#i think it was actually intended to be real

[anniflamma]

In response to that "Christian" anon you got (sorry it's kinda long)

First, do you really think sending anon hate to someone is in line with the teachings of Jesus Christ? No. You could have quietly blocked the tag.

Now to the main point:

As a Christian myself with a ministering license (not a practicing minister though) I'm actually glad there's a Bible fandom as opposed to the Reddit Neckbeards that openly hate on it and intentionally take Bible verses out of context to make it look as bad as possible. Why are people who don't necessarily believe in The Bible but can still appreciate it and it's teachings a bad thing?

Also, you can say the Bible is real history...if you acknowledge there are over 45,000 different Christian Denominations globally and many different versions of the Bible, some of which have books the others don't accept as canon.

And that's before we get into:

All the mistranslations that some denominations refuse to acknowledge exist

Song of Solomon being a bunch of love poems

The speculation that The book of Job was most likely intended to be a parable rather than history

The debate over which parts are symbolic and which parts are literal

The Lost Sea Scrolls

Some parts are meant to be wisdom, not history

All the important historical context that a lot of preachers leave out when teaching The Bible

Whether Satan is a literal being or symbolic

etc.

There's a lot more going on in Bible Academia than most people realize.

And it's not like we don't do the same things with other religions. Every "mythology" is actually a theology that is still worshipped today. Why is it ok to have a Greek Pantheon fandom or a Norse Pantheon fandom, but not a Bible fandom? Should the Norse Pagans be offended by the MCU and all the fangirls thirsty for Loki?

These points are really interesting, and I’m going to read up on some of the mistranslations. I love this stuff because it reveals so many different perspectives!

Also, YES! Why can girlies fawn over Loki, but I can’t swoon over Samson?!

[jyndor]

okay forGET the pre-andor cassian backstory being stolen from us, whatever. EVEN with the kenari backstory, even with ferrix, IT MAKES NO SENSE for cassian to "need" someone else to make him commit to the rebellion.

jesus christ just age his ass down in s1 to 16 or 17, have all of these arcs occur shortly after he joins up for real (17-19) and then it sort of works better.

the cassian we see is EXHAUSTED. holding on desperately to hope because he has been following orders, orders when he knows they're wrong as jyn says, for so long that he has to literally have a DEEPLY pivotal moment in the eadu rain to cleanse him of his "sins" and tranform into a new man, a man who rejects orders when he thinks they are wrong. THAT is why that scene is so powerful! because everything about cassian in rogue one leading up to that moment screams exhaustion and desperation.

it's bad enough that with the retcons in s1, cassian is basically a middle class guy (even if he is a refugee) talking down to a literal former child soldier who is homeless at 16, who has been let down by the rebellion time and again. for him to do that when he is supposedly way older than jyn when he FINALLY commits to the rebellion?

forget how insulting it is to have bix caleen, a literal crack comms girlie and mechanic (both skills that are seriously necessary in revolutions), basically play housewife the whole season except when she's being sexually assaulted, getting high and randomly having her girl boss 2015 era bad bitch scene that makes NO sense for her either. but to have CASSIAN, a literal indigenous refugee of genocide "need" to have anyone else explain to him the necessity of revolution (aka s1) or to have anyone force him to commit to revolution is not only insulting, it DOES NOT TRACK WITH ROGUE ONE AT ALL.

it turns him into a guy who actually is completely wrong for snapping back at jyn on eadu. in the scene, they are both wrong and both right - and they are lashing out in a moment of vulnerability and honesty. it should be a massive payoff after 24 episodes of a cassian andor prequel.

i'm not worried about MY enjoyment of rogue one after andor because i'm in the rogue one fandom - ignoring dumbass canon is like rule #1 of this fandom lmfao. i can handwave and ignore a lot of nonsense. and I will - already to me this shit is cassian as a teenager, fuck it. but I wonder if when andor fans begin to do the marathons of andor into rogue one, if we might start to hear more conflicting feelings on how smooth the transition from the show to the film is.

there are people who have never seen rogue one and who are waiting to watch it when andor ends. i mean i feel for them tbh because i doubt the payoff is actually going to work as well as it did pre-andor.

jyn and cassian are the heart of rogue one. i happen to think that it is a love story, as it clearly was always INTENDED to be one, but even if someone doesn't think that... it's clear their relationship is the core of rogue one. unless the final arc sticks the landing and jyn erso starts to haunt the narrative again (because where the fuck has her presence been in s2??? s1 had her all over it) i feel like the sudden connection between jyn and cassian is gonna come out of left field for more casual viewers of rogue one after andor.

i still have not finished this arc but i will be tonight. and im sure im gonna be mad lol

[thebramblewood]

Percy's First Birthday, Part II

Beginning / Previous

[ding-dong]

Naomi: Is that the door again?

Micah: Who could it be at this hour?

Naomi: Oh, it’s… you.

Grim: I wasn’t certain you’d recognize me.

Naomi: Well, that pesky netherworld fissure of yours is a bit of a dead giveaway. Pun fully intended.

Grim: I suppose it is a rather ostentatious form of travel.

Naomi: Besides, he looks a lot like you. Your son.

Grim: My… son?

Naomi: By my count, you have at least two now.

Grim: [hangs head] Shamefully, I’ve kept many things hidden from you. Can we talk?

Micah: Is everything okay, Naomi?

Cassie: We can get rid of him if you need us to.

Naomi: No, it’s fine. Why don’t we take a walk? I could use some fresh air.

-

Naomi: [awkwardly] So… how are things at the office?

Grim: Business as usual — though it is much less efficient without you around, troubling considering how many cigarette breaks you took in a day.

Naomi: I quit smoking, you know. [bitterly] I’m actually not sure what was harder, that or a day and a fucking half of labor.

Grim: Naomi, I made a grave mistake.

Naomi: If you’re here to lecture me about how we never should have slept together-

Grim: My words when we last spoke were unnecessarily cruel. I wasn’t thinking of you in that moment, only myself. It is easy to mistake the weight of my position for infallibility. I thought myself weak for experiencing feelings for you. I foolishly decided I’d rather sever ties than confront my own humanity.

Naomi: So you are human?

Grim: More or less.

Naomi: How old are you?

Grim: I stopped counting some years ago.

Naomi: Do you not age?

Grim: I can, but so long as I hold this job I won’t.

Naomi: What’s your real name?

Grim: Pluto.

Naomi: As in the cartoon dog? Or the former planet?

Grim: As in the god of the underworld. [laughs] Not particularly subtle, is it? Reaping is the family business, always has been. I was the successor to the throne, so to speak, before I was even born.

Naomi: So one day you’ll need a successor of your own.

Grim: Yes. I started hiring grimterns in the hope of finding someone worthy of the role. I once thought Nyon-

Naomi: You don’t even know Nyon! I don’t care what happened with Olive Specter. But you can’t father children only to abandon them, especially if they’re expected to inherit your scythe — which I’m not saying Percy ever will.

Grim: [softly] Percy? Is that his name? I’d like to meet him. If you’ll allow it.

Naomi: You have to be a real part of his life. I’m not saying we need to get married. I’m not even saying we need to be together. But you can’t just vanish the second it gets difficult.

Grim: My job requires-

Naomi: Promise.

Grim: I promise.

-

Grim: He’s a handsome boy.

Naomi: He is.

Grim: May I… hold him?

-

Micah: Are you really going to give him a second chance?

Naomi: Percy deserves to know his father. As for the rest, he’ll have to prove he’s capable of sticking around first.

Micah: When Grandma told me you wanted to buy the place, I couldn’t believe it. I thought you’d be ready to go home.

Naomi: Oddly enough, this feels like home now.

Micah: Naomi, wha…

Naomi: Oh, that’s Bonehilda. I summon her every now and then to help out with the housework.

Micah: Wow, you really have changed.

[durnesque-esque]

Sorry wait can i ask about catholicism? (Pls feel free to ignore of youd rather not, no pressure)

The pope chooses a name? The last popes name wasnt actually Francis? Why??? I assume they pick a Saint name but like.... whats wrong with their own personal name?

Thanks, hope youre having a decent day.

Turtle i saw at work for tax <3

Hey there - yeah, kinda like Kings / Queens choose a regnant name, Popes choose a Papal name. Although, this may also be something you're unfamiliar with, given the last King and Queen of England have both chosen to use their own names as their regnal names. But Queen Elizabeth's father was Albert but adopted the name "George" as King - "to emphasise continuity with his father and restore confidence in the monarchy." In Catholicism, it's a tradition that developed after a few centuries and an oft-cited reason is that Jesus called the first "pope" a new name - "Peter" rather than his given name "Simon."

Bible verse: "Simon Peter answered, “You are the Messiah,[a] the Son of the living God.” 17 And Jesus answered him, “Blessed are you, Simon son of Jonah! For flesh and blood has not revealed this to you, but my Father in heaven. 18 And I tell you, you are Peter,[b] and on this rock[c] I will build my church, and the gates of Hades will not prevail against it."

I throw quotes around the word "Pope" up there because Peter was a leader of early Christianity, but the tradition of the Papacy didn't really solidify until the 400s. The Catholic Church, however, draws the line of the Papacy to Peter through all the early Bishops of Rome - which remains the official role of the Pope. The Pope is the Bishop of Rome. Anyway, back to the point, the choosing of a new name symbolizes the beginning of the new role and Popes will choose their names to signify their intent and inspiration as new Pope. I don't know how familiar you are with Catholicism, but one sacrament of the Catholic Church is Confirmation wherein members of the Church become recognized as adults. As a part of this tradition, believers will choose a Saint that they draw inspiration from or feel represents a need in their life and will take the name of that Saint as their Confirmation name. Not one they'll use in real life, but they are called by that name during the Confirmation mass.

For example, as a wayward youth I was constantly losing things (whoot undiagnosed ADHD!), and St. Anthony is the Patron Saint of Lost Things, so my Confirmation name is Anthony. So again, Popes will pick a new name that signifies the beginning of their new life as Pope and that is usually significant to them personally and as a signifier of the kind of values they hold / ideals they aspire to. In this case, the previous Pope Leo - Pope Leo XIII (Pope from 1878 - 1903) was known for his modernism (of the time) and intellectualism. "In his famous 1891 encyclical Rerum novarum, Pope Leo outlined the rights of workers to a fair wage, safe working conditions, and the formation of trade unions, while affirming the rights to property and free enterprise, opposing both socialism and laissez-faire capitalism." He is also "particularly remembered for his belief that pastoral activity in political sociology was also a vital mission of the church as a vehicle of social justice and maintaining the rights and dignities of the human person." (same source as prev).

