#without inadvertently making the other an impossibility

[queenofthursday6599-blog]

You know what I find like intensely bewildering about the FOP fandom.

Is the fact that somehow it's still a debate among people about whether the kids in the Channel Chasers flash forward, Tammy and Tommy, are Timmy's kids with Trixie or Tootie.

Like they're very obviously supposed to be Tootie's kids.

Even when I saw Channel Chasers' ending as a literal kid, I instantly clocked the fact that Tootie was the mom and not Trixie, because neither kid looks anything like Trixie, and both have stuff inherited from Tootie.

So I'm putting this debate to bed right now.

The girl looks essentially like a mix of Tootie and Timmy's design (with long-ish hair that's down), while the boy is just Timmy with black hair and Tootie's nose and skin tone.

[What Tootie's skin tone was at the time Channel Chasers came out.

The show runners change the saturation of the show like 3 or 4 times over the years, and outright change some character's skin tones at some points.

Wanda for example also originally had lighter pinker skin in the earlier seasons, but it was changed to the same tanner/more orange toned skin as Timmy and Cosmo's.

Tootie however retained the lighter pinker skin, it's just that as they upped the saturation, her skin turned more pink.]

The Twins:

Tootie:

Timmy:

"But Trixie has black hair and blue eyes too, and the girl is wearing a headband just like Trixie's, so Trixie could still be the mom"-

Trixie is asian. Trixie is asian. Trixie. Is. Asian.

We can see Tommy's eyes, and we can tell he didn't inherit Trixie's eye shape, even though that would be perfect for making him not look like Timmy with his hair dyed black.

Not to mention neither has Trixie's nose. Or her height. Neither are rocking a turtle neck sweater, or boots.

Neither have Trixie's straight across bangs, the girl doesn't have Trixie's winged little eyelash, she has the same tri-prong eyelashes as Tootie.

Not to mention the girl twin's styling. She wears a plaid skirt and glasses just like Tootie's.

Sure she's got a pink headband instead of high pigtails like Tootie, but you know what other female character wears a pink headband?

Both Timantha and Timeena (only showed up in the comics, and is also a fairy), Timmy literally as a girl, wear pink headbands:

"What about the fact that Tootie has braces and Tammy doesn't?"

Tammy doesn't have any kind of tooth division at all, not even one showing where her top and bottom teeth separate in a lot of her scenes.

Even if the kids aren't a total one to one match with Tootie, they still look far far more like Tootie's kids than they do Trixie's.

Like even if the mom of Tammy and Tommy are someday confirmed to officially not be Tootie (which I doubt they'll ever do), I still wouldn't believe it's Trixie over just someone who looks pretty similar to Tootie and has a lot of the same features as Tootie.

As I've gotten older I've just become convinced that the people who honestly believe that Tommy and Tammy's mom is Trixie have just always been hardcore Timmy/Trixie shippers, and just didn't want to believe Timmy ended up with Tootie.

Which is fair. I don't want Timmy marrying into Vicky's family, or to Tootie at all. Girl has no boundaries, and is part of the worst possible family situation to marry into.

Considering A New Wish shows that Vicky hasn't changed at all in 20 years.

Also I know the show runners say that they have some traits of Trixie also thrown in to the kids to make it ambiguous who their mom is, but like where?

They don't have her eye shape, her eye color (they don't have Tootie or Timmy's eye colors either), her eyes being wide set (compared to Timmy and a lot of other characters), her nose, her height, her bangs, her eye lashes, her fashion sense, her straight hair.

They have literally nothing from Trixie, on either of the kid's designs.

Other than the fact that the girl wears pink and white, and a headband. But that's also just the color pallet of Tootie & Timmy combined (or just Timantha's), and all of Timmy's girl versions also wear some kind of headband.

They 100% designed Tommy and Tammy to be Timmy & Tootie's kids, and then decided that the mother was "intended to be ambiguous" when Timmy/Trixie shippers decided to head canon Trixie as the mom because we never see the mom or have her name dropped.

Because shipping drama fuels fandom interaction, which fuels ratings, and they didn't want to alienate the Timmy/Trixie part of the fandom by confirming Timmy/Tootie was endgame.

Though they tossed the idea of it being ambiguous who Timmy ends up with out the window in the live action trilogy and just made Tootie the end game of that canon.

So yeah, I've always thought Tootie was Tammy and Tommy's mom, but here's all my proof and reasoning.

Which as someone who did ship Timmy/Trixie as a kid, you could imagine that seeing Timmy's future kids look like Tootie and my main ship for the show wasn't endgame was kind of upsetting.

I could ramble on about the reasons why Tommy and Tammy are obviously Tootie's kids and not Trixie's for a whole lot longer. And the fact that they show up on Trixie's family tree on the wiki but not Tootie's, even though it's canonically supposed to be unconfirmed either way, irks me to no end.

But I'm going to cap this post right here. Maybe I'll bust out my punnet squares, and show why I think Tommy and Tammy being Trixie's is genetically impossible, some other time but I've thought about this too much today. But that day isn't today.

[scrupulosity-comics]

hey is racism one of your obsessions? also white and ocd. if it is, how u cope with it? i'm really afraid all the time to hurt my loved ones who are black people, and they're the majority of my loved ones. and how do u identify whats racism from whats an intrusive thought?

Most of my race-related OCD is abstract stuff like “if I move out of my parents’ house and try to live my own life outside of their control, I will have to find somewhere I can afford to pay rent, which will probably mean moving into a low-income neighborhood, which would mean inadvertently helping to gentrify the community, which would gradually push the original residents out of their homes and disrupt community ties and support systems and creating housing insecurity, so therefore I can’t move out or move on”.

I think that’s just part of a larger existential terror that I can only ever make the world worse by living in it—a net harm to the universe, molecule by misspent molecule.

I have been letting this ask sit in my inbox for weeks now because I’m convinced that anything I say will be destructive. What if my answer enables or excuses racism? What if my answer fuels the anguish of the mentally ill?

The rational and compassionate part of my mind insists that your loved ones (and mine!) understand that you (and I) are white, and have likely dealt with white peoples all their lives, and are capable of judging for themselves whether you are good to them and deserving of their intimacy. It is impossible to go through life without hurting and being hurt by people you care about—always you will have blindspots and miscommunications and competing needs. That’s just part of the curse of consciousness and being a social species. We all get a little blood on our hands eventually, one way or another… friendship involves knowing this, accepting this, and committing to avoid it and then, that failed, to make things right.

Again: your friends know you’re white. They have reason to expect the best of you or they wouldn’t be your friends. They choose to have you in their lives; trust them to trust you, and to recognize the difference between a beloved friend struggling with a treacherous and unkind brain and doing their best in an inescapably racist society, and a racist who whose bigotry makes them unworthy of their time and affection.

I do think racism obsessions are a particularly difficult manifestation of OCD to cope with because they’re hard to discuss at all without feeling like you’re implicitly asking for absolution. With other types of OCD, it’s common to seek reassurance that what you’re obsessively afraid of isn’t true—but what feels more racist than asking someone to reassure you that you’re not racist…? LMAO.

They say the “cure” to OCD, such as it is, is just to learn how to embrace the existential horror of uncertainty. Tall fucking order. Hell on Earth! But in a bizarre way I have found the rhetoric that “everyone is unconsciously and incurably racist” to be unexpectedly helpful… there is no total psychological purging and mental purification we can undergo, no amount of ritual self-flagellation that will drive the demons out, no pristine state we can aspire to and hate ourselves for soiling. Only mundane everyday commitments to compassion and empathy and solidarity and cleaning up our messes. But even then, a thought isn’t a mess. A thought I’d not a thing that happened or a choice you made. It doesn’t represent an alternate timeline branching off into a parallel universe where you have acted on it and hurt people.

Earlier this year I was playing a video game—during my lunch break I got to wondering what happened if you failed a skill check that I had passed in my own playthough, so I looked up a clip on YouTube and was so triggered by the answer (the player character calls his companion a racial slur in the heat of the moment, without meaning to, even if you’ve played him as a committed anti-racist) that I immediately spiraled and was close to throwing up in the broom closet, and when I got home I opened my own save and tried to make the player character kill himself as catharsis. It was an incredibly unreasonable guilt response to a completely fictional scenario that I hadn’t even gotten in my own playthrough, but in retrospect it was a safe way to explore fear of my own internalized racism hurting somebody and what might happen if my intrusive thoughts came true. It sucked and it was terrible and I was angry at myself for being crazy about it, but it ended up being a small dose of exposure therapy and practice at not repenting for nonexistent through self-abuse.

I dunno. This has been a long uncomfortably personal ramble but I hope it’s helpful. I don’t know if your friends know you have OCD (or how it manifests) and I don’t know whether telling them would help. But allowing yourself to trust others to trust you is far more useful than beating yourself up for thoughts you don’t want. I have on occasion warned people that I am cautious about doing certain things with them—particularly drinking—because there is a risk that I may spiral and show symptoms humiliating and uncomfortable to both of us, and I don’t want to put them in a position where they witness or feel like they have to help me manage the white guilt elements of my disorder. These conversations have usually gone well, and the mutual understanding to boundaries takes some of the tension out, which seems to reduce the triggers. It’s messy and awkward and maybe it limits who is willing to be friends with me, but IMHO it’s better than surprising someone.

As for determining whether something is an intrusive thought or actual racism, I guess my answer is: does it matter? Would you manage them differently? Intrusive thoughts may be an evil voice in your brain, but racism is an evil voice in society’s brain.

[roronoacherries]

𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐫𝐭𝐞 𝐲 𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐫𝐭𝐞 | roronoa zoro

913 words

content: fem. latina reader, fluff, post time-skip, zoro watches reader dance and sing while she cleans the sunny.

notes: i miss rbd... yo digo r, tu dices bd, rbd, rbd!

zoro loves to watch you clean. he likes to stay back with you while the others explore a new island, knowing that you like to take advantage of the time alone. he’ll make himself scarce to let you work in peace but he's always there, keeping you company.

sometimes he closes his eyes to rest, enjoying the comfortable silence of the empty ship, hearing only the sound of you humming or singing softly; although most often, all he does is watch. it doesn't really matter to him; so long as he's near you, he's content.

there’s something endearing to him about the way you zone out, moving from one thing to another as if all the chore work came naturally to you.

she’d make a perfect housewife, he thinks to himself, knowing full well that if he ever uttered those words aloud, you and your tiny frame would make sure he hurt (and that thought is only further proof to him that you would be).

he likes it most when you play your loud latin music and sing along to it, almost always sounding terribly though he's convinced if you bothered to try you'd sound like an angel.

you hold the broom like a mic, singing each syllable like you feel it in the depths of your soul and zoro wonders what the hell you could be singing about; he rarely asks anymore, knowing well enough that it'll likely be a feeling you've never actually felt before.

you're dramatic and loud and he's certain that you wouldn't act this foolishly around anyone else. something he couldn't be more thankful for.

"y aquí estoy rendida a tus pies." you drop to your knees in front of him and the swordsman raises a brow, silently wondering how long it'll take you to sweep the room this time.

"y sé que no hay nada que perder..." you stand, stepping closer to him and your hand rests on his cheek and he thinks it might take at least another ten minutes for you to be done.

"pensando en ti," you lean in close, your hand falling into his and all that's left on his mind is that he could kiss you for those next ten minutes instead.

but you pull away before your lips can touch, fingers slipping from his as you sing the next line. "hasta que no me dejes ir."

you sing the chorus as you twirl around the room, picking things up from the floor, your eyes meeting zoro's enough for him to know that this time the song is about a feeling you know.

"no quiero vivir sin tu amor jamás..." you take a seat on his lap, your legs on either side of him and zoro's hands find their place on your waist, deciding not to let you stand up again.

"what're you singing about this time?" he grunts, his thumbs drawing circles into your skin.

"nothing special. just loving you and needing you and never wanting to let you go..." you say, pressing kisses to his face between every few words.

"what was that last line?" zoro questions, somehow knowing that whatever it was, you'd left it out. a part of him thinks he deserves a nice little treat for the spanish he's inadvertently learned from you.

you think about the line for a moment before translating it, "i don't want to live without your love, not ever."

and there's something left hanging in the air when you've said it. a twinkle of uncertainty in your eyes. something left unspoken.

"you won't."

it's the kind of oath that is rooted in regret. the kind that feels certain — set in stone, despite the impossibility of it. like he's promising you the stars and there's nothing you can do but believe him. it's not up to him whether you get to be at his side forever or not, but you believe it when he says you will. 

"i missed you a lot." you can't help but say it and it feels pointless to mention, but you can’t put it out of your mind either. those two years taught you what eternity can feel like. 

"i know," zoro’s lips brush yours without kissing you. instead, you feel his breath, the warmth coming from his body, and you wish you could get to know a different kind of eternity with him. closing the gap between you and him, you think this is the next best thing — the little taste of eternity on his lips. 

"‘m going to love you for a long, long time…"

zoro doesn’t mean for the words to come off as romantic, doesn’t intend for them to make your heartbeat stutter, and you know that as well as you know him but they do regardless. the swordsman doesn’t even realize the sweetness of his blunt sincerity and you couldn’t love him more for it. 

“i love you,” you utter the words in a faint whisper, pressing another gentle kiss to his lips before resting your head on his chest and listening to the music still playing. you could sit there in his arms forever, you think, until a familiar rapid beat meets your ears. 

"da-ddy yan-keh..."

and zoro doesn’t fight it when you leave the warmth of his arms to dance again. he still has an eternity to hold you and to love you, anyway. 

─────────────────────────────

taglist: @zorobraun @maaarshieee @lyriczhou @tinkywinky27 @dimimyth @gaby-chwan @tk6uro @zoros-4th-sword @idiotlittleme @zoronnoa

masterlist | taglist

[snaccpopstudios]

From the River to the Sea.

The staff of SnaccPop Studios wanted to reach out to our fans regarding our stance on the genocidal acts committed against Palestine. Though the conflict thrived well before 2023, these last few months have shown an escalation of cruelty that has become impossible for the rest of the world to ignore. 

To state the matter frankly; we stand by Palestine. We acknowledge that blood is not only on the hands of the Israeli government, but also the American, British, and other world governments who have and continue to enable Israel's actions. Any government, company, or corporation that attempts to accommodate "both sides," or inadvertently shows support through inaction is equally complicit in creating a climate in which this genocide is allowed to take place. It is for this reason we feel compelled to speak out and condemn these acts for what they are; genocide, theft, ethnic cleansing, and mass-murder.

We believe that all those responsible for these innocent deaths must be called for and prosecuted as murderers in the first degree, regardless of status. But we also acknowledge that this will likely never happen.

In light of this, what can we do? We believe that it is not the citizen's burden alone to end this genocide, and yet we must call upon every individual person to reflect on this matter and do what we can to make things right. An initial step for many of us would be to seek to educate themselves on this matter. We must learn from history to avoid unwittingly contributing to further oppressions. We will be providing a few trustful sources for you all to further educate yourselves and donate to, if you are able to.

We must also ask everyone to remember that these lives are irrevocably lost. Children who are now without parents, families separated and lost–these people's lives will be permanently affected by these events, if they survive. Their pain and trauma will impact the future for everyone on our planet. It is vital to acknowledge this and treat it with the gravity it is due. It is so easy to distance ourselves from these events, to compartmentalize the trauma of people we don't know, people who live so far away from many of us. It is easy to get caught up in the narrative disseminated by mainstream media, to detach ourselves from the real human suffering, to view it as a story that has nothing to do with us. We must perform due diligence to discern the truth and act accordingly. Acknowledging the suffering and remembering all that has been lost is vital to holding Israel accountable for their genocidal acts.

We must also use our empathy to realize that this is one of the great injustices of humanity; by allowing it to happen now, we further enable it to happen to other disenfranchised groups in the future. None of us are truly safe if we allow this brutality to wage unchecked. We cannot allow our governments to believe that we will tolerate or condone this, now or ever.

Links:

Care for Gaza. Providing distribution of cash, food, or other supplies needed like medicine or clothes to displaced families in Gaza. https://www.gofundme.com/f/careforgaza. As of writing this, the GoFundMe is no longer accepting donations, but their PayPal in their Twitter (https://twitter.com/CareForGaza) still is.

Pious Projects. Providing menstrual/hygiene kits to those who menstruate in Gaza. https://piousprojects.org/campaign/2712

eSims for Gaza. Helping those in Gaza remain connected to the outside world, stay connected with families, and show what’s happening within Gaza. https://gazaesims.com/

History of Palestine and debunking myths spread: https://decolonizepalestine.com/

PDF Booklet provided by Bisan on her Instagram. Advocating for Palestine that recounts Israeli propaganda and how to spot and debunk them. https://sites.google.com/view/advocatingforpalestine/?fbclid=PAAaZtxfP5EBAZSRP6h15wi96-dnCuOgOlE0aXKVB8gCtQbokaSE9N1nxzkuA_aem_AaIBVrty_hSHN28vgu0T-rJly_eLH5YAFKxLcCLLBNBXl8QZiUe4fvR-pkBV_8x6UyM

Boycott, Diversity, and Sanctions (BDS) website: https://bdsmovement.net/

Please note these aren’t all of the available resources out there, but a few collected, trusted ones. Take the time and effort to look and reach further yourselves, as we will continue to do so ourselves.

SnaccPop Studios 🍉

[piftamere]

part five - stunned (wc : 0.5k words if you don't want to read there's a tl:dr just under it!)

As you stepped off stage, still feeling exhilarated from your first gig, you saw a freakishly tall man approach you, a smirk on his face.

When you recognized who he was, you inadvertently grimaced.

Come on, let’s be mature, i shouldn't base my opinion of him on hearsay. You thought, taking a deep breath and replacing your expression with a polite smile.

"Hey!" he greeted with a toothachingly sweet voice "I just wanted to come by and congratulate you, it was a really good performance, for a beginner artist like you." He was probably trying to flatter you, but instead sounded impossibly condescending.

Ok, so maybe the rumors were true.

"Thanks." Your voice and expression were deadpan. "Can I ask how you got backstage?"

"No, it's a secret," he winked at you, flashing a playful smile. However, when he noticed that you didn't even flinch at his joke, let alone laugh, he quickly added, "The security guard let me in because he's a big fan of me."

You wondered if he could sound even fuller of himself… and made a mental note to hire stricter security next time.

Deciding to be polite you replied "I have to admit you make good music, I've been a fan of Geto since forever."

He noticed the hint of admiration in your voice, making him relax a little.

"Not of me huh? I'm hurt." he pouted, taking the liberty of teasing you. "Geto was the one who invited me and i'm glad he did… I really liked 'before you can', i think that's my favorite from tonight."

Your eyes widened a little, "Really? I'm… surprised, it's a little sadder than the others. To be honest, it's my favorite one too."

