#hideous snobs

[winepresswrath]

blithely ignoring my own complicated feelings about season one and also all signs that season two is going to be a shitshow to amcwtv post about how I am still sad that they took out one of my favourite Loustat beats (Louis looking down on Lestat for being a gold digging low class illiterate farmboy) out of the show. What of the trashy bimbo Lestat who lives in Louis' head paying rent in very specific ways? Lestat having his own money in that era & being some outward embodiment of institutional power feels like fanfic Lestat would write and I don't like it. However! We can still capitalize on one of my other favourite beats and have Louis completely take Lestat's dad's side in their sadly posthumous but I presume still ongoing-in-Lestat's head conflict. Lestat's dad being dead doesn't mean Louis can't judge Lestat for being a heartless and patricidal to a nice old man while Lestat writhes because he's actually embarrassed that he couldn't bring himself to kill his father even though he sucked. Bring Gabrielle into it in the worst ways. Bring Claudia into it so she can have her own justified patricidal feelings. Let's go give it to me.

[skenpiel]

the greatest thing homestuck ever did for us was invent tricksters, thus letting us all design cute candy themed outfits for any and all characters even though the actual canonical designs looked like complete total fucking garbage

[devouringbodies]

Wait a minute so they only released bones and all on bluray?? They didn't even bother to produce dvds??? That's so rancid.

[luthorao3]

you know the more i think about it actually i love the idea of disenfranchised ex-copper lisa swain abandoning her career and her life on the fancy city-slicker-esque floating human citadel in space (after losing her wife and being cock-blocked at every turn into her investigation into her death, until she’s straight up warned that if she doesn’t shut the fuck up and stop poking her nose in where it isn’t wanted, betsy will lose her other mother, too), taking her daughter down to the more lawless, not-quite-slums on the nearby populated planet, where she’s just getting by taking up odd freelance PI jobs (doing too many favours for women in trouble), only to be tracked down by an old acquaintance (if she can even call her that: took her case, years back, was practically the only person who believed her), carla connor, claiming that she’s in desperate need of help and she’ll only accept it from somebody she trusts. sci-fi film noir type shit, perhaps. and obviously it will all come full circle and come right back to becky’s death, the cover up, the people responsible now gunning for carla (she has a big gob).

i’m in the mood to read/write the most self indulgent sci-fi swarla au. underworld as a ship, part of a greater human flotilla, carla at its helm. lisa with her own tiny cruiser, which she spends more nights in than she does back at her apartment on the greater populated ship (too many memories). perfect mental image in my head of betsy tearing up and customising her fleet-issued standard citizen uniform so that her belly’s showing. plot? unrealised, just let me enjoy the aesthetic. 🥹

[goblinontour]

Byronic Unhappiness

television and a little bit too much of him

warnings: feelings, self-hatred, suggestiveness, not much happening but it’s implied, kinda sub!alex

word count: 7.1k

He’s been made aware — against his will, of course — that he tends to have a subtle preference for suffering his way through life. The awareness came unbidden, unasked for, like an unflattering photograph slipped under his door, exposing him in some hideous angle he could no longer ignore. He didn’t want to know. He didn’t need it laid bare like that, spelled out in a clarity that burned, leaving him more self-conscious than he cares to admit. The kind of self-consciousness that makes him wonder if he’s always looked like this to the world — a man feigning detachment while secretly clutching his anguish like a talisman.  

Because that’s exactly what he’s doing. He knows it, though he hates knowing it. Hates the way it turned him into a caricature of himself, a pretentious man who regarded suffering not as an affliction, but as some sacred currency, something that might bring him closer to truth. To beauty. To transcendence.  

And so he sits in his car, drowning in the low hum of the engine, or now, in front of a flickering television screen — despite his loftiest resolutions to abstain from such vulgarities. Television? For him? A man so far above the common delights of cars running circles or balls being kicked. And yet there he is, his gaze locked on the screen, letting himself be lulled by the banal rhythm of it all. The predictable rise and fall of action, the simulated drama, this boredom. He despises it. 

But not nearly as much as he despises himself.  

Him. This contemptible creature. A tyrant in his own mind, dictating his own rules of existence. A pendant, draped heavy with the weight of his self-assigned meanings. A crackpot, circling the same tired theories about pain and art and brilliance and decay. And a snob — God, the worst kind. The kind that looks down on everything but can never look away.  

It was this awareness that ruined him most. Not the suffering itself, but the way he had dressed it up, paraded it around as though it were something noble. As though it could save him.

“Are you watching reruns again?”  

Your voice breaks through the thick, stagnant air, and it feels like a needle sliding under his skin. First, the sound of it. Then, the sharp punctuation of your presence: one leg, then the other, until you’re fully in his field of vision. And then — just like that — you’re in the way.  

Between him and the screen. Between him and whatever dull, flickering narrative he had convinced himself was enough to fill the silence.  

A shiver runs through him, involuntary, and he blames it on the draft from the open window brushing against his bare calves. His robe had fallen loose around him, the terry cloth pooling limply on the bed like a flag of surrender. He convinces himself it’s the cold. Not you. Not the abrupt severance of the line of static connecting him to the screen.  

But the connection is gone now. He’s aware of it in the way a man notices his pulse after holding his breath too long.  

“Yeah.” He scratches at his face, nails dragging over the rough grain of his stubble. His tone is clipped, barely containing the irritation that prickles under his skin. “Can you move?”  

If the question wasn’t impolite enough, the way he says it is. There’s a sharpness to it, an edge honed by the hours of restless discontent that had preceded you. The way he gestures with the remote — jerky, almost dismissive — makes it worse. Like you’re a piece of furniture that’s been misplaced. Like you’ve forgotten how to exist correctly in the space around him. 

You don’t move right away.  

Instead, you linger there, in the glow of the screen. A shadow cutting through the dim light. For a moment, you look like an interruption incarnate, something solid and real in the midst of his hollow distractions. It’s maddening, the way your silhouette obliterates the little thread of meaning he’d been holding onto.  

“I’m in your way?” you ask, the words slow enough to show the irritation, so slow it’s as though you’re just now tasting them for the first time.  

He nods once, curtly. “Yeah. You’re in the way.”  

