#or not be exhausted from the most fundamental things

[umilily]

i really am the definition of wasted potential.

[widowshill]

happy aro week to everyone who celebrates. give your local aro a hundred dollars to compensate for their suffering (me).

[opens-up-4-nobody]

...

[sos717]

Yes, Im Back

Here it is you guys, this is going to be the clearest and most simple explanation I’ve done so far of manifestation and your identity as conciousness and what that means for experience & the world unfolding. Don’t worry if you’re new to this, this will help!

THIS IS A MASSIVE POST, TAKE YOUR TIME AND GRAB SOME WATER, YOUR ABOUT TO CHANGE YOUR LIFE 😉🤭🤭

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So around 7 years ago I started stepping into the world of what people typically call manifestation. I went down the rabbit hole of Subliminals, Law of Attraction, Law of assumption, NonDuality and finally to where I am now, the unlabeled.

I want to preface by saying, I have been through an unimaginable amount of turmoil, and growth while on my journey to understanding reality and the way the world appears.

I’ve spent all of my time from back to when I first found out about this side of reality, to today while I’m writing this post, constantly looking at a multiplicity of teachings and teachers to figure it out, except until the very end. I really want you to know this because it’s very important to not brush this off as if it’s not possible for you, as if you have to adapt a technique or secret. This isn’t something that’s to be exhausting. With that being said, let’s move forward.

We all want things, we all have ideas of a life we hope to live, we want to fill it with all the experiences and specific details that match our taste. But this is actually, where the problem begins.

The way manifestation is taught is inherently wrong, I’ve fully stopped watching and consuming content that has anything to do with manifesting all together, because no matter what it is, Law of assumption, Law of attraction, all of the other ideologies that promise your desires, they all have a fundamental flaw, identity.

They usually all entail a similarity: methods, techniques, specific things you can do and ways you can act to make an outcome happen. All the while throwing in a random “because you’re the god of your reality”. And instead of focusing on the phrases that relate to the center of all of it, YOU, it’s simply just brushed past.

And not just the typical “your source”, “your operant power”, “you are the manifestation,

We get it but wtf does that actually mean, and why should you care??? Well, let’s get into this, because once you start from point A, everything else makes sense.

What all these teachings of the world get wrong is the idea that you can want things and desire, as source. Fundamentally this is a paradox, you can’t exist in desire and want if you are the source of reality. It’s not to say you aren’t, but it’s to say, you don’t ACTUALLY want and desire, but the illusion of being separate from the world is what makes you want and desire.

Let’s break the illusion.

Ask yourself this for me. “Am I aware”.

The answer will always be yes. Undeniably. And no matter how many times you repeat this, the answer is always yes, no matter a feeling, no matter a pleasant or unpleasant experience in the world, no matter any circumstance, you will always say yes.

Why is this so important to explore?

Because you are able to see from direct experience what source is.

When you asked yourself that question, did you notice something weird that happened? It’s almost like everything paused for a split second and your attention went somewhere to find the answer, and a response came from there. Look closer, ask yourself the question again, and this time try to find where the answer is coming from.

You’ll find that it comes out of nowhere, and if you try to trace it as far back as you can, to even before you answer yes, there this empty space of knowing that the answer conjures in.

This is consciousness. This is you.

Whether you name it consciousness/awarness or knowing, it doesn’t matter, it’s all interchangeable. But the important thing to note is, this thing doesn’t ever go anywhere. That is your true identity, the starting point of all ideas, the starting point to anything that can possibly be known. Every decision is from here, every expression comes from here, everything leads back to knowing. When there is emotion, it is known, when there is idea, it is known.

You being able to know that you are aware comes from this. This is the unseeable, the thing that can’t be perceived in any way, this is origin, its source, and its you. Take a shot at it, try to see what knowing looks like, its weight, its shape, its color, its dimensions, what its favorite color is, what it doesn’t like or does like. You’ll be left with nothing, as in no descriptions, but definitely knowing that there is a presence there that never goes away. Now try finding its name, its age, its skin color, its voice. You cant, and yet, from this very nothingness comes your undeniable answer that you exist and you are aware of your existence.

You don’t need and feelings to know, you dont need sight, sound, and sense of perception, you don’t even need to acknowledge the body in any way, but you know you “are”.

At some point when there were no worlds and universes, there was an unseeable, dimensionless plane from what everything came from, does this sound familiar? Before there were things, there was no-thing, a presence yes, but no objects. And from this, reality was expressed, but source can’t go away, the fundamental key to everything there is today, has to remain, or else everything else would not exist.

Concouisness is what you are. And it IS the origin.

Now how tf do you live you dream life???

By understanding that the world is also just an expression of source, conciousness/you.

I need you to understand something that I thing we can all agree on, if everything has one source, it would only make sense for everything to be the extension of that thing that gives it life. The world is no different, and trust me I know this without a reasonable doubt. I’ve spent closer to a decade trying to figure this out. Everything exists in/on the field of consciousness/you.

I need you to trust me, because no matter how far you have been in your journey and how tiring it might have been like it was for me, I promise you, this is worth it all.

Step away from the ideas of wanting and needing, put on your neutrality glasses and perceive the world as 2 simple things, conciousness and conscious expression. These are the only 2 things that drive experience itself.

Understanding that you are source, more things become clear. Where do all the stories of all the unfavorable problems in your life activate from? Where does the idea of good events activate from? Where is it that any form of knowing come from, you. Whether it’s about struggling with money, or about someone loving you, the story or ideas, conjure from you.

We already know that we are conciousness, but now let’s acknowledge the second mosy important part, reality begins at us, draw yourself into something that you don’t really like, something you’d like to change, now notice where it activates from.

From knowing. Knowing the idea or story is its creation

Now when we see it casually, as just another thougt about something the world is showing us we brush it off and move on with our day, until we have to face that thing, but, what if this was actually in reverse?

Because if everything is an expression of source, doesn’t that mean the world is too? It would have to be. Doesn’t that mean, anything registered by the senses has to abide by its source? And doesn’t that mean, that the world is not truly something of its own will?

The short answer is yes absolutely. And I can tell you, this is it. THIS WILL BE VERY F$&#*NG IMPORTANT.

Admitting to the idea that there is one source for everything is literally acknowledging that everything can only show up IN ACCORDANCE AND RESPECT TO WHATEVER ITS SOURCE IS.

THIS MEANS, the the world is a PROJECTION of source, IT DOES NOT STAND ALONE. It does not OPERATE ON ITS OWN.

The world is the projection of consciousness.

Following me??

Like a hologram, like a school projector QUITE LITERALLY a projection.

From us, an infinite array of stories and ideas come, and they only become activate or exist if we allow them to, if we give permission to this thing to exist.

That story that you’ve had about SP (Specific Person) or Money or Success, has always been activated by you. TELL ME WHERE ELSE IT STARTS. You can literally even prove this to yourself right now. WHERE DOES THE STORY BEGIN.

And because the world is just an expression/extension of its source (YOU) it is ONLY GOING TO BE WHAT SOURCE IS. Because it is source, just with senses and perception. It is coming face to face with what you are aware of.

The way the world shows and all of its details are projections of whatever you decide to activate. How do you activate something? BY KNOWING IT.

How do you know “red apple” ? By knowing it. That is the origin for this idea. And you can run this test for every single story you play on loop, find its source, it will always be you.

Now, for the important steps moving forward. Stop treating this like an on and off switch, truly stop caring about a feeling, stop letting yourself get so swayed out of understanding your identity as the source, do NOT give up this beautiful opprotunity just because it seems or feels different.

You’ve been taught for so long that the world has to be struggle, so that’s all you know, you’ve been told that things don’t always come easy, this is all you know, take the time, take the days and weeks you need to break out of this useless cycle of exhaustion and understand who you are as source

Do not double down on doubts, double down on the truth, regardless of how you feel, take your time to feel, take your time to be, but never allow yourself to slip back into the brainwashing of the world.

Moving forward you need to understand the world objectively, not with the ideas of wants and desire, but for what it is. Source can’t want, you turn it into desire by creating a sense of divide for yourself. You pretend the world is something to change, drop this. You pretend that the body is all you are, drop it, you pretend that there has to be more to this but knowing, DROPKICK this into the damn ground.

This all is very simple. Everything being the expression of source is only projecting what source (You) are. The world is a direct projection of conscious activity. Whatever is know is given permission to exist, it’s given life. It’s created. THIS. IS. IT.

Whether it be blue butterflies, getting a free coffee, or changing your eye color, it all is just knowing. And this isn’t something that turns off. This is reality, this is you. Start noticing the random things the world shows up as when you were just thinking about it the other day or a few hours ago. It is not a coincidence I assure you.

That friend you were thinking about calling you? Yeah.

That song you were thinking about suddenly popping up? Yeah

That “problem” you were thinking about suddenly reappearing? Yeah

It is all the same, yes it will take getting used to, but please understand me when I say this, it took me a painful amount of time and effort to finally see this as the truth, the amount of months I’ve spent isolating from content and other teachings allowed me to take ONLY personal experience, I tested it day in day out and this IS it.

Currently I expand my comfort on how seamless existing is, and I can assure you, if I can come to this conclusion, you 100% can because it has NOT been easy for me, and it almost didn’t want to accept it. But the moment I did, and kept seeing it to be true time and time again, I knew I had to go fully in.

You create the idea of wanting by doing this.

“I really want Sp to text me”

This is what you’ve given permission to exist, this is now activated, it now is conscious activity, and because the world is source projected with senses the world IS this.

You treat it like an absolute, but when it comes to something like this:

“Sp loves texting me”

You treat it as effort, and something to do and wait on. Now tell me, does that make sense? Does the idea of waiting, wanting, desiring, changing, even make sense with the knowledge you have up to this point? Nope.

You need to understand. The world is not a story, it’s projection, and it can only be projecting you. Stop turning to the world as if it can make statements, as if it’s feeding you ideas, when you’re the one activating them. You NEVER actually change the world, it’s you that activates a new idea. THATS IT. It exists because you know it. A feeling cannot stop you from knowing, the world cannot stop you from knowing, ONLY YOU can stop yourself from activating a story. A story can’t exist if it isn’t known.

So, don’t you think it’s about time you see past the illusion of wanting and see for yourself what you are?

Don’t you think it’s time, to wake up.

[cerastes]

Habe you ever had a "did we even play the same game?" moment with someone?

My favorite game ever used to be Metal Gear Solid 4, it’s still up there in my top favorites, and this time at a party I met a guy that said he didn’t like MGS4 because he felt like it ruined Snake as a character and that it misrepresented him. I asked if he could elaborate and his response was that they took this Rambo dude, this super manly war hero and emasculated him into a weak old man.

I need you to understand that Solid Snake was without exaggeration fundamental in my growth as a person: I am from a latino country, grew up in what’s widely considered the wrong side of the tracks in the middle of nowhere, being macho, manly, tough was incredibly important to me, because that’s how it was in there, and Snake (plus “The Knight In Rusty Armor” by Robert Fisher) basically made me question all of what I’d grown up thinking up until then, because Snake isn’t a badass because grrr manly beef jerky I kill and swear, he is this incredibly solemn guy who hates what he can do, but is the only one that can do it, and if he doesn’t do it, then nuclear war happens, or worse. There’s a whole angle of expectation as a narrative arc in regards to Snake: Meryl expected a glorious, boisterous war hero, Otacon expected a grizzled, badass action hero, Liquid expected Himself But Better In Every Way, Ocelot expected a tool and nothing else, Naomi expected a callous and cold killer… And they were all wrong, he is, ultimately, an exhausted man that cannot stop no matter how much he wants to stop, because if he does, the world might likely go up in literal flames.

So to hear this self-proclaimed superfan of Snake say this just made me skip anger and go all the way to pity. In-universe, those in the know of Snake worship him as an actual God of War, and it’s a common thing that gets addressed in-universe: The whole point of MGS2 is that Raiden could never have won if he tried to be Snake, because you don’t want to be Snake. Snake hates being Snake. Snake isn’t manly because he beat a tank on foot one on one, Snake is admirable because he does the right thing, even if he’s breaking down molecule by molecule as he goes and he wants nothing more than to fuck off and raise dogs in the arctic, but keeps on going anyways because he can do something about it. The most important message he imparts on Raiden and Meryl is Don’t Be Me; Create A World Where Snake Doesn’t Need To Exist.

I felt pity because if you feel like MGS4 misrepresented Snake, then you really and explicitly are exactly the kind of fodder PMC nobody that feeds the proxy wars in MGS4. I think only by skipping every cutscene you can come out thinking that way. The only thing super about him was ficial.

[baigepueckers]

Nika Mühl X Reader

Unspoken

Nika didn’t expect to feel so nervous meeting your family.

She was cool under pressure. That was her thing. She could handle screaming fans, last minute shot clocks, GMs in the stands watching her every move. But walking into your childhood home with a bag slung over her shoulder and your fingers laced through hers..that made her stomach flip in ways nothing else did.

It was loud inside cluttered in the most loving way. Old photos on the walls, familiar smells she didn’t recognize but instantly liked. A dog she wasn’t expecting barked twice, sniffed her sock, then curled up under the table like she was already part of the furniture.

Your mom hugged her like she meant it. Your dad offered to make her coffee. Your younger brother challenged her to a game of H-O-R-S-E the minute he realized who she was.

It should’ve been overwhelming. But somehow, it wasn’t.

And then your niece came into the picture.

Your sister went into labor the morning after you arrived, and everything tilted. Plans were dropped. Schedules shifted. Nika found herself in a car with your mom at 2AM, half asleep but wide eyed, following a frantic call and a packed overnight bag.

The baby was tiny. Eight pounds. Her name was Hazel. And from the second you saw her, something in you changed.

Nika saw it.

She couldn’t not see it.

And now two days later you were in the kitchen, holding Hazel against your chest with one arm while gently adjusting a bottle with the other, humming something soft and unrecognizable under your breath.

Nika hadn’t meant to walk in unnoticed. She was just coming in to find her charger. But the second she stepped into the doorway and saw you like that, she froze.

The light was different in here. Warmer. Golden, filtering through the windows and catching the soft strands of your hair. You were wearing one of her oversized hoodies, the sleeves pushed up messily, a burp cloth slung over your shoulder like it was second nature.

Your voice was low, gentle. You were talking to Hazel like she could understand, your words quiet and tender as you cradled her closer.

“You’re already milking this whole “newborn” thing for attention, huh?” you whispered with a small grin.

Nika’s heart didn’t just flutter…it shifted. Like something fundamental had moved inside her.

She had seen you in every mood. Drunk at team parties. Exhausted after studying. Insecure on your worst days. Competitive when someone tried to beat you in Uno. She loved all of it.

But this?

This softness?

This care?

She’d never wanted to marry someone so badly in her life.

She didn’t even believe in that stuff. Not really. She always rolled her eyes when her sister cried at proposal videos. She told herself love didn’t need some big show. But this moment was so quiet, so ordinary…and it broke something open in her anyway.

You rocked slightly as you fed Hazel, shifting your weight from foot to foot like it was instinct. You weren’t even trying to look maternal. You were. Fully. Effortlessly.

And Nika…who never ran out of things to say…suddenly had no words at all.

You looked up at her then, as if sensing something. Caught her eyes over the curve of Hazel’s soft cheek.

“Hey” you said softly. “She was fussing, so I figured I’d give my sister a break.”

You smiled. That sleepy, familiar kind of smile you gave her when you were content and didn’t need anything more than what you had.

“Yeah,” Nika said, voice a little rough. “Looks like you’ve got it handled.”

You chuckled, glancing back down at the baby.

“She’s perfect. I didn’t think I’d be this into it, but…” you trailed off, one hand tracing little circles on Hazel’s back. “She smells so good. Why do babies smell good?”

Nika stepped closer, tucking her hands into her sweatpants pockets to hide the way they were trembling.

“I think it’s evolutionary,” she offered, trying to steady her voice. “To keep people from… you know. Losing their minds.”

“Too late for me, then,” you joked.

She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. She was too focused on you. On the way your eyelashes fluttered when Hazel shifted. On the way your whole body moved around the baby like she was a part of you.

She could see it. A crib in your shared Seattle apartment someday. You, in that same hoodie, with a little one in your arms and no idea how deeply you’d wrecked her.

“You’d be a really good mom,” she said suddenly.

You blinked, surprised. Then smiled again, this time quieter. “Yeah?”

She nodded, mouth dry. “Yeah. The best.”

And then, before she could help it, her fingers reached out to trace your arm…just once, gentle and slow. Like she needed the contact to ground herself in the moment.

Because if she didn’t touch you, she was going to say something. Something too big.

Like I think I’m in love with the way you hold her.

Like I want this with you.

Like You are my whole future and you don’t even know it yet.

Instead, she stayed quiet. Let her touch speak for her.

And you leaned into it.

Hazel finished the bottle. You kissed the top of her head and sighed, content.

Nika didn’t know how to explain the ache in her chest. Only that it wasn’t bad.

It was the kind that comes when you’re right on the edge of something life changing.

The evening had settled softly over your childhood home…the golden light fading into something quieter and cooler.

Nika found herself sitting beside you on the creaky old porch swing, the one you remembered from childhood, the one your family had insisted she try even though she looked at it like it might break.

You were both quiet for a long moment, the night wrapping around you like a gentle blanket. Hazel was asleep inside, the faint sounds of her soft breathing drifting through the open window.

Nika’s fingers intertwined with yours, her thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles as she stared out into the darkening yard.

She had rehearsed this conversation a thousand times in her head.

“I think I’m in love with you.”

“I want this..us..forever.”

But when the words were finally close..right there on the tip of her tongue, they caught and twisted.

She swallowed hard.

Her voice came out soft, unsure.

“Hey… I uh.”

You looked over, your eyebrows rising gently, the way you always did when she sounded a little lost.

“I, uh” Nika repeated, running a hand through her hair, frustrated at herself. “I just… seeing you with Hazel today… it was wow. It was really something.”

You smiled, squeezing her hand, encouraging her without pressure.

She took a breath. “I guess what I’m trying to say is… you’re amazing. And not just with her. Like… with everything. With me.”

Her words rushed out, a little uneven, but full of meaning.

You reached up, brushing a stray hair from her forehead.

Nika’s heart hammered.

“And I don’t want to mess this up, or rush it, but…”

She faltered again.

You smiled a soft, patient smile that gave her permission to be nervous.

“You don’t have to say it all at once,” you whispered.

Relief flooded her chest.

She leaned in, resting her forehead against yours.

“Maybe I’m just scared I’ll lose you if I say too much.”

You laughed softly, shaking your head.

“You won’t. I’m not going anywhere.”

And with that, the weight lifted just enough for her to press a gentle kiss to your lips…slow, shy, full of everything she couldn’t quite say yet but felt with all her heart

[apricustar]

there’s been a lot of talk about the kitchen scene—a lot of people calling eddie abusive, cruel, and emotionally volatile. but i think what that completely misses—what it refuses to see—is the truth about grief:

grief is not gentle or pretty. it is often an angry, twisting, acridic beast that refuses to leave you. it comes out in sharpness, in silence; in saying exactly the wrong thing to the person you love most because you don't know how else to make them hear you.

that is what we see in 8x17.

eddie wasn't being abusive; YOU are completely misunderstanding that scene—and eddie himself; buck, too.

buck is psychologically self-referential. not selfish, exactly—more self-centered, but not in the egotistical sense—in the trauma-informed sense. it's an adaptive behavior that helped him survive a childhood where love had terms and affection and prerequisites. he learned to monitor every mood shift, every silence, every closed door—because if something went wrong, it had to be his fault. and this was reinforced by his parents' behavior towards him!!!

so now? everything still feels like it's about him. because it had to be. because that was the only way to feel safe. buck internalizes everything. when something goes wrong, his first thoughts are: what did i do? what did i miss? that's not ego, that's fear.

but eddie deals with emotion like a live wire. he bottles it up, he locks it down. he was taught growing up that's what it takes to be a man—don't cry. don't ask for help, grit your teeth and keep moving. he waits. he stews. and when it finally breaks through? it comes out like it did last night—sharp, reactive, a ribbon of hurt tying everything together.

and this is not new! eddie does this when he feels powerless. when something big is shifting inside of him and he feels helpless—when he doesn't know how admit the true feelings inside of him. so instead we get things like the grocery store fight during the lawsuit, accusing buck of sabotaging the showings earlier this season, and the kitchen scene.

same structure. same rupture. same desperate attempt to push back because he doesn't know how to pull in.

when eddie says these things to buck—you're exhausting, you're making it all about you—he's poking where it hurts, on purpose. all of it—every jab, every flare of anger—comes from a place of not knowing how to properly articulate the truth underneath.

eddie expresses his needs rarely, if ever. he doesn't ask for closeness—he tests for it. more than anything, in that kitchen, i think he was trying to provoke buck into something—a reaction, a fight, anything.

because buck has been so shut down, largely unreachable, and imagine being eddie—watching the one person you always turn to drift out of orbit. being physically closer than you've been to him in months, and still, he feels further away than when you were in texas.

how do you ask for someone back when you don't know how to ask for anything at all?

this is all that people keep missing when they reduce eddie to 'abusive' or buck to 'selfish'. they see the surface of their words, but not the wounds they're coming from.

on a fundamental level, buck and eddie are incompatible in how they handle emotion, communicate, and cope, but they are unshakably bound in how they love. because underneath all the misfires and misunderstandings, they are two people shaped by trauma and silence—by never being taught how to ask for what they need.

and still—somehow—they keep trying. with each other.

so when buck apologizes for being sad bobby’s dead and eddie snaps—he isn't rejecting buck's grief. he's rejecting the idea that buck's pain is somehow exceptional; he's saying: why aren't you here you haven't talked to me you haven't asked me how its been for me you're right in front of me and i can't reach you i want to do this together—

the scene wasn't abuse—it was human; a very raw representation of the way grief twists its way into every corner of your love, your relationships, your voice. it was love—sharp-edged and realistic in its imperfection and messiness, ever fighting to be seen.

eddie's feeling invisible and alone inside his grief; he's seeking connection. he wants buck to react, to be present, to talk to him.

the beauty of all of this is that after everything, eddie brings christopher for buck. its not just an apology. it's a gesture of reclamation. because eddie knows buck has been feeling isolated—not just from him, but from the entire team. buck himself expresses that everyone's been walking on eggshells, treating him like something fragile, like grief made him untouchable.

so eddie does the one thing he knows how to do: he acts. he brings buck his (their) son. he brings pepa. he brings family.

regardless of how eddie responded in the kitchen, he walks it back in the way he always does: through action. and wordlessly, he's saying: you belong you're ours you are wanted.

and no one gets to make buck feel otherwise. no one gets to be mean to buck.

not the team, and certainly not eddie himself.

buck and eddie are able to hurt each other as acutely as they do because they know one another. that is the risk of love: you open yourself to the possibility of pain; to be loved is to be known, changed, and vulnerable in ways you can’t take back.

eddie is able to be mad and feel these emotions and express them in these ways because he knows he—in his entirety—is safe with buck. even the ugly stuff. take note of this fight vs. how gentle eddie was with taking chris back from his parents. he can feel and act without filtering it first with buck. he can just be.

both buck and eddie keep choosing one another in a variety of ways—keep showing up, keep staying. even when they’re being harsh, even when they’re being unfair—even when they’re at their worst. they keep going, keep trying. love is persistence, dedication, devotion; buddie is all that and more.

[amphibious-thing]

Historical queer language is so interesting to me and one word that has caught my attention is inclination. So here is a non-exhaustive list of the word inclination being used to describe same-sex love or same-sex sexual attraction from the late-17th century to the early-19th century. I intentionally wanted to get some variation, some of these examples are from love letters, some are from fiction of the period, one a trial record and one a petition to decriminalise sodomy.

Then Rigby kist Minton several times, putting his Tongue in his Mouth, and taking Minton in his Arms, wisht he might lye with him all night, and that his Lust was provoked to that degree, he had — in his Breeches, but notwithstanding he could F[uck] him; Minton thereupon said, "sure you cannot do it here," "yes," answered Rigby, "I can," and took Minton to a corner of the Room, and put his Hands into Mintons Breeches, desiring him to pull them down, who answered "he would not, but he (Rigby) might do what he pleased"; thereupon Rigby pulled down Mintons Breeches, turn'd away his shirt, put his Finger to Mintons Fundament, and applyed his Body close to Mintons, who feeling something warm touch his Skin, put his hand behind him, and took hold of Rigbys Privy Member, and said to Rigby "I have now discovered your base Inclinations, I will expose you to the World, to put a stop to these Crimes";

~ The Trial of Capt. Edward Rigby 1698

One of these girls tied Monsieur [a dildo] to her middle, To try if she the Secret could unriddle: She acted Man, being in a merry Mood, Striving to please her Partner as she cou’d; And thus they took it in their turns to please Their lustful inclinations to appease.

~ Monsieur Thing's Origin (1722)

I am this moment come from Richmond, but late as it is, your absence allows me too few pleasures for me to neglect any opportunity of taking so sensible a one as that of writing to you. You are by this time at Redlynch, and finding your park wall advanced, the foundations of your new building laid, your slopes improving, your puddles filling, and your plantations thriving. 'Tis possible your joy for these changes without doors may banish all the pain I flattered myself you would feel for one you will find within. If I should guess right, at least have the charitable dissimulation to swear I do not, and sacrifice your sincerity to my vanity; rather than give me the mortification of thinking you did not sacrifice your inclination to your business, when you left the place where I was, for any other. Walk often through "Hervey Grove", and now and then visit the ash by the pas-glissant....

~ Lord Hervey to Stephen Fox, 18 June 1728

Nay, I have been told, that there is another motive perhaps more powerful than all these, that induces people to cultivate this inclination; namely, the exquisite pleasure attending its success.

~ Earl Strutwell's defense of sodomy in The Adventures of Roderick Random by Tobias Smollett (1748)

Ternant will relate to you how many violent struggles I have had between duty and inclination—how much my heart was with you, while I appeared to be most actively employed here—

~ John Laurens to Alexander Hamilton, July 14, 1779

Alas! why am I not with you; Why can I not pass at least one or two nights of the week in your company_ It is necessary to hope that a time will come when I will be more able to follow my inclination_ and if this time comes I will be certainly more often with you my loveable friend.

~ Baron von Steuben to General William North, 11 November 1789 (translated from french)

Anne sat by my bedside till 2. I talked about the feeling to which she gave rise. Lamented my fate. Said I should never marry. Could not like men. Ought not to like women. At the same time apologizing for my inclination that way. By diverse arguments made out a pitiful story altogether & roused poor Anne's sympathy to tears.

~ Diary of Miss Anne Lister, 15 August 1816

That all whether Male or Female have certain inclinations or propensities which must be and are gratified, & for aught I see should be so – they are implanted in us by some unknown power, and that the penalty of Death ought not to be inflicted for the exercise of those inclinations which have been implanted in us by some Superior Agency, and over which we have so little controul.

~ Anonymous Petition to Decriminalise Sex Between Men, 1828

[blueraith]

"How could Vi not notice her sister is suicidal?!"

I feel like people who ask this question have a fundamentally immature understanding of depression and suicidal thoughts/actions, and how the two affect people OUTSIDE of the person suffering from these conditions. Perhaps you guys are young, and you don't know how to view this matter outside of yourselves and your own perception, but it is tragically common for people to miss seemingly "obvious" details that lead up to a loved one's suicide. "I didn't notice anything was wrong" is about one of the most common refrains you'll hear after the fact.

Let’s also remember that Vi does not actually know all of Jinx's emotional tells or signs of an impending episode. She is confused each and every time Jinx goes through one and almost always unintentionally triggers her. This because it's been SEVEN FUCKING YEARS since they've seen, spoken to, or lived together.

Neither Jinx or Vi actually know the current versions of each other very well, it's one of the reasons they keep hurting each other, and part of the tragedy of their relationship.

Look, I have depression. I've had it since I was about 15 or so. I can recall self-isolating or worse and assuming my parents or friends or a teacher would notice and rush to my aid or something.

Never happened. Because depression isn't always a very obvious condition. People mask in different ways, and not always with the conscious intention to hide their symptoms. Sometimes, people with depression mask simply because it makes it slightly easier to get through the day. Jinx's case would likely be even more difficult to spot because of the manic side of her condition.

I ended up getting the bulk of my care taken care of as an adult. Mostly because I could finally advocate for myself and I also realized that NO ONE is going to notice the more alarming symptoms of my own depression better than me.

This is not to say that you can't have a support network. Or that members of that support network WON'T spot something you've overlooked from time-to-time.

But Vi is not Jinx's support network. (Arguably Sevika is far better placed for that.) She might have gotten there eventually if Act 2 hadn't ended the way that it had, but that dream of the sisters being able to recreate their lost family was shattered and the progress they were making in getting to know each other halted at Jinx's realization that she needed to leave for Vi to move on.

I don't know, it's like some of you expect everyone in your lives or in other, unrelated media to have a 13 Reasons Why style reaction any time someone shows symptoms of suicidal thoughts or actions, or when one occurs. This is almost an absurd thing to expect out of anyone unfamiliar with what depression or suicidal thoughts actually look like. Like, if you're American, this idea that everyone everywhere is familiar with what a mental health crisis looks like is even more tragically farcical because we can't even admit that poor mental health is an aspect of mass shootings here as a society and culture.

And y'all expect the ex-con stuffed into a box since the age of 15 or so to be able to just instantly spot that her sister--again whose symptoms she's very obviously not familiar with--is going through a crisis event?

Like, damn, no one in this fandom is cut more slack than Jinx, and this entire criticism of Vi makes that more clear than any other. It's a position ironically devoid of any and all empathy, probably because y'all spent it all on Jinx, and assumes a sort of selfishness and coldness towards Vi that is in no way, shape, or form supported by canon.

It's honestly an argument that I dismiss entirely the moment a person attempts to make it. Largely because I am exhausted of how hypocritical this aspect of the famdom becomes towards Vi. Jinx's actions are a large part of the reason Vi sinks into alcoholism. She then proceeds to taunt Vi about it in the mines as if Vi's pain is nothing to her.

I NEVER hear anyone talk about that. It's almost always about how Vi should have done better. How Vi hurt Jinx. How Vi wasn't good enough.

It's some Grade A, Bonafide Bullshit™

Vi and Jinx were never going to ride off into the sunset together. If that is something you thought was going to happen and are now irrationally blaming Vi for because you're disappointed....? I don't know what to tell you. I personally thought it was pretty obvious that they were Doomed Siblings in this storyline and any potential, permanent reconciliation between them may happen in some far off sequel project or not at all.

[melrosing]

ok so over the years I have had a LOT of asks about whether I really believe that Jaime's story is a redemption arc and I don't humour them as much as I used to bc apart from having made most of the pertinent points many times over, I do think it's just self-evident in the text, and indeed in GRRM's own statements in interview.

plus, it is an extensive and detailed arc - it's like being asked over and over again to explain why I think Arya's arc is about identity. there are any number of answers you can give, but just how long is an exhaustive answer, who has the time, and isn't it obvious anyway???

and the thing is that when ppl come to u asking you to contradict an 'anti-redemption' take, what they're generally asking u to argue with is like. a carefully curated twt thread of quotes that, sure, compiled like that can look like an argument.... but honestly, you can make any argument you like in that way. and such 'arguments' are exhausting to disagree with because you'd have to carefully re-contextualise each and every quote, which ofc, have been deliberately de-contextualised, and frame your argument around each. and I think that just brings me to the plainer point that these people are not writing real analysis of the text. they're running through a book with a highlighter pen, which is really only the prep for an actual analysis.

you cannot make a point about a character's arc by isolating lines to say 'quotes that show X being Y, therefore foreshadowing Z', or, for example, 'quotes that show Jaime thinking about Cersei, therefore foreshadowing that he will romantically return to her' or whatever. this doesn't work because what this style of 'analysis' completely fails to do is account for the structure of the story they're reckoning with.

I think a lot of ppl like to pretend with ASOIAF that structure does not work the same way here as it does in another narrative, because GRRM likes twists. and I disagree. for example, something people like to say about ASOIAF is that you can never consider your faves truly safe, but I think that's been vastly overstated. we know Arya isn't dying before she returns North, because fundamentally we know how stories work. we know Arya's story points back to Winterfell - that her story is about the long journey home. we know she's not dying in Braavos because: we just do. there's a reason that if you poll people on who is surviving this story, Arya will rank pretty highly, along with Sansa and Bran. people sense the structure behind the Stark kids' stories - they somehow know, without being told, that the story is not building to their deaths.

because all of us have grown up with stories, we have an innate sense of their rhythm, and how they're supposed to go. they can surprise us, but if we've learnt anything from Game of Thrones, I hope it's that the twist cannot come from nowhere. ASOIAF succeeds because GRRM pays close attention to these rhythms. even as he's making it up on the fly, he is clear about what beats go where. they may last longer than in a different story - in another book, Arya would probably be home by now - but we still understand what each beat plays in a broader arc.

and an arc is SUPPOSED to broadcast itself. sometimes it's subtle, other times it's not, but generally it is not something that you can only recognise has taken place at its very end point. even though Arya has not yet fully reclaimed her name, we know she will. likewise for Sansa. even though Bran has not come into his powers, we know he will. we DO actually understand that.

so when people say that Jaime is not redeemed yet and his prevarications in the Riverlands means he never will be, they're either 1) consciously or subconsciously denying the arc they can sense GRRM is writing, or 2) they're just not that media literate. it's there, it's obvious, it's broadcast clear as day. Jaime starts bad. we get to know him. he proves himself capable of better. he decides to pursue better. he is constrained in his pursuit of betterment. he breaks free of that constraint to pursue betterment properly. and yes, this probably is a tragedy where Jaime's best efforts will still cost him dearly, and there's a strong chance he does die! but your baby trebuchet quote collection is not accounting for the clear narrative beats of a redemption arc, which the baby trebuchet actually feeds into if u were paying attention! this arc has not been painstakingly set up for a rug pull. Arya is not being set up to go 'fuck it actually I'm no one and I'm staying in Braavos'. that is not satisfying. that is not what stories are for. that is not what GRRM is doing.

so when GRRM tells you that this is a story about redemption: believe him! he knows what he is writing! the struggles of some twt user who hates Jaime should not be concerning you! and as we've said 100 times: it IS up to you whether you forgive Jaime, same as it's up to you if you forgive Sandor, or Theon, or Zuko your spiritual king! that choice is yours! but your feelings do not change what trajectory this story is taking! so yes MY GOD it is a redemption arc now let me die

[zahri-melitor]

I saw someone asking why it’s harder and less likely to find community of people who like discussing Marvel comics on tumblr compared to DC comics. And fundamentally, the main reason is it is incredibly hard to maintain fannish community and conversation when the property is heavily overshadowed by a more mainstream adaption.

It’s not even the MCU (though the MCU just obliterating the ability to use tags does not help). It’s Stucky. Trying to have a fandom exist in the shadow of a Monster Ship That Ate Fandom is an exhausting experience, and tumblr was the epicentre of that.

Like, no wonder most Marvel comics fandom hangs out together in other places. I’ve done the ‘actually I’m a fan of the niche source material this is adapted from, not the adaption’ thing before and it is exhausting, having to constantly reassert your boundaries on what you’re discussing. It’s even more exhausting when all anyone wants to talk about is a ship you don’t really care about and has no relationship to the corner of the fandom you are into, so you can’t get away from it, and you’re on a platform where it’s very hard to restrict/stay away from other groups as you’re all jumbled up together.

Like to be fair, my own interest in Marvel tends to be pretty niche and restricted to a few properties (I could burble more about Power Pack and Katie Power here but you know, we only get occasional material), so I’m not IN it in it.

But if you want to know why? That’s probably the reason. MCU Avengers fandom and Stucky in particular were a comet strike that scoured out the ability for tumblr to function as a platform to discuss Marvel comics. Stucky is kudzu, strangling out any other discussion.

[tiredandoptimistic]

I know that Tangled: the Series has it's flaws, but it's also literally the ideal sequel series conceptually (and I love it forever). They didn't unravel the happy ending of the movie, they just looked at the established traits of the characters involved and elucidated how they would continue to play against each other.

Rapunzel is an eighteen-year-old who just got free from her abusive mother for the first time in her life. She's been dreaming of adventure for years, and just had two days of wild exploration. She finally got to experience the world she spent so long imagining; of course she would want to keep that going, of course she wouldn't be happy living as a princess in a castle. But also, it makes perfect sense for her to be conflicted because she's always lived through stories, so she takes the concept of "happily ever after" very seriously. All the most important people in her life (Eugene, Gothel, and King Frederic) have always reinforced the idea that you should strive for a life of peace and rest, meaning that until Cass, she thought she was weird and wrong for wanting something other than a life of luxury. And she does enjoy the luxury. There's enough new and exciting things within the city walls to keep her busy and excited for a few months, but eventually she was always going to feel that pull to explore new frontiers and meet new people.

Speaking of the people who influence her, they all have valid reasons for acting the way that they do. Eugene has already experienced years of adventure, so he's familiar with the bad parts and disenchanted with the good. For him, life in the castle is the novelty, so that's where he wants to stay. It's his relationship to Rapunzel that changes him, allows him to experience the world through her eyes, to see the beauty and wonder that she finds everywhere. He doesn't quite get where she's coming from at first, but he loves her and is able to come around and understand her point of view and do what it takes to make her happy.

Then there's Frederic, who's a somewhat complicated character. The movie didn't give him much of a character (not even a line of dialogue), and he exits as a purely benevolent symbol of "happily ever after." That worked for the movie, but the show needed conflict; so Rapunzel's parents needed personalities. Even though the writers didn't have much from the original text to go off, it's not difficult to infer that the man who spent eighteen years aware that his negligence allowed his daughter to be kidnapped (or killed, he didn't know what happened to her) would become rather protective of said daughter once reunited with her. The way he treats Rapunzel, doing everything he can to keep her locked up and ignorant, isn't good but it's understandable. He's been king for decades and he's exhausted, he wants to give his daughter the sort of happy and peaceful existence that he didn't have. He doesn't understand that she could go through all the shit that happened in her two days of adventure and want to go back out there. He's so confident in what he wants for her that he doesn't stop to listen to what she wants for herself. Now, again, these feelings are no excuse for his actions, but they do explain them. Frederic is fundamentally a good guy who's trying his best for his family, he just needs to learn to listen to what they say they need. (Which he does! Eventually. This is what character arcs are for).

It's just really neat to me how they looked at the movie and took these characters and thought about how they would come into conflict, how putting "THE END" on the screen wouldn't actually solve their problems. I love me a good villain, but sometimes it's nice to watch something where everyone involved has a good point and they just need to communicate and compromise a bit to find the best solution.

[widowshill]

sometimes I do just say things

[penn-dragon]

Hey Penn I wanted to ask you some questions about Zosan:

1: Who feel In love First?

2: Why did Zoro or Sanji feel in love with the other?

I also wanted to say that I Love your artstyle its unique and beautyful. Hope your doing well and keep on the great Work!!

Hell yeah I’ll talk about zosan, also thank you so much!!

1. Zoro definitely fell in love first, or at the very least he acknowledges that he’s in love first. Zoro’s very straightforward and doesn’t question himself the way Sanji does so once he realizes what he’s feeling he’s just kind of like “I guess this is what we’re doing now.” It’s his first time falling in love so there’s a lot of complex emotions that come with that, but he’s not going to waste time lying to himself about it.

Sanji on the other hand is the runner track star of “can’t catch me, gay thoughts!!” He’s spent a long time suppressing the parts of himself he thinks are wrong so he doesn’t even notice it at first. Falling in love with Zoro really sneaks up on him. Sanji is very used to love burning hot and fast. He was unprepared to comprehend what it feels like when love creeps up on you and you suddenly find yourself looking at someone you’ve known for a while and where you think you should find annoyance all you feel is fondness. That TERRIFIES HIM. And he runs from that feeling for a good while before he finally accepts it.

2. Zoro LOVES having someone that pushes him to be better. There’s a reason his most significant relationship before the Straw Hats was the girl he desperately wanted to surpass. Zoro’s at his best when he has someone who challenges him every day. Sanji keeps him on his toes and their fights and their rivalry encourage him to always be better than he was yesterday. He loves that they fight, he loves that he has to go all out. The only other person who matches his strength is Luffy, but Luffy likes to roughhouse more than he likes to spar, it doesn’t have the same intensity. He loves that sometimes he kicks Sanji’s ass, sometimes he gets his ass kicked, and sometimes they’re deadlocked until they’re both sprawled out bruised and exhausted on the deck. He wants to fight with Sanji for the rest of their damn lives.

He also loves how kind Sanji is. Zoro himself isn’t unkind, but he’s not overly interested in going out of his way to help someone if it conflicts with his own self interest. But Sanji would give a stranger the shirt off his back and the food out of his mouth without being asked, and while Zoro doesn’t really understand it he recognizes it as a fundamental part of what makes Sanji Sanji.

Sanji loves how Zoro seems so stoic and hard on the outside but he’s really such a big teddy bear once you take the time to get to know him. Sanji’s known too many powerful men who leveraged that power to oppress the people around them, but Zoro isn’t like that. He’s strong enough to take down insanely powerful enemies but he lets his crew mates pick on him with only half-hearted threats everyone knows he wouldn’t follow through on. Zoro relishes a good fight, but he’s not needlessly cruel. He’s not the kind of man who would pick on those weaker than him to make himself feel strong.

He also loves how direct Zoro is. Sanji has a tendency to overthink and run himself in circles and oftentimes Zoro will interrupt his spiraling by saying something blunt and honest that Sanji wasn’t expecting because he just… hasn’t known a lot of people like that. He appreciates that (once they sort all their shit out) he doesn’t have to guess if Zoro is being straightforward with him. Zoro doesn’t say one thing when he means another, he doesn’t see the point in dancing around things, and that directness is something Sanji values. Zoro is solid, he’s an anchor for the entire crew. Sanji is the sky Zoro admires and Zoro is the earth that keeps Sanji grounded. (And Luffy is the sun that gives them both light and life.)

He also thinks Zoro is hot.. like really really hot. Stupidly hot it’s actually unfair how hot he is. He’s always allowed himself to admit that Zoro is objectively a good looking man, but once he admits he has feelings for him it’s like the floodgates open and he has to squint when he looks at him or he’ll get mad about how hot he is and then make it Zoro’s problem lmao

[tatiejosie]

I got lazy and decided I'd just go with a minimalist look. hehe

I wrote a short one-shot where Donald cooks for Eve and I didn't feel legitimate enough to just post it by itself, so I drew this as well. like a little. advertisement. perhaps even an illustration. who knows.

a broth of bones and memories [cross-posted on Ao3]

[Just a heads-up for the contents, but it's really not serious: nutrition-oriented food talk, implied disordered eating, dissociation]

Donald moves with steady, mechanical precision, letting the ambient sounds of the kitchen anchor him. The soft hiss of oil in the pan. The quiet rattle of water just beginning to boil. These small, ordinary sounds were structured, predictable. They reached down through layers of memory and kept him grounded in the present, keeping his thoughts from drifting too far away. A generous portion of rice simmers in a pot, soaking up a deep, golden broth.

Donald doesn’t cook individual meals. Not for himself, really. He cooks meals in bulk, stores them away, and promptly forgets about them. It was just a habit, one carried over from childhood, when he spent evenings helping his mother prepare food for the week.

His memories weren’t as sharp as they used to be, but he could still recall the quiet afternoons with his mother. Him perched on a stool, watching her hands work. She peeled potatoes with swift, fluid motions, the skin falling in long ribbons onto newspaper. He used to stare, mesmerized by her hands, by how effortlessly they moved. She made it look so easy. He’d glance down at his own clumsy hands, still too small to hold a peeler properly, and grit his teeth at how slow he was. He’d try his hardest to keep up with his mom’s pace, and every slip would nick his skin, every potato left dimpled and uneven. Then, he’d get teased for his lack of patience.

His hands had grown since then. Larger. Steadier. Stronger.

Now they moved even faster than hers ever had: he was methodical, calculated. A blade felt natural in his grip, whether it was peeling vegetables or slicing through flesh. His movements were smooth and practiced. The rhythm of slicing, scraping, and tossing things into the pan was nearly soundless. Flawless. But it didn’t feel the same. There was no sense of pride in it. No satisfaction. Just muscle memory. The ease of repetition. His hands weren’t like hers. They didn’t feel like his, either.

His hands, his skills - they felt like the rest of him: mechanical. Hollow.

He shakes the thought away and returns to the task at hand.

Having a batch of broth in the freezer always comes in handy. Donald had learned to never let vegetable scraps go to waste - carrot peels, onion skins, celery ends, whatever he had on hand. Simmered down for hours, they leached out minerals and vitamins: potassium from the potatoes, vitamin C from the bell peppers, iron from the spinach stems. A little turmeric for anti-inflammatory properties. A splash of vinegar to draw the nutrients from the chicken bones.

Donald was aware that he could afford to let go of that habit. Get some high-end products, the good stuff. Hell, he could afford to have a personal cook if he really wanted to have one less chore to do. But cooking was one of these things that he held on to. He felt disconnected from a lot of things, and that included the most basic human functions. Sleeping, eating. However, he still enjoyed cooking as an activity. The act of transforming raw ingredients into a proper meal, something that will nourish a person, give them fuel for the day, get them through another mission - it felt so fundamentally human, so very intimate, he wanted to hold on to this. As a remaining way to connect to others, even when he felt disconnected from himself.

He rarely felt hunger anymore. Not in any way that counted. But Eve would.

She was probably still curled up on the couch, half-buried under the old blanket she liked, knocked out cold from the kind of nap only exhaustion could bring. Missions had been piling up. She was pushing herself hard lately. He didn’t question it - but he made sure she had somewhere quiet to land when it caught up to her. Superhero work was brutal, and Eve burned through calories like a furnace. She needed something simple but nourishing, something easy to eat. Her meal would need carbohydrates for fuel, fats for satiety, protein for muscle repair. He stirs the rice once, watching the starch thicken the broth into something creamy and rich. It needs some fat. Something to coat the stomach and slow down digestion, to give lasting energy instead of just a sharp spike. Heavy cream would do.

When he opens the fridge, he notices - again - how different it looks.

It used to be all glass containers, perfectly stacked, labeled with dates. Bottled water. Kiwi’s wet food. Nowadays, there are signs of someone else. Applesauce pouches for quick sugar. A jug of the lychee juice she likes. Seasonal fruits in a bag, waiting to be chopped and added into oatmeal. A few soda cans tucked into the door - probably some new flavors that she wants to try. (He knows it’ll be way too sweet for him. It always is.)

The carton of heavy cream sits in the corner, half-used. He reaches for it.

He pours the cream into the rice, watching pale ribbons swirl through the broth before vanishing into the heat. It smelled rich - comforting. But it needed more. Protein. Something quick. He opens the fridge again, pulls out two eggs, and cracks them into the pan. The whites curl and puff in the hot oil, hissing quietly. They bloom at the edges, yolks still intact. They need to stay soft, so they can break over the rice and mix in with the cream. The borders need to be brown and crunchy, for contrast in texture. A sprinkle of salt, a crack of pepper.

A soft thump from the living room.

Donald doesn’t even need to look. He could pick out that sound from a room full of chaos.

“Meow!”

As expected.

Kiwi pads into the kitchen with purpose, tail held high, her round frame wobbling with every step. She gives a cheerful trill as she settles at his feet, eyes gleaming with interest and anticipation.

“No,” he says, flatly - preemptively - just as she bunches her little paws like she’s preparing to climb his leg.

He doesn’t look down. He simply turns off the heat and keeps his focus on the pan. The rice goes into a deep bowl, steam curling up in fragrant ribbons. The eggs follow, their crispy edges crackling gently as they meet the heat below. He adds a spoon, not a fork. Eve eats fast when she’s tired, and the spoon made it easier.

Donald brings the bowl into the living room, quickly followed by Kiwi. The fading daylight tints the room in a dusky, blue glow. 

Eve stirs, breathing in slowly as she blinks herself awake. Her limbs stretch beneath the blanket, then flop back down with a quiet groan. She’s still in her suit; scratched up, a little bruised, her hair a wild tangle of orange that caught the light like fire.

“Ugh… how long was I out?” she mumbles, rubbing at her face.

“Not long. Maybe forty-five minutes,” Donald replies, placing the bowl on the coffee table. “Hungry?”

“Starving,” she groans, letting her head fall back again.

He nudges the table a bit closer. “It’s nothing fancy. But it’s warm, and it’ll hit the right spots. Carbs, fat, protein; you’ll bounce back faster.”

She cracks an eye open at him, huffing in amusement. “... You always pitch meals like you're writing a nutrition label.”

He doesn’t answer that. Just watches as she sits up and grabs the bowl without hesitation. She hovers over it for a second, breathing in the comforting scent. Broth-rich rice, creamy and fragrant, the eggs fried just right, golden and crisp at the edges.

“Well - this smells amazing, first of all.”

She takes a big spoonful, straight to her mouth.

“... and it tastes amazing, too!” Her words come out muffled by food, and she gives a low, pleased hum, laying back against the couch as she savors what is probably her first real meal of the day. She really needed something comforting after the utter brutality of the past few days, her ears had been ringing non-stop with new directions to follow and more missions piling up. It’s over now. She’s sore, a little disoriented, absolutely exhausted, but she’s at rest now.

She sighs, and she looks at Donald with a grateful smile.

“... Seriously. You’re the best.” 

Donald smiles in return. “Glad you like it.”

He steps back toward the table, and he directs his attention to his laptop. Of course he’d get back to work right away. “Let me know if you’re still hungry,” he adds.

Eve looks over at him again - softly, hesitantly. The kind of look someone gives when they’re not quite sure how to say thank you properly. She’s still learning how to be taken care of.

She sinks deeper into the couch, one leg tucked under her as she digs in her bowl. She was allowed to be tired here. Kiwi, who had been lurking nearby with a hopeful twitch of her tail, takes the lingering silence as her cue. She leaps softly onto the couch, a round, warm weight that nestles against Eve’s hip.

“Hi, little fruit…~” She coos with a soft smile, her hand coming to brush against the cat’s fur. Kiwi responds with a pleased purr, kneading gently at the blanket before curling up tight.

The sound fills the quiet space - low, steady, grounding. Donald watches for a few seconds longer, basking in the ambient noises that filled his home.

He used to dissociate easily when working - slip too far into tasks just to keep the noise at bay. But now, it’s different. The weight of a sleepy girl on his couch. The soft purr of a cat who chose to stay close. The smell of broth lingering in the air. These things anchored him to a reality that he, for once, welcomed. He didn’t feel entirely human most days. But this... this helped.

Caring for someone, not out of duty, but because it mattered - it had begun to stitch something back together in him. 

[betterinvienna]

the torture of small talk with someone you used to love

geto suguru x gen!reader

masterlist ao3

synopsis:

No, you two weren’t going to work. 

It was a sick combination, really. He’s too busy, and you’re too good to him. Too busy to reply to your messages—too ungrateful and too young to cherish what he has. He didn’t deserve you, he thought, so he let you go. 

Geto’s voice slurs with regret and unbridled sorrow sticks to the back of his throat as he takes the front stage for the first time in his music career.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes into the mic, “every single song is about you.” 

[ 4.5k words — fluff, angst, second chance, rockstar au — warnings: i am fighting back against the geto nonchalant hc epidemic ]

author's note:

quick note: i know nothing about fallout boy, but i just wanted to use the little quote pete wentz said as inspo and the basis of this fic :-) the song i dedicate to this one is lover, you should have come over by jeff buckley. please listen while reading (if you really want to be in the story, 2:10 of lover, you should’ve come over roughly correlates with after geto says the lines). i hope you enjoy! i really liked writing this one

“How long has it been?” Your friend, Shoko, asks as you poke your strawberry scone around. The menu offered a vanilla and peanut butter one, but you found yourself suspicious of the combination and turned it down.

That’s a good question. 

Your room is bare now—posters you just can’t seem to get rid of fill your closet in messy, loose rolls, rare CDs collect dust in a far corner (should you ever be in a financial bind, you’ll sell those on Depop), and faded, five-sizes-too-big band t-shirts are hung up with the nicer, store stolen fabric hangers in the darker spot of your closet. 

He’s someone you’d rather not remember.

There is one thing, though. The guitar that he lent you—the one he taught you how to play on. Marks lace the middle bout of the guitar, courtesy of years of contact. The fork goes clean through your scone as you think of him with a greater lucidity now; his hands on yours as they guide you through the most fundamental songs, the vibration of his chuckle against your back when you try to play on your own, his string calloused fingertips running across your nape to pull your hair out of the way so he can scrutinize your choppy F sharp work in all of its negligible glory.

It doesn’t matter now. It never did. That worn guitar lays under your bed, never to be touched again. Never to be played again for any ear.

Suguru Geto isn’t yours anymore.

“I dunno,” you mumble, obviously out of it. Your eyes are unfocused, so you keep them low to hide their comfortable asymmetry. “Six—five months?”

Shoko sips her matcha and looks at you from over the cup. “Right. And you don’t miss him one bit?” 

You shrug, pushing your plate to the side and taking a heavy gulp of your latte—hopefully long enough to signal to Shoko this conversation isn’t one you feel like having. Now or ever. Your tongue starts to feel numb in your mouth, and you can’t tell if it’s because of the drink’s scalding temperature or your sudden lack of verbosity.

Shoko doesn’t get the hint though, because she just stares at you until your theatrics are over. “Yes you do,” she teases with a haughty laugh and then leans back. She begins to grab a cigarette out of her pocket, but the café worker bussing the table next to yours gives her a glare. She promptly returns the box to its righteous place.

“I don’t.” You lick your dry lips and look up, mildly annoyed. The conversation was beginning to sound like one of an elementary schooler: “You so like Geto!” met with the exhausted rebuttal of “Not true!” 

But it was true. In some deep part of you, one you have long since buried, you missed him. You missed the way he held you close even in front of whipped fans, one after another begging him to sign their boobs or bare chests—his androgyny made him a particularly strong item—you missed the way he lent you all of his T-shirts to sleep in. You missed the way he ran his fingers through your hair, still listening when you were going on about nothing in particular. That’s the thing about Geto. It’s hard not to miss him, but you figured you were doing a pretty good job at it.

Shoko pinches your cheek and begins to rise from her seat, laying down a couple of bills. “I’ll pay. Your heart’s already hurting. I don’t feel like doing the same to your bank account.” You mumble a “thanks” to the lame joke and grab your bag, stepping outside of the stuffy café.

Here, she is finally free to smoke, so she lights one and sighs after puffing it. “You know,” she coughs, “Choso said Geto’s pretty torn up about you.”

“I seriously doubt it.” You laugh bitterly, tightening your hold on your bag strap. Geto? Torn up about you? “I’m sure the millions of girl fans he adores would die for just a night with him. He has options. Probably why he ditched.”

“I just don’t think he would just give up on you two. I mean, he sai—”

“Can we go?”

Shoko senses she’s overstepped a boundary, so she nods and steps towards her car. It beeps and she opens the driver's door. She pauses for a minute before ducking her head down, though, surveying your face. Looking for something. 

You don’t give her any reaction. You simply enter the passenger seat, parking your purse upon your lap, and staring out of the window into the café. The anti-smoking barista is wiping your table down. He looks left, then right, and pops your untouched scone into his left front pocket. Good on him—food shouldn’t be wasted.

The rest of the ride is silent.

—

𝐑𝐎𝐂𝐂𝐂𝐊𝐄𝐑

PLAYING @ ATLANTIS SQUARE

ON 7/8 and 7/10 MIDNIGHT

𝗗𝗢𝗡’𝗧 𝗠𝗜𝗦𝗦 𝗜𝗧

TICKETS ON SALE NOW

You pause at the glossy poster once again, for the third time this week. Plastered conveniently on the everyday walk to your apartment, it annoys you. It has been since last week. On it, there are three men: Gojo, the white-haired one stands at the front in a captivating still shot. You’ve met him before, he’s the singer and token—self-proclaimed, but still—comedian. He stands tall in the picture, wearing a well-fitted ROCCCKER tee and raising his hands up. Choso, a member you’re relatively closer to, has his face obscured by the way he’s moving his head to the beat of the drums he’s playing. The last member, the guitarist, has his bottom lip tucked in as he focuses on playing the correct strings. In this captured moment, he’s looking directly into the camera. He’s looking directly at you. This picture is old though, because the tattoo of a name—your name—around his bicep isn’t there. 

You also know this because you took the picture. 

Two years ago.

You walk away from the poster, rolling your eyes. It’s childish, you think, to keep using your pictures, old ones at that, when you have no association with the group anymore—but then again, you figured, that you were paid for your work and that you shouldn’t have had such a close relation to the group either way. 

You dig in your purse for your apartment keys. When you finally enter your living room, you flop onto the couch and begin scrolling through your carefully curated, mildly fake Instagram. Beautiful, professional pictures of cherry blossoms and fairy light-decorated city alleyways decorate each corner of your page. 

Five months ago, they were rudely punctuated by the occasional dark-set photo of a long-haired guitarist on a stage, glistening in sweat under dark blue stage lights and flame machines. They threw off the balance of your page, you knew, but you and Geto simply laughed at the juxtaposition of the scenario, poking fun at your contrast. 

You purged your page of him—and all related photos, even if they were suggestions of him—when you were told by him, verbatim, that he “can’t do this anymore.” The only things you remember are his eyes widening as you slapped him, straying from their previously bored expression and your ears feeling hot as you turned on your heels and speed-walked out of there. You didn’t turn to check if he was following you, because you thought you didn’t care. In hindsight, you regret it. You wanted to see if he would chase after you. 

If he would miss you.

Now, your page is back to being an aesthetically pleasing wonderland of tulip fields and matcha that tastes terrible but looks cute. You’ll never disturb this kind of peace and social conformity for a man ever again.

Working as a freelance photographer is nice. It’s, well, as the name suggests, freeing. As your own boss, you get to choose which clients to pick up and which ones to not. What gigs to immortalize and whatnot. In light of recent events, you haven’t necessarily taken pictures in any concerts. You usually turn them down, even if they pay well. Jobs like weddings and birthdays are much easier.

You pick your CANON camera up out of its fabric case. The personalized keychains on the zippers jingle as you open them. It was expensive—a birthday gift, so you take good care of it. Wiping down the lens and adjusting the settings, you check the reminders on your phone. 

Wednesday, July 10th

Park Engagement Photos

Ruby Ten Park

3:00 P.M.

These clients of yours are one of your favorites. They’ve been a long-time customer. From first day of school photos to eccentric birthday shoots, they’ve called you each time. It’s nice to see that they’re getting engaged. Silently, you hope that they invite you to the wedding as a photographer.

Packing what you need into a dedicated tote bag, you exit your apartment again, your rest being short-lived. The park is only about a ten-minute walk from your complex, so you choose not to call an Uber. This is a choice you begin to regret as you feel your face begin to sweat three minutes in. On days like these, Geto would’ve offered to pick you up from your apartment and drop you off, no matter the distance.

You kill that thought immediately. Should’ve called that Uber.

You take your wool cardigan off, wiping beads of sweat from your hairline and adjusting your blouse. Your clients, a couple in their mid-twenties, aesthetically sit on a checkered picnic blanket. The scene is one from your Pinterest home feed. You’ve been ordered not to be spotted until the actual proposal, so you opt to sit against a tree facing a performing stage that is commonly used for indie gigs and mini-festivals. The park is nice—the trees and shrubs are well cut, the walkways are often clear of obstruction, and the benches are relatively new, save for the chewed gum under the end bars. A five-star recreational park, truly.

When your ex-boyfriend’s band begins to set up speakers on the stage you’re facing, the park shoots down three full stars on your mental Yelp site. Two stars. My annoying, ungrateful ex-boyfriend made a surprise appearance, never go here if you are looking for peace and quiet.

You stiffen, watching Choso gesture to where he wants the drums placed, presumably, and Gojo flailing his arms around for who-knows-what. 

Then, it’s him.

Geto. The man you love—loved—ducks under a branch and sets up a microphone. He doesn’t seem to spot you though, because he runs a hand through his hair and pats Gojo’s back, going back to the bus to, probably, bring more of their supplies.

You take this opportunity to escape, opting to move to another tree. Thankfully, you begin to hear the starting lines of every engagement repeated ad nauseam:

“I feel so happy with you…” You begin to adjust the settings on your camera to reduce the sun's glare. 

“I never want to part from you…” Positioning yourself comfortably far, but not too far, from the couple on the blanket, you scrunch your face as you bring the camera up into frame, ensuring you capture the beautiful scenery.

Your finger hovers over the shutter button, and you hold your breath. The couple rises to their feet and the fiancé-to-be (hopefully) drops to one knee, pulling out a beautiful navy blue suede box. And then…

“Hey.” You take the photo. It’s beautiful—wait. 

What? 

“Hey?” That’s not “Will you marry me?” You bring the camera down, scratching the left side of your face in confusion as you turn to your side, looking for the source of this unwelcome disruption. 

Geto is standing there, with a dumb look on his face and a stickered guitar on his back. Definitely unwelcome. Your clients are kissing each other now, and you think you should get that, but you’re frozen in your spot. Your hands grip your camera and you don’t respond to Geto. You just stare. 

It’s like your tongue is inflated in your mouth and your face is numb when you finally do respond. It’s flat, though. “Hello.”

“I didn’t know you were going to be here—if I did, I wouldn’t have interrupted your work—”

“Just—it’s nice seeing you. I’m sure you’re busy.”

Geto clicks his tongue. “Right.”

You raise the camera to your face again, taking a rapid amount of pictures to compensate for the ones you lost just standing there. 

“How have you been?” Geto presses on.

You lower your camera again, refusing to give him eye contact. “Good.” You don’t bother to ask him how he’s been either because you don’t want to give him any further talking incentive. You hear him inhale, though, obviously preparing for another round of useless chitchat, and you decide to cut him off. You whip around, giving him a mildly irritated look. “It’s nice seeing you.”

Geto presses his lips together. He clenches his fist—he looks like he wants to reach for you, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t say anything further. He just stares vacantly.

The twinge in your heart intensifies as you gather your things and approach your clients, showing them the clear pictures as they fervently nod in approval of each perfectly positioned picture. Their chatter passes through one ear and through the next as your stomach churns at the interaction with Geto.

Geto is left there, staring at you in your peripheral vision, until he turns around and roughs up his hair, either in frustration or resolve, getting back to what he was doing before you.

Can he even remember before you?

—

Suguru Geto isn’t yours anymore, but was he ever? 

The journal under your bed has laid empty and untouched since the day Geto left. You stand in the shower and think of things to write each day, but when you pick up the pen, you draw a blank and end up closing it. 

Today, you write one sentence but don’t get much farther than that.

Your phone vibrates annoyingly on the ceramic of the bathroom sink, and you’re forced to get up from your bed and trudge your way back to the washroom. The name Choso is splayed across the top part of your phone. Your hand hesitates—considering recent events, something repelled you from picking up Geto’s right-hand man’s call. 

Ultimately, you decide it’s unfair to ignore Choso on that basis considering your friendship, so you pick up the call anyway. It’s loud: Choso yells something over the discordancy of the environment, and you “Huh?” multiple times before you can decipher a “hold on.” 

The sound clears up, and Choso sighs in relief when you finally return his “Can you hear me?” prompts. 

Choso silently gears up on the other end of the phone. “Are you doing anything tonight?”

Your face morphs into a scowl at the realization of how this could’ve been a text. “No,” you laconically reply, “why?”

Static picks up on Choso’s end. “We’re performing at the venue thirty minutes from you tonight. Atlantis. It’d be nice if you could come—we’re going on tour after this. Just wanna hang out with you one more time.” 

You sigh. “And tickets are free?”

“No—well, yes, for you. Just come. Shoko’s going.”

The mention of Shoko stirs you slightly. They obviously knew getting her there would get you to go. “Sure. And it’s in two hours?”

“Yeah. How’d you know tha—”

You hang up before Choso questions you further.

—

It’s midnight and you’re getting into an Uber you really hope is going to kidnap you before you make it to this venue. The collar of your shirt lays lazily across your shoulders, dipping under one. You decided not to wear a ROCCCKER band tee for this concert. You support Gojo and Choso, but… whatever.

The Uber hits the curb on the turn to the entrance of Atlantis Square, and it knocks the sunglasses on your head onto your lap. Seeing that it’s midnight, the driver gives you an inquisitive look in the rearview mirror. It’s a fashion choice, you mouth to yourself. You reposition them, murmuring a disdainful “thank you” to the driver and exiting the awkward car. 

People are lined up at the first entrance, waiting for their turn to be either accepted or denied into the concert. The name of the venue is a grave misnomer—it resembles more of a club spot than an open park. You push your way past a particularly rowdy group of people when you spot Shoko tapping her foot impatiently at the second entrance. 

“I’m surprised you showed.”

You breathe heavily. “Me too.”

Shoko shows the security guard something on her phone and gestures to the two of you before entering the pit of the venue. It is full. People holding drinks end up just handing them off to someone on the side near a trash can, people are on each other's shoulders, and the opener of the concert is being unfortunately ignored. 

Shoko pushes her way to the VIP area, which you guys use to cut the pit to be able to get barrier spots. Some pretty girls holding signs that say, in crude scribble, “CHOSO BLOW A KISS” and “GETO I’M FREE 2NITE” grumble as you apologize your way into getting somewhat close to the stage. The opening act shouts her “thank you” and waves her way off of the stage. As soon as you settle in and are able to see the stage, the lights dim.

“New York, are you ready?” Gojo’s voice reverberates through the venue—fans begin to flood your space with anticipatory screams. 

A guitar strum sounds through the venue, and just as much as you hear it, you feel it in your feet. 

You begin to feel it in your heart when the lights finally turn on, revealing the three men. Revealing Geto. Gojo is saying something into the mic, but you can’t hear any of it. All you hear is your heart threatening to thump out of your ribcage, into your throat, and out of your mouth. 

Geto scans the crowd, looking for something. His head drops to his guitar when he doesn’t find it, and he doesn’t look up from that. Shoko waves her hand around frantically, getting Choso’s attention.

Choso’s face brightens as he does a corny fist pump and waves to both you and Shoko. He steps around his drum set and whispers something in Geto’s ear. 

It’s obvious what Choso told him because Geto immediately glances in your direction and the tips of his ears redden. By now, you feel as if you’re going to projectile vomit all over the hardcore friend group in front of you. He returns his gaze to the rest of the crowd. After his unheard speech, Gojo looks at Geto, as if to ask if he’s ready. Geto nods and Gojo returns to the mic.

“Everyone,” he annoyingly yells into the already too-loud mic, “this is a song off of our upcoming album.” His announcement is met with excited cheers from your section, and Shoko’s hollers in your ears nearly deafen you.

Choso begins to tap his sticks into the mic and Geto strums a low note. The song starts, and it is loud. The crowd doesn’t know the lyrics, so instead, they opt to shout incoherencies.

You can’t lie—it’s a good song. All of them are. They go through the album one by one, and the crowd further obstructs your already limited view with phones, recording videos that will definitely be on music leak pages at the end of the night. At the start of the eighth song, Geto pushes his guitar to his back. The fretboard peeks out over his shoulder and he begins to approach the mic with a slow stride.

No.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes into the mic.

No.

He looks at you—directly at you—with a mournful countenance.

“Every single song is about you.”

He’s crazy.

You’re leaving. You’re leaving, you say to yourself, but your stubborn feet won’t uproot themselves from their place. Shoko stills next to you, and you can see her glance towards you. Fans begin to pick up on where Geto’s looking, and by the time he tears his gaze from you to check if Choso and Gojo are ready to go, it is as if a faux spotlight is on you. Your body feels hot, and you’re angry he’s embarrassed you like this.

But you feel something else. Like someone has taken your heart and stomach and is jocularly throwing them around inside of you. Your breath remains held as Gojo begins to strum—you question how he’s playing the guitar so adeptly, but then you hear the loud backtrack—and Geto begins to sing. Your eyes dry, unblinking, as you stare at him. 

Sometimes a man gets carried away

When he feels like he should be having his fun

You mumble an unheard apology to Shoko, still staring at Geto. The way his jaw flexes in the light doesn’t go unnoticed. You track his every movement.

Much too blind to see the damage he’s done

He returns your gaze while singing, and you tear your eyes from his, glossy and focused, swiftly turning around and pushing musically enthralled fans out of the way.

Sometimes a man must awake to find that

Really he has no one

You hold your throat and wince. You can’t cry here—not now. 

So I’ll wait for you, love

And I’ll burn

Will I ever see your sweet return?

The knot in your throat tautens. He’s confessing to you via song. In front of everyone. He’s sick. You’re gasping for air now and pushing through the blurs of people. You don’t know if Shoko is chasing you; frankly, you don’t care.

Oh, will I ever learn?

Oh-oh, lover, you should’ve come over

You need to get out. Out of here. Tears break the wet film of your eyes and wet your cheeks. You’re sobbing, and now, people are offering you concerned glances.

‘Cause it’s not too late

The volume of the concert muffled your sobs, but as you finally break your way out of the pit and to the quieter, roomed bar area, Geto’s song turns muffled and your sobs fill the empty, probably restricted, room. 

You fumble with your phone. Shoko is calling you. It’s only then you notice the lack of Geto’s voice in his own song—the backing track sings the filler vocals, but he is evidently gone from the stage. You can hear muffled, curious murmurs from the crowd. 

Shoko is video calling you—obviously to catch a glimpse of where you are, but you deny her request. She texts—spams—you and you defiantly put your phone on silent, propping yourself up on a bar stool and sobbing into your hands.

Yes, you were angry.

Yes, you were upset.

Yes, you were torn.

But yes, God, yes, you missed him. And you hated that. With every fiber of your being but one, you hated the way Choso baited you here, the way Shoko probably knew what would happen, the way Geto knew how to get to you.

In more ways than one, because he pushes the door open, and sees you hunched back on the empty bar counter. 

He whispers your name as he quietly approaches you, and you hic in response. 

“Please,” Geto aimlessly pleads, “just listen.”

“I don’t want to,” you sob into your hands, picking up your phone and erratically scrolling through your apps in a teary haze, “leave.”

He breathes a sigh, cautiously seating himself on the table facing your seat. “I can’t.” 

You throw your bag at him, your somber turning to rage now. Keys hit his chest and clatter against the floor. He’s only able to grab hold of the handbag, so he holds the leather near his chest. It’s greedy, but now that he has you here, in one spot where you’ll listen, he takes advantage of the setting. 

“God, ‘missed you so much...” he blurts out, low. “I know. I know. Please just stay here. Just let me speak, okay?”

He takes a deep breath, surveying your reaction, and continues as he hears your sobs quiet. You refuse to turn to face him—to let him see your face, so instead, he entreats to your back.

“I thought I didn’t deserve you,” he says in a hushed tone, “you had your whole photography thing, based here—” he gestures with his arms, making a big motion to suggest your career was taking off “—and I was never around. I was always out and touring. You’d text me and I selfishly wouldn’t respond. Nothing about us mixed. I was young and high on success.” He curses under his breath, setting your bag aside and running a hand down his face. 

You begin to shake your head, rising from your seat. You should’ve known better. “I don’t even know what I expected from y—”

“But I can make it work.” He stands as if his presence will make you stay. “God, I’ll kill myself to make it work. To make us work. ‘Was stupid—I’ll admit. But being with you made me feel so dumb. I was whipped. I’m serious, baby, please. Every time I was with you, I—” he begins to scratch his head in an almost confused frenzy “—I don’t even know what I felt like. Felt like flyin’.” 

He inhales, preparing for another part of his ramble. You hush him before he continues. 

“You could’ve told me this,” you angrily refute his pleas, “instead, you’ve left me stranded for five months. Didn’t you?”

He nods obediently at the words almost immediately, and it's as if his head is empty as he continues his begging. “I did, baby, I did,” he admits, “N’ I’ve beaten myself up every day for it.” 

Something shifts in his face, and he drops to his knees. Your eyebrows furrow in confusion. “Please,” he blubbers, “just one more shot at you n’ me?”

His bangs stick to his sweaty forehead as he looks up at you, expectant. He bites his tongue in anticipation and his palms feel clammy.

You take his face in your hands, and his shoulders relax for what seems like the first time in forever. You think of what to say. But instead, you begin to cry again, and in response, he rises to his feet and begins to wipe away your tears with a tender thumb.

Wordlessly, he allows you to cry into him—your cheek fits perfectly in the divot of his chest and for once, for the first time in five months, he feels whole. You feel whole.

The other two band members have gone back to playing their known discography. Later, on social media, you’ll begin to see circulated videos of Suguru Geto frantically leaving the stage, hopping down into a parting crowd. Fans will speculate, critique, fawn, or praise. Maybe all of the above.

For now, Suguru Geto is yours. He’s still yours.