So we might hopefully anticipate then that Pope XIV (birth name: Robert Prevost) intends to focus on the well being of the poor and the rights of the working people of the world - which would be a continuation of Francis' general direction.

Pope Francis' name btw was originally Jorge Mario Bergoglio. He was the first pope to choose the name Francis. St. Francis was creator of the Franciscan order - an order known for its devotion to poverty, chastity, & obedience. I think we can see that Pope Francis was devoted to care for the poor - as much as any Pope can be.

Anyway, that was a crazy long answer, but hopefully informative. I should say here that I have not been a practicing Catholic in almost 10 years - haven't been religious in any meaningful way for almost as long - but I do have 2 theological degrees with a foci on Church history. So I'm not speaking out of my ass here. While I may no longer be a member of the Catholic Church, as an activist, I am deeply interested in the Papacy as an indicator of direction for the Catholic Church. Because, like it or not, it will be a driving force on the world stage. It is better for the world to have a good Pope than a rigid conservative Pope. I am optimistic - given his opening address and name choice - that Pope Leo XIV may be a better Pope than some of the options we were spared would have been.

In the Papacy, much like politics in general, a liberal is often followed by a conservative - to get a centrist with SOME liberal leanings, is a far better outcome than what we could have had. Imagine if we'd had another Ratzinger aka Pope Benedict?

Oh and cute turtle. <3

[mechanical-sunchild]

Theriform FAQ

The aim of this post is to answer the questions brought up by my coining of, and some of the community's usage of, the term 'theriform'. Hopefully it will address everything, but if you have a new question feel free to comment and I'll add it after.

Is there a coining post for this term?

Yes, here. You can also access other bits of information via my tag for it.

Does this term have a flag or symbol?

No, as a term which exists to describe what kind of animal an animal is, it doesn't need to represented like an identity term. The only spinoff term which might benefit from one should someone feel like it is theriformic (see below).

Can you simplify your definition for me?

Theriform is a word which can be used to describe a kind of animal. In order to count as theriform an animal must;

- Look like a typical member of it's species to everyone

- Have the level of sentience typical of it's species

- Have never grown up being seen as and treated as a member of the human species and/or believing itself human

- Experience no changes in behaviour/abilities/psychological function due to being made to live a humans life/live as human

Failure to meet all of these criteria 98% of the time means that theriform does not apply - except in circumstances where any of the points but especially the last two are not met for unnatural reasons (such as theriform nonhuman primates being treated as human and made to live a human-like life and experiencing behaviour changes because of it) and thus were previously met, are temporarily not met and the other criteria is met.

It is made to replace the word 'biological' in the phrase 'therians and biological animals' and similar, but is not a synonym for biological. See below.

Are humans theriform?

Humans are not theriform as this is a nonhuman community only term. In the same way that a human who identifies only as human is not a therian.

The term orthohuman (not my creation) may be what you're looking for if you're looking for something to mean 'a human, but not an alterhuman'.

What do you mean by looks like a typical member of it's species?

An animal that if anyone, nonhumans and humans alike, were given a picture of would point and go 'that's a [animal]'. An animal whose picture would be used to illustrate 'this is what this looks like' in applicable places (like wikis, or scientific research). An animal whose shape is what people think of when thinking of that animal.

What do you mean by 'level of sentience typical of it's species'?

What it says on the tin actually. This does not mean 'below human level' necessarily though, as some creatures such as dragons may be typically as sentient if not more than humans and this still counts.

What do you mean by behaviour and psychological changes?

Living in a human domicile, wearing clothes, walking bipedally if a quadraped, speaking/utilising a human language with full understanding of such, vegetarian/vegan lifestyles based on ethics, having ethics based on human morals to begin with, enjoying activities made for and by humans, human-like sexuality and gender expressions etc

What is the purpose/origin of this term?

As someone who is physically nonhuman and generally conscious of species-invalidating language, I struggled to find a word that allowed me to discuss certain subjects (outlined below) without using said invalidating language. Previously I'd see people use 'real', 'biological', 'physical' and 'non-therian'. I found that each of these had their own problems, most being invalidating and the last being clunky (though not unusable).

It can be and was intended to be used in these and similar circumstances;

Talks about animal welfare

Talking about the 'human' rights of alter/nonhumans despite their nonhuman species

Talks about animal husbandry

Talking about pets

Transspecies transition goals

Discussing differences between the self and others of your species who are theriform

Differentiation between theriform and other kinds of animals in topics which contain both, or one in particular and it's important for the topic to know which

It is not to be used to in these ways/to mean these things or similar;

The animal is biologically their species whilst a therian/nonhuman never is

The animal is really their species, whilst a therian/nonhuman is not

There is some kind of hierarchy where theriforms are above any other kind of animal

'An animal which was born as an animal' whereas a therian never is

What if I'm not an animal and want a word to mean the same thing as theriform?

Feel free to add a different prefix and run with it! Floraform, voidform, deiform etc

How is this term inclusive of physical nonhumans/CLCZ/endels when it's dividing members of our species based on biology?

In terms of physical nonhumans, note that the definition does not say that a theriform is biologically an animal - only that it is observed by others to look like what is expected for a member of it's species.

In terms of CLCZ and Endels, this is why a full definition must be met.

Acceptence that animals can look differently and even act differently and still the members of the same species, is, I think, vital for the progression of nonhumanity as a serious identity/concept. Ignoring differences and refusal to put a word to them gets us nowhere - for example, despite being a physically your species you may not be able to process the same foods as a theriform and process many foods which a theriform cannot. This is a biological difference, but not one which makes you less biologically your species, just wired differently.

But isn't this just the same as saying 'biological animal'?

No, the phrase 'biological animal' must, if one is aiming to be inclusive include physical nonhumans. Therefore to diffentiate between a biological nonhuman (identity label) cat and your biologically nonhuman cat - both of which are cats on a biological level, you would need a different word. Enter - theriform.

I'm a delusional nonhuman of some kind and/I'm plural and/I'm transspecies and want to transition and-

If you're transspecies and wish to use this term when talking about transition goals, you may e.g. "In order to appear more theriform I want to-"

A nonhuman alter may in fact meet nearly or all except the first of the criteria for being theriform and even then, be observed by their system when in headspace as looking like a typical member of their species. In a similar way, depending on your condition, you may have a delusion which changes your physical or mental aspects to those more typical of your species but once more cannot be observed by others to be so and may experience flux in which this state is not always permenant. In this case, the word would be theriformic, as in 'like a theriform' but not technically one.

Isn't this just another binary to force people into (like AGAB)?

The intention of theriform is to describe, though I give people the leniency to use it as a noun. I intend it more like a...category. Like saying 'binary and non-binary'.

AGAB was invented to give intersex people a way to describe their lived experiences, and was misused and turned into a rigid binary later. In the same way I hope this won't happen to theriform, though people love to change the meanings of words (not just in this community) and it will remain a tool to allow experiences to be expressed more accurately.

It's also an optional term. I don't care if you don't use it, I just hope you don't differentiate between therians and theriforms by saying 'therians and bio animals' as this excludes physical nonhumans.

I'm physically nonhuman/CLCZ/an Endel and this term makes me dysphoric/uncomfortable.

There is no requirement for you to use it, or talk to those who do. This is an optional term. You can blacklist the term and use whatever else you prefer.

I just ask that you don't spread the idea that this term does not include physical nonhumans and similar when it does by default, or come up with reasons that it's 'problematic' in other ways. I'd much rather we personally talked about it, or you moved on about your day and just didn't pick up the newest community word. We don't need reasons to dislike a word, we just can dislike it.

Some transgender people dislike the terms transgender and cisgender because it makes them feel othered from their gender - but the terms transgender and cisgender remain useful and usable despite personal discomfort for some and don't actually indicate that person lacks any realness to their gender.

Please apply that same logic to theriform. Incidentally -

So it's like cisgender/AGAB, but for therians?

Even though I'm guilty of it myself, I'd rather this not be compared to gender as I don't think species and gender can be accurately compared.

I also dislike the use of AGAB to mean 'born as', as the original meaning for the intersex community does not support that and I do not condone it's comparison here either positively or negatively.

A theriform is not forcefully assigned a species the way an intersex infant is assigned a gender, it is simply assessed as a member of that species through meeting the accepted visual and psychological criteria.

I dislike how the definition uses human perspectives to indicate what counts as theriform.

I don't know what to tell you, it's impossible to avoid this. At least, for me. Feel free to coin a term which avoids this if you can.

Can I link you in posts creating discourse about this subject or when people misuse the term?

If you're the one with the issues, please just talk to me directly. If it's others, please do not. But feel free to link them this post or politely correct any misinformation, thank you!

[angellily920]

Sideline Hearts (Ch.1)

Pairing: John Walker x reader (College AU)

Word Count: About 1k

Warnings: None

A/n: I'm actually SO excited to write this series. Hope you like it!

Chapter 1

The shower head sputtered, a few drops of water shooting out before just giving up. You groaned and fiddled with the knob, hoping, praying the shower head would work. Nothing. You groaned and leaned against the wall. You really needed a shower before going to your photography interview. Taking a deep breath, you decided your best bet would be to ask your neighbor, though you haven't actually met them yet, you hoped they would be nice. You couldn't exactly score the best housing while in college, but it was better than living on campus. Throwing some things into a bag, you went over to ask your neighbor if you could use their shower...Nothings's awkward unless you make it awkward, right?

Nah, it was totally awkward, because when the weathered blue door of your neighbor opened, you would have never expected it to be John. Freaking. Walker. He looked tired. His dirty blonde hair was a mess, as if someone had run their fingers through it a little too much. And knowing Walker, it definitely wasn't his hands. His blue eyes fell on you, and you wanted to make a run for it, but his smooth voice came out before you could.