You cross your arms, unmoved. And there’s something about the tilt of your head, the slight narrowing of your eyes, that makes him feel as though he’s been caught in some small, pathetic act. Like you’re reading him — scanning — seeing through his own irritation straight to the ache buried beneath it.  

“What’s so important?” you ask, nodding toward the screen. “What’s worth watching over and over again?”  

The question lands heavier than it should, as if it’s meant to unsettle him. It is. And maybe it does. Because he doesn’t answer right away. Doesn’t look at you. Just keeps scratching at his face, pretending you’re not there. Pretending he’s not been made to feel small by the simplicity of your presence.

“Martha Stewart is making a cake.” he says at last. 

Cake.  

The word lands flat, humorless, as if he’s spitting it out just to end the silence. A verdict, final and immutable. 

His eyes don’t meet yours. They’re locked somewhere near your knee, his hand twitching slightly on the remote. He looks small, folded into himself, his body slouched on the edge of the bed like he’s trying to collapse inward and vanish. His robe hangs loosely off one shoulder, exposing the pale curve of his collarbone, the soft, hollowed planes of his chest. The fabric is bunched awkwardly around his waist, his legs stretched out but restless, the heels of his feet pressing into the carpet.  

“Now can you…?” he adds, gesturing vaguely with the remote, the motion clipped and dismissive. His hand is pale, thin, the tendons flexing visibly under the skin, but the movement is graceless, almost petulant, like he’s trying to swat you out of the air.  

It’s bad. It’s bad, and you’re getting caught in it. You know it’s bad. You can feel it like a hum in the air between you, a sharpness that makes your skin crawl. This Alex — this version of him that stews in his misery, clinging to it like it’s all he has left — is the hardest to be around. And yet, you can’t leave him like this.  

“No.”  

You cross your arms, your posture firm, your body a wall between him and the flickering TV screen. You don’t move, don’t flinch, even as his jaw tightens, his lips pressing into a thin, bloodless line. His eyes flicker up to meet yours for the briefest moment, dark and sharp and full of something that looks too much like loathing. But whether it’s for you or himself, you can’t exactly tell.  

“Babe-”  

“No.” you say, firmer this time. 

Your hands drop to your hips, fingers digging into the fabric of your jeans as you plant yourself more solidly in place. You don’t step aside, don’t grant him even the smallest sliver of his precious view. You block it entirely, eclipsing the screen, erasing the shallow distraction he’s clinging to. His lips part, a protest forming, but you interrupt before he can even begin.  

“No.” you say it again.  

And it’s then you feel it — the shaking. Not visible, not yet, but it radiates from him, a tension vibrating in the space between you. It’s as if his insides are unravelling, thread by thread, and you’re the only one close enough to hear it.  

“Baby, please…”  

“No.”  

A barrier against whatever flimsy excuse he’s about to offer. You’re caught in this Alex, the one who quacks on and on about the infirm, the diseased, the broken — and doesn’t see that he’s the diseased.

His breath hitches, and for a moment, the only sound in the room is the low buzz of the TV, the faint hum of the wind outside. He doesn’t move, doesn’t argue. Not anymore. But you can see it — the way his hands tremble slightly, the way his fingers curl tighter around the remote, like he’s holding onto it for dear life.  

A hand shoots up to his hair, dragging through it roughly, almost violently, his fingers spreading and clawing through it as if he’s trying to rip the thoughts from his skull and make sense of whatever storm is churning inside. But it doesn’t make sense. It never does. His breathing is uneven, shallow, and you can see the tension in his neck, the way his shoulders hunch as if under some invisible weight.  

He judges.

The strands catch between the webs of his fingers, and still, it isn’t enough. You can see it in the way his eyes dart around the room, in the way his lips part as if to speak but then close again, like he’s already decided the words won’t be good enough.

He judges poorly.

You see it. He folds into himself, trying to disappear into the tension, into the hate. The hate he has for himself. The hate he has for the world that dared to leave him here, abandoned in this half-life he never asked for.  

You step closer. Slowly, until you’re standing right in front of him. And so you reach. Your hand finds his hair, fingers curling with purpose, and you pull. Hard.  

His head jerks back, his neck arching, the motion sharp enough to make his whole body jolt and shake the surface of him but not yet touch the source inside. 

“Look at me.” 

And he does. His eyes snap up to meet yours, wide and startled, and for a moment, he’s still. Frozen. His chest rises and falls quickly. Pupils dark, the whole orb glassy with the faint sheen of tears gathering at the edges. And the pain in them is so palpable, it’s like a blade slicing through the space between you. His face is pale, drawn, his cheekbones jutting out sharply. He looks wrecked, utterly and completely undone, and all you can do is to not flinch at the rawness of it. Even though the look on his face wounds you. Not because it’s aimed at you, but because it isn’t. It’s aimed at no one and everyone and mostly himself. All that hate and anger, burning like a furnace with no outlet, no direction.  

And then the droplets fall.  

The first tear falls, tracing its way through the redness of his skin. Then another. They come slowly at first, then faster, and you can feel the way his body trembles under your touch, the way his chest heaves with the effort of holding it all in. They slide down the hard edges of his cheekbones, catching in the curve of his jaw before disappearing into the dark curls by his ears. They carve paths through the anger, leaving behind something softer, something that trembles and begs even as he fights it. Something that asks for his heart — something he’s spent so long denying, because feeling it only makes everything worse.  

He invents faults when he cannot find any.

But you don’t let go. You keep your grip firm, your fingers curling deeper into his hair, forcing him to look at you. His hands shoot out, wrapping around your wrist with enough force to bruise. His grip is so harsh, it’s desperate, but you don’t relent. Not now. You hold firm, even as his nails dig into your skin, even as his chest heaves with that weight of something too big for him to carry but that he forces himself to manage anyway.  

You lean closer, your free hand coming to rest on his shoulder, fingers pressing gently into the tense muscle there. “It’s okay.” you whisper, though you know it won’t fix anything. “I’m here.”  

His eyes narrow, the anger flashing through them like lightning, but it fades just as quickly, replaced by something else. Something softer, more fragile. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t move, but his grip on your wrist loosens slightly, and his head tilts forward, his forehead brushing against your arm.  