"Surprised I'm more than a pretty face?" He teased again.

"I never said that." You rolled your eyes but the corners of your mouth tilted up slightly, he noticed that too.

“Can i ask what it’s about or if it’s about your own experience?”

Even if he could be genuinely interested, you can't help but decline. "Sorry, but it's a little too personal."

“Shame.” he paused and smiled “Can i get your phone number?”

You couldn’t suppress the frown on your face. He choked a little at your visible disgust and laughed awkwardly, passing a hand through his hair. “For business reasons, sorry I should have clarified.”

Only half convinced, you gave him your number, worst-case scenario you could simply block him.

After typing it in his phone, a hint of mischief in his eyes, he continued “You didn’t have to look so horrified that i might be hitting on you though, I’m deeply wounded.” his voice dramatic as ever, a hand on his heart.

“How will you ever recover?” you retorted, smiling. Without giving him a chance to respond, you said "It was… nice meeting you, but i gotta go. Bye!!"

And with that you disappeared behind a door, leaving Gojo Satoru stunned.

[tl:dr : gojo comes backstage, he’s arrogant (and a tiny bit charming), he congratulates you, asks for your number for “business reasons”, you give it to him and you leave quickly.]

fun facts

gojo really didn't notice he was condescending until shoko pointed it out

y/n doesn't know what to think of gojo yet...

author's note

ilovegojosatoru

i've eaten cereals in orange juice and it's not that bad tbh

⋆⭒˚｡⋆ tugging on heartstrings ⋆⭒˚｡⋆

as an aspiring solo artist, you dream of making it big in the music industry. With your talent and unwavering determination, you find yourself entangled in a web of romantic pursuits amidst rumors and betrayal. Will you emerge unscathed and manage to navigate your love life in the chaos of fame?

Part five - Next

rbs and interactions are highly appreciated <3

taglist : open :) to be added leave a comment on the masterlist of the smau

@lysaray @swissy23 @d6za1 @minzxec @sleepy-waffle @saturn-alone @dreamxiing @reiluvr @nikkimvriee @mellozhi @cre8ing @ichorstainedskin @inosfavgf

[coolattas]

thinking about lucretia adventurezone and grinding my teeth down to the gums because holy fuck dude. holy shit. she was impossibly, horribly young on the starblaster. three hops and a jump from being a fucking baby. the two-sunned planet is devoured by the hunger in the same year that she graduates from high school. she is easily the youngest of the birds, even considering the differing rates of aging amongst the rest of the crew. teenaged astrophysicist, wizard, author, artist, without ties solid enough back home to keep her from the starblaster's maiden voyage. she writes and rewrites every moment she can wring from her memories into enough notebooks that it's damn near arthritis-inducing to step within 50 feet of the stacks upon stacks of field notes, of detailed accounts and gentle, domestic benignity. she loves and she loses and it still can't ever prepare her for the next decade. a century dwarfs the time she spends alone running the bureau, but the sheer magnitude of her loss is incomparable. lucretia learns to live in the stolen century, learns to rely on others, learns to trust and care and laugh and build, create, sacrifice, indulge. she pries these things away from herself in the name of a greater good, to what she believes to be their only hope. she sees the agony they're in, and she inadvertently compounds that anguish when she tries to fix it. she is 18 and 118 when she feeds fisher her journals. she is 30 and 130 and 50 and 150 when taako holds a staff to her chest and counts down like it means anything to her anymore that she dies. maybe it's atonement, but even that sounds far too holy a word to describe it. her brother grips her life in his hands, and she thinks it's only fair that he is the one to soundly smother it at last. the lonely journal-keeper is so young and so impossibly old and she is so, so tired. her family will outlive her by centuries. she will be a fine powder, dust beneath the crust of the planet, long before she believes their forgiveness will ever be known. if that day comes at all. everything she has ever done is soured by a guilt so weighty that she spends every day trying to play damage control with the havoc she feels solely responsible for having wrought. she lives within the confines of dichotomy, of red and blue and good and bad, even when she knows she's lying through her teeth, because its easier to live with herself (it's not) when she justifies it, when everyone else lives and dies by the idea that she got it right. she spends 12 years alone, sitting in the thick of her own grief. she mourns men who are right in front of her face. she sees the way they have changed, so fundamentally, sees the ways her choices have ruined them. 12 years is such a long time to be alone. 12 fucking years. she ages 32 in the same span, shedding decades in wonderland in the blink of an eye, and she knows she's running out of time. she's willing to give up whatever she has left, without question. lucretia loves so fiercely and so unquestionably and still she believes herself to be irredeemably cruel when really she was just so scared, tethered to any sense of hope only by the idea that she was doing right by her family. in a position that no one should have to be in, a situation that virtually no one else could truly understand. she was so young and she suffered so, so much. more than any person should. she is flawed but she is not the monster she convinces herself she has become. lucretia adventurezone they could never make me hate you lets kiss on the mouth ok?

[otomehonyaku]

Diabolik Lovers Lost Eden Stellaworth Tokuten Short Stories スペシャル特典小冊子 ☽ Ruki ver.

This short story booklet was part of the Stellaworth set for Lost Eden! Keep reading below the cut for Ruki's version. Yuma's, Kou's, and Azusa's are coming soon!

S ☽ [Ayato’s version by @kyouxa] [Laito’s version by @kyouxa] [Shuu’s version] [Reiji’s version] [Kanato’s version] [Subaru’s version]

M ☽ [Ruki’s version] [Yuma's version] [Kou’s version] [Azusa’s version]

TK ☽ [Carla’s version] [Shin’s version] [Kino’s version]

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

As always, special thanks to @karleksmumskladdkaka for providing the scans ♡⸜(˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝ Please do not reuse or post my translations elsewhere or translate my work into other languages without my permission.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

When I think about it, I have rarely been alone since those three became my brothers. It is not that we spent 24 hours a day in each other’s presence, but the fact that I had people to call family again after losing everything eased my loneliness.

I wonder if that’s the reason why I am still genuinely not used to not being in the pictures that my brothers send us from time to time, even though I don’t really want to admit it.

The one who’d made the suggestion after a while of living together was her.

“Why don’t we send them something back?”

And so the seed was planted.

“If I’m also thinking of sending them pictures, then they must be thinking the same thing at home,” she told me with a smile, “so I’m sure they’ll be happy if we do.”

I knew that she had a point, but there was a certain awkwardness to taking staged pictures with her and sending them to my brothers. I considered flatly rejecting the idea at first because I thought it was embarrassing, but I came around immediately when I remembered the way her face had brightened when she brought it up.

The two of us ran away from the human world. From Kou, Yuma, and Azusa. Ever since she and I started living together in a crumbling Eden, I have begun to realise something–I have become completely beguiled by her. Or, rather, I might have had a soft spot for her since the beginning, but lately, the moments when I dropped my guard around her have increased considerably. Of course, I cannot convince myself to tell her that.

It’s only natural when I consider all we have been through together. To stay behind in Eden even after the war ended, then, was nothing but my own selfish idea. She was under no obligation to join me.

Nevertheless, she has stayed with me all this time, and she has truly helped make the best out of every day. It’s simply impossible not to love her for that, even though I know she had wanted to be by my side from the beginning. 

In all honesty, I am happy. Maybe that’s what has turned me into such a softie, I thought, smiling wryly. I was loath to admit it, but the plain fact that I had found happiness with her was probably the reason why.

“Ruki… Don’t you want to take a picture?” She gazed at me a little nervously. Maybe she thought she had upset me because I had kept quiet.

“No, it’s a good idea. Like you said, I think Kou and the others would love that.”

“Let’s do it, then!”

“Yes, let’s.”

Before I had even finished speaking, she darted out of the room to get the camera. As I watched her run off, I realised my approval might have pleased her more than it would my brothers. My expression inadvertently softened at the thought.

☽

She told me the camera was a gift from Azusa. Come to think of it, the photo album that my brothers had given me a little while ago had also been Azusa’s idea.

“Smile!”

“...Wait.”

I grasped her hand before she could click the shutter.

“What’s the fun in a picture of me by myself? Get over here.”

She hesitated a little, making some foolish suggestions on how we should take our picture, but I ignored her and snaked an arm around her waist. Holding her close to me would make things much easier.

“This way, you’ll be in the frame too,” I whispered into her ear. 

Her shoulders twitched a little as she held her breath, and her ears started to redden. What a hopeless girl. I was sure this was not the side of her she wanted recorded on film for others to see.

If I truly cared for the picture for my brothers, I would have stopped there. However, the feeling of her warm body in my arms was too tempting. I decided to tease her a little more. I leaned down to whisper in her ear again, closer than before. 

“Save that face for later tonight.”

Her voice quivered as she whispered my name in response... 

Oh, this was bad. I wish I could say that I truly intended to leave it at teasing, but my body was acting on its own.

Sorry, Kou, Yuma, Azusa–you will have to wait for the picture a little longer.

However, when she understood that I wanted to take the camera from her, she spoke.

“But… we really are going to send them a picture, right?” So, let’s actually take a proper picture. Her unspoken words lingered in the air. She had gotten more perceptive recently.

“...Of course. Let’s continue this tonight, then.”

I let out a heavy sigh. 

I really had been going soft, but it could not be helped. Especially not around my lovely wife.

[askinkiskarma]

ᴋɪɴᴋᴛᴏʙᴇʀ ᴅᴀʏ ɪx - ᴀᴄᴄɪᴅᴇɴᴛᴀʟ ꜱᴛɪᴍᴜʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴ

pairing: neteyam x omatikaya!reader

➽ a/n: this turned out a lot fluffier than intended, but i think i'm smutted-out and i'm one prompt away from starting to make these angsty hahahahahah. anyway, i hope you enjoy xx love u besties, smooches 🤍

➽ words: >700 words

➽ warnings: it goes without saying, but all of these works (kinktober-related) are smut and therefore minors should NOT interact with them.

➽ taglist (x) ➽ kinktober masterlist (x)

The loud booming melodies of the Omaticaya flutes and drums were etching like a beautiful pattern into the air surrounding you, filling you with happiness and euphoric bliss as you swayed gracefully on Neteyam’s lap. You loved nights like these, full of music and celebration, full of conversation and laughter, full with all of the things you felt you lost when the Sky People returned. You felt lightheaded, like you were mindlessly floating through the clouds above, and you now believed your mother about all the times she’s warned you about excessive consumption of the heady concoction she called “liquid courage”. The name was apt, too apt, making you do things you normally wouldn’t have even considered, like getting close and personal with the man you’ve desired and dreamt about for as long as you were old enough to…well, notice people in that way. Neteyam was beautiful and strong, courageous and empathetic, smart and sensible. He was a family man, the best new generation warrior in the village, known among numerous Pandoran clans for all the qualities that he possessed, qualities that seemed never-ending and made him, on one hand, too good to be true, and on the other, incredibly intimidating to talk to. 

But not tonight. Tonight, you talked and the alcohol made you calm enough to be able to look into his eyes, it made you brave enough to respond to his quick-witted conversational remarks, it made you open enough to let your natural charm and comicality shine through, which you were grateful for. All of a sudden, he wasn’t NETEYAM anymore, big, scary, capital-lettered Neteyam, he was just… Neteyam, the boy you’ve known all your life, that’s watched you grow up, that gave you your first handmade arrow and taught you how to shoot it. It got so cozy, so quickly, that you somehow found yourself nestled in his lap, humming peacefully alongside the singers providing the entertainment for the evening. 

There was a downside to the fermented juice that made your head all funny, though, and you were feeling it now, intense and overwhelming and impossible to ignore - there was heat in your womb, fiery and intoxicating, manifesting itself in the oddest of ways, in ways that made something that started off innocent and ended up in this, thoughts that told you that the way he was bouncing his leg to the beat of the drum felt good, too good, so good you needed to ride this feeling, see it through, allow it to wash over you and through you. You were happy the atmosphere was so electric and so loud, drowning the inadvertent moan you let out when his muscular, taut, azure thigh hit a particular spot that made you throb in ache, the emptiness in you begging to be filled, calling for him like a siren to a lost sailor. 

Beads of sweat, facilitated by a racing heartbeat and rushed inhales were gathering on your forehead as he continued the rhythmic, saccadic movement, almost as if he could tell what it did to you, as if he wanted you to feel this way, for him, because of him. You wondered fleetingly if it looked weird to any oblivious onlooker, if the way you started swaying your hips on his thighs to get some of the relief you desperately craved was normal in these circumstances - either way, people were too busy with their own celebration to focus too heavily on yours, and the best thing about alcohol, as it turns out, you couldn’t find it in you to care. 

Your mind cleared momentarily with the breath hitched in your throat as his mouth found your ear, the smirk in his tone obvious even to your turned back, his voice velvet smooth and enticing, whispered and taunting. 

“You’re dripping all over my thigh, paskalin. Let go for me, let me show you how good I can make you feel.”

Your mother warned you about excessive consumption of the stuff she called “liquid courage”. She, however, was remised in warning you about something much more dangerous, much more additive - a beautiful overachieving blue boy with a dirty mouth and a desire to please, who’s had a crush on you since the moment he carved that arrow for you when you were young.

taglist: @pandoraslxna @sulieykte @blue-slxt @eywaeveng @neteyamsikran @elenamoncada-ibarra @spicymayyo @itsjazzsworld @daddysmurfslefttoenail @eyrina-avatar @iameatingmyhair @hadesbabygurl@linydoll @the-mourning-moon

[olderthannetfic]

I found myself rereading an old discussion about AO3 commenting culture (ye olde "Authors aren't owed comments" vs. "Readers aren't owed fic either" wank). And you know, it strikes me that a lot of the drama in such discussions is rooted in the fact that people only ever seem to engage with the worst things the opposite side says. And of course that leads to miscommunication, because the extremes are not generally applicable to most people.

Like, for instance. Someone going "I comment so regularly I practically gave myself burn-out commenting". Authors complaining about people who act entitled to stories aren't talking about you, I promise. They're talking about people who genuinely can't be bothered or go on flippant "Why don't you just write for yourself?" rants, while still enjoying other people's work. Ditto on the other side: people get offended at being called entitled authors, but odds are good the person isn't referring to you, who would simply like to not shout into the void, odds are good they're referring to the asshole authors they've met who'd throw hissy hits over comments that weren't phrased exactly to their liking, because yes, people like that do exist so it's simply flat out wrong to say "Just comment, authors are always happy to see comments, no matter how short! :)"

Also, a particular comment jumped out at me:

"It's not a consumer's job to compliment a promote an artist's work"

I generally agree that acting like people are owed comments is useless and stupid, but if I had to pick a phrasing that sums up my misgivings about common commenting culture, it's this. So many people seem to act like authors are getting a paycheck for this and don't need any additional motivator.

The other thing that bugs me is when people talk about all the reasons they don't comment (low spoons, anxiety, tired, etc.), but ignore the fact that authors have to deal with all of the above, too. And not just in fanfic. It seems any time there's any kind of social conflict being discussed (like, say, replying to a friend's messages in a vaguely timely manner) a ton of people will trot out excuses for why they can't do [insert what's generally seen as the vaguely courteous thing to do], but inadvertently act like that makes them special and like they're the only ones who have these legitimately valid excuses.

This started in one place and led to another, sorry. I guess I'm just frustrated with the Tumblr mental health culture of "I have a semi-specific reason I struggle with this so I'm not even going to try". I think people overcompensate too much for "Just don't be disabled!"-style ableism and swing too hard in the embraced helplessness direction.

Back to fanfic, every time I see the "I can't do it because of X" thing in the context of commenting, I can't help but think of how many authors also deal with depression, anxiety, self-esteem issues, low spoons, etc. and how easy it would have been for them to give up, but they got through it and posted the fanfic anyway, and how often they're then met with silence because the prevailing attitude among their audience is e.g. "I read this before bed and was too sleepy to comment, and too forgetful to comment the next day". I think about some of the fic I've written, often fic written when I maybe should have been doing something else, or fic written at the cost of sleep, or hyperfixating at my keyboard for six hours instead of going for a nice hike with my family, and it's hard not to get a little bitter, you know? Talking about legitimate reasons for why commenting is hard just so often comes across as "You're free to make sacrifices to write the stuff I read, but I won't make any"

I also feel a bit bitter that it's impossible to even discuss these things in a vacuum without someone going "Discussions like this are why I've stopped commenting", as someone inevitably will in the notes of this post. "Just shut up and make your Content(TM) and don't complain about anything", is what it feels like.

--

The entire phrasing of reward and owing is stupid.

The reality is that lots of people won't produce work unless they feel like someone cares. No amount of moralizing or excuses will change that.

It's also the reality that posting to the masses on AO3 or tumblr will result in maybe one like or other interaction per hundred hits if you're really, really lucky. The rate has never been much better than that, and it never will be. It's often very much worse.

If one personally wants to encourage people, sure, go out and do that, but any call to action that ignores the above two realities is like fighting the tide.

I do think "It's not my job to promote you" typically comes up in the context of meltdowns about letting artists "languish in your likes" instead of being reblogged onto your actual blog and/or contexts where the artist/author/etc. is selling their work.

Here's the thing: people who never comment do not count.

They think they're part of a community. They're not. If you don't participate, you're a ghost.

When some author moves to a more enclosed space, a lot of people who saw themselves as part of something are suddenly left out in the cold, wondering why. But the fact is, if you don't pay the entry fee of socializing with others, you're nobody to them.

The entitled randos don't matter. If they bug you enough, take your toys and retreat to a discord with your friends.

[samthecookielord]

(Intro) - (Previous) - (Next)

Jesse: "Radar...?"

Radar doesn’t have any words.

He stands up, getting out of Jesse’s grasp. He’s tense, and he’s staring forward, still trying to process what just happened. It seems like he’s holding his breath for an uncomfortable amount of time. He runs off in the middle of the night.

He doesn’t look back.

? Radar will never forget that.

(art by @owo-whats-bliss ! There is also art by me under the cut, and the next poll)

Radar doesn’t tell their friends about what happened that night, and even if Jesse wanted to, they wouldn’t be able to be coherent about it. Their friends don’t see Radar during the day much, and Jesse always changes the topic when prompted, waving it off with some excuse or another. They eventually inform their friends of their new abilities, as it’s now impossible to hide. Their eyes have begun to glow just as Romeo’s did. All of Beacontown eventually realize this too. 

Radar does try to be normal about dying traumatically! He even tries to hang out with Jesse and pretend everything is fine! It’s… very awkward though. After some time, the two avoid each other for their own comfort.

Jesse: You don't- you don't have t- Radar: No it's fine! I'm plenty brave Radar: I mean- not that there's any need to be brave, what is there to be afraid of? Radar: Just you and me hanging out Radar: Being… friends Jesse: ... Jesse: I don't feel like this is the right call

Jesse does their best to learn and utilize these powers safely, but without any kind of guide, and without Radar - the best person to create such a thing - it’s extremely difficult. They inadvertently cause a noteworthy amount of damage, potentially including just moving a house thousands of blocks away and prompting the owners to go on a search for it. Their friends also catch them spawning a bunch of pigs in an attempt to bring Reuben back. It doesn’t work.

Just imagine like a long montage of mishaps okay. Like if a slice of life was horrifying.

The player is still given choices and prompts, but the options are scrambled, and Jesse never does what any of them were anyway. Their friends try to help, and Petra even catches wind of something strange going on in Beacontown (hard to not notice random blocks appearing and dissapearing above town from far away. And also whatever the heck Jesse is doing to the weather and daylight cycle by accident), and takes an early break away from her adventure to check in on Jesse.

But the more they mess up, the worse they feel... and the worse things get. The citizens of Beacontown are now more afraid of Jesse than they were before, as now it’s actually them doing these things.

Things come to a head when Jesse actually does manage to do something helpful. Something small, borderline inconsequential, like getting a cat out of a tree. Despite this success, the citizens still back away in fear of them. Jesse comes to the conclusion that continuing to stay in Beacontown will only make things worse, and that this cannot be fixed, at least not by them.

Jesse leaves a note at one of their friends’ homes, saying that they’re going somewhere far from the town for them to safely practice using their powers, so there's no need to worry about them.

They take off in the middle of the night.

...

(This choice will matter)

[profoundbondfanfic]

hi there just wondering what is the angstiest fics you guys have collectively read? I’m in search for the angstiest angst to ever angst

Hey there, sorry for the delay, but here are a few of our fav angstiest fics!

A Complete Kingdom by komodobits [Explicit, 85k words] #major character death

The sea; it swallows me. It comes up to my knees and it swallows me. The boys owe Jody a few dozen favours, and so when her niece goes missing near an old fishing village on the coast of Maine, Dean, Sam, and a newly human Castiel agree to take the case on. They settle into an old abandoned lighthouse-keepers' cottage, and slowly the tide comes in. (post-s8)

Angels Don't Fear the Reaper by you-cant-spell-subtext-without (ayreisha) [Mature, 144k words] #angst with a happy ending

"When his eyes first open, there is nothing but darkness. Not the velvety, deep black of night, but the steely, thin murk of nothingness. Of cold. Of death. Of Death. Somehow, it feels like coming home."

Every Part of the Animal by Askance (doomcountry), komodobits [Mature, 47k words] #major character death

It’s their first case after the Trials, after Heaven has collapsed: playing back-up to another team of hunters taking out some werewolves in the mountains. It's a routine job, an easy job - at least until the radio goes silent. Sam, Dean, and Cas follow after, but the caves into which the hunters have vanished wind deeper and darker than they could have expected, and something is wrong. Cas can feel it. The Winchesters may not believe what he’s hearing, but there's something down here with them—and it's not the people they came here to find, and it's not the werewolves they've been tracking. It's something else, something older, something violent, and it knows they're here.

Grey by Valinde (Valyria) [Explicit, 65k words] #angst with a happy ending

In a world where people don't see in color until they find their true mate, the first thing Dean sees when he pulls himself out of his grave is the blue sky. When Castiel raised him from the Pit, he inadvertently claimed Dean as his mate.

Man in the Wilderness by OneHundredSuns [Explicit, 68k words] #angst with a happy ending

Dean Winchester is fresh out of Purgatory along with every other Tom, Dick and Wendigo that called the cesspool home. As the monsters lay waste to the Earth and eat anything they can get their hands on, Dean sets out to find his only remaining family so that they can hunker down and fight the assholes head on. He doesn’t mean to stumble upon Castiel Novak and his adorable twins in the middle of the apocalypse and he sure as hell doesn’t mean to offer them a ride to wherever they are trying to get to. But the world is a dangerous place now and he’s always been a sucker for blue eyes and cute kids. So he’ll help them out and just hope it doesn’t get him or them killed in the process.

Ninety One Whiskey by komodobits [Explicit, 401k words] #angst with a happy ending

In the spring of 1944, the 104th Medical Battalion of the United States Army is disbanded, and its men reassigned to various infantry companies in preparation for their invasion of occupied France. For First Lieutenant Novak, this is less than helpful, as he has so far met his platoon’s designated medic a grand total of twice, and has both times found Sergeant Winchester to be the optimum combination of reckless, arrogant, and downright insufferable so as to make cohesive platoon function near impossible. When the time comes to move out, however, Castiel has to reconcile himself to the fact that men are going to go down and trust that Dean Winchester may well be the only person who can put them back together again. WW2 ETO infantry AU.

Right Where You Left Me by outdean [Explicit, 93k words] #angst with a happy ending

Ten years after the empty swallows Cas up, it spits him right back out—but a lot can change in a decade. OR The "Cas comes back from the empty to find that Dean is married" fic.

The Benjamin Franklin Key-and-Kite Experiment by beerenee [Explicit, 122k words] #angst with a happy ending

“Thank you for stopping by, Dean,” Emmanuel says, holding out the jacket. “I hope to see you in church on Sunday.” The tips of Dean’s fingers accidentally brush over the back of Emmanuel’s hand when he reaches for the jacket. “Probably not,” Dean laughs as he pulls Dad’s jacket around him. “Like I said before, I’m not exactly a believer. You?” Emmanuel doesn’t answer immediately. Then, without really looking at Dean (more like looking through him,) he whispers, “I will be.” Or 1.12 but Dean's faith healer is Emmanuel!Cas

the inexhaustible silence of houses by Askance (doomcountry) [Teen, 31k words] #unhappy ending

Almost two years after the world doesn't end, Castiel falls from grace—and loses his voice in the process. It is the impetus for confession and change; before long, he is settling into a loving relationship with Dean, the Winchesters are tired, and hunting for a place to land has taken precedence to hunting anything else. Dean and Castiel fall in love with the strange little house on the end of Swallowtail Drive, and for a little while life is as it should be—sweet, affectionate, and beginning afresh. But more and more Castiel sees and hears things in the house that beg the question of whether or not a place itself can be alive. The walls and rooms seem to shift and grow and breathe, and one night, Dean comes home from a hunt changed in a way that Castiel cannot explain. In the months that follow, their domestic bliss takes turns for the dark and sour, and the confusion of their circumstances will ultimately test everything Castiel knows about the man he loves, and everything he believes to be true.

The walk by Persephoneshadow [Explicit, 196k words] #angst with a happy ending

Dean's been living on the streets and turning tricks for a while. Most of the time clients just find him. After a job goes wrong he goes looking for work and finds more than he expected with a married man of faith with blue eyes and a trench coat.

To build a Home by intothesilentland [Mature, 383k words] #angst with a happy ending

Twenty-three years of head-over-heels, devastating devotion and love, love, love for the man with bright eyes and dark hair. Fourteen years of friends, best friends, of always together. One moment of rejection. Nine years of apart. Nine years of heartbreak, nine years of continents away, of not speaking, of no acknowledgement, no interaction, no closure, no peace. No happiness. Nine years of Dean’s life entering motions, going through them, constant, cold and mechanic, like clockwork. Nine years of alone. God. Nine years. A lot has changed. And yet Dean still loves Cas just the same. Even if his heart hurts all kinds of different. On the day of Jimmy Novak’s funeral, Dean sees Cas for the first time in nine years. He adored Castiel the moment he met him, at only four years old. But after fourteen years of friendship destroyed by one moment of heartbreak, and after nine years of silence, Dean is convinced Cas will want nothing to do with him. And it’s killing him.

Twist and Shout by gabriel, standbyme [Explicit, 97k words] #major character death

What begins as a transforming love between Dean Winchester and Castiel Novak in the summer of 1965 quickly derails into something far more tumultuous when Dean is drafted in the Vietnam War. Though the two both voice their relationship is one where saying goodbye is never a real truth, their story becomes fraught with the tragedy of circumstance. In an era where homosexuality was especially vulnerable, Twist and Shout is the story of the love transcending time, returning over and over in its many forms, as faithful as the sea.

What Is Tomorrow Without You by sobsicles [Explicit, 93k words] #angst with a happy ending

Cas is dead, and Dean is living through hell all over again. Experiencing hell as he'd first lived it, Dean aches for peace. When Jack enters his life, it only brings him a purpose. A mission for revenge sends Dean spiraling out of control as Jack does everything in his power to help Dean, going as far as to using his power to let Dean visit Cas where he resides after death. But when Dean depends on these visits and learns a few things about how he truly feels for Cas, the line between what's real and what's not starts to blur. Dealing with grief and his need for revenge, Dean struggles to find a way to get his family back together while also coming to grips that he might have to find a place in a world without Cas in it. Fortunately, Cas comes back, and Dean has to learn to navigate through the life he'd been wanting. But things aren't quite what they seem as their relationship blooms, and Dean realizes he's the reason Cas is slowly changing, and not for the better.

What Used to be Mine by someonetoanyone [Explicit, 48k words] #angst with a happy ending

“There is…” he starts; he licks his lips and glances away; his fingers twitch and fiddle, “... there is one thing she's afraid of. There's one thing strong enough to stop her.” That sounds too good to be true, so Dean waits for the other shoe to drop. It doesn’t take long. Cas at least has the wherewithal to look Dean in the eyes when he says, “when Jack was dying, I made a deal to save him.” ___ a terrible, evil AU that posits; what if the divorce arc was even worse, what if Dean never apologized in Purgatory, and what if Cas internalized all of that, making his ultimate confession less confident, though no less heartfelt, and he died thinking Dean hated him?

You Can Keep Holding On by NorthernSparrow [Explicit, 352k words] #angst with a happy ending

Hiatus fic set after the S11 finale. Dean's alive, Sam's alive, they're going to get Cas from wherever he got zapped to, and everything's finally gonna be all right. Dean's on top of the world. A little voice in the back of his head is whispering "It's never that easy," but Dean ignores it.

[rinainshadows]

𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝖊𝖌𝖔 𝖎𝖓 𝖒𝖆𝖓𝖎𝖋𝖊𝖘𝖙𝖆𝖙𝖎𝖔𝖓

"𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔠𝔞𝔫 𝔡𝔬 𝔢𝔳𝔢𝔯𝔶𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔴𝔯𝔬𝔫𝔤 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔰𝔱𝔦𝔩𝔩 𝔞𝔠𝔥𝔦𝔢𝔳𝔢 𝔶𝔬𝔲𝔯 𝔡𝔢𝔰𝔦𝔯𝔢."

🪽 ♡₊˚ 🦢・₊✧

TW: Delves into psychology theory. Very lightly brushes on themes of having a negative childhood. Overall positive message, though, just want to put that out just in case!

I wanted to make a post talking about the ego and how it may "hold us back" in manifestation. This was inspired by a YouTube video I watched and I want to give credit to the original creator because I'll definitely be quoting parts of their video!

(TLDR at end, approximately 4-5 minute read)

𝄞⨾𓍢ִ໋

Firstly, one must ask, "What is the ego?" The concept of the ego, as first propagated by psychologist Sigmund Freud, signifies the "self" or "I" and serves as our intermediary with the external world through perception. It is the segment of our being that holds memory, evaluates, plans, and in various manners, responds to and acts within the surrounding physical and social world. According to Freud’s theory, it coexists with the "id": our base and primitive drives and instincts, and the superego: the ethical and moral component of our personality. The ego operates on the principle of reality, which acts to satisfy the id's primal yearning for instant gratification while upholding the superego's aspirations for maintaining social and moral standards.

This delicate balance is dictated by the strength of the ego. An individual with lacking ego strength may find themselves torn between the demands of the id and the superego. Conversely, one possessing an overly fortified ego might become rigid and resistant to compromise. A well-balanced ego is deemed essential for assisting an individual in coping with stress, setbacks, and other hardships in life, without resorting to unhealthy coping mechanisms. A person with low ego strength may struggle to withstand adversities and might seek to evade reality through wishful thinking, addictions, or delusions.

With an understanding of the ego and its role in balancing the id and superego, one might ponder, what transpires when the ego does not exist? The phenomenon known as ego death can occur through the practice of deep meditation, the use of psychedelics, near-death experiences, or rigorous spiritual discipline. This process involves a loss of self, of all emotions—both benevolent and malevolent—and a sensation of oneness with the universe. This elevated state is akin to what some may describe as "enlightenment." Though any person on a spiritual journey might experience ego death, maintaining such a transcended state is nigh impossible in a world where the ego is requisite for survival. Oftentimes, only monks or those who wholly sequester themselves from society in an effort to negate karmic debt can sustain this enlightened state.

I bring this discussion to light because, within the realms of manifestation and spirituality, we are frequently advised to purge ourselves of doubts and limiting beliefs, ultimately striving to dissolve our ego. Our ego is formed in infancy and evolves throughout our development. It serves as our shield in this intensely stimulating and, at times, perilous world. Often, a weakened ego strength stems from external sources within one's childhood—perhaps an unstable upbringing, a childhood bereft of freely given love, or a sense of unworthiness. Thus, when we endeavor to manifest our desires and any doubts arise, merely suppressing them and admonishing ourselves for feeling thus is a misguided approach. It is imperative to bestow upon our ego, our doubts, the love and validation they require; otherwise, they will persistently clamor for our attention.

Self-transformation and the spiritual journey, which are inadvertently related to manifesting, is not often a process achieved overnight. There may be days of immense confidence, where one resides in a state of knowing. Yet, on subsequent days, doubts may cascade, highlighting every contradiction in our circumstances and physical reality. We are often advised to enhance our self-concept and strive to reach a higher vibration aligned with our higher selves. Whilst this counsel is admirable, why can we not simply be deserving as we are? When we convince ourselves that we must embody a particular state to attain our desire, we are merely affirming the deep-seated belief that we are undeserving.

Thus, I implore you to reflect: are you condemning that inner voice? While it may suffice for some to ignore it and persist regardless, this approach may prove counterproductive, especially if this issue recurs, causing you to waver. The next time this occurs, take a moment to sit with yourself. Remind yourself that this may be your inner child. Assure them that they are accepted, that they deserve to be heard, and that they do not need to change. Learn to cherish that aspect of yourself and the lessons it imparts. Worry not that perhaps by "validating" and attending to these doubts, you might find yourself in a perpetual state of negativity. Contrarily, by providing that voice the love and validation it seeks, you will discover that it in fact soothes and dispels the worries more rapidly.

In truth, all facets of the ego are equal. The version of you that is joyful, the version that is sorrowful, the version that feels deserving of love, and the version that does not—all coexist. The reason you deem them as "bad" or "unwanted" is because you assign them such labels. They exist to protect you and are neither inherently good nor bad. This is why, in ego death, all emotions cease—there is no joy, sorrow, desire, or contentment. It is a state of nothingness. You are the one ascribing meaning to your feelings, creating a duality that may generate unnecessary resistance.

I once encountered the advice that "you can do everything wrong and still achieve your desire." Of course, this is not an endorsement of self-destructive habits. Rather, it is a call for kindness towards oneself. Remind yourself that you are deserving of your desires exactly as you are. Practice self-parenting and self-soothing. If we are all interconnected with the divine, then every part of us, even those that seem unseemly, is still imbued with divine love. Cease demonizing certain parts of yourself. Abandon the notions of "I should not think this way" or "I should be making more progress." We are imperfect beings, but this does not render us any less deserving of our desires at this very moment. Why must we attain a particular state to be worthy?

Happy Manifesting,

ℜ𝔦𝔫𝔞

TLDR: The ego, as defined by Freud, mediates between our primal desires (id) and moral standards (superego). A balanced ego helps us cope with life's challenges, while an unbalanced one can lead to unhealthy coping mechanisms. Ego death, achieved through spiritual practices, leads to a loss of self and a feeling of oneness with the universe but is hard to maintain in everyday life.

In manifestation and spirituality, we're often told to eliminate doubts and dissolve the ego, but this isn't always helpful. Our ego, formed from childhood experiences, protects us. Suppressing doubts isn't the answer; we should validate and love our inner voice instead.

Self-transformation is a gradual process. It's okay to have doubts. Embrace all parts of yourself, as they all serve a purpose. Being kind to yourself and practicing self-soothing can help you manifest your desires without feeling undeserving. You don't need to be perfect or reach a specific state to be worthy of your desires.

I feel that perhaps talking about the psychology of the ego may be a bit unnecessary, but, what's wrong with learning something new?

[laurentdirosetti]

"You entered the lion’s den" {2}

{Leona Kingscholar x gn/MC} 

Tags: dom, brat, bite, oral, teasing, restraining his instincts. 

The room would be dead silent if it wasn’t for Leona’s heavy breath against your neck, leaving dark red marks on it. First he would smell you lightly, trying to catch every single perfume you have ever worn. He would lick that specific place of your neck where your skin was comfortably soft for him to bite at any time soon. Then, he moves his tongue entirely on your skin leaving a slow trace of saliva, while his fangs are nearly touching you, giving you shivers down your spine. Chest to chest, you could either feel his breath and hear his heartbeat. After taking his time to savor your essence, he proceeds to suck on that wet spot he just has left. He’s softly caressing you, but his instincts take over him for a moment and his true strength starts to show, sucking hard, leaving a dark reddish mark on you. 

He wanted to leave a clear message on your abused skin, it’s as if he’s telling everyone…

Leona: “you’re mine”. 

His words said in an animal crawling low voice reach the deepest parts of your ear, making you tremble from the inside. You couldn’t say anything, what was to be said? His words were like a magic spell that left you paralyzed. 

Your submissive reaction pleased him, but leaving one mark wasn’t enough to satisfy his greediness. He continued tracing marks around your neck, creating a collar at the end of the process. Even though it was impossible for you to see it, you could feel each and every mark pulsating slightly on your skin. You felt that zone was cold due to his saliva, but incredibly hot at the same time. 

Leona: “hey, little one, can you feel it?” -he said while grabbing you by the neck with his hand. His touch was strangely soft in comparison with what his mouth had done to you seconds ago. 

But, that soft pressing hand around your neck felt incredibly hot. Maybe because your skin was irritated, but you felt his touch too much. It was kind of scary, you could breathe without problem, but you saw yourself completely at his disposal, like a prey. When you tried to let out a plea for him to let you go, only utter intelligible sounds came out of you, lost in the sensations of your skin. 

Leona: “shh, it’s okay” -he said removing his hand, only to leave a sweet kiss in the center of your now too sensitive neck, which made you moan in a low tone - “that’s it, be a good little puppy for me”.

MC: “pu- puppy?” 

Leona: “yes, behave and I’ll give you a reward” -he whispered and then thrust his hips against yours, bumping both your lower parts with each other inadvertently. You understood fastly what kind of reward he was referring to and couldn’t help yourself but to tease him a bit. He was being such a bully to you, wasn’t he? 

While he was slowly moving his face down ready to kiss you, one of your hands moved to his chest under his shirt and pinched one of his nipples. He let out a deep growl you have never heard before. You pinched slightly harder trying to get another cute reaction from him, but his hand on yours and his death stare stopped you right away. His feline eyes were like daggers pointing in your direction. 

Leona: “so you wanna hear me growl…” - his mischievous grin was enough for you to know how low you dug your grave. 

He got up just to stand by his knees on the sides of your laying arms, making you unable to lift them no more than to grab his thighs from behind. Then he smiled at you and let out his erection for you to see it as close as you wanted to. He took it with his hand and stopped right in front of your face. 

Leona: “use your mouth to make me growl… if you can”.

You wouldn’t stand his bossy attitude and that size would make you choke before his mouth leaves a single sound. Nonetheless, you couldn’t bear to stare at his expression. He looked so desperate for you to touch him, his eyes were nearly glowing in the dark, illuminated by the moon. His lips bitten by his own fangs were about to start bleeding. Also, you could see the veins in his arms as he pressed the bed wall with all his might, fighting himself to not take you by the neck and have his way with your mouth aggressively, like the animal he was trying not to be with you. 

If he wanted you to make him growl, then you’d make sure he breaks all of his vocal cords for you. 

You lowered your head which left him with a clueless expression. You caught him off guard when you licked the longitude of his sex from base to tip in one go, contrasting the cold breeze from the window with a warm wetness that made him release a bit of pre-seminal fluid. 

MC: “wasn’t this too fast for the lion king?”

Leona: “shut up, I’m still silent as a corpse”.

“Not for long”, you thought and began to suck on his tip. You felt his stare on top of you and looked up at him continuing your business with your lips, making sure your saliva covered him entirely. His eyes were focused on you, like there was nothing in the world that could move them away. You couldn’t keep his stare anymore and looked down as fast as you could. His eyes were sharp, he was like a predator lurking down to his prey, waiting for the right moment to devour you. 

Seeing how your efforts fell on deaf ears, you took a big part of him in your mouth. Your tongue could feel his manhood pulsating inside. Despite how hard he was, it was relatively  easy to get it along the length of your throat slipping through your saliva and his body fluids. His veins were bumping inside you, so hard you could even feel it pressing your neck. You moved your head back and forth at an incredibly slow pace. The objective was to make him growl, but a beg could be as good as well. 

You heard a break and saw little rocks fall next to both sides of your head on the pillow. They came from the wall, his fingers pierced so deep in it that it was breaking at the same time you were welcoming him in your mouth. This was the perfect moment to swallow him whole in a last fast movement he didn’t expect. His body jolted a little, sinking his fingers through the wall and arching his back a little. Your hands on his thighs felt how hard his muscles were tensing, trying to delay the inevitable. 

He was a hot mess, muscles tensing and tensing, hands pressing more and more against a breaking wall, pupils getting thinner and thinner. Thanks to the moonlight you could see a drop of sweat fall from his chin all the way down to his neck and beneath his chest under the shirt. You could not possibly stop now so you started moving your head, pressing your lips hard every time his glans seemed about to make it outside your mouth, just to swallow him whole over and over again, drowning in his smell and taste. 

He ended up letting one of his hands off the wall to shut his mouth thighly. If you had doubts, now you knew he was feeling each and every thrust. But, what a cheater, isn’t he? Covering his mouth isn’t fair. He must be feeling like a cornered cat, so you had no other option but to recur to that. 

The hand you had gripping his thigh moved up to his ass, feeling his shape all the way to your objective: his tail. 

Suddenly, you pulled it with all your might, enough to force him to let out a loud raspy growl and move his body to the opposite side of his pain, right into the wall, where your mouth was. With his chest on the wall, now you can say you really swallow him completely. Due to the impact you let your tongue out and licked his balls. This along with the pressure exerted by your mouth and throat was enough to make him cum in an instant. 

You were prepared to drink all of his stuff, but he moved away. His intentions were good, but he ended up leaving some leftovers inside your mouth, on your face and on your chest. When you drank what was in your mouth, still with his taste on your tongue you looked straight to him. He was heavily breathing, with his eyes wide open, surprised you had the nerve to touch him that way.

MC: “that was loud, my king”. 

---End

{Part 1}

[liverbiver9]

i find it funny but also kind of annoying when writers clearly don’t know how cooking works or haven’t bothered to look up the recipe of whatever food they’re referencing. so many times i’ve read a fic where jiang yanli makes a “vegetarian version” of the lotus and pork rib soup for lan wangji or makes the soup within a few hours (sometimes even only an hour!) which are all pretty much impossible feats.

the soup is made by boiling the pork ribs for LITERAL HOURS (i’m not joking. the soup is best when it’s been simmering for 12 hours at least) alongside the lotus root, aromatics, goji berries, ginger, etc. the reason the soup has any flavor at all is the pork ribs; without those, it would just be water with stuff floating in it. now, if the vegetarian version is just the soup without the pork then that’s one thing, but then does that count as vegetarian since the broth is meat based? i’m not sure what constitutes as vegetarian for the Lans; do bone broths count as eating meat? if they do, no wonder all the food in Cloud Recesses sucks so hard.

anyways, fic writers: before making offhand comments about food, look up the recipe and see how it’s made. food is deeply cultural and significant, both the product and the act of making it. jiang yanli’s soup is so important because it is a labor of love that takes time and effort to make, especially if she is making it from scratch by herself as we are led to assume. by reducing it to something that can be accommodated for other characters or something easier than it really is, you are inadvertently diminishing yanli’s act of love.

[nshtn]

New to the whole Wesker thing, but read your last indepth answer to an ask and that makes me wonder and think.

Not quite as serious or technical aligned, but if Wesker was given one comfort item, absolutely anything in the known universe, what and why?

Does this comfort item change things? Is it truly a thing or is it instead a person? Does anyone else know if this comfort or does he guard it more jealously than a dragon with its first hoarded item? Is this something he can one day leave behind with only vaguely fond memories, as per his emotional hangups from the previous ask, or would he raze the world to ash and dust for any harm befalling it?

Your answer about his obsession is what brought this question to the forefront of my mind and it has me in more of a choke hold than any monster or tentacles from his mutated form.

If he was given the most poignant answer, which would be Chris, the comfort item would change everything dependent on the context in which Chris had given himself to him.

— "It wasn't supposed to be this... indefinite enslavement, showing his most vulnerable scales belly-up to a man made docile only by the skin of his teeth and the drug minutes away from expiry."

tags: Chrisker crackfluff, medical, enslavement (kind of, in an ultimately harmless way), obsession, grief and longing and pining, P30, very inspired by this, trauma (hurt and kinda comfort), not canon to my AU!

Under duress, after Spencer has been rendered a mere memory in some sandwiched time between, in the hopes that offering himself up will spare his allies of some worse fate in gowns with gurneys? The peak of Wesker's return of emotion as a result of unchecked, rabid mania?

P30 is an addition to Chris' diet in the form of a small Insulet Omnipod-type device secured to the upper left region of his arm after Jill Valentine inadvertently confirmed that an IV port wasn't required, and the effects of P30 can last for minutes (as opposed to projected seconds, not unlike a whippet) at a time in a weight-adjusted dose.

Wesker is the ultimate authority revolving absolutely anything to do with Chris, keeping him at his side at all times. It is forced domestication, the removal of an enemy, financed, enslaved compassion like Chris is bottled lightning. In this gentle disabling there is no assault, IV poles, chains, whips, cuffs, ropes; though he may mentally prepare for the next foot to drop, it is long amputated.

And it shows; it is as if Wesker has some quasi-awareness that he cannot sway Chris to his radical positions and yet desires for no more than the time to continually try ad-infinitum. Barring that, it's the sleep-and-wake of urges and desires he has compressed since he dethroned Spencer: comfort, a forced award he has denied himself until the security that it is impossible for the other party to exploit him in gaining it.

"Chris, sit down and listen to me." He drones a pointless, resentful debate on the world and its' shortcomings, how one man can never truly destroy the status quo unless he destroys the world. Shell will let him end world hunger? Tricell's biggest partners would kill him long before he could cure degenerative diseases. Chris, monotonous, replies the same way every time, his replies fished from him against his will, never backing down from his impossibly optimistic outlook, never seeing the sense Wesker needs to rip P30 out.

"Chris, talk." And Chris tells him something-or-other ripped from the front of his mind, at times as innocuous as 'why are we watching TV together', and others as damnable as, 'I don't know why you're keeping me alive like this'. Wesker can answer the first swiftly: comfort, familiarity, spitting honesty Chris would never receive without the press of a drug; the second, however, he cannot respond to at all, lips pressing into a thin line. No further comments, no further questions.

"Chris, lay with me." Chris obeys like he always does, set with the utmost care but marionette stiffness as his body presses into the smaller, lither man's, scooped by Wesker's arms and readjusted to be held like an opal, so careful and tender that the raw intention swelling in the quickened rattle of Wesker's heartbeat is unmistakable in Chris' ears. This isn't the spitting image of hatred.

"Hold me, Chris." And he does, and he swears in his mind as he helplessly watches it all unfold step-by-step that Wesker is at his smallest, curling up on Chris like he's the only lifeline to sanity left. Chris can hear something, but he can't see it, and in the haze that P30 draws over its' victim he can scantly place whether Wesker is laughing or crying, and assumes the safety in the former over the unknown in the latter, in the empathy and familiarity he could never quite erase that floods his veins.

There is, oddly, an innocence in it; a fumbling, the waver in Wesker's voice that creeps in when he locks himself in his lab late at night, breath heaving with guilt and panic and vision swimming with something Chris can scantly place. The ice in his eyes melts under Chris' watchful gaze, spilling forth an untold depth of hurt that, like the Wheel of Samsara, continues forever and, like Uroboros, coils itself and furthers its' own suffering. Rough and jagged glaciers melt into spring water, permafrost coaxed into frightful disruption.

Chris finds he does not miss the fighting. The neutrality is its' own source of fear, though. Where is the bile, the usual anger? Is this projected weakness just another game? When will Wesker tire of this? How many more times can he continue to deny Wesker's debate points until he is deemed a failure, or, worse, the repetition finally breaks him?

Chris never knew the boy in Wesker still lived, or even that Wesker was doing anything but taunting him every time he'd bumble on about his naivety in times past. Chris never predicted his worst, most brutal enemy had in himself the same desire for affection and acceptance as any 'mortal'.

Chris' perception of Wesker as a ruthless, brutal, emotionless monster could not outlast the lame truth that the robotic man who had bonded with him in S.T.A.R.S all those years ago had been ensnared by the thorn of humanity Chris embedded in him, and that it had, like a rotten seed, blossomed into whatever the fuck this was. He could not have ever predicted that watching A Space Odyssey on Wesker's couch late at night so long ago and absentmindedly shifting his arm around Wesker's shoulders could result in this - here - today - now.

Chris could never have imagined he would be relegated to this pointless position, hatred rendered like a stock set to boil, confusion scooped away as it rose until what was left scared him: complacency, neutrality, a protectiveness and familiarity. He no longer dreamt of escape, filled with so many of Wesker's neatly-woven commands that he had become near-autonomous and independent save for the inability to simply leave.

And it can never end well. Eventually Chris will get saved or shot, and Wesker knows this, and it kills some unhinged, unleashed part of him to think that the man he met so many years ago can never see his goals realized and watch the world burn together, like he planned.

It was all going to be so easy, or so he deluded himself (time and time and time again): use P30 as a stop-gap to convince him the way you were always going to, rip it out, enact Complete Global Saturation and twirl him in your arms as the NASDAQ crumbles. It wasn't supposed to be this... indefinite enslavement, showing his most vulnerable scales belly-up to a man made docile only by the skin of his teeth and the drug minutes away from expiry.

One day he will enact an overruling command that Chris uses to bludgeon him to death, he's sure of it, and on that day judgment will rise. He will be free of the guilt that burrows in his deepest layers like fleas he can't pick out, and maybe he'll let himself die for what he's done to this steadfast, ignorant, stupidly beautiful man.

But right now, he will marinate in creature comforts and the closest to normalcy and something resembling humanity he will ever approach when the time between endless work permits him it. Compassion is weakness. He is weak. Spencer was right about him, he thinks, privately. Umbrella's biggest failure. Then, he clears his throat.

"Chris, come sit with me... choose something to watch."

[liaromancewriter]

May I Have This Dance?

Premise: Is there anything more romantic than slow dancing in the kitchen on a do-nothing day?

Book: Open Heart Pairing: Ethan Ramsey x F!MC (Cassie Valentine) Rating/Category: Teen. Fluff. Words: 1,175

A/N: For narrative purposes, this is set on the same day as Sleeping Beauty. Submission for @choicesprompts Flufftober prompt "Can I have this dance?" I'm also using @choicesflashfics week 54, prompt 1

Ethan Ramsey stared at the announcement for this year’s homecoming dance tacked onto the noticeboard in the hallway. His hands itched to snatch a flyer to peruse later, but he kept them tightly fisted to his sides.

There was a reason he’d ditched the whole thing last year, he reminded himself morosely.

He couldn’t dance and wasn’t about to embarrass himself in front of the entire school. Plus, there was the whole awkwardness of asking a girl out. They tended to travel in packs, and getting one alone long enough to ask her without her friends staring and giggling nearby was as impossible as travel to Mars.

It was a pipe dream, he thought in dismay but unable to unglue his feet. He wasn’t in a position to go, and that was that. Besides, who decided that participating in homecoming dances and proms was a right of passage for high schoolers?

Hollywood, that’s who. Twentysomething actors playing high school students didn’t make it all so. It was a fallacy, as most things in life were.

“Wow, you look fierce. Did you have a fight with someone?”

Ethan glanced sideways at the concerned voice of his neighbor and friend, Miranda Clarke. He inwardly grimaced at being caught boring a hole into the noticeboard.

She’d been the nerdy girl with braces and pigtails all through elementary and middle school. At the start of freshman year, he did a double take when she greeted him at the bus stop, no braces in sight, her blonde hair in a waterfall behind her and a pretty headband sparkling under the sun.

Miranda might look different now, but she was still one of the smartest and nicest people he knew. She also understood what it was like to be abandoned by a parent, or both parents in her case.

“Not a fight,” he said, lowering his voice to avoid being overheard by others, and inadvertently eyed the flyer.

“Ah,” she said, following his gaze. “I didn’t think school dances were your thing.”

“They’re not,” he muttered, feeling the redness splash across his cheeks.

Miranda’s eyes softened in sympathy, and he felt sorry for lying to his friend.

“It’s okay to change your mind, Ethan,” she said, lightly touching his arm. “No one’s going to care if you attend a dance one year and skip it altogether another. This isn’t about what anyone else wants, just you.”

“I know that,” he protested, stopping himself from rolling his eyes. Miranda had a habit of lecturing him when he was being cagey.

He straightened away from the wall and shrugged, adopting an air of indifference. “It’s moot anyway since I can’t dance.”

“Can’t?” Miranda placed a hand on his elbow to stop him as he turned to go. “Or don’t know how?”

Ethan sighed, his lips parting to deliver a well-versed white lie. But this was Miranda, and they’d known each other all their lives. She’d just hound him on the way home until he told her the truth.

“Don’t know how,” he admitted reluctantly. “I can’t exactly ask my dad to teach me, can I? He has enough to worry about.”

“You could ask me,” she suggested.

Ethan watched her warily. “You’d be willing to do that?”

She laughed. “Of course! That’s what friends do.”

Suddenly, her face turned serious, and she stared at a spot behind him, a light red staining her cheekbones. “Maybe after, you could ask me to homecoming? Only if you want to,” she added quickly when he froze like a deer in headlights.

“I would like that,” he said quietly, thinking about it for all of five seconds.

The bell rang for the next period, and he cleared the gruffness in his throat, raising his voice above the noise. “Thanks, Miranda. I appreciate it.”

“You’re welcome, Ethan,” Miranda smiled. “If you’re not working today, we can have the first lesson after school. Around four, your house?”

Dance lessons and a date to homecoming, he marveled as they parted ways to head to class. The year was suddenly looking much brighter.

Twentysomething years later…

“I want to spend the day with you doing nothing. And by nothing, I mean…”

Ethan grinned as Cassie Valentine leaned on the kitchen island and wiggled her eyebrows suggestively.

It was the first Sunday since his return from Brazil and Cassie’s first official sleepover. There hadn’t been time for that before he left a couple of months ago. But now that they’d decided to give this relationship a real chance, they wanted their private moments to be less stolen and more intentional.

“In case you haven’t noticed, the day is half over,” he said, pretending disinterest as he rinsed a skillet and stacked it in the dishwasher with the rest of the dishes from a late brunch. “If only you’d woken up earlier, we could have had so much fun.”

“Sunday mornings are made for sleeping in,” Cassie’s brows knitted in exasperation. “Especially after the week I had. And I thought intern year was bad.”

“You’ll adjust,” he commented unconcerned, pressing a button to start the dishwasher’s cycle before grabbing a cloth to wipe down the counter.

“What?” he demanded when he looked up to see Cassie watching him with amusement in her eyes.

“Nothing,” she said, coming around the kitchen island to stand before him. She glanced at the wipe cloth in his hand. “I had no idea you were so domesticated, Dr. Ramsey.”

He smirked, caging her in his arms. “I’m a man of many talents, Dr. Valentine.”

The sun was high in the sky, the glare of its rays bouncing off the treated glass. Soft music drifted from a Bluetooth speaker in the corner, casting a magical spell over the kitchen and its occupants and lending an air of romance.

“But can you dance?” Cassie whispered, caressing the nape of his neck with her fingertips.

“What brought this on?” Ethan arched one brow in curiosity.

“Since we’re getting to know each other,” she pulled his head down, “you should know that I love to dance, especially slow dancing in the moonlight.” Her green eyes sparkled, and her lips curved into a soft, dreamy smile. “Or in a sun-dappled kitchen on a lazy Sunday afternoon.”

The music changed to something slow and romantic, and Ethan found his lips hovering above hers, heart pounding with potent anticipation.

“So? Can you?” she murmured.

“Yes.”

Cassie closed the distance between them, gently pressing her lips against his, and he fell into the moment.

“May I have this dance, Cassie?” Ethan asked, sliding his hand into hers.

“I would love to, Ethan.”

He placed one hand on her waist, splayed his fingers and tugged her close. Cassie rested her hand on his shoulder, and he led her into a slow dance, their bodies swaying to the rhythm.

He followed the moves he’d learned all those years ago, dancing in the living room with Miranda. And when Cassie laughed as he dipped her low, Ethan sent a silent thanks to his friend for giving him this.

-------------

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