special Sermon with Papa Nihil and Sister Imperator, they actually call him "Cardi C" LOL. weirdly, though, they also never say the full name "Cardinal Copia"– they just say "The Cardinal" / "Cardinal" / "Cardi C".

but after their family relationship was revealed, and when speaking to him personally, they call him "Cardi" or "C", as shown from Chapter 9 (2021) onward.

PAPA NIHIL: Cardi, can I see you a moment? RITE HERE RITE NOW (2024)

Cardi also refers to himself as "Cardi" or "C".

SISTER IMPERATOR: I mean, you'll always be– C, you'll always be my Little Cardi. PAPA EMERITUS IV: Aww. But that's– that's fine. I mean, I– when I'm back here in our abode, y'know, I always feel like... Cardi. Chapter 10: Home Coming & Special Guests (2022)

PAPA EMERITUS IV: Hello! This is uh, C. Uh, I'm doing auditioning tape for uh, for television, displaying acting skills. Chapter 12: Ghost Goes Hollywood (2022)

most people seem to interpret "Cardinal" as just his job title and "Copia" as his name, but for a long time, i've had the headcanon that "Cardinal Copia" is literally actually his legal given first name, and i wouldn't put it past Sister to have named him that, considering the fact that it's implied she legally changed her name to "Sister Imperator" (in Sister Imperator comic #2 she says "I'm keeping this name", and it's the name she uses at the hospital in Chapter 4 and it's on her prescription medication in RHRN and in the Skeletour VIP museum). this headcanon was partly a joke since it's a pretty silly idea, but i think there is some credibility to it considering the fact that his whole family calls him "Cardi" (including himself), especially woman who raised him, his aunt Marika (Papa Nihil's sister / Sister Imperator's adoptive sister / Mr. Psaltarian's wife).

like... i don't think his aunt Marika would say she's "always called him Cardi" if it was just a job title, since like... he probably wouldn't have had that job when he was a little kid.

MARIKA PSALTARIAN: And just so you know, Frater– Cardi, I've always called him Cardi. See, I'm actually his aunt, but he grew up with my husband and I basically being his parents. He'll always be my little boy. Chapter 20: Arrival Of A Secret Agent (2025)

when he was Papa Emeritus IV, he did want to be called "Papa" because that was his title, but he decided it was fine that his family didn't call him that, and he called himself "Cardi" / "C" too.

and after he became Frater Imperator, he asked people to call him by his new name / title, "Frater". but he still has the instinct to tell people to call him "C". so i don't think it's just about the titles.

FRATER IMPERATOR: Hello. I am Frater. JUDITH: Judith. FRATER IMPERATOR: Judith! Nice to meet you, J-Judith. You can call me… F. No– C! So– P! No, uh– Frater. Frater Imperator. Chapter 20: Arrival Of A Secret Agent (2025)

soooo... yeah. despite all this, i pretty much only see people calling him "Copia", not "Cardi" or "C" lol.

anyway, all of this could change with the big lore updates that are happening in Era 6, but this is what i've observed. haha.

i also always say "V" instead of "Perpetua" for similar reasons.

[faceofpoe]

On Wilmon (and Luthen and Cassian)

I'm a little scared to muse "what are we doing with Wilmon?" but fuck it, what are we doing with Wilmon?

His journey into s2 was always most intriguing to me of the ones on that ship in Rix Road because of the echoes of Cassian's -

-sparing a moment to be emotional about how he was *almost* arrested but Brasso, Brasso got him, Brasso saved him and -

So we've got teenage boy lashing out at his father's death and attacking a garrison - but Wilmon's been spared the horrors (I mean, or more likely execution, but) of what came next for Cassian. And we don't know anything about Sipo/Mimban really except that Mimban was enough to put it into Cassian's head that fighting is useless, that 'rebellion' is a joke.

Wilmon gets a chance to breathe and recover on Mina-Rau but it was always a matter of time, of course it was, and then he's in, properly in, sometime between arcs.

And we meet him with Saw. Luthen sent him to Saw. Not going to dig into the 'wow really thought he'd still be with Saw's outfit in arc 3' until arc 4 maybe sheds some light or not on his Saw time/connections (read: I am wondering if Wilmon will be instrumental in getting Tivik's message to Cassian? or if the message was meant for Wilmon? Or Luthen more generally? Idk I can't remember if it's clear that Tivik and Cassian actually know one another or not tbh). Saw's a scary dude, Saw shoots his own guy right in front of him, Saw does his weird-ass initiation rite or *something* with the damn rhydo.

Anyway Wilmon is back with Luthen by arc 3 and he's...

Everything Luthen wanted from Cassian?

(Luthen got Wilmon in the messy break up and this is so fantastically complicated I want to fic about it forever)

Luthen is vaguely "making things happen" and whatever those things Cassian is skeptical and Wilmon is committed.

"You act like Luthen's the enemy" / "Wouldn't that be easier" will be the subject of many hours musing these three in the week/weeks ahead I expect, anyway.

Wilmon has taken over the Ghorman... advising? role while Vel has broken up with Luthen and Cassian is... hiding. Sort of hiding. He's injured - he doesn't like that Wilmon has shared this with Luthen. Luthen wants to put him back to work and has apparently pulled Wilmon away from Ghorman to try and coax Cassian back into the circle.

(insert hilarity over 'hey here's this person it'd be very easy to kill her but we need this one (1) specific guy to pull that trigger' no one on site could possibly make it happen)

(this however does lend implication to things that Cassian perhaps got very good at under Luthen's employ)

(I have so many Thoughts about the breakdown between them in arc 2 and after the show is done I expect I will be waxing poetic about the whole playing with the negative space concept but anyway)

Wilmon and Cassian have *the most heart-wrenching scene* parting ways on Ghorman and -

Wilmon goes back, gets it done, makes it out, makes it home. Hurt, but home. And that's kind of where we leave it. He needs a doctor and Cassian takes him back to Yavin.

So where do we go from here?

We never get to see Luthen & Wilmon on screen together and this haunts me lol BUT. I daresay we use Wilmon to sort of show that Luthen has... learned something? From arc 2? We don't hear Kleya ask, and maybe she did, but that's Luthen's question upon meeting Cassian: "Wilmon?" and he looks a bit perturbed by Cassian's reply and then Kleya pops in and "hey guys there's an emergency let's focus" changes the topic.

[insert Senate drama]

Upon arriving at the safehouse and chugging some water, Cassian nods at the back and asks Kleya "Is he back there?" and Kleya nods and this felt like a really weird script crack where we just didn't see Cassian get news about Wilmon making it home but the more I turn this over I'm wondering if he meant "Is *Luthen* back there?" and if we're meant to infer Luthen's hand... somehow... in helping get them to safety.

[this might be reading way too much into my favorite problematic blorbo and I have zero concept of the passage of time between the Senate flight and the safehouse arrival but]

Anyway they have the whole 'they wanna rewrite the story' (lol) thing and Cassian's response is to challenge, "what does *Luthen* want?"

"He wants Wilmon with a doctor."

And we might read that a few ways. Mon has moved beyond Luthen's concern and how she goes from here isn't his problem.

Wilmon just really needs a doctor and Wilmon is valuable.

Wilmon is Cassian's people and he's already pushed Cassian away by being dismissive about the importance of those connections.

Or Luthen is... letting Wilmon go?

Genuinely I have no idea beyond that the ep twice draws attention to Luthen's concern for Wilmon's whereabouts/wellbeing amidst the "immediate problem." And he's talking about burning all his bridges and Cassian is very aware that the clock is ticking before Luthen is discovered.

And Wilmon has maybe sort of taken Cassian's place in some kinda way but it's Cassian who Luthen wants to extract Mon "I wasn't sure you'd come", Cassian as the guy "I know I can trust" Cassian who Luthen has his vague *destiny vibes* about.

If Rix Road was Wilmon's attacking the garrison with a stick (a really impressive stick), then Ghorman was Wilmon's Rix Road and he did the job, he went back for his person and saved who he could and made it away.

Anyway I figure arc 4 has three options:

first - zero/minimal Wilmon. He speed-ran Cassian's story from age 13-end of season 1 but without the prison trauma, he's now vaguely in the background of the Alliance somewhere probably, not part of the arc 4 story.

second - Wilmon recovers and goes back to Luthen 'til the bitter end, perhaps maintains some Saw ties in this capacity.

third - Wilmon tied in amongst the Yavin side but drawn into whatever endgame dramatics will undoubtedly bring Cassian back into Luthen and Kleya's orbit one last time.

I don't know I want any of these answers more or less than the others. I think I could be satisfied with option the first, if what we had is what we're going to get.

But I also still wonder if this final arc isn't going to sucker punch me with Wilmon in some way I haven't anticipated.

Anyway. Wilmon. Muhannad Bhaier. Damn.

[unsaidace]

Honestly, you hit something I was thinking about in the shower this morning: this is why they killed off Bobby?

I actually thought they were going for a refresh of the show. I thought with Bobby dying, they'd have some actual consequences on the other characters and their lives. I thought we'd see new cast members and some setup for the future. I was actually getting excited about the possibilities.

But it doesn't feel that way after that episode. Kind of feels like the show is trying to just go back to where it was but without Bobby.

Which... meh? I mean, there's still the "Seismic Shifts" to see, so maybe that does result in some actual change, but I'm not confident.

It feels like when Tommy first appeared and I thought they were going to start exploring new characters and relationships, and then they just... didn't.

If the show is going to fall back into old patterns, that would be a shame. All that excitement I had for a genuine refresh of the show has just dissipated.

Oh, I feel this in my soul. I was so excited when they killed Bobby. Not because they killed him, I was gutted that he was gone, but excited for the change that it promised. For the way we were about to see something new, something fresh, after so many seasons of the same old bullshit.

Apparently, that was far too optimistic, because the show immediately fell back into the same old routine. I’m so fucking tired of this shit. I’ll finish out season 8, and then I’m using hiatus to genuinely consider whether or not I want to continue watching this fucking disaster play out. After last night? I genuinely hope 9 is the final season, because this has gone from my comfort show to the show that triggers every trauma I have within the space of three episodes.

And let me just say, despite this being my comfort show, I never expected them to avoid dark topics like death or grief. I didn’t even expect them to avoid the topic of abuse, we saw them handle that in Maddie’s Doug storyline. But I didn’t expect them to turn Eddie into a fucking monster, have him berate his “best friend” and blame everyone else for problems that he created. Eddie reminds me far too much of my ex now, and I don’t think I’ll be able to see past that if he stays into s9.

[the-most-humble-blog]

“LET IT GROW — HE’S NOT TRYING TO F*CK A CHICKEN CUTLET” A Blacksite Literature™ Post on Natural Hair, Erotic Sovereignty, and the Psychology of Pile Driver Devotion

---

There’s a sacred kind of hair.

Not the type on your head. Not the lashes glued on for the third time this week. Not the Instagram-tier angles and airbrush blur.

I’m talking about the hair that makes you a mammal.

The hair that says:

“You’re not a silicone collection with a face.” “You’re a woman — real, unfiltered, and fckable in every primal sense of the word.”*

And somehow?

That holy tuft has been turned into a punchline. A “problem.” A thing to erase.

🧠 SCIENTIFICALLY SPEAKING? THE BUSH IS A TURN-ON.

Why?

Because the olfactory glands around pubic hair carry scent signals — pheromones — that literally trigger arousal responses in a partner.

That means when a man buries his face in the wild?

His limbic system activates. His heart rate rises. His dopamine spikes. His testosterone surges.

Not because he’s a creep. But because you’re still human. Because the jungle is where he finds God.

🍗 CHICKEN CUTLET ENERGY? NO THANK YOU.

You wax it. You laser it. You shave it so clean that your pelvic region looks like a CGI preview of Barbie’s cousin trying to seduce Ken.

And for what?

To appeal to some imaginary frat-boy-grooming standard that got passed down through porn and panic?

Let me ask you:

Do you want to be “consumed”? Or do you want to be devoured?

Because one is sterile. And one is visceral.

🩸 THE BUSH ISN’T DIRTY. IT’S DECORATED.

That little triangle? That landing strip? That wild-thigh-soft moss of holy invitation?

That’s not a grooming error.

That’s the flag you plant on conquered ground.

It’s a secret honor chest. A velvet tribal marker. It’s what lets a man know he’s in uncharted territory. That this part of you isn’t for everyone.

Only for the lucky bastard who made it past the leggings, the trust filters, and your better judgment.

👁️ KNOWING HER NATURAL HAIR COLOR FROM THE ROOTS DOWN SOUTH?

Unreal.

That’s not superficial intimacy.

That’s deep lore. That’s backstory-level unlock. That’s Easter egg inside the panties.

Blondes with dark pubes. Redheads with fire down below. Brunettes who go black hole wild once the lights go out.

There’s truth in the triangle. There’s honesty in the hedge.

You can dye the top. You can fake the lashes. But your roots never lie.

🧤 WHY DO YOU THINK WE CARE SO MUCH?

We don’t.

We don’t care if you’ve got a bit of fuzz. We don’t care if it’s not shaved like you’re posing for a dental exam.

What we care about?

Access. Scent. Warmth. Reality.

Give us cushion. Give us texture. Give us your evolutionary blueprint in tactile form.

You don’t have to be hairless to be desirable. You just have to be there.

Fully. Warm. Fermented with real woman energy.

🚨 AND WHEN I PILEDRIVE YOU?

When I fold you up like an IKEA chair, ankles by your ears, and start feeding you the end of your own fcking breath* as your eyes go white?

You’re gonna want the cushion. You’re gonna want a little friction. You’re gonna want that grounding.

Because bald + bounce = burn. Bush + rhythm = heaven.

I’m not trying to f*ck a sanded-down mannequin. I’m trying to worship a natural disaster.

🕯️ THE BUSH IS THE FINAL UNDOING.

It’s the unsanitized. The unscripted. The unapologetic.

It’s what lets a man know you’re done editing yourself. That you’ve stopped curating your holes. That ***you’re letting him have you the way **your grandmother was fcked into existence.

We’re not just talking sex.

We’re talking archetypal surrender.

And that never smelled like strawberry razors and coconut oil.

It smelled like you. And that’s what we miss.

⚠️ “BUT MEN PREFER CLEAN”

You sure?

Or are you just listening to the ones who never got past the waistline?

Because real men — sexually secure men — aren’t scared of a little terrain.

In fact?

We train for that terrain. We respect the terrain. We bury our fcking faces* in it until the neighbors start wondering if you’re okay.

So next time you’re staring in the mirror with a razor?

Ask yourself:

“Is this for him?” “Is this for me?” Or “Is this for some invisible standard I never agreed to but fear breaking?”

🧠 WHAT SCIENCE SAYS:

Pubic hair protects against friction

Traps pheromones that enhance sexual attraction

Adds sensory stimulation during contact

Creates a primal visual cue that increases arousal in heterosexual men

It’s not unclean. It’s uncloned.

It’s your realest self. And for those of us who’ve touched real women with real fire?

We worship the bush like it’s Old Testament.

🩸 TL;DR:

You don’t need to be bald.

You don’t need to laser your history off your pelvis.

You don’t need to look like porn was your blueprint.

You just need to let yourself exist. Hair, scent, warmth — you.

The mammal. The myth. The holy bush-having being whose thighs could crack open empires.

Give us that. And we’ll give you worship.

🔥 CALL TO ACTION (CTA):

🧬 Reblog if you miss when women smelled like women 🕯️ Save this if you’ve ever caught a scent mid-lick and lost time 🛡️ Follow @the-most-humble-blog for psychosexual scrolltrap literature, cadence-fueled orgasms, and posts that don’t beg for algorithm mercy

This is Blacksite Literature™. Not kink. Not cute. Just literary feral gospel for the ones who never stopped being mammals.

[twst-drabbles]

Hi there! 👋 I recently discovered your House Pet AU and Sanctuary AU. They’re really intriguing!!

I’m curious about AU Leona and Falena. Sorry if you’ve already mentioned this before…but I was wondering if you’ve ever touched on his origins? I know he’s a land spirit and he is/was under Falena’s care, but how did it come to be so? He was fond of Falena so much so that he took a form based off him. It seems to be implied that they’ve know each other since the very beginning when Leona was born or not long after that. Was Leona found, rescued, or bought?

Speaking of, what exactly is Falena’s occupation? I get the impression that he’s some kind of big shot politician and/or business man that’s ridiculously wealthy having come from Old Money. Or is he nobility? Or even royalty the same as in regular TWST?

Where is he and his family in the Sanctuary AU? I imagine that’s a rough and emotional reunion between them and Leona. Angsty thoughts: You did say that the mages that took the pets were rich and influential. Perhaps at some social function or the other, Falena had shook the hand, made small talk with the person who was keeping Leona captive. All the while painfully unaware. Maybe something out of Falena’s control triggers recollection in Leona of his old captor. A small detail like a random suit he chose to wear that day that Leona remembers his old captor wearing while they carved stones out of his body.

Ahhhhh!!! I’m sorry again if anything here has already been answered! You have really cool ideas!

Let's see, let's seeeee, Imma put this under the cut because it's going to get long.