And for a moment, just a moment, he lets himself lean into you. Lets himself feel the warmth of your presence, the solidity of you standing there, refusing to leave.

But his eyes don’t close. He can’t look away. His brain won’t let him.  

So he stares as if you’ve torn something open in him, as if your refusal to let him sink is more terrifying than the sinking itself.  

To no authority, his mind protests, but it falters. Obeying nothing but the mysterious stirrings of his heart and his mind.

And still, you hold him there, locked, refusing to let him escape. Refusing to let him disappear into the nothingness he so desperately craves. Because even if he can’t see it yet, you do. The part of him that still exists, still breathes, still reaches — even when it hurts.

He takes a deep breath that rattles on its way in and barely makes it out. His shoulders shudder, his whole frame trembling like a taut wire about to snap. He’s like a kitten shaking with the pure weight of being alive, fragile and overwhelmed by the sheer effort it takes to exist in this moment. You can hear the struggle in the inhale, the way it scrapes against his throat. And when he exhales, it’s more like a collapse, a hollow sound that speaks of exhaustion and defeat. 

“I hate you.” he whispers.  

It’s cruel, not just in the words but in the stripped, raw silence that follows. The way he looks at you as he says it, straight into the deepest part of you, his gaze sharp and deliberate. There’s no static now — he must’ve turned the TV off without you noticing. No hum to hide behind. Just the weight of his words and the heavy, aching truth that they don’t feel entirely real.  

“You didn’t sleep, did you?” you ask, ignoring the venom in his voice, stepping over it like it’s a crack in the pavement. Your hand moves to his cheek again, brushing away the lingering wetness. He stays still, frozen through the sniffles and shallow breaths, but there’s tension in the set of his jaw. He won’t let himself be viewed as weak, not without his permission. Not against his will.  

“You stayed up again.” you say softly, searching his face. “Your eyes are all veiny and sunken.”  

It’s the story of his insomnia written all over him, etched into the shadows beneath his eyes, the tautness of his skin, the heaviness in the way he holds himself. He doesn’t respond, just stares ahead, his lips pressed into a tight line, willing you to disappear with his silence.  

“I want you to leave.” he says finally.  

“You’re being an asshole.” you reply, without hesitation.  

Because it’s true. His need to criticise the world around him, to pick apart its flaws and failures, can be a force of good sometimes — a way of making sense of the chaos. But there’s a fine line between a critic and an asshole, and Alex has been stumbling over it for years. Sometimes it feels like he’s built a home on that line, living in the cracks of his own discontent. And now, here he is again. Lost in it. Letting it consume him, letting it turn into a mood, a state of being.  

But not this time. Not today.  

“I’m not leaving.” you declare.  

You shift, moving with quiet determination, your leg rising and crossing over his, your body weaving through the valleys of mattress dips and the folds of his robe until you’re settled behind him. He stiffens, but you don’t stop. You wrap your arms around his middle, locking him in place, your legs pinning his down with enough pressure to keep him still without hurting him.  

Your head rests on his shoulder, close enough to hear the uneven cadence of his breathing. Your lips find the curve of his neck, pressing there softly, a quiet gesture of reassurance. Little fragments of empathy, transferred into the mess he’s made of himself.  

And still, he doesn’t fight it.  

He doesn’t struggle, doesn’t pull away. Because the truth is, he can’t. Even if he wanted to. Because the moment you walked in, his narratives — those grand, intricate stories he tells himself about the world, about his place in it — fractured. The version of reality he’s built, where he’s the lone martyr trudging through the cold and the dark, is crumbling under the weight of your presence.  

Your warmth radiates into him, unwelcome and unyielding, like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. He wishes it would blind him, scorch him, drive him away from you. But it doesn’t. It only serves to thaw the freezing, brittle parts of him, the parts he’s spent so long keeping locked away.  

All of a sudden, reality doesn’t look so bad.  

His breathing slows under your touch, the trembling in his body easing as you hold him. You don’t say anything, and neither does he. The silence stretches out, heavy but not suffocating, and for once, he doesn’t feel the need to fill it with something sharp, self-defensive or self-destructive.  

For the first time in what feels like forever, he lets himself rest. Not in his narratives, not in his misery, but in you.

“This feels…nice.” he says, so softly that it almost disappears into the space between you. But it’s there.  

But Alex…Alex…Alex.  

Alex, with his restless mind and his perpetual suspicion, can’t leave it at that. Can’t let himself have it. Because it can’t be that simple, can it? That’s what he thinks. That’s what he’s always thought.  

It can’t be that simple, can it? 

That’s the thought spiralling through his mind, relentless and sharp-edged. It can’t just be this. It can’t just be lying here, letting himself feel held, feel wanted, feel human. It can’t just be spending his days — your days — being lazy and letting the world fade away. It can’t just be the warmth of your skin under his hands, the way your lips brush against his neck, the way your arms encircle him as though you could keep him together with nothing but your presence.  

It can’t just be lazy mornings spent tangled in sheets, the two of you drifting in and out of dreams like it’s the only thing that matters. It can’t just be being goofy and silly with you, laughing until his sides ache, or being freaky and intimate and letting himself get lost in the heat of you. It can’t just be the easy rhythm of your hands brushing through his hair, the press of your lips against his neck, the weight of your body grounding him in a way he doesn’t fully understand. It can’t just be lying here, in this fragile moment, with nothing to distract him but the quiet sound of your breathing.  

Even with you, his heart is not content.  

It can’t be.  

Even if he spends every second with you, tangled up in this intimacy, in this love you so freely offer, his heart still won’t settle. There’s something inside him, a gnawing ache that refuses to be soothed.  

Because anything could be propaganda.  

Anything could be a trick, a mirage designed to lure him into complacency. Anything could be delusional thinking — a fantasy spun from the threads of his own desperate longing for connection, for purpose, for something real. Anything could be fooling him into believing in the sense of safety you’re so determined to provide, a trick his mind is playing on him, lulling him into a falseness he can’t discern. 

Anything could be a lie.  

So he has to stay vigilant. He must.