"Hey...we have calculus together, right?"

"Yup, we do." You tighten your grip on the bag strap slung over your shoulder.

He hums and leans against the door. "Thought I recognized you. And what did I do to receive the honor of your presence?"

"Oh, I was just..." You huff and decide to just go for it. "My shower isn't working and I was wondering if I could use your shower real quick."

John's eyebrows raise for a moment before his lips twitch and he starts to smirk. "So you wanna use my shower, huh?"

It takes everything in you not to roll your eyes. "Yes, that's exactly it."

"Okay princess." He stands up straight and opens the door more. "Be my guest."

When you entered his apartment, you expected it to be a mess, but it wasn't. Everything was neatly organized, and even the books on his shelf were color-coded. Neat freak? You didn't care to mention it and followed him to the bathroom. He told you how everything worked before stepping outside the door.

"If you need any help, don't hesitate to call my name." He winked, and you threw him a fake smile and two thumbs up before shutting the door.

~~~~~

You exited the bathroom just as John exited his bedroom, sporting a pair of sweatpants and a white t-shirt that seemed a size too small, causing you to stare at his chest a moment longer than you intended.

"You coming to the game this weekend?" He asked as you quickly shook your head.

"I wouldn't be caught dead at one of the games."

A soft chuckle rumbled through his chest, and his eyes seemed to sparkle. "Oh really? And why's that? Afraid you'll enjoy it too much?"

That elicits a scoff from you. "I have no intention of watching a bunch of guys get sweaty and tackle each other for some leather ball."

He hums and steps closer to you. "So you'd rather guys get sweaty and tackle people for other reasons?"

"No thanks." You make your way toward the door. "But thank you for letting me use your shower. I seriously appreciate it."

"Anytime princess." He walks you to the door and opens it. "You really wouldn't be caught dead at a game? Even just once?"

"Not my style."

John stands there for a moment, his eyes studying your face. He taps the door frame and lets out a breath of air. "Well, I think if you came to a game, you'd change your mind."

"Don't you have like a hundred fangirls in the stand already?"

That causes him to smile. "I am pretty popular. But the more the merrier, right?"

"Dream on, Walker."

His tongue juts out to wet his lips, and he hums again, soft and melodic. "Oh, I will. See ya around, princess."

You mock salute and shake your head as you turn around to head back to your apartment. Who would have thought you'd have a run in with the campus's hotshot football player? Well, you'd have to make a mental note to avoid him because you'd heard nothing but trouble where he was concerned. Best not to interact with him. You sighed and went inside to go finish up getting ready for your interview.

~~~~~

"Well, we do have an opening."

"Really? That's great!" You sat a bot more forward in your chair. "When can I get started?"

The woman behind the desk clinked a few things on her keyboard. "Well, it looks like they need a photographer for the football team this season. They have a game this weekend. You could start then."

You tried to hide your disappointment. "The football team? But I thought this interview was for the theater photographer position?"

"Do you want a job or not?" The woman didn't make eye contact and typed away on her computer.

"I...yes. I do."

"Perfect. I'll put you down as the football teams offical photographer."

"Great." You slumped a bit in your chair as she finalized it. Though it wasn't what you wanted, you did need the money, and a job was better than no job. Even if it was taking pictures of the sweaty football team. Now, all you had to do was think of something to say when John would inevitably comment on you being at a football game. You got this. What could possibly happen?

A/n: I'm used to writing Bucky so go easy on me! But I hope I can do John some justice.

[twistedheartsclub]

The Imposter Male X Female Reader PT2

⚠️ Warnings: non-consensual sexual content, coercion, obsession, stalking, psychological manipulation, emotional/physical abuse, identity theft, gaslighting, threats of forced pregnancy, power imbalance, betrayal, and violent outbursts. Intended for mature audiences.

Inspired by La Usurpadora (1998 telenovela), but with a darker twist

Dinner was at the resort’s private rooftop restaurant—candlelight, wine, a view of the sea glowing beneath a darkening sky.

They sat across from one another, but the ease was gone. Not tense… but off.

Dominick ordered for her, as he often did, but when the plates arrived, Vivienne barely picked at hers.

She laughed louder than she had in weeks, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

He leaned in as the dessert was served, watching her closely as she sipped her wine.

“You’re different,” he said finally, voice low.

She blinked, smile tightening. “You’re imagining things.”

“Maybe.”

He didn’t press.

But he watched.

And inside, something began to unravel.

Two weeks had passed since Y/N stepped off the plane and left the villa behind.

The first thing she did was buy a house. Cash.

It was a cozy two-bedroom tucked in a quiet suburb with a white fence and a front yard she could actually imagine planting flowers in. Nothing extravagant—just hers. The windows let in warm light in the mornings, and the street was quiet at night.

Furniture arrived the next day. She chose everything herself—muted tones, soft throws, warm lamps. She hung up framed photos from her college years. She unpacked her clothes, made tea in her own kitchen, and for the first time in months… she exhaled.

She visited her old job at the daycare.

The children screamed her name.

They swarmed her with hugs and questions. She brought gifts—little puzzles for the boys, hair clips and fairy stickers for the girls. She laughed with them, knelt on the floor with them, remembered what it felt like to be herself.

Her manager hugged her. “You look different. Lighter.”

“I feel lighter,” Y/N said, and it wasn’t a lie.

She made plans to finish her degree. She submitted paperwork for online courses. Her calendar was filled with coffee shop study days and meal prepping and walks around the block.

Everything was fine.

Better than fine.

And yet…

At night, when the house was too quiet, she found herself thinking about them.

About Lucas’s guarded smile.

About Annalise whispering, You smell like flowers now.

About Dominick’s arm wrapped around her waist in bed, breath slow against her shoulder.

She shook it off most nights. It was just the job. Just pretend. Just a month.

But still…

She kept the necklace Annalise made her—plastic beads and all—in the drawer beside her bed.

That night, she sat at the dining table with her laptop open. She typed “Vivienne Rhodes” into the search bar.

Articles came up—gala photos, company appearances, nothing scandalous. Just enough to confirm that yes, Vivienne was real. Rich. Present.

But not connected.

Not once did she mention Y/N. Not before. Not after.

And when Y/N had tried to ask—tried to connect—Vivienne had laughed.

“You think I care about the twin thing?” she’d said, brushing her off. “I needed you. You did the job. That’s all.”

That had been the end of it.

No warmth. No family reunion.

Just business.

Y/N closed the laptop.

She curled up on the couch with a blanket, staring out the window at the porch light flickering on.

It was quiet.

Safe.

Simple.

But a part of her heart still beat like it belonged somewhere else.

And someone else was beginning to notice she was gone.

Dominick had always been a man who noticed details.

He built empires off reading the smallest tells—the twitch of a lie, the slip in a handshake. That’s what made him dangerous. That’s what made him dominant.

And over the last two weeks, something had begun to gnaw at him like a splinter under his skin.

Vivienne had returned the same in appearance.

But everything else?

Off.

She was sleeping in again—hours later than usual. She didn’t join him for coffee in the study like she had started doing before the trip. She didn’t call the children in the mornings, didn’t ask how they slept or if they had enough cream cheese on their toast.

She didn’t braid Annalise’s hair. She didn’t tuck Lucas in.

She didn’t read the stories.

She didn’t touch him.

One night, when he reached for her beneath the sheets, she snapped—snapped—and shoved him away like he was a stranger.

“You’ve had your fun. I’m tired,” she hissed.

Dominick pulled back, stunned, slowly sitting up in the moonlit room.

Her back was already turned to him.

And it was then, lying in a bed that no longer smelled like her, that he whispered something that chilled the air between them:

“I wish you’d stayed gone longer.”

Vivienne didn’t answer.

But her fingers curled into fists beneath the covers.

In the hallways, the staff had noticed too.

Lucia murmured to another maid about how cold “Madam” had gone again. How she didn’t smile. How she barked orders instead of giving gentle suggestions like before.

“She snapped at me when I offered to draw her bath,” one maid whispered. “Said she didn’t need pampering. But two weeks ago, she thanked me.”

“She used to eat breakfast with the kids.”

“She hasn’t even looked at them this week.”

And the children?

They noticed the most.

Lucas grew quiet again. Shut down. Guarded.

He stared at her during dinner like she was wearing the wrong skin. Once, he even said it.

“You’re not her.”

Vivienne froze. “What did you say?”

He dropped his fork. “Nothing.”

She didn’t push.

Annalise cried when she tried to braid her own hair and couldn’t get it right.

She asked why Mommy didn’t sing the song anymore.

Vivienne told her to grow up.

And the girl stopped asking.

Dominick stood in his office late one evening, staring at the fireplace.

In his hand was a photo—one taken just weeks ago, of his wife smiling on the balcony, barefoot, with a braid over her shoulder and Annalise on her hip.

That woman… felt like someone else entirely.

And maybe—

Just maybe—

She was.

Five months had passed.

Y/N had built something soft and steady—a life without lies.

She laughed more now. Her skin glowed again. The tension in her shoulders had vanished.

Her house had personality now. Art on the walls. Plants that were (mostly) thriving. A big yellow couch that she never would’ve dared buy before. She went on morning walks with a neighbor. Took weekend road trips with new friends. Bought a gently used car that purred like a dream.

And for the first time in years, her debts were gone. Her future felt… bright.

She picked up a part-time job at the local library—not because she needed it, but because it gave her something to do. A reason to get dressed. A reason to exist outside the walls of her perfect, quiet home.

She studied. She made plans for grad school.

She let herself be happy.

She still thought of them sometimes—the kids, especially.

Sometimes she found herself humming the bedtime song without realizing it.

But she didn’t let it ache anymore.

Until the message.

It came in the early afternoon. She was restocking the children’s reading corner at work when her old phone—shoved into a drawer at home, long since abandoned—pinged.

She found it later that evening while rummaging for spare cords. The screen glowed with one single notification.

Unknown Number

Time. Location. One word: “Come.”

Her breath caught.

The address was local.

Very local.

A quiet café twenty minutes from her house. The time was set for tomorrow.

No name.

But she knew who it was.

Her.

Vivienne.

Y/N sat in her car for ten minutes before she even stepped out.

