#then came home and finished my book

[jakeperalta]

I have this whole week off and it will mostly be used for house decorating but I decided to make today my treating myself day and it has felt sooo luxurious

[fistfuloflightning]

It’s just hero-worship—right?!

[in-tua-deep]

when I was 12 I was sick and missed a science test. when I was back at school the teacher told me I could make it up after class but it completely slipped my mind and I went home on the bus

the next day I went to the teacher to apologize and tell her I could stay after that day if it was still okay and before I could she was like “You saw the zero in the grade book” in such a matter of fact way

I, in fact, had not looked at the grade book?? I had no idea that she’d put a zero in for my test. I was just a distractible kid with undiagnosed ADHD who… forgot to stay after school because my usual routine was to get on the bus

I didn’t say that of course. I just nodded in absolute befuddlement and then stayed to take my test that day

I’m much older than 12 now but I still remember my confusion and shame and the bolt of momentary panic before she told me she would let me do the test and I’m like. idk. it kind of stuck with me. I was 12. I was a pretty good student otherwise, yeah distractible but in a quiet “doodle on every paper near me” and “has two to three books on hand at any given time so I don’t get bored” kind of way.

I think even after all these years I still don’t understand why she felt like she had to scare me

[fictionadventurer]

After very little research into the other writings of Laura Ingalls Wilder and Rose Wilder Lane, my hypothesis about the Little House authorship question is that the writing is mostly Rose's, but the heart is Laura's.

In Laura's newspaper columns, the parts that sound most like Little House mostly come from the extracts she shares from Rose's letters (incidentally, it's kind of adorable how proud she is of Rose: "My daughter's in France!", "My daughter's in Albania!", etc.) The prose of Old Home Town, Rose's inspired-by-my-childhood-home novel, has some of the same concise descriptive prose that I've come to associate with the Little House style (I could hear passages in the voice of the Little House audiobook narrator).

Yet the Little House soul is all over Laura's columns. She's fascinated by the simple tasks of life, believes in home and family and hard work, believes in holding onto the goodness of childhood and looking forward with hope toward the future. There's an optimism, almost a romanticism, about life. The children's series that bears her name clearly comes from the same woman.

Rose, by contrast, is much more pessimistic. When writing about childhood, she's almost cynical about the life of a small town. She highlights the dark stories underlying the wholesome exterior, is extremely sensitive to the pitfalls of the social scene around her. Part of the difference is that Rose is writing for adults, but there does seem to be an essential difference in the personality behind the pen, despite the stylistic similarities to Little House.

(At the risk of pop psychoanalyzing people long dead, Rose seems much more neurotic and introverted and sensitive than her mother. In her writings and in the books about her childhood in Missouri, she comes across as child of a fairly comfortable modern life, with all the modern anxieties, in contrast to a woman who grew up starving on the prairie and knows that there are much worse things to endure than small-town gossip).

It's not much of a thesis, but I'm just fascinated by the fact that the Little House series can share so many stylistic similarities with Rose's writings, yet feel so much more like Laura.

[dangaer]

happy halloween but also a big happy birthday to diavolo!

[punkrockisafulltimejob]

Ow

[kits-ships]

hey tell my why, looking at my f/o list, every one of these bitches are renegades

[kingdomoftyto]

"Carlos, if you could just pause your experiment for a second--if you could only hear me out, hear my hypothesis! I think once you understand the science of the situation, you--" Carlos opened the door. He was crying. She had never seen him cry. He was overwhelmed and unsure of how to express his emotions, since he usually only did so in carefully worded sentences, not with water from his body. "The science of the situation?" he snarled. "That Otherworld. I was trapped there, Nilanjana. I couldn't see Cecil for ten lonely years. I was kept away from the people I love, in that desolate place where you never get hungry and you never have to drink water and so you never live. It is a place that devours. It is a place that is empty. That is the science of the situation, and I study it so I can fix it. Only I can do that. Only these experiments can do that. I'm sorry, Nilanjana; I'm not going to stop so you can tell me what science is."