His back presses more firmly against your chest as he’s trying to sit up straighter, sudden and rigid, as if trying to reclaim or impose some semblance of authority over his own body. But even as he does, he’s betrayed. It’s a fragile defiance, one that crumbles the moment your arms tighten around him. Melting down in your arms even as he fights it. Muscles tremble with the effort of keeping himself upright. His breathing is uneven. And the tears keep falling, hot and relentless, unwanted but unstoppable, carving quiet trails down his cheeks like molten rivers through the stubborn set of his face.  

You know this. You know him. You know the fear that clutches at him, the fear of being deluded, of believing in something only to have it ripped away. You’re aware of it. You can’t blame him for it. You don’t understand it entirely, but you recognize the mood. The suspicion. The way he questions every good thing, every moment of peace, everything around him until there’s nothing left but the raw, aching truth. Expecting it to crumble beneath his touch.  

His fear is palpable. 

And you hold him through it.  

You don’t speak. You let your body do the talking, your arms tightening around his middle, your legs shifting to press more firmly against his. Your breath, slow and steady, whispers against his neck, an unspoken reminder that you’re here. That you’re not going anywhere.  

Your lips brush against the side of his jaw, tracing a path to his temple. His skin is damp, and you press a kiss there, gentle and lingering.  

He stiffens, just for a moment, but then he exhales shakily, his body sagging back into yours. The fight is still there — you can feel it, simmering beneath the surface — but he’s letting himself rest in you, if only for a moment.  

“Alex…” you whisper. Your hands move slowly, deliberately, one sliding up to rest over his heart, the other tracing small circles against his stomach. “You don’t have to figure it out right now. You don’t have to know. Just…let it be, for now.”  

He doesn’t respond. He doesn’t have to. You feel the way his breathing begins to even out, the way his hands — still clutching at your wrist — begin to loosen their grip. The way his head tilts slightly, leaning into the crook of your neck as though seeking something.  

“It’s okay.” you murmur, your lips brushing against his neck. You press your forehead to the curve of his shoulder. “You don’t have to always fight it.” His fingers are curling and uncurling nervously. His chest rises and falls in sharp, stuttering motions. “It’s just me.” you say softly. “Just us. That’s all it has to be.”  

And you stay like that, holding him as the storm inside him rages on, your warmth a quiet defiance against the cold logic he tries so hard to cling to. You can’t fix him. You can’t make the fear go away.  

But you can hold him. 

He’s still. Then, slowly, his hands move, hesitantly, almost reluctantly. One of them settles over yours where it rests on his stomach, his fingers brushing against your knuckles. The other comes up to wipe at his face, smearing the wetness across his cheek, trying to erase the evidence of his vulnerability.  

But he doesn’t pull away.  

And you don’t let go.  

Because even if he doesn’t believe it yet, you do. You believe in this. In him. In the fragile, complicated mess of him that somehow feels like home.

You can color in his cynicism. 

That sharp-edged need to peel back the layers of the world, to dissect and unveil, to pull everything apart until it’s nothing but pieces in his hands. It’s relentless, exhausting, and so entirely Alex. But it leaves you no choice but to do the same to him.  

To unveil him.  

Your hand moves to his shoulder, firm and unyielding, pulling him down, closer. His body reacts instinctively — another shiver under your touch, muscles tensing as he braces for impact. A soft sound escaping his lips, part wince, part surrender. You’re engaging with him in every way possible, positively and negatively, challenging and comforting, breaking and rebuilding.  

It can’t be a sober analysis. Not with him. So you make him get drunk on it — on the heat of your palms pressing against his chest, on the way your fingers trace the contours of his ribs, slipping into the spaces between his heart and his head.  

He can’t help but take the opposition. His arms move instinctively to block you, to keep you still, to stop you from peeling back too much. But even as he resists, you feel his heart pounding beneath your hand, erratic and unguarded. His body betrays him, his breath catching as your fingers twist at the rosy peaks of his skin, drawing out soft, pained sounds that don’t match the way his hands tighten on your wrists, pulling you closer instead of pushing you away.  

“Are you done crying for yourself?” you ask. 

The words are pointed, sharp enough to wound, but you can’t be cruel — not like he was. You won’t meet his bitterness with your own, won’t let him drag you into the same dark spiral. If you were to fall with him, you’d both end up in ruins. And you have to bring him back.  

“I love you, Alex.” you say, softening the edge of your words, letting them sink into the space between you.  

Another shiver runs through him, and he murmurs something, low and indiscernible, but there’s a flicker of something in his voice — pleasure, maybe. Relief. You’re not sure, but it’s enough.  

You hug him tighter, your arms wrapping around his trembling form, your lips finding his cheek in a soft, lingering kiss. You let your breath fan over his face, warm and steady, melting away the coldness he’s been carrying.  

“You’re so lovely, you know that?” you whisper, your voice gentle, a contrast to the sharpness of his pain. “Even when you’re mean, I can’t stop loving you.”  

You kiss him again, slower this time, your lips brushing against his skin as if to seal the words into him. He stiffens, but he doesn’t pull away.  

“I don’t know what’s going on in that stubborn head of yours,” you continue, “but it’s going to be alright, baby. I promise.”  

Another kiss. This one lands just below his temple, your lips lingering there as your hand moves to his hair, threading through the dark curls and tugging, gently this time. He exhales shakily, the tension in his body easing bit by bit, his head tilting slightly toward you as if seeking more.  

And you give it to him.  

You give him all of it — the warmth, the softness, the love he’s so determined to question. Because no matter how much he fights it, no matter how much he doubts, you know this: he’s worth it. Every sharp edge, every bitter word, every tear and every shiver.  

He’s worth it.

“Stop.” he says.  

“No, baby. I’m not going to let you do this to yourself.” you reply, holding him tighter. You don’t let go. You don’t ease up. You stay, soothing him, no matter how much he tries to pull away from his own breaking point.  

“At least, uh…” He pauses, his voice faltering, breaking apart under the weight of his own resistance. “Keep your…keep your fluffiness and- and your sentimentality at the door.”  

His words are strained, half-hearted, but there’s no real venom in them. Not anymore.  

A small laugh escapes you, breathy and barely audible. “You really think that’s possible right now?”

“I’m serious.”