The café was tucked between a boutique bookstore and an art gallery—quiet, refined, and far too expensive for what it served. She hadn’t been there since her “return”—it was the kind of place that reminded her of a life she hadn’t earned, a life she was only meant to borrow.

But curiosity was louder than caution.

She walked inside, her heart pounding beneath her cardigan, and immediately spotted her.

Vivienne.

Dressed in cream silk and oversized sunglasses, her dark red nails wrapped delicately around a porcelain teacup. She looked as though she belonged on the cover of a luxury lifestyle magazine. Hair perfect. Lipstick blood-bright. Legs crossed like a queen on her throne.

She looked up and smiled. “There she is. My other half.”

Y/N offered a small, guarded smile as she approached the table. “Vivienne.”

Vivienne gestured to the seat across from her like they were old friends catching up over tea and scandal. “Sit. You look radiant. Domestic life agrees with you.”

Y/N sat slowly. “What do you want?”

Straight to the point.

Vivienne sighed, mock wounded. “No small talk?”

Y/N’s gaze didn’t waver. “I’m not here for pleasantries.”

Vivienne smiled wider. “Good. Then let’s get to it.”

She leaned in, her voice honeyed and low. “I need another break. Things have been… complicated. Dominic’s suffocating again, the children are exhausting, and I’ve grown tired of pretending to care.”

Y/N’s brows lifted. “Pretending?”

Vivienne waved her hand. “You do the bedtime stories. The hair braiding. The smiling. I don’t. And I’d rather not.”

There was a long pause. Y/N’s stomach churned. “I told you I’m done. That was a one-time thing.”

Vivienne’s smile didn’t falter. “Two months.”

“No.”

“There will be more money this time.”

“I don’t care about the money.”

Vivienne tilted her head. “You cared last time.”

Y/N didn’t answer. She looked down, gripping the edge of the napkin in her lap.

Then, with maddening calm, Vivienne said, “The children miss you.”

Y/N’s breath caught.

“They ask about you,” she continued, sipping her tea. “Lucas won’t say it out loud, but he’s been slipping again. And Annalise still tries to sing that little song you used to hum.”

Y/N’s chest tightened.

And then—softly, slyly—Vivienne added, “He misses you, too.”

Y/N looked up, eyes narrowing.

Vivienne’s smirk deepened.

“You should’ve seen his face the first week I was back. Disappointment, confusion… maybe a little heartbreak. He knows something’s wrong. He just doesn’t know what.”

Y/N’s lips parted—but she had no words.

Just guilt.

And something she didn’t want to name.

Vivienne sat back, triumphant.

“I’ll send you the details,” she said, lifting her glass. “Think about it, sweetheart.”

The next morning began like any other.

Y/N had just returned from the farmers market, arms full of fresh bread and strawberries, her favorite café latte cooling in the cupholder. The sky was soft and blue, the kind of peaceful day that made her feel like her life had finally settled into place.

She didn’t expect her phone to buzz with that notification.

Not her new phone.

Her old one.

She dug it out of the drawer where she thought it would stay buried.

1 New Message – Unknown Number

“Hotel Levanza. Presidential Suite. Saturday at 3 PM.”

That was it.

No greeting.

No please.

Just a location. A time.

And beneath it—almost as an afterthought—was a second notification from her bank app.

A deposit.

Six figures.

She stared at the screen, pulse thudding in her ears.

Vivienne hadn’t waited for a response. Hadn’t asked if she would. She had already decided.

Y/N checked her actual account balance three times to be sure.

The money was real.

So was the trap.

That night, she couldn’t sleep.

Not because of the money. Not because of the hotel.

But because she’d dreamt of Lucas tugging at her hand, asking her why she left. Of Annalise crying because her hair hurt and “Mommy doesn’t do the nice braids anymore.” Of Dominick standing at the doorway, his tie loose, his expression unreadable as he said only one word:

“Why?”

Saturday came faster than she expected.

And by 2:45 PM, she stood outside Hotel Levanza, suitcase in hand, heart pounding, knowing full well that by stepping through those doors…

She wasn’t walking in as herself.

She was becoming her again.

The Presidential Suite of Hotel Levanza smelled like perfume, leather, and smoke.

Y/N stepped inside slowly, her flats silent against the marble floor. Her suitcase rolled behind her like it had a will of its own, as if even it knew this wasn’t a visit—it was a surrender.

Vivienne stood by the window, framed in sunlight and silk.

She wore a champagne-colored robe that clung to her like a second skin, one manicured hand holding a cigarette between two fingers, the other swirling a glass of rosé. The breeze stirred her hair. She turned slowly at the sound of the door.

“You’re early,” she said, exhaling a stream of smoke. “That’s very… you.”

Y/N’s gaze flicked to the cigarette. “I thought you didn’t smoke.”

Vivienne gave a lazy smirk. “I don’t. Not publicly. It’s not very lady-like, you know. Bad for the brand.”

She crossed the room barefoot, flicking ash into a crystal tray shaped like a swan.

“I told Dominic I’m on a spa retreat,” she added. “Mental health. Soul cleansing. All that shit. Technically not a lie—I do feel better knowing you’ll be handling things again.”

Y/N said nothing.

Vivienne studied her.

“You’ve put on a little weight,” she mused. “In a good way. Happy weight. Comfortable. Soft.” She tilted her head. “Think he’ll notice?”

Y/N’s jaw clenched.

Vivienne smiled wider.

“Come on,” she said, downing the rest of her wine. “Let’s get you ready. My flight leaves in four hours. Plenty of time to make you look perfect.”

Forty-five minutes later, Y/N stood in front of a mirror in a navy silk dress that hugged her curves and fell mid-calf, a pearl necklace clasped at her throat. Her makeup was soft but deliberate—Vivienne’s stylists knew exactly how to recreate her signature look. Her hair was swept back in a way Dominick once called “irresistible.”

Vivienne lit another cigarette and studied her.

“Almost too convincing,” she muttered. “Makes me wonder what he sees in you.”

Y/N didn’t flinch. “Maybe someone who actually gives a damn.”

Vivienne only laughed.

The car was waiting exactly where it had last time.

The driver stepped out as she approached, taking her suitcase without a word. He opened the back door with quiet efficiency.

Y/N hesitated just a second.

Then slid in.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

He gave the same polite nod.

The ride to the airport was smooth. Private jet, same crisp attendants, same chilled towels, same silent luxury.

No one asked questions.

They never did.

She landed just before dusk.

The air was different here—warmer, richer. The breeze smelled faintly of roses.

And waiting at the curb, like nothing had changed, was the same sleek black car.

Same driver.

Same cold efficiency.

She stepped in wordlessly.

But as he shut the door behind her and the world fell quiet again, she whispered—

“…Thank you.”

The villa hadn’t changed.

The same white stone pillars, the same clipped hedges, the same perfume of roses trailing in from the garden.

But Y/N felt different walking through those gates again.

The sun was beginning to set, casting long gold shadows across the marble floors as the front doors swung open.

And there she was.

Annalise.

Her curls were wild, her sundress rumpled from play, and her tiny feet thundered against the tile as she ran full speed down the hall.

“Mommy!”

Y/N dropped her bag without hesitation and knelt just in time to catch the little girl as she flung herself into her arms.

Her small hands clutched the fabric of Y/N’s dress, her breath warm against Y/N’s neck.

“You’re back,” she whispered. “You were gone forever.”

Y/N’s arms wrapped tight around her, her eyes closing against the sting rising behind them. She kissed the top of the girl’s head and whispered, “I missed you so much, baby.”

She didn’t see him at first.

Not until she stood—Annalise still wrapped around her hip—and turned toward the staircase.

Lucas stood halfway down, frozen.

One hand resting on the railing. The other clenched by his side.

He didn’t run. Didn’t shout.

But something flickered across his face.

Recognition.

It was her smile.

That’s how he knew.

Vivienne’s smile never softened like that. Never tilted upward just slightly in the corner, like she saw him and not just a task to be done.

Y/N met his gaze, then offered it—gently.

“Hi, sweetheart,” she said, warm and quiet. “I missed you too.”

He hesitated.

And then, without a word, he descended the last few steps and walked to her.

Y/N braced herself for indifference.

But instead, Lucas wrapped his arms around her waist and buried his face against her side.

Tight. Trembling.

She blinked in surprise, cradling his head instinctively with one hand.

It wasn’t until she felt the dampness soaking into her dress that she realized—

He was crying.

Silently. Fiercely.

She held him close, eyes wide, heart aching.

She didn’t speak.

She didn’t have to.

The dining room glowed with soft evening light, the long table set in quiet elegance.

No staff hovered tonight—just the hum of familial routine. Plates clinked. Glasses gently shifted. The air smelled of roasted rosemary chicken and truffle potatoes, warm and rich.

Y/N sat between the children, a linen napkin draped across her lap, her hair softly pulled back, her makeup minimal—no eyeliner, no sculpted brows. Just a hint of blush and pale pink lips.

She was focused, calm, fingers guiding Annalise’s hand as she taught her how to properly hold a fork.

“No, baby, just like this,” Y/N said gently, cutting the little girl’s steak into even bites. “And remember what happened when the goose got into the pantry?”

Annalise burst into giggles. “It knocked over all the flour!”

Lucas chuckled quietly, eyes still red from earlier, but clearer now.

Y/N smiled at both of them, love radiating from her like warmth from a fire.

That’s when Dominick stepped into the room.

He paused just inside the threshold.

For a moment, he didn’t speak.

Just watched.

She was different again.

She didn’t smirk when she saw him.

She smiled.

Soft. Honest. Undeniably warm.

It hit him low in the chest.

He walked forward, slowly, deliberately.

Y/N looked up.

“Hi,” she said simply.

He leaned in and kissed her cheek—not out of obligation this time, but because he wanted to feel her skin. It was warm, scented with something faintly floral. Familiar.

“Welcome home,” he murmured.

She smiled again. “Thank you.”

Dominick took his seat at the head of the table, eyes lingering on her just a moment longer before turning to his son.

“How was your day?”

“Good,” Lucas answered.

“Mommy read us the old story,” Annalise added. “The goose one!”

Dominick’s gaze shifted back to her.