🫠

[thefabelmans2022]

i've seen a couple of tiktoks now of kids talking about reading mark of athena, being so upset about the ending, and then having to wait a few days to go out to the bookstore or to the local library to get house of hades and being affronted by that dedication and i'm like man. kids these days. they don't know how good they have it.

[autistic-shaiapouf]

It feels so genuinely strange to feel at peace after being in crisis mode for so many years. My therapist said it takes, on average, 2 years for the results of (C-)PTSD recovery to made visible and I'm right on target for it; it's just. I feel okay and it's starting to sink in.

Good things have happened this year and they don't feel like they're gonna be taken away, I've met very good people and they don't feel out of my grasp. I'm actually getting to know myself, seeing what my autism wants from the world, the candles and incense and sprays pointing me towards sensory seeking (and that's okay!), the special interest in music pulling me in all directions (and that's okay!), spending lots of time reading and changing up what I was taught constitutes a meal by breaking it down (and that's okay!).

I don't actively dislike my field of work, have hobbies I engage in, friends I engage with, a vehicle the same year I got my license, I feel like I'm breathing for the very first time.

I'm okay, and it's starting to really feel that way.

[mariska]

well! bye everyone i'm off to re-read my fav book trilogy of all time that i havent read since their original releases when i was a teenager and also finally get to read the prequel that i never got around to reading for the first time so. i'll see u guys on the other side and by other side i mean i'll see u guys when i re-emerge into society drenched in blood and tears rambling about all the new mental evidence i will have collected for my years-long headcanon that Katniss is autistic and sobbing about how many more details of the whole story i understand on a more profound and deep level than my teenage self was capable of processing properly

[tonyglowheart]

last night in this house... sleeping on air mattresses... still have leftover bits of stuff to move out in the morning.... so odd

[bakerysnake]

today was a good day ^w^ i took a test (went well), almost finished a book in one sitting (too sleepy to finish) and wrote three pages of nightowl self ship stuff <3

[fazcinatingblog]

I was on the phone to Sophia from like 5pm till 5:20 and so I asked if the weather would stay alright because I had tentative plans for dinner and she's like "oh, dinner. With your parents?" and I'm like no and then idk she asked male or female and I said male and she's like "oooh male, interesting!!" and then she asked if he's nice and idk my brain short circuited, like I'm thinking "what do you mean is he nice, you'd know" but of course she has no idea so I'm like "yeah he's really nice" and

[rodrifc]

my apartment is lowkey trashed and I feel a bit ill but christmas has been okay

[a-b-riddle]

Can’t stop thinking about poly141 who get so wrapped up in their own bullshit they begin to neglect reader. So you leave 🤷🏼‍♀️

It wasn’t a big deal at first. You understood that their jobs were intense to say the least. You own a bookshop, which in itself was exhausting, but you understood how they could get carried away with work.

You had excused the many delayed returned texts or missed FaceTime dates when they were deployed. When they came home, they almost always made it up to you. Showering you with attention and quality time.

But the past two returns home have been… different.

Usually at least one of them made a beeline to your shop or your loft if it was too late in the evening. You always held your breath when it was just one of them.

“They’re okay.” Was the usual answer. “Everyone made it back okay.” It was only then that you could melt into whoever’s hands you were in.

After one of their recent returns home you had voice to Price that you didn’t appreciate several days passing after they came back and no one had bothered to tell you. He had snapped. Arguing that a mission doesn’t finish just because they land back on soil. There was paperwork and debriefing to be done. If and when they wanted to see you they would.

He didn’t apologize until later. Crawling into your bed, using one of the keys you had given them. Blaming the stress. How they had almost lost Johnny for the reason of his outburst. What else could you do but forgive him?

So you had given them space after that one. Not holding it against them to decompress before seeing you.

The next time was the final straw. Solidifying how little they cared about you and how much power you had given them.

Johnny had come in around 7 one evening. He was dressed nicely, for civilian standards. You were reading a book on the couch when he had let himself in. You were wearing on of Simon’s sweatshirts and panties. He took you in for a moment before scooping you up.

He fucked you absolutely stupid. Adamant on having you cum on his tongue, his fingers and his cock. You were only able to bask in the afterglow of him filling you up before he started pulling his pants back on.

“What are you doing?” There were times that you would practically need a crow bar to get Johnny detached from you just long enough to relieve yourself. You had gotten many a UTI courtesy of Mr. John MacTavish.

“Dinner with my family tonight.” He explained by the time he was already buttoning his shirt. “The youngest just graduated and ma’ feels the need to go all out.” Now came the tie. Johnny was actually wearing a tie. To go to dinner. “A fancy dinner in London.” He huffed. “Meanwhile I’m out scufflin’ with bloody fuckin’ terrorists and I get a pat on the back.” He gave you a peck on the cheek before heading out the door. Promising to call you later.

You just sat in your bed. Still naked. Almost in shocked. He had fucked you and just… left. You were close to a panic attack as you called Simon.

Simon wasn’t the one to cuddle and coddle. But there was something so soothing at the sound of his voice or even how his heavy body felt perfect laying on top of you. Yes. Simon wasn’t the time to lift you up with words, but he was your own security blanket. Just having him close helped.

“Can you come over?” It wasn't unusal for Simon to be the one to come later in the evening. Insomnia was a bitch to deal with and you could sleep through the sounds of whatever he played on the tv. Most of the times you were content laying your head on his lap as he ran his hand along your head as if he were petting you. It was a bit cringe, but it knocked you out every time.

“What’s wrong?” He asked. The low timber of his voice already calming you.

“Johnny came over.” You sniffled. “He just fucked me and left.”

“Not surprised.” He scoffed. You could almost see him rolling those deep brown eyes of his. “If you wanted to cum, I’m happy to come over and help.”

For whatever reason, that only seemed to make you more upset. “You’re not listening.” You said, trying to spell it out for him. “He left. Like didn’t even stay and cuddle just left. Fucked me and left.”

“That’s why you’re calling me crying about?” He almost seemed… annoyed.

“Yes!” You said, nearly snapping. All of the tension from the last several months coming to the surface. “I’m not just a warm body to keep a bed cozy until you assholes decide you need to get one off.” Assholes. You called them assholes. “This isn’t what we agreed to.”

“Johnny is Johnny.” Simon tried to defend, not really caring to continue the conversation now knowing that you weren't in any sort of physical harm. “He wanted his dick wet and from the sound of it, that’s what he did. Don’t hold it against him because he had other things to do.”

“It’s not just Johnny leaving.” Your throat felt like it was tightening. A telltale sign you were close to crying. Whether from sadness or anger you weren't entirely sure. “The only time any of you want anything to do with me anymore is to fuck.” You missed date nights and lunches. You missed texting any and all of them about your day, about theirs. About new books. You had been trying for months to tell them over dinner one of your books got picked up. Yours was being traditionally published.

None of them had bothered to even try penciling you in.

“You got yours.” You heard the popping of a can top. Simon was settling in for the night. Once he popped a top at home there was no getting him out. He wasn't coming for you. “I don’t understand what you’re bitchin’ to me about. Yeah, in the beginning we indulged ya a bit? Dressed you up, took you out. But you should have known spreadin’ them legs of yours wouldn’t end with one of us puttin’ a ring on your finger.”

You didn’t know what to say. What could you say? These were the men that pursued you. Initially, individually, but when tensions became to much they offered a solution. All of them. Four times the attention, of the affection.

Four times the love.

But also four time the neglect. Four times the amount of heartbreak and disappointment. Loving all of them meant putting yourself in a position to let each of them hurt you in their own way and they had.

John's constant state of snapping at you as if you were one of his men.

Johnny swinging by as if you were just a fuck buddy. Not even bothering to give a peck before leaving.

Kyle essentially ignoring you for weeks now. Ghosting you for hours or having to cancel on date nights last minute or claiming that he really did forget that the two of you had planned to meet for lunch.

And now there was Simon. Telling you that all you meant to them was what was between your thighs.

Spreadin' them legs of yours wouldn't end with one of us puttin' a ring on your finger.

None of them ever intended on making this into something more. That much was clear now.

You didn't know what to say to Simon. You couldn't think of a witty retort. You couldn't find the proper insult to whirl his way. You couldn't convey just how much his words had hurt.

So you did the only thing you could.

You hung up.