And then he leans into you. Slowly, tentatively, testing his surrender. His head turns toward you, his eyes locking on yours, and you see it — the ache, the confusion, the quiet plea for something he can’t quite articulate. He’s looking for clarity, for a way to make it all make sense.  

You stare back.  

A pause.  

A regroup.  

Understanding blooms between you, unspoken but undeniable.  

“Okay.” you say softly, a word heavy with compromise and promise.  

He blinks, as if signaling something only he can understand, something you’re meant to decrypt.  

“We’re doing reality, yeah?” you say, your voice firmer now, breaking the silence with a decision, a declaration. “We’re doing reality.”  

He hesitates, his jaw tightening as he wrestles with the words, with himself, with you. But then he nods. A reluctant, almost imperceptible nod.  

“Reality’s overrated.” he mutters.

You feel him shift against you, his hands fumbling with the edges of the robe draped loosely over his body. It had been barely covering him — his hips, his forearms — serving no real purpose other than to shroud him in a thin layer of pretense. Now, he pushes it off, letting it fall away in a soft, crumpled heap. Finally deemed useless. Finally exposed.  

He’s letting you in. Letting you see him. Letting you do all the hard-nosed critique, all the unveiling, peeling back the layers of his carefully constructed defenses.  

“‘S cold.” he mutters under his breath, almost petulantly.

You almost smile. Your fingers graze the curve of his shoulder, marveling at the delicate slope of it, the faint bluish veins just visible beneath the surface. His skin is cool to the touch, soft and unblemished, like porcelain that’s been left out too long.

“You’ll live.” you say softly. Your touch lingers, trailing down the line of his arm, lightly, afraid you might bruise him with anything more.

And yet, he’s not entirely still. He’s crawling, shifting, searching for his place in this — this moment, this connection, this reality you’ve declared. He’s exposing himself in the only way he knows how, piece by piece, inch by inch, fighting and surrendering all at once.  

He finds his place in your lap.  

He settles there, hesitant but present, his weight pressing into you. His head rests against your chest, his breath warm against your skin, and you wrap your arms around him without hesitation, holding him close.  

“Do you always have to win?” he murmurs, his voice muffled against your shirt.

“Always.” you reply, pressing a kiss to his ear. “You make it too easy.”

Something between a scoff and a sigh can be heard, and he shakes his head faintly. “Unfortunately.” he mutters, but his arms loop around your waist, holding you tighter.

“This is pathetic.” he says.  

Restless, he shuffles, his cheek pressing into your chest like he’s trying to burrow deeper, trying to lose himself in the warmth you offer. 

“Maybe.” you reply, fingers trailing slowly through his hair. “But you’re here.”  

“Yeah.” he says, and it sounds like surrender, but also like a question.  

Your hand moves to his back. “You want me to stop?”  

“No.” The word comes fast, too fast, and then softer. “No. Just…don’t make it worse.”  

“What’s ‘worse’, Alex?”  

He exhales sharply. The question irritates him, but you know him too well to let that stop you. “Worse is…this. Worse is me. I’m worse.”  

“That’s not true.” you say.  

“It feels true.” he counters, his fingers twitching where they rest on your leg, scratching into the fabric. “Everything always feels like it’s…falling apart.”  

“Maybe it’s not falling apart.” you murmur, brushing a kiss against the crown of his head. “Maybe it’s just falling into place.”  

“Don’t.” His voice wavers. “Don’t say things like that.”  

“Why not?”  

“Because it makes it harder. You make it harder.” His head tilts up, his eyes catching yours. “You make me think it- it could be real. That- that I could be real.”  

“You are real.” Your hand moves back to his chest, resting lightly over his heart. “This is real.” You think he might argue, might push back the way he always does.  

Instead, he says, “Why?”  

“Why what?” 

“Why are you still here?” His voice cracks. It hurts to hear it every time. 

“Because.” you say, brushing your thumb across his jawline, letting the warmth of your touch linger there. “You keep asking me that, and my answer never changes.”  

“I hate you for that.”  

“No, you don’t.”  

“I do.” he insists.  

“Okay.” You lean down, your forehead resting lightly against his, your breath mingling with his. “Then hate me. I’m not going anywhere.”  

He closes his eyes, his hands coming up to clutch at your shirt, and when he speaks again, it’s barely audible.  

“Stay.”  

“I’m here.” 

Man, in reality, things are a lot more complicated. But neither of you wants to admit it.  

Neither of you wants to acknowledge the absurdity of him — nearly naked, trembling, his face pressed into your chest while you cradle him like a child. It’s too much, too raw, too uncomfortably real. And yet, here you are. His body quivers, the shivers starting somewhere deep inside him and finally radiating outward. You hold him tighter.  

It’s complicated.  

It makes enjoying this moment — the intimacy, the connection — feel like an act of rebellion, like something sacrilegious. There’s guilt in it, religious and repressive, as if joy itself is forbidden. How could he let himself enjoy something like this? But how could he not? How could he just give in without questioning, without scrutinizing every angle, every possibility?  

He doesn’t want to be the deluded one. He doesn’t want to fall victim to some imagined trap.  

So he deflects.  

His hips shift, just slightly, but enough to make his intentions clear. It’s a desperate, uncoordinated movement, almost involuntary, but it’s there. A sharp exhale escapes his lips, and he presses closer, rutting against your thigh like it’s the only thing tethering him to reality.  

How is he supposed to know when it’s okay to enjoy something? When he’s already anticipating it, overthinking it, sabotaging it? 

How are you supposed to know when to push and when to pull back?  

“I-” His voice cracks, a broken whimper spilling into your ear, and the sound makes your chest tighten. It clings.  

“What is it, baby?” you whisper, coaxing him to speak.  

“Everything.” he chokes out, his breath hitching on the word. It could have only been one syllable, but it still would have carried the weight of his never-ending spiral, a tangle of emotions too complex to name.  

You know this mood too. You’ve seen it before. It’s a storm that doesn’t pass on its own.  

The spiral pulls at him, drags him under, and you feel it too, the way it loops endlessly, pulling him back into himself. It’s a pattern you know all too well: his need to resist, to reject, to fight against anything that feels good because it’s easier that way. Safer.

And so, you’re left to force him to enjoy it.