“Did she now?” he asked, voice mild.

Y/N’s eyes didn’t waver. “They remembered it.”

He nodded. “I’m glad.”

The meal continued in silence for a minute before he spoke again.

“How was the spa?”

Y/N looked up, tensed slightly—then relaxed.

“Restful,” she said. “Peaceful.”

Dominick studied her face.

Then her mouth.

Pink.

Not red.

Always red before.

Now just… soft. Natural. Something his wife hadn’t worn since before their wedding.

It was small, but it stuck.

He leaned back in his chair, folding his napkin slowly, eyes never leaving her.

Something was wrong.

Or something had been right, and it was gone for just long enough to make him feel the absence.

The room was dim, lit only by the amber glow of the bedside lamp.

Y/N stood near the dresser, pulling a soft sleep shirt over her head when the door creaked open.

She flinched.

Dominick stepped in slowly, deliberate, eyes trained on her body—not with lust, but with focus.

His gaze dropped for only a second, but it was enough.

His voice was calm, too calm.

“That scar.”

Y/N froze mid-movement, the hem of the shirt caught on her ribs.

He took another step into the room.

“Since when have you had that?”

Panic rippled through her.

She tugged the fabric down quickly, covering the small, shallow line near her left side—barely three inches, silvery and faint, but clear against her skin.

“You should’ve knocked,” she said, voice sharper than intended. “It’s nothing. I’ve always had it.”

Dominick didn’t move. He watched her.

“I’ve seen every inch of you,” he said, voice low. “That scar wasn’t there before.”

Y/N turned away, forcing calm into her breathing.

“I think you just forgot.”

A pause.

Then: “I don’t forget things like that.”

She walked to the other side of the bed, keeping her back to him as she climbed under the covers. “I’m really tired,” she said softly. “We should sleep.”

Silence.

She could feel him still standing there. Watching her.

The sound of his belt unbuckling. His shoes slipping off.

Then—the mattress dipped.

He slid in beside her.

Y/N stiffened.

“I thought you were sleeping in the other room,” she whispered into the pillow, heart pounding.

His answer came fast. Too fast.

“I changed my mind.”

He shifted closer, his body warm behind hers, the space between them vanishing as he laid a hand gently on her hip—possessive.

Familiar.

Too familiar.

Y/N swallowed hard.

She kept her breathing steady.

He was silent.

But she could feel it—the weight of his suspicion tightening like a noose.

And he wasn’t going to let it go.

Not this time

The laughter outside was warm and full.

Y/N was in the backyard, barefoot in the grass, her skirt fluttering as she spun Annalise in wide, dizzying circles. The little girl shrieked with joy, her curls bouncing. Lucas sat nearby, trying not to smile as he stacked rocks for a miniature fortress, but every few seconds, he looked over—just to make sure she was still there.

Dominick watched from the upstairs window, the sunlight casting long shadows across the room.

She was so good with them.

Too good.

Like she was trying to be remembered.

He held the phone to his ear, voice low and clipped.

“Talk to me.”

His right hand, Julian, didn’t hesitate.

“So far, everything looks clean. The spa retreat checks out—reservation made, itinerary submitted, transportation records match. Public-facing credit card activity is in line with what we’d expect.”

Dominick’s eyes narrowed.

“But?”

Julian hesitated. “…It’s her personal bank account.”

Dominick turned from the window, moving toward his desk.

“She doesn’t use that one often,” he said.

“She did. Five months ago,” Julian confirmed. “Large deposit. Unusual source. And then again, a second one—just last week. Same origin. A private account with very little paper trail. We’re still digging.”

Dominick’s jaw flexed.

“Vivienne doesn’t take money from strangers,” he said coldly. “She is the stranger people pay.”

Another beat of silence.

“She’s hiding something,” he added.

Julian’s voice dropped. “You think she’s being blackmailed?”

Dominick turned back to the window.

Watched as his wife fell into the grass, laughing breathlessly, both children piling on top of her in a heap of joy and noise.

Not a flinch. Not a single snap or correction.

Only love.

“No,” he murmured. “I think she’s not my wife.”

Three days passed.

The house settled into routine again. Breakfasts with sleepy children, garden walks, late afternoon chess games with Lucas. Y/N kept her voice soft, her movements graceful. She listened more than she spoke. She did everything Vivienne would never do.

But at night… she stayed quiet for a different reason.

It was late when she finally climbed into bed, body heavy with exhaustion. The lamps were dimmed, the villa silent. She wore a soft cotton slip, loose and barely clinging to her skin.

Her eyes were already fluttering shut when she heard the door creak open.

Footsteps—unhurried, familiar.

She didn’t need to turn to know who it was.

Dominick.

The rustle of clothes. A belt sliding loose. The soft thud of shoes on the floor.

Then the mattress dipped beneath his weight.

And before she could fully rouse herself, his arm curled around her waist and pulled her onto her back.

Y/N blinked, breath catching as he settled over her—naked, warm, sure.

“Dominick…” she whispered, voice drowsy, unsure.

He said nothing.

He just leaned in and kissed her throat, his hand already trailing up her thigh beneath the covers.

And just like before—her body answered first.

“Stop,” Y/N warned again, her voice tight with panic—but softer now, less certain.

Dominick didn’t stop.

His mouth claimed hers with force, stealing the breath from her lungs. His body was heavy over hers, the heat of him pressing her down into the mattress. One hand braced beside her head, the other gripping her thigh, spreading her legs with intention.

She squirmed, pushing at his chest. “Dominick…”

He pulled back just enough to look down at her—his eyes dark, unreadable. The weight of whisky on his breath was sharp, but his mind was clear. Too clear.

“I missed you like this,” he murmured. “You’ve been sweet… quiet… almost perfect.”

His fingers slipped beneath her panties.

Y/N gasped, her hips instinctively twitching back.

She shouldn’t let him. This wasn’t part of the plan. This wasn’t her place.

But his touch…

It was practiced. Commanding. He knew exactly how to make her tremble, how to coax her body into responding even when her heart was screaming no.

“I shouldn’t…” she breathed.

“But you want to.”

She shuddered. His fingers slid through her folds, slow and slick, parting her gently. Her thighs tightened, her hands fisting in the sheets as her body betrayed her again, heat blooming in her stomach.

Just once.

Maybe just once.

His mouth returned to hers—less harsh now, more certain, like he knew she was already giving in. He swallowed her gasp as he pressed the pad of his thumb against the spot that made her breath catch, and her resistance weakened like paper against flame.

She whimpered.

And that was all he needed.

“See?” he whispered against her ear. “You remember how to be mine.”

Her breath hitched as Dominick settled between her legs.

His body was heavy, commanding, skin warm against hers as he leaned in, kissing her deeply, his mouth stealing what little resistance she had left. Y/N’s arms rose without thought, wrapping around his neck, fingers curling into his hair.

She kissed him back.

Not out of duty this time—but out of something she didn’t want to name.

His hands moved with purpose. He gripped her thighs, tugged her panties down slowly, like peeling silk. Then he crawled lower, dragging his hips against hers, his body hard and ready as he pressed himself to her entrance.

He didn’t ask.

He didn’t wait.

He entered her in one steady push, groaning low in his throat as he filled her—deep, thick, already moaning at the heat of her.

Y/N gasped, her body arching up into him, instinct and shame coiling tight inside her chest. He moved fast, strong, grinding into her like he belonged there—like he always had.

“God,” he whispered against her neck, breath ragged. “You feel better every time.”

His thrusts grew harder, his grip bruising her hips as he drove into her with a force that made her legs tremble around him. She clung to him, lips parting in broken gasps as he fucked her deep into the mattress.

It didn’t take long.

His rhythm stuttered, and with a low, guttural moan, he came inside her—hot and full, hips jerking as he buried himself to the hilt, not caring, not stopping.

But he didn’t pull out.

Not right away.

Instead, he slowed.

Still inside her, still hardening again, he dragged his lips down her throat, to her chest. He kissed her breast, then sucked—hard, possessive, leaving a mark so deep she whimpered.

He moved to the other. Licked. Bit.

“You’re mine,” he murmured into her skin. “You can play house all you want… but I know who you are.”

Y/N stilled.

His lips found her neck, her jaw, then her cheek.

He kissed her there—softly, sweetly.

And whispered, breath warm and terrifying against her ear:

“Even if you leave again, I’ll find you. Because now you’re not just her anymore…”

“You’re ours.”

Y/N’s breath caught.

Her body was trembling, slick with sweat and confusion and him.

But his words—

“You’re ours.”

—sent something cold straight through her chest.

Her hands pressed to his shoulders.

“Stop,” she said, voice cracking. “Dominick, stop—get off.”

He barely moved, still inside her, still heavy on top of her.

“Get off me,” she said again, louder now, panic slipping through.

His eyes flickered—annoyed, but amused. “Why are you pretending again?”

“You’re crazy,” she snapped, shoving harder. “This isn’t—this wasn’t—get off me!”

Finally, he pulled back, the weight of him lifting as he withdrew.

Y/N gasped as she turned onto her side, trembling as she felt his release spill from between her legs. The warm, sickening sensation made her stomach twist.

She curled her legs up and wrapped an arm across her chest, her voice barely audible now.

“I need a shower.”

Dominick sat back against the pillows, watching her with that same quiet intensity. He didn’t look sorry. He didn’t even look confused.

He looked possessive.

She slid off the bed carefully, eyes on the floor as she gathered her robe, not meeting his gaze.

Her bare feet padded silently across the cool marble as she disappeared into the bathroom.

The door shut.

The lock clicked.

And only then—only then—did she let the panic come

Vivienne, please call me. We need to talk.

I’m serious. This isn’t what we agreed on.

Pick up your damn phone.

No response.

No read receipts.

Just silence.

She called twice.

Voicemail.

Vivienne was gone.

And she had left Y/N in her place.

The day dragged like wet wool.

Y/N went through the motions. Hair pinned, blouse buttoned, voice calm as she read to Annalise, checked in with Lucas’s tutor, nodded politely to the housekeeper.

She smiled when spoken to.

She said thank you.

But the feeling wouldn’t go away.

Like she was being watched.

Dominick was always near.

