rieshon

[catmask]

when u go to write a mentally ill person in ur story you are presented two options. the first option is to write your mental illness realistically as you actually experience it with all the ups and downs and people who are like you will resonate with it and feel seen. except every person who reads instagram infographics on mental health that uses the phrase narcicisst for anyone who does anything that crosses them and unironically call themself a dark empath will call you scary and tell you that youre demonizing mentally ill people

the second option is to lie and write inspiration porn for those people to get hard to

[cursemyexistences]

i need cute bras ୨୧

[literaila]

atf satoru try not to kiss wife for 24 hours challenge

“seven feet, satoru,” you tell him, moving yourself to the opposite end of the couch. “seven. feet.”

“but—“ he’s whining, obviously, and stretching his obnoxiously long body to fit the space you just left. his hands rub at the body warmth you’ve left behind longingly. “this is cruel and unusual punishment.”

you only roll your eyes, resuming your very diligent email checking.

“c’mon,” he pleads, throwing caution—and his glasses—to the wind. puppy eyes are very persuasive. “it’s been three hours.”

“oh good, only 21 more to go.”

satoru groans, pulling at his hair. “three hours.”

“three hours since what?”

you both look up, tsumiki standing at the end of the couch, smiling at you and scrunching her nose at satoru.

“morning, ‘miki, how’d you sleep?”

satoru whines again and shoves his face into the couch cushion—but not before he lifts his head so that tsumiki will give him a kiss on his forehead as she walks by, which she does, because she loves him or something.

she sits down next to you. “good. what’s wrong with him?”

you blink at satoru. “want to tell her what you did?”

“t’was a’ accident,” he mumbles, hanging his limbs in defeat.

tsumiki giggles again, but she still asks, “what did you do, dad?”

at that, satoru lifts his head. “nothing. i did nothing and your mother still refuses to touch me—i feel my limbs getting weak already,” he sits up, hand to his chest. “tsumiki i need you to call shoko.”

“shut up. you know what you did.”

he pouts.

“he pushed me out of bed in the middle of the night,” you tell tsumiki, shaking your head. “and he didn’t even wake up to check and see if i was alright.”

at that, tsumiki attempts to hold in a laugh—which she almost does, except she’s spent eight years living with the two of you so—

it’s safe to say that she coughs into her hands very subtly.

“i checked!” satoru argues, hands floating circles around his head. “i woke up from a very nice dream, which was ruined, and i tried to grab you but you weren’t there. i was all alone.”

“because you pushed me off—“

“why are you yelling,” and then your second child comes into the room and if satoru was going to win this fight—which he wasn’t—any chances have just been ruined.

“god,” satoru lays back down, turning so hes facing the couch, back to all of you. “i am a victim,” he says, very promptly and then shuts up.

tsumiki just gives megumi a little wave.

“sorry,” you say, even though you’re not sorry at all. “did we wake you up?”

megumi steps over your legs, his bed head very endearing. “no.” he sits next to tsumiki, resting a single palm on the top of her head as a hello. “where’s the coffee?”

“ask your father. he probably drank it all.”

megumi stares at satoru. white hair shakes sporadically, but the man-child makes no move to turn around.

you just shake your head, all of you waiting for satoru’s inevitable excuse.

[ivoryteacups]

am i glamorous? tell me, am i glamorous?

[ancientbygone]

i didn’t do it, i didn’t do it for love; what did i do it for?

[sequel piece to kill the sparrow]

[thymejot]

Rio has twice now said 'te veo' as she walks away from Agatha.

I see you

See you

I hope no matter how bad things get in the end, when they are broken and bloody, standing across the battlefield from one another.

When they finally lance all that has been festering between them.

Faced all the heartache, the regrets, the laments, the sour ugliness of their grief, the deep and abiding love.

When they have a had a good cathartic fight to the end of all things.

Rios last words will be 'te veo'

With the explicit understanding that they will meet again. That this is never truly over. That I see all of you, all the parts you hide away. I still see you. Because it is not one way.

Agatha has always seen all of Rio as well.

They love each other because of who they are, not in spite of it.

A relationship like theirs is never truly over. They may not be lovers for now, may be opposing forces. But they will always be a part of each other.

They will always see each other as the truest of equals.

They may not have a happy ending, but then they will never truly end. So that is okay as well.

Agatha will never truly die

[eastbluecrewed]

things you can't get back

aka i've been waiting so patiently to see kidd get his ass beat by shanks (affectionate)

[canisalbus]

When Machete became a cardinal, did his parents ever recognize him?

Machete's home village was on the other side of Italy (and separated by the sea no less) and it was small, relatively rural and remote. It's very unlikely many news about Holy See's happenings made their way there. I don't think his parents had any reason to expect to ever hear about him again, he seemed to be somewhat of a lost cause when they dropped him off.

[isbergillustration]

Things Are About To Get Significantly Fucking Worse

[cipherr]

[u5an5]

Theory: The Clone X was not Cody like some people think or even Fives (I know he's been dead for a very long time but so was Boba Fett and look where we are. Plus, Echo was supposed to be certainly dead too; making him Winter Soldier-esque storyline wouldn't be that surprising) or not even Slick.

((Also, now that we've seen his face devoid of any tattoos or scars I think first two takes are definitely not applicable anymore; they wouldn't put that much effort to make him unrecognizable))

Back to the point: In my opinion, The Clone X was none other than...

Fox.

Now let me explain.

Who else, other than X, was loyal to the law and justice dictated by it over any moral or ethic code?

Fox.

Who else was portrayed with such single-minded focus on hunting down traitors of the government he served, regardless of what it was?

Fox.

Who else could know not only Coruscant so well but also identify Rex like they knew each other?

He already was a remarkably successful tracker of traitors, why not make him more efficient by pointing them out for him?

Good soldiers follow orders, after all.

[yungluv16]

Lana @ amoeba music in 2012💕💕💕

[merrysithmas]

me when someone says luke is a bad teacher and made grogu "choose" btw being a jedi and his dad:

what he did was ensure grogu could one day be a jedi AND have his dad now!!!

[ping-ski]

IDGAF that ur a canon purist!! that's not the problem!! i care more ab the people having fun + being cringe and free!! my problem is that you keep shitting on their harmless takes!! fanon and canon are both cool!!

everyone's got different interpretations of characters!! besides, no one can ever be truly faithful to the canon!! when all ur takes that are "respecting the canon" character's traits are over exaggerated anyway!!

besides, everyone's takes/fics are technically ooc!! we are at the mercy of their creators/authors cause they have final say!! (pray for us all.)

alr RANT OVER!! i just dont think we should police others on interpretations that may or may not be "accurate/canon"?? its a silly discussion cuz no one is obligated to limit themselves like that

i just hope what i said made sense cuz its 2am and im so tired

[sunnibits]

friendly reminder that the ninth doctor and rose tyler literally invented love in 2005 when the doctor said “I could save the world but lose you” in s1ep5 of doctor who. not a joke btw just a statement of fact!

[shoshiwrites]

from the 100 paired prompts list - ⁶¹⁾ peach pits and a pressed shirt collar for Jo and Joe. (yes you heard me.)

The sun rises early in late July, the beginning of August. She’s too warm, lying here in bed, unable to fall back asleep. Outside, a blackbird in a backyard tree sings. A warbler too, as she watches the light on the floor barely touch the murky outlines of their furniture — the dresser, the vase, the lamp, the mirror.

A sleeping Joe lies heavily beside her, soft snores and uncombed hair, the faintest stubble he’ll be shaving away in an hour at most.

Her tongue sticks in her mouth, tastes like teeth. Craving something. None of it’s been too strange, or at least no more strange than how she normally eats. Salt with the sweet, sour with the fat. She won’t ask him, she decides. She can take care of it herself. She can’t sleep anyway.

A few scattered mornings have seen her do this, take the car. Joe doesn’t mind, of course. He doesn’t put the work into it for nothing, he says. She’s dressed loosely, throws an old jacket on over all of it. Takes her wallet, her sunglasses. She almost smiles — it feels almost like stealing a Jeep. The air outside is fresh and cool, not yet hot with the afternoon sun.

The stand she’s thinking of is indeed open, a wooden sign wet with dewy grass. Plump peaches — Sugar May, the farmer calls them — brilliant nectarines and deep purple plums, delicate apricots, a few containers of cherries, like a lipstick ad in Technicolor, come to life.

She doesn’t know him well enough to dissuade the help loading a small box of the peaches into passenger seat, and something tells her he would’ve offered anyway. Something about him reminds her of something gone, his kind and wrinkled smile, faded flannel and work trousers, a lost summer afternoon before the war. He tells her to enjoy the fruit; she tells him she will.

Joe’s up by the time she’s back; she smells coffee from the open door when he’d gotten up from the table at the sound of the car pulling in. She sees his steaming mug on the blue-checkered tablecloth, hers set out on the counter. He’s dressed in blue too, collared chambray work shirt and darker trousers.

He looks surprised, at her early-morning mission, but doesn’t say so. Doesn’t look at her like anything other than who she is — the woman he married, the girl in love, the writer who chased the story halfway around the world and came home to him. He looks like a boy in love, when he looks at her.

“These look good,” he says, taking the box from her after his greeting, the good morning, the kiss he’d pressed to her lips after she’d set hers to his cheek. “Thank you.”

“I thought I might try and bake with them,” she says. “Evie sent over a recipe.”

She pushes her hair back behind her ear, catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Disheveled, hair a little wild from the open car window. Pink-cheeked. She wonders when the doctors are going to try and put her on bedrest. She’s getting there. She doesn’t know how she’s going to handle it.

He’s already holding one in his hand.

“Go on,” she says, smiling. “He wouldn’t let me leave without extras.” There’s a nectarine or two nestled in there, two clusters of plump cherries.

He doesn’t argue, only leans over the sink and bites. The door’s closed, the light beaming through the curtains he didn’t open. She can do this, now. Press her fingers to his, sticky from the sweet white flesh, ignore the clock on the mantle, kiss him breathless against her heart.