It’s the cruelest irony, the self-fulfilling prophecy. He braces himself for the worst, anticipates the fall, and in doing so, denies himself any chance at the softness you offer. But you don’t relent. You can’t.

Your hands move against him, firm and deliberate, not letting him sink too far into his own darkness. “Breathe.” you whisper, your voice steady, commanding. You guide him, coaxing him to feel something other than the crushing weight of his own mind.

He presses harder against you, his movements erratic, desperate, like he’s trying to escape his own mind through sheer physicality. “I’m sorry.” he mumbles, the words barely audible. “I’m sorry.”  

“Shh…” you murmur, your hands smoothing over the trembling muscles. “You don’t have to apologise.”  

But he does. Or at least, he thinks he does. He thinks he’s done something wrong simply by existing like this, by needing like this.  

Then you feel it — a sharp, sudden sting on your shoulder. His teeth. He’s bitten down, even through the fabric of your shirt, and it sends a jolt through you. His teeth are sharp, almost animalistic in their intent.  

“Alex.” 

“I’m sorry.” he repeats, his voice frantic now, his hands clutching ‘cause now he’s afraid you’ll pull away. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I just-”  

“It’s okay.” you cut him off, cupping the back of his head and pulling him closer, holding him tightly enough to still him. “It’s okay. Just breathe, baby.”  

He shakes his head against you, his breath hot and uneven against your neck. “I can’t. I can’t stop.”  

“Yes, you can.” you insist, your voice firm but gentle. “You don’t have to- to…Just let it happen. Let me help you.”  

He’s frozen. He’s rigid. And then, slowly, he exhales — a shuddering, broken sound that seems to drain the tension from him. His head falls forward, his lips brushing against the curve of your neck, and he lets out a soft, muffled sob.  

“I’ve got you.” you murmur. “I’ve got you.”  

He pulls at you like a child lost in the chaos of himself, grasping, clumsy with need, and clinging with desperate fingers, his body trembling with the force of something he can’t name and can’t escape. 

His arms wrap tighter around you, his face buried in your neck, hiding from the weight of his own desires. But his body betrays him, his hips shifting insistently, and when his hand drags yours downward, pressing it against the heat between his legs, you feel the humiliation radiating off him like a second skin.  

The shame is overwhelming, sharp and heavy in his chest, threatening to choke him. He presses your palm against himself, his hips moving instinctively, helplessly, even as his mind screams at him to stop. He can feel the heat radiating off his own skin, the hardness straining against the fabric, and it only makes it worse.  

He’s caught in the push and pull of it, the unbearable shame of needing and the equally unbearable ache of denying himself. “I’m sorry.” he mumbles again, the words barely audible against your skin. He’s apologizing for everything — for needing, for wanting, for being this mess of contradictions in your arms. “I’m sorry, I-”  

“Stop.” you whisper, your voice soft but firm, cutting through his apologies before they can spiral out of control. “Don’t do that. Don’t apologise for this.”  

“I can’t help it.” he chokes out, his voice raw and uneven. His hips shift again, seeking friction, but it’s hesitant, as if he’s still bracing himself for rejection. “I don’t know how to-”  

“You don’t have to know how to…” you interrupt, cupping his cheek with your other hand, forcing him to lift his head, to meet your eyes. 

Wild, panicked, cheeks flushed with shame and lips trembling with words he can’t bring himself to say.  

Your hand presses firmer against him, and his breath stutters, a shuddering exhale that feels like it’s being ripped from him. “It’s okay.” you say softly, your voice teasing, cutting through his haze of shame with ease. He hates that tone, hates how it makes him feel exposed, seen. Your fingers curl slightly, pressing into the firmness of him. “It’s okay if you’re a bad boy, Alex.”  

A whimper escapes him, high and broken, and he shakes his head against you, a denial that carries no weight. It hurts, you can tell — it always does for him — but you know the pain is what he craves, what he needs. His hips buck slightly, chasing the friction, and he wants to sink into the floor, to disappear, to escape the humiliation of it. But he doesn’t stop. He can’t.  

“It hurts.” he murmurs, his voice trembling, and you can feel the heat of his tears against your skin.  

“I know.” you say, and your voice is so steady, so calm, it almost makes him break right there. Your hand moves deliberately now, slow and firm, cupping him, pressing into him. “It’s supposed to. It’s good, isn’t it?”  

His mind is a mess of thoughts he can’t untangle. It is supposed to hurt, isn’t it? That’s the point, isn’t it? The pain is what he deserves, what he needs. But then there’s you, holding him, touching him, making it worse and better all at once.  

He whines again, a soft, pitiful sound, his hips bucking slightly into your touch despite the weak protests he keeps mumbling. “No…I- I don’t…” he starts. His voice falters, the words dying in his throat.  

“No?” you say, tilting your head to look at him, your eyes piercing through the layers of shame he’s wrapped himself in. Your hand is still there, and it’s unbearable, unbearable in how good it feels. “Are you sure about that, baby?”  

He can’t answer. His voice has abandoned him, but his body hasn’t. His hips press harder into your palm, his breath hitching with every tiny movement. He feels ridiculous, pathetic, and yet he’s still doing it, still grinding against you like he has no control.  

It tells you everything you need to know.  

You tighten your grip, and the sharp, sudden pressure makes him gasp, his head falling back against your shoulder. “We need to get rid of this disobedience.” you say, your tone soft but firm, like you’re scolding him and soothing him all at once. “Don’t we, sweetheart?”  

His grip on your hand tightens, and he presses his forehead against yours, his eyes closing — shutting out the world.  

He shivers at the words, his body betraying him again with the way it arches into your touch. He wants to say something, to protest, to push you away, but all that comes out is another broken, pitiful whisper: “I’m sorry.” He’s trembling now, his body caught in that familiar, torturous space between pleasure and shame. “I’m sorry.” he whispers again.  

“Shh…” you murmur, leaning in closer, your breath warm against his temple. “You don’t have to apologise, baby. Not for this.”  

He hates how your voice makes him feel, hates how it softens the edges of his shame, makes him feel almost…safe. He doesn’t want to feel safe. He doesn’t deserve it. But then your hand moves again, your fingers pressing into him through the fabric, and he can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t do anything but feel.  