Silent in doorways. Appearing at her back in the study. Brushing past her in the hall with a hand just a little too firm at her waist, his mouth brushing her ear with a soft, “Did you sleep well, darling?”

She couldn’t breathe.

Not without effort.

At dinner, the children chatted between bites. Lucas was quieter, but Annalise was giddy from art class and too many strawberries.

“Mommy,” she chirped mid-bite, “I want a baby brother.”

Y/N froze, fork hovering in the air.

“A what?” she asked, forcing a laugh.

“A baby brother,” Annalise said with a smile. “Lilly from school has one now and she says he’s squishy and pink and smells like waffles.”

Y/N chuckled nervously, trying to steer the conversation. “I think squishy babies are a lot of work, sweetheart.”

Annalise pouted, her curls bouncing as she whined, “But you could make me one!”

Y/N opened her mouth to reply—

But then she felt it.

Dominick’s gaze.

Heavy. Focused.

She turned slightly. He hadn’t stopped eating—but he was looking at her now, calmly, chewing, watching.

Then he swallowed and wiped his mouth slowly with his napkin.

“I’ve been thinking about that too,” he said softly.

Y/N stiffened.

Dominick looked to his daughter and smiled gently. “A baby brother might be just what this family needs.”

Y/N tried to laugh it off, shaking her head. “Dominick—”

His eyes returned to hers. Unblinking.

“But this time,” he continued, voice low, “we’ll do it right.”

He reached across the table and placed his hand over hers—warm, firm, final.

“No more accidents,” he whispered.

Y/N couldn’t move.

Couldn’t speak.

All she could do was smile.

For the children.

The call went straight to voicemail.

Again.

Y/N sat at the vanity, knuckles white around her phone, heart pounding as the screen dimmed.

Five missed calls.

Seven messages.

All unanswered.

“Vivienne,” she whispered, voice cracking. “Please—please answer me. You said two months. You said I’d be safe.”

Silence answered her.

She stared at her reflection in the mirror—pale, tired, eyes ringed with shadows she hadn’t noticed before.

She had changed.

And the walls were getting closer.

The door opened without a knock.

She jumped.

Dominick stepped inside like he owned the room.

Because he did.

His eyes swept the space once before landing on her.

Y/N quickly shut off the phone screen and tucked it under a folded towel, hands moving too fast to be casual. She stood, clutching the edge of her robe tighter over her chest even though she’d worn full pajamas—soft cotton bottoms and a loose shirt, plain and shapeless.

He noticed.

Of course he noticed.

His mouth quirked slightly, but he said nothing.

“Dominick,” she said, trying to sound normal, trying to sound like her.

He said nothing—just unbuttoned his cuffs as he approached the bed, slow, methodical. A man settling in. A man who no longer needed to ask.

“I was just…” she stammered, brushing at the blanket, “getting ready to sleep.”

She climbed into bed quickly, scooting far to the edge, facing the wall.

She heard him undress behind her.

He moved like water—fluid, certain.

The mattress dipped.

He slid in behind her, the warmth of him close but not yet touching.

Not yet.

Y/N held her breath, clutching the covers tighter, trying to pretend her skin didn’t crawl with every second of silence.

Dominick exhaled deeply—almost like a sigh of ownership.

She kept her eyes shut.

And prayed he wouldn’t reach for her.

It had been six and a half weeks.

Forty-five days since Y/N had stepped back into Vivienne’s life.

Six weeks of pretending.

Of whispered bedtime songs.

Of Dominick’s hands on her waist at breakfast.

Of pretending not to flinch every time he entered a room like he owned her—because in this house, he did.

And for two weeks now, she had gone to bed fully clothed, phone tucked beneath her pillow like a secret she barely dared to keep.

She almost didn’t answer when it finally rang.

She saw the number.

Vivienne.

Her heart pounded. She stepped into the bathroom, locked the door, answered in a whisper.

“Vivienne—where have you been?”

The voice on the other end sighed, annoyed and unmistakably bored. “Busy. You sound hysterical.”

Y/N’s hand gripped the edge of the sink. “You said two months. That’s almost up. Dominick—he’s been acting strange. He knows something. I think he’s testing me. He watches every move I make.”

Vivienne was silent for a beat.

Then: “And?”

Y/N’s stomach twisted. “And I’m done. You need to come back.”

“You still have two weeks,” Vivienne said coolly.

“No—Vivienne, I—”

“You agreed,” she snapped, voice sharp now. “Don’t grow a conscience just because the husband is finally paying attention.”

“I’m not safe here,” Y/N whispered. “He’s talking about a baby. He’s not pulling out—he’s trying to—”

“Oh, please.” Vivienne laughed. Laughed. “That’s how I got Annalise, sweetheart. You’re just not as good at dodging him as I was.”

Y/N’s knees nearly buckled. She clutched the towel rack to stay standing.

“Two more weeks,” Vivienne said, her voice suddenly cold. “And if you screw this up… I’ll make sure you regret it.”

The line went dead.

Y/N stared at the phone, pulse roaring in her ears.

She didn’t cry.

She didn’t scream.

She just placed the phone down, looked at herself in the mirror—and nodded once.

Then she unlocked the door.

Washed her face.

Put on her smile.

And stepped back into Vivienne’s life.

Because now… she had no choice.

The villa was still and silent, the kind of silence that only came late at night when even the staff had retired and the world outside had gone dark.

Y/N had fallen asleep on the couch.

She hadn’t meant to—but the day had been long, and Annalise had begged to sleep beside her, tiny fingers curled into Y/N’s shirt as they lay under the throw blanket in the soft lamp-lit living room. The TV had been left on low, some children’s movie flickering soundlessly across the screen.

But at some point, Annalise had woken.

Wriggled out from under the blanket.

Slipped away to go play.

And Y/N—bone-tired, mind frayed—hadn’t noticed.

Not until she felt it.

Fingertips, slow and searching, brushing against her hip.

Her body tensed before her eyes even opened.

The touch trailed up beneath the hem of her sleep shirt, lingering just beneath her ribs.

She gasped softly—eyes fluttering open to find Dominick crouched beside the couch, his face close, his breath warm against her neck.

“Shh,” he murmured. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

His hand slid to her stomach, splayed there like a brand.

“Dominick—” Her voice cracked, still heavy with sleep. “I—I was just—Annalise was—”

“She’s not here,” he said simply, his other hand brushing a lock of hair from her cheek. “She left. It’s just us now.”

His fingers began to move again—sliding lower.

Y/N sat up quickly, pulling the blanket tighter around her as panic clawed up her throat. “Not here. Please.”

He didn’t look angry. He just stared at her—eyes dark, possessive.

“Why not?” he asked softly. “You’re mine. You always act like you’re not.”

“I’m tired,” she whispered, retreating into the far corner of the couch. “Please.”

There was a long pause

Then he stood, his gaze dragging down her body 

Dominick didn’t walk away.

Instead, he leaned in.

Y/N froze, breath caught in her throat as his hand slid gently up her side, his thumb brushing just beneath the edge of her shirt, the blanket forgotten in her lap.

He didn’t grab her this time.

He didn’t force.

He coaxed.

His lips brushed her cheek first, slow and deliberate—just enough heat to make her skin prickle. Then his mouth moved to hers. A soft, lingering kiss.

And she let him.

Because the words—

“Don’t mess this up.”

—rang in her head like a warning bell.

Vivienne’s voice.

Sharp.

Smirking.

Unforgiving.

Y/N’s hands trembled slightly, but she didn’t push him away.

Instead… she leaned in.

Her fingers curled lightly into his shirt, her lips parting against his, breath shallow, betraying every fear she’d tried to suppress.

Because part of her craved it.

Not the man, not the marriage—but the way he touched her like she was known. The way his hands mapped her body like they remembered her better than she did. The way he made her feel real when she was starting to forget who she ever was.

He kissed her deeper.

Hungrier.

One hand cupped her face while the other settled on her thigh, pulling her closer on the couch.

She whimpered into his mouth—fear and heat twisted together, guilt blooming in her chest even as her body leaned into his warmth.

“You’ve been distant,” he murmured against her lips. “You miss me?”

She didn’t answer.

Didn’t have to.

Her kiss already did.

He pulled back just a breath, his voice low and possessive.

“You’re mine, sweetheart. You know that, don’t you?”

Her throat tightened.

She nodded once—small, helpless.

And he smiled.

As if that was all he ever needed.

The sun was warm against Y/N’s skin as the Romano family strolled through the open-air shopping center, boutiques glowing with glass fronts and polished signs. Annalise clutched a soft-serve cone in one hand and Y/N’s fingers in the other. Lucas trailed behind them with a new book in hand. Dominick walked beside her, hand brushing her lower back occasionally—casual to anyone watching, but to her, it felt like a chain.

She smiled when spoken to.

Laughed softly when Annalise pointed out a puppy in a window.

But when her phone buzzed, she nearly dropped it.

Vivienne:

Time’s up. Back entrance. South corner of the parking garage. Ten minutes.

Y/N’s heart stuttered.

She had counted every day. Every hour. And now… it was time.

She glanced at Dominick, who was distracted showing Lucas something in the window of a watch store. Annalise was already distracted with a tiny pink plastic tiara she’d begged for.

Y/N leaned down. “Mommy needs to use the bathroom, baby. Stay with Daddy, okay?”

Annalise nodded.

And Y/N walked away.

Fast—but not too fast.

Not enough to draw attention.

Her palms were slick with sweat. Her mouth dry.

The back entrance of the parking garage was dim and half-empty, the hum of a service generator echoing faintly.

Vivienne was already there.

She leaned against a sleek black car, sunglasses pushed up into her glossy hair, a cold coffee in hand, smirking like she was stepping out of a magazine shoot.

“Well,” she said, tilting her head, “you look tired.”

Y/N stopped several feet away. Her chest rose and fell rapidly.

“Where were you?” she demanded, voice low. “You ignored me. For weeks. He almost—he knows, Vivienne.”

Vivienne shrugged one shoulder, completely unfazed. “He suspects. That’s not the same thing.”

Y/N took a step closer, hands shaking. “You said two months. That I’d be safe. That if anything went wrong, you’d fix it—”

Vivienne sipped her coffee.

“And now I am,” she said simply. “You’re done. You can go back to your little life. Plant your flowers. Walk your dog. Whatever it is people like you do when they’re not pretending to be me.”

Y/N’s mouth opened, but the words wouldn’t come.

Vivienne grinned wider.

“What?” she purred. “Thought I’d thank you? Hug you? Tell you what a hero you’ve been?”

Y/N stared at her—trembling, furious, and terrified.

Because part of her still wanted to be done.

But part of her knew… it wasn’t over.

Not really.

Vivienne returned from the “bathroom” like nothing had happened.

She slipped her sunglasses down, adjusted her purse, and glided toward the family as if she’d never left.

But Dominick knew the moment he saw her.

It wasn’t just the lipstick—though that hit him first, a flash of ruby red smeared too perfectly across her mouth, the color she hadn’t worn in weeks.

It was the walk.

The coldness in her eyes.

The absence of softness.

No smile for Lucas. No gentle coo for Annalise. Just a faint smirk that didn’t belong to the woman he had held night after night, the one who flinched and trembled and whispered apologies in her sleep.

No—this was her.

The real Vivienne.

And she thought he couldn’t tell.

Dominick’s jaw locked.

He waited.

Waited until she bent to pick something from Annalise’s hands—too quick, too dismissive—and then he moved.

His hand shot out and gripped her upper arm.

Hard.

Vivienne gasped, half stumbling as he yanked her aside, dragging her with him around the corner into the alley behind the boutique, hidden from view.

“Dominick—what the hell—?”

He slammed her back against the brick wall, eyes dark with something she hadn’t seen in years.

Not rage.

Precision.

He leaned in, face inches from hers.

“You think I’m stupid?”

She froze.

“What are you talking about—?”

His grip tightened.

“The moment you walked out of that bathroom, you weren’t her anymore.”

Vivienne opened her mouth, but no lie came fast enough.

“You thought I wouldn’t notice?” he hissed. “The lipstick, the voice, the way you looked at me like I disgusted you again?”

She swallowed hard, trying to twist away, but he didn’t let her.

“Where is she?” he demanded, voice like a blade against her ear. “Where is my wife?”

Vivienne gave a dry laugh—but it cracked at the edges. “You mean the fake one?”

He grabbed her chin, forcing her to look at him. “Don’t test me.”

She narrowed her eyes, smug despite the fear flickering behind them. “So you do love her.”

His expression didn’t waver.

“I don’t know what I feel,” he said. “But I know what I lost. And if you think I’m going to let her disappear…”

He leaned in, whispering the words against her cheek, slow and cruel.

“…you’ve made the worst mistake of your life.”

Y/N unlocked the door to her little house, the soft creak of its hinges welcoming her like an old friend. She stepped inside, dropping her small bag on the hallway bench and inhaled deeply.

It smelled like lavender and old wood.

Home.

Her space.

Her silence.

The bed she could sleep in without fear. The mirror that didn’t lie to her. No silk sheets. No eyes tracking her every movement.

Just her.

She let out a quiet, exhausted laugh—part relief, part disbelief. The nightmare was over. She was free.

Or so she thought.

In a house too large and too hollow, Dominick’s world was imploding.

Vivienne stood at the edge of the grand staircase, her lipstick perfect, her arms crossed. The tension between them had boiled for days—arguments sharp as glass behind closed doors.

But tonight, it snapped.

“You’re a damn liar,” Dominick snarled, pacing the living room like a caged animal. “You lied to me, to the children, you sent a stranger into my bed—into their lives.”

“She was better at it than I ever was,” Vivienne spat. “Maybe you should’ve kept her.”

Dominick’s chest heaved.

His hand slammed against the wall beside her head, making her jump. “Where is she?”

Vivienne leaned in slowly, cruelly. “Gone. You’ll never find her.”

His jaw flexed, fury rolling off him like heat. “You think this is a game?”

“Oh, I know it is.”

She stepped forward and grabbed his wrist where it had grazed her shoulder earlier. Red marks bloomed on her skin like twisted petals. She held it up between them like a trophy.

“Go on,” she whispered, smirking. “Finish it. You already started.”

He stared at the mark.

At her.

And something inside him broke.

He lunged.

His hand closed around her throat, slamming her back into the wall hard enough to rattle the picture frames. Her smirk faded as her air vanished, but she still laughed, hoarse and ugly.

“I hate you,” she hissed. “I never loved you. Or your brat son. Or that little girl—she disgusts me.”

Dominick’s grip tightened.

His face twisted—not in confusion, but rage.

“You don’t deserve them,” he growled. “You never did.”

And she knew then—this time, he meant it

Vivienne hit the floor hard.

The wind was knocked out of her as she gasped, coughing, her perfectly manicured nails scraping the marble. The red mark blooming around her throat stood out like a warning.

Dominick towered above her, eyes cold, jaw clenched.

He leaned down slowly, his voice venom-smooth, just above her ear.

“No one will remember you, Vivienne.”

She trembled beneath him—not with fear, but fury.

He smirked.

Then stood. Straightened his cuffs.

And walked out.

Outside, the air was cool, quiet, filled with the scent of gardenias and the distant sound of the sea. Dominick pulled his phone from his pocket with slow, steady fingers. Rage made his grip shake.

He pressed a single number.

“Julian,” he said when the line picked up. “Find her.”

“Sir—”

“She’s not dead. I would know. She left something behind.”

A pause.

“You want surveillance?”

“No,” Dominick said darkly. “I want her brought back.”

Meanwhile…

Y/N was getting used to breathing again.

Her little town felt new this time. Freer. The colors brighter. The breeze lighter.

She picked up part-time shifts at a local bookstore that doubled as a coffee shop. She wore her hair down again. No more pearls. No more perfect.

Just her.

It had been three weeks since the switchback. She told herself daily she had survived. She told herself to forget.

And then she met him.

Dylan.

They had literally bumped into each other coming around a corner—her arms full of romance novels, his coffee spilling halfway down her blouse.

“Oh my god, I’m—you just got double-shot espresso’d.”

He had a crooked smile and kind eyes. And she had laughed—really laughed—for the first time in ages.

After that, they started running into each other more—sometimes “accidentally,” sometimes not. He brought her a muffin once with a sticky note that said “Truce?” after a debate about whether or not The Great Gatsby was overrated.

She hadn’t told him anything about the villa, the kids, or the man who still haunted her dreams.

But she met him for lunch twice.

And for a walk in the park once, where she let him hold her hand.

He made her forget.

Not forever.

But for a few hours at a time.

What she didn’t know—couldn’t know—was that Julian had already found her.

Dominick was only a phone call away from knowing exactly which coffee shop she worked at.

Which park she smiled in.

And which man she was starting to trust.

Y/N’s knees nearly gave out, but somehow—somehow—she sat back down.

She felt cold all over. Her hands curled into fists in her lap as Dominick leaned forward, calm as ever, like they were sharing an intimate lunch instead of a quiet unraveling.

She opened her mouth to speak—but he beat her to it.

“So this is what freedom looks like,” he murmured, eyes drifting down her dress. “Is that why you’re dressed like this? Soft. Sweet. Like something I can ruin.”

Her mouth trembled. “Dominick—how did you—”

“Dylan,” he said flatly. “He’s not very clever, but he’s obedient. I told him exactly how to play it. Bump into you. Smile just enough. Keep you feeling safe.”

Her stomach dropped.

No.

No.

He watched her face twist, and it only made him smile.

“Don’t feel bad. You wanted to trust someone. You were desperate to be seen. Touched. Cherished.” He leaned in further, voice dropping to a velvet snarl. “And all the while, you forgot who you belong to.”

“I don’t belong to you,” she whispered, too quietly.

“Yes, you do,” he snapped, his hand slapping the table, making her flinch. “You think you can play the wife, tuck my daughter in, wrap your legs around me in my bed—and then disappear? After everything I gave you?”

“I didn’t ask for any of it,” she breathed.

He stared at her.

Then, softly—almost brokenly—he said, “God… you look just like her. You wear her face. Her skin.”

A pause.

“But she’s nothing compared to you.”

Y/N blinked, frozen.

“She was sharp,” he said. “Cold. Strategic. But you… You’re soft. You tried to fight it, but your body always told the truth. You melt when I touch you. You listen when I whisper. And when I take you—God, you tremble like you were made for it.”

She shook her head, but her body had already turned to ice.

“Vivienne knew I was slipping. That I was pulling away. So she sent you. And I should hate her for it.” He leaned closer, smile dangerous. “But I don’t. Because I found you.”

His eyes darkened, glowing with hunger and fury and something far, far worse.

“You’re never going back to that life, sweetheart. Not now. Not after what we had. You’re mine. And I’m taking you home.”

@cutelittlesugarfairy @lilyalone @alebrasil0101

[flightlogmcu]

Hey so Sam Wilson as a character is flawed (exists only to score the bl*ck points) and one dimentional which is why people don’t resonate with him as opposed to previous captain (not that that one was any… marvel to behold). It doesn’t help that the actor is a trump supporter…. Flop all the way, Capitan Floptina more like it

You goin on about how he’s the new jesus is kinda proving that represnetion for representation sake is enough for those here without any critical thinking skills lol

Since we're talking about critical thinking, let's have an actual critical analysis of Sam Wilson. (That is if you can actually read more than three paragraphs)

First and foremost, no one appreciates representation for representation sake. Including people who advocate for it. That's why thing such as the Bechdel test and The Duvernay Test exists. It comes off as disingenuous and done poorly half the time. Ironically enough, Disney is notorious for this and it bleeds into Marvel Studios on a regular.

However, it is odd to even consider Sam Wilson for quote unquote "black points" (not sure why you had to censor that) when Sam Wilson has existed as a character since the 60s and has been Captain America in the comics since 2015. He's a prominent character within the comics that was then brought to screen. As thus the natural progression of the MCU.

Sam Wilson as a character in the MCU invites discussion on the idea of not only the role of Captain America but the idea of what America is.

The parallels between him and Steve within The Falcon & The Winter Soldier and (somewhat) within Brave New World provide a perspective in which we are to question what America stands for.

Hofstede's cultural onion model (since I have to stop writing my thesis to address this dumbass message, you're gonna get my thesis talk) reflects the manifestation of culture with layers. One of those layers is Heroes.

Heroes are persons, alive or dead, real or imaginary, who possess characteristics which are highly prized in a culture, and who thus serve as models for behavior.

And by all accounts, Sam Wilson should fit that ideal model: he's active duty military, smart, and (if we were to look within the universe itself) an ordinary man capable of following in Steve's footsteps.

The only issue is that he is black. His accolades and character no longer matter because racism and anti-blackness is wrapped within the fabric of America.

This then points to the discourse of Captain America: what (and who) does the hero represent?

Steve Rogers represented the true to form American hero of the 40s and 50s. Blond haired, blue eyed man with super strength that punched Hitler. Questioning authority and being an immovable object. It represents (whether that is who Steve Rogers truly is or not) an old America at the top of it's imperial game. It intends to reflect brute strength and power through said strength. No questions asked.

Contrast that with Sam Wilson in the modern era. A black man from the south serving in the air force. Prioritizing conversational tactics alongside sheer human strength. No serum needed. He represents a post-vietnam, post-globalization America. An America that has changed in it's values since Steve Rogers was in his prime. He is to reflect what America is today; a *trigger warning cause I know the snowflakes hate this word* diverse country that is intended to be a beacon of hope through compassion that will still fight you and persevere out of spite.

Sam Wilson does not exist just to be black. Most black characters aren't and shouldn't be. The existence of black superheroes and any black character in media is to add a different perspective that invites conversation that would not be considered if we went along with the status quo. And that's for any underrepresented group.

[atomicpirateperson]

why is rob so mischievous??

here's a yapfest of 6 reasons i came up with!

some of this is essentially canon and some of this is just theorization. i really like analyzing rob's character and if anyone wants to shoot me an ask about him i'll be grateful :]

1. to not die.

rob ended up in the void because he was useless to the show. if he couldn't die from the lack of food or water there, he would have spent an eternity in isolation. it makes sense that he's afraid of what happens if he becomes useless again, so he really needs a niche. his dilemma starts because the only niche available is the antagonist. in his monologue from The Disaster, it's clear that villainy is far from his dream job and he feels forced to act this way.

2. for revenge and closure.

of course, revenge against gumball is his most iconic and obvious motivation. however, on a deeper level, i think it's about more than the wattersons. despite his behavior, rob might have a strong sense of morals and justice. for example, in The Rerun he couldn't bring himself to end gumball's life after being saved, and his guilt was clear.

as for the closure part, he can't undo any of the traumatic events in his life, but because of this strong sense of justice, he still needs something to do about it. he still needs to resolve this somehow and he chooses vengeance.

truthfully, most of these vengeful thoughts should be directed at the void, but he can't enact revenge on the universe itself. so, he targets the closest thing to take his anger out on: gumball. in fact, as a villain, rob never brings up gumball's past offenses. who knows, maybe he doesn't even care what gumball did!

3. as a creative outlet and source of purpose.

there's no doubting that rob likes to be theatrical and extra in his villainy. there's definitely some real passion put into it even though he doesn't have a choice.

as a homeless orphan who doesn't appear to be in school, he probably doesn't have much to do in life. he's a creative and imaginative person for sure, so he needs a way to express and entertain himself.

it's easy to interpret his melodramatic moments as pure acting/exaggeration, but it could also be a genuine coping mechanism and/or way of venting, which ties into the closure thing.

4. for control.

with no house or family to provide stability or support, control is something he has been robbed of in life (pun not intended).

his shenanigans might help him feel in-control and safe by taking control and safety from others. this is especially prominent in The Disaster/Rerun with the literal remote control that sends him into a power trip.

also, while it's partially his fault, other people don't listen to him, so he has to get what he wants through force. this is probably the reason why he worked towards his benevolent goals so forcefully in The Inquisition.

5. for attention.

6. to defend himself.

this is pretty self-explanatory. real kids show attention-seeking behavior just from having inattentive parents. with no parents and little to no friends, this is probably the case for him as well. regardless if the attention is negative or positive, he really needs to be noticed and talked to by others. this would also be an additional reason for why his actions are often gumball-centric because that puts him on screen, at the center of attention.

this one doesn't show up often. i'm mainly adding it because of the scene in The Future where gumball and darwin charge at him unprompted. sure, he went into defense mode first, but he wasn't the ones who literally killed him first and asked questions later (actually, they never asked why he was doing that). the episode would have ended differently if they stopped to pick up on the many clues that this wasn't just typical rob shenanigans. (interestingly, gumball was less presumptuous in encounters before this. maybe he and darwin were angry because banana joe and his mom had nothing to do with rob's evil upbringing... but at the same time they don't always care about joe that much)

outside of that, rob's crimes might also serve to intimidate others to keep himself safe. a homeless kid alone on the streets needs to deter dangerous people as much as possible.

...and that's all i have to say :] again lmk your thoughts about this!

and before somebody acts like it is: this is not meant to say that all of rob's actions were completely normal and justified. it's just a villain analysis don't start

[cotta-dog]

Btw, this post (↓) was not made to attack you in any way ! I'm really sorry if it looks like it; it's not my intention <:·( !!

I personally think every child will start forming their identity based on things they see and aspire, even if it's "wrongly formulated because they are young and cannot know what is [] at their age".

We all did this at some point, and that's why you know, today, what you are: you explored this identity. But it never is a simple process, in which you instantly search for something and the first thing that pops up is you identity. It's, actually, a complicated process that involves a LOT of research and that can vary from time to time, because an identity is never static.

It probably isn't the right way to use the word "therian", because most of the times these children only copy masks and do quadrobism, (as the "tiktok therianthropy" is infamous for) but this also doesn't mean that they are necessarily wrong or faking it. You see; the definition may be wrong, this may be just a phase. But it can also be a real identity that will stimulate the child to search more about it and eventually find the right terms to identify as.

Every identity and every experience is fluid in some degree. I understand why you are angry about this; it really sounds like your identity was plasticized and placed in a display case for people who have absolutely no idea of what it is (and, most of the time, also don't intend to search about it) but this is not the child's fault. I also get mad when I see someone using some alterhuman label incorrectly, but I can't determine what they are feeling and I shouldn't be the one to say whether they are right or wrong, but only themselves can do it.

Blame the tiktok trends and "identify with eveything you see without even researching about it" thing — not the victims of this trend.

You don't have to believe children about their identities. It's the same thing with those kids "having 11037 queer labels" — they are children and most of the time they don't do this to harm our community, but only to feel accepted in some way.

am i wrong for not believing little kids when they say they're therians?

whenever a kid tells me they're a therian I never believe them, from my experience they always get information off of tiktok and they never know the correct definition, it angers me a lot, i always question them about it and I can't help being invasive, i know it's wrong and they always get confused and don't know how to respond to my questions (i ask them mostly to say the definition and what it means for them to be a therian), i just feel tired with the misinformation in the tiktok therian community, most of them are not therians at all.

[jinstronaut]

a taehyung a week until he's released ♥

week 11/52 (cr. namuspromised) for @jkvjimin ✨

[fjordfolk]

puppy fever, might be terminal

[flowersforthemachines]

Lucanis's Logbook, 6

Relationships: Female Rook/Lucanis Word count: 3300 (oneshot, complete) Rating: General Audiences Main tags: Diary/Journal, Established Relationship, Mid-canon, Missing scene, Angst

Excerpt and summary:

We are back from Tearstone Island. Rook is gone. Davrin and Bellara are gone. I don't know what else to say.

Lucanis’s journal kept throughout the time between Rook’s disappearance at Tearstone Island and the day she’s rescued from the Fade.

[tibli]

Regardless of how you feel about the action, the assassinations of Shinzo Abe and Brian Thompson have got to be some of the most materially effective assassinations in recent memory. Shit changed almost immediately in response.

Usually, changing societal problems isn't so simple, and one has to dismantle those issues piece by piece, over a long period of time.

But sometimes, one influential person's murder makes all the other people in the same position scared and so they start immediately trying to fix their bullshit so they don't face the same fate.

[capn-twitchery]

ok. question so i can stop feeling like i'm debating my own oc in court inside my brain:

ok if you are a, say, a really annoying nonspecific pirate captain. and you are trying to sink some kind of ridiculous number of ships. maybe 777, give or take. if you sink a ship and that ship, through some kind of strange immortality magic, comes back again, does it still count as a +1 to the sunk ship count or do you cross it off the list of sunken ships

what if you sink it a second time. is it +2 sunken ships if it's the same ship twice?? does it count if you don't kill the captain & steal a coat button like you do everytime (bc the captain is made out of immortal hands and you can't kill this goddamn thing??) y'know ok nevermind this isn't even a real question anymore i think i'm just fighting the internal rules that this nonspecific annoying pirate (whose name totally doesn't rhyme with bitchery) is setting for themselves bc they all contradict each other

[idolbound]

I think the fandom's hate for DA2 often forgets that the devs were forced into a like, 15 month development cycle by EA. It was pretty clear in how the game's levels were designed and reused, and it couldn't be polished into something more. But, what we got was a micro-level scale story with macro-scale consequences to the overall story of the series; it was a personal journey of an everyday person and all of their friends living in a shitty city, enduring the impossible stories of grief and change, all while dealing with the overarching consequences of the conflicts caused by a religious-political institution in real time.

Also, DA2 gave us Meredith, who is, by and large, not a god or supernatural entity, but just a woman, who was allowed far too much power that went entirely unchecked during her reign. It's a reflection of real world politicians and military leaders, which therefore makes her the most realistic type of villain in the series (and that's long before they gave her the red lyrium idol to turn her into a Boss Fight™).

Ultimately the other aspects of the games in this series - the level design, the combat, music, etc. - are all going to be subjective, especially when in comparison to the other games / your own personal preferences, but to say that it's just "objectively bad" when the story in and of itself is a departure from the other games where you get put into the role of Designated Hero™, whereas Hawke, for the most part, is Just Some Guy (gender neutral) (and this is also why I enjoy Rook in a similar-ish kind of way, where you accidentally become important at work), is really missing the point of what they were trying to do. I fully stand by the point that if Kirkwall got the DAV environment treatment today, it would be way more popular than it is.