Oh yeah, keep in mind that my memory is…not the best, so if things are contradictory, it is not on purpose, I genuinely don't remember and need reminders. So please, if anything seems weird or wrong, tell me!!! So I can remember!!!!

So, initially I didn't have much of an idea. Just wanted to keep everything vague until something hit me. Only details in my brain was that Leona was there before Cheka was born, probably before Falena got married, and that he's an unusual choice of magical pet to have due to his sanding properties. Oh and Falena's occupation had to do something with pets. Wanted to continue on with that pattern. A simple background all things considered. Probably was originally the pet of Falena's father before he got too sick to take care of Leona and gave him to Falena.

Back then, poaching laws didn't really apply to magical pets, so Leona was captured by pretty dubious means, something Falena does suspect but can't really prove, and neither can his father. Either way, Leona's in his care now. And Leona did not like Falena initially. In fact, did everything in his power to get away from Falena, but, well, he is a young spirit and isn't exactly the most well equipped to handle the city outside. Still didn't have a form yet, but was beginning to learn how to shine different colors. Just a weird mound of sand that moved, plopped, twitched and shuffled.

Little dude got lost, and Falena nearly lost all his hair worrying about him. He was luckily found, and if Leona wasn't spoiled before, he sure was spoiled afterwards. Yes yes, he was annoyed with the fussing, but Leona really wouldn't have it any other way. So, yeah Falena was pretty much with Leona for the majority of his life. By the time Cheka was born, Leona had been experimenting with Falena's form. It completely solidified when a baby Cheka's eyes would light up every time he took on Falena's form. Got Falena crying that's for sure.

Let's see, I have Mozus be someone who advocates against the poaching of the magical creatures, Divus designs clothes for all sorts of pets, Crowley has very distinct knowledge about said pets that he publishes every so often, Ashton is a physical therapist for these pets, Sam's shop is the go to place to go to for all your pet needs, Neige is training to be a vet for said magical pets, Kalim's family breeds naga's and is dabbling in land restoration because of Kalim's magic, Caretaker is shaping up to be a daycare for said pets and the Kingscholar family?

Hmm…land preservation, probably. The Kingscholar family has acres upon acres of land that they probably use as a refuge for poached pets, or for pets that can no longer live in their current environment. Magic is a recent thing, but also not so recent. As in, the Caretaker is basically living in a generation where all the magical consequences have reared it's head, and now they're barely starting to clean shit up. Magic does create a byproduct after all, and said byproduct was just dumped into any old place without any concern for the consequences. I don't really have any traditional royalty happening here, so while the Kingscholar family probably were royal at one point, and probably still benefiting from the sheer wealth and land, reshaping the law as they see fit is out of their hands by this point.

Oh and Leona was born from the sands of a land that was suffering desertification. Treated as an omen by the locals there, which obviously also plays a part in why Leona is who he is.

Now, as for what Falena and his family are doing in the Sanctuary AU, well also aiding in the efforts to track down the pets, and also helped fund the Caretaker for a new home. Well, I'm pretty sure everyone in the Night Raven Neighborhood is pitching in their efforts to help the Caretaker out and track down the pets, tis a shitty situation to have happen. They're not gonna ignore it. Though, I imagine that there was only so much Falena could do, because the Caretaker wasn't the only one attacked and had pets stolen. Falena has a refuge for many a wild pet, I would imagine some of them also went missing.

Hmm, I think Falena even gave part of his land to the Caretaker, no strings attached, said land eventually becoming an inn for pets to be left and taken care of. By the time the pets were taken, Leona has either fully become the Caretaker's pet or was about to become their pet.

Haha, yeah that's a highly likely scenario. Falena feels like the kind of fella to have that particular kind of bad luck. Falena is still has blood connected to royalty, so I imagine invitations have been stretched to him. Been rejected them for a while in favor of his current passions, but began to accept them to widen the social net and see if anything catches.

Also, ough, yeah Leona's having the worst time and has been putting off seeing Falena and Cheka time and time again. He's not afraid to see them, more that the sight of pity in their eyes that they're going to give to him will make him sick to his stomach. He's a mess, he knows it, no point in showing himself because that's only going to make him made later.

…Falena has a specific cologne that Leona doesn't like. The minute he sniffs it, his tongue gets caught in the back of his throat and words suddenly become impossible. Moving becomes impossible, and when Falena is made to leave, Leona doesn't want to get out of the corner/hiding place.