You lean in closer, your lips brushing against the shell of his ear as you murmur, “I’ll fuck it out of you. Is that what you want, hm?”  

His whole body goes still at that, his breath catching in his throat. “No…” he whispers, shaking his head, but the denial feels hollow, like it doesn’t belong to him.  

And you both know it.  

“Are you sure?” you press, squeezing him gently in your palm, watching as his eyes flutter shut, his body arching involuntarily. “Are you really sure, Alex?”  

He wants to say yes, wants to cling to the scraps of resistance he has left, but his body has already answered for him. 

“You don’t have to do anything.” you tell him, your thumb brushing softly over his cheekbone, over the tracks of dried tears. “Just let me.”  

“Okay.” he whispers finally, his voice barely more than a breath. “Okay.”  

“It’s alright.” you murmur, your lips slowly kissing his temple. “It’s alright, Alex. I’ve got you.”  

a/n: Title is stolen from some video I watched. And that is what started all of it. It feels like the opposite scenario of my last post, you can consider them being the same world, kinda. That is how I see them, together with 'My Love', 'Somewhere In The Ether', and 'Come Undone'. Makes sense to me. Also this one is more or less inspired by @futuristicanoe and their works. They're on my mind quite a lot and I think I subconsciously lean more into that sort of tone lately because of that.

[kcscribbler]

WIP Wednesday

Tagged as always by @elodiah.

More Storyteller cutscene shenanigans, because nothing else is cooperating with me right now.

Loki looks up when a plastic tray – black, he notes absently, instead of the hideous orange of the primary TVA’s cafeteria – hits the table across from him, and then double-takes. “You’re not Mobius.” “Clearly.” The young agent Loki is unfamiliar with, who seems to be part of Mobius’ inner circle in this new TVA, looks down at him over a pair of dark glasses. She sets a padded electronics sleeve down as well, but doesn’t take the seat yet. “He’s been detained. Special council meeting. I was asked to let you know. Would you prefer to eat alone?” From their brief interactions to date, Loki has found this woman to be refreshingly direct. She also appears to know more than most about the inner workings of this place; and particularly, about Mobius. And Loki is not above pressing a strategic advantage, when the opportunity literally walks up to him. Blackmail material is always worth acquiring for future use. He gestures toward the seat with a dramatic flourish. “Please, be my guest.” As she sits, Loki puts his glass down, frowning as the words belatedly register. “A special council meeting?” “Actually necessary. They’re usually tactical in nature, multiversal war strategy.” She twists the lid from a container of salad – not the boring (“it’s classic, you royal snob”) kind Mobius enjoys, but some elevated version containing what look like nuts and sliced strawberries amid the mixture of green leaves, as well as some kind of crumbling cheese. “But they’re always long. We won’t see him for at least three hours.” Loki’s eyebrow inclines slightly. “Does this special council of yours have a regular habit of holding their meetings with no regard for the work and break times of their satellite branch?” A loud snort. “You could say that.” Octavia spears a chunk of lettuce with her fork and then points it at him. “Which is why I sent someone after him. We actually have a special protocol for these things, Protocol J.” “Indeed?” “Oh, yes. Some asshole in a Santa Monica Jamba Juice is wondering where his smoothie went, right about now.”

No-pressure tags! @lokimobius @dilfmobius @thosegayoldmen @in-my-loki-feels @loki-is-my-kink-awakening

@impulsemuppet @asoeiki @natendo-art @boredintjqueen @wolfpup026

@thewildballyntynesgrow @justabigoldnerd @andthekitchensinkao3 @scifikimmi @insomniaflarrow Whatcha workin' on?

[karvroom]

10 Things I Hate About Katsuki Bakugo

◤━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━◥

⇦ 002. Your Overgrown Hatred for Assholes

003. French is the Language of Love

Kirishima was a quiet, but friendly boy who transferred from another school due to his dad's military career. U.A. was going to be the ninth school he's been to in the past ten years.

As a new student, he needed a mentor or someone to give him a tour of the large campus. Sero was assigned to show him around. They quickly became buddies after Sero's break down on the various cliques that occupied the school’s grounds.

Sero noticed Kirishima's aloof demeanor as he came to a stop. His eyes followed the red-head's. From the moment Kirishima saw Mina walking through the halls of U.A., he knew he had to have her. He was head over heels just by observing the way she walked and talked with her friends. Kirishima didn't care what everyone else said about her; she was a conceited, childish girl who would never date because of her father's house rules.

Of course, he was devastated to hear this at first. Alas, Kirishima wasn't one to give up so easily. It wouldn't be manly to allow a woman so stylishly wide-eyed and incredibly attractive to be swooned by a troll such as Kaminari and let him get away with it.

Once Sero mentioned Mina needed a French tutor, he knew that was his way in. Him and Sero devised of a brilliant plan: he would become a tutor for those who needed help in French. No, he didn't know the rich and melodic language , but he was willing to do anything just to grab Mina's attention from the snob, Denki Kaminari.

Kirishima was brought to when a bright red satchel was slammed onto the space next to him. His gaze followed the young lady that swiftly sat in the chair, folding one arm over the other, "Hi. Can we make this quick? Roxanne Corinne and Andrew Jarrett are having an incredibly horrendous public break-up on the quad, again."

"Oh, yeah, um, okay. I thought that we'd, um start with pronunciation, if that's all right with you." Why was he stuttering? Kirishima had never been this nervous before. He played with his fingers, feeling how sweaty his palms were. He felt like she could see right through him as her yellow irises grew.

Mina sighed, slumping her seat from the boredom that hit her, "Not the hacking and gagging and spitting part, please."

"Well, uh, there is an alternative."

"There is?" She smiled at the cloudy suggestion.

"Yeah. French food." Kirishima gulped, looking in every which way but Mina's. His cheeks flashed a color of pink as he continued, "We could eat some together, uh, Saturday night?"

"You're asking me out?" A sweet smile creeped onto Mina's face, revealing her pearly whites. The outer corners of her eyes scrunched together, "That's so cute. What's your name again?"

Kirishima moved his hands under the table, nervously fiddling with his sweaty fingers. He didn't know what he was doing. He was completely winging the entire thing, hoping she would say yes.

The red-head abashedly rubbed the nape of his neck as he stated his name, "Kirishima. Listen, I know that your dad doesn't let you date, but I thought that if it was for French class—"

Mina's face "Oh, wait a minute. Kelvin—"

"Kirishima." He kindly corrected, huffing at Mina's slight mispronunciation of his name.

"My dad just came up with a new rule. I can date when my sister does." Mina chimed, tapping her fingers against the light wood of the table. She kicked her feet beneath the table, glowing at the fact.

"You're kidding." Kirishima's heart began pounding out of his chest. He could hear the rhythmic sound in his ears, as he stared at Mina in absolute awe. He continued, "Let me ask you, do you like sailing? 'Cause I read about this place that rents out boats—"

"A beaucoup problemo, Kirkman. In case you haven't heard, my sister's a particularly hideous breed of loser."

Kirishima swallowed, not even bothering to remediate Mina once more. The lines on his forehead signified his concerns, realizing it wasn't as easy as he had wished to get the girl of his dreams. "Yeah. Yeah, I noticed she's a little antisocial. Why is that?"

"Unsolved mystery." Mina shrugged, her lips tightening into a thin line. "She used to be really popular, and then it was like she got sick of it or something. Theories abound as to why, but I'm pretty sure she's just incapable of human interaction. Plus, she's a bitch."

Kirishima was slightly shocked at how easy it was to get your sister to bad mouth you. He didn't expect it from someone so bubbly. Kirishima especially didn't expect the insults thrown to your name. He thought sisters were supposed to look out for each other, but no, Mina wasn't exactly the biggest fan of you.

"Well, yeah, but I'm sure, you know, that there are lots of guys who wouldn't mind going out with a difficult woman." Kirishima tried shedding some light on the situation, finding it hard to believe you were completely un-dateable. "I mean, you know, people jump out of airplanes and ski off cliffs. It's be like "Extreme Dating"."

"You think you could find someone that extreme?"

Kirishima smiled, realizing a plan was starting to come together, all he had to do was take action. "Yeah, sure, why not?"

"And you'd do that for me?" Mina put a hand on Kirishima's forearm. He thought he might explode in that moment. Suddenly, he felt more ecstatic.

"Hell, yes!" Kirishima shouted louder than he should've in the library, causing a few students to shush him. He shook his head, looking away from Mina as he brought his tone down a few notches, "I mean, you know, I could look into it."

◣━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━◢

⇨ 004. An Idiot with Money

taglist🫐 @katsukota @wheezdostuff @honeydwitch @chuugarettes

[rafesveryrealgf]

Never been kissed

(Rafe x kook!reader)

Warning: NON CANON, minor!rafe x minor!reader, kissing.

Synopsis: You, and your best friend, Rafe, are 15 yrs old. The summer going into 10th grade, You were hanging out when the topic took a turn, and Rafe asked you about your first kiss. You felt embarrassed that you still hadn’t had your first kiss so, Rafe thought it would be a good idea to get it over with so you didn’t have to go into 10th grade still not having experienced a first kiss.

You, and Rafe had been hanging out at his place for the whole summer, and you never once got tired of it.

Rafe was your best friend; your only best friend, and there wasn’t a damn thing you couldn’t trust him with. He was a good friend, and always had your back. When the other Kooks would pick on you, he’d be right there to defend you.

Having Rafe by your side was a good thing, he was the king kook, but it had its down sides. Due to you and Rafe being best friends, you two were practically inseparable so, with that being said, no guys would even come close to you. They were all afraid Rafe had his eyes on you already, and didn’t want to be Rafe’s next victim.

Today, you and Rafe were hanging out at his house, in his room.

You were sitting on his bed, leaned up against his headboard with your legs criss crossed, twiddling your fingers while Rafe was busy digging through his closet.

“Does this outfit look okay,” He came out, and held up a baby blue collared shirt on a hanger, with khaki shorts hanging just below. “Y’know for the first day of school?”

“Rafe, it looks like every other outfit you own, the only difference is the color.” You chuckled.

He rolled his eyes at you.

“Yeah, whatever. I don’t care for your opinion any way.” He joked.

“Who’re you trying to impress?” You tilted your head with a smile.

“No one,” He answered quickly, eyeing you harshly as you joked.

He turned around and went back into his closet to neatly put the clothes away.

He walked back out and sat in front of you, on the bed.

“Oh c’mon. There’s absolutely no one at our school that you’re interested in?” You leaned forward, grabbing his hand and began tossing it up, and down, making his arm do the ‘worm’, hoping for some answers.

“No,” he chuckled.

You frowned at his answer, giving the puppy dogs at him so he’d fold.

“Well,” he dragged out. “I dunno.”

Your shoulders fell.

“Stop asking me about girls,” he pushed your shoulder back in a playful way, and chuckled. “I’m sure you like tons of guys so, tell me about them.”

“All the guys at our school are hideous snobs, Rafe.” You snickered at him.

“Hey! I go there, asshole.” He tackled you into the bed, tickling you, until you begged for him to stop.

“Obviously not you.” You breathed out. “I don’t find many of them attractive, and I think they feel the same about me.”

“Why do you feel that way?” He furrowed his brows at you, genuinely wanting to know.

You sighed, sitting up. “I mean, it’s obvious. People our age are like…having sex, and I haven’t even had my first kiss yet.” You frowned.

“Wait, what?” He eyed you deeply, as if he were taken aback by your response. “You haven’t had your first kiss?” He chuckled.

“Yeah.. I mean it’s super embarrassing, I know.”

“No. No, it’s not y/n. Some guys actually prefer their girl…untouched, y’know.” He patted your thigh in a comforting way.

“Ugh…but I feel like a loser.” You huffed, face now slowly turning red.

You were slowly regretting telling Rafe you hadn’t had your first kiss, only because instead of teasing you, it seemed he had actually felt bad for you. Which was somehow far worse than him just teasing you about it.

“You know..if you want..,” He pinched his eyes closed, and pursed his lips together as if he were about to say something he’d regret. “I can help.”

You both looked at each other quickly, before you began laughing, uncontrollably. But he kept a straight face, which quickly helped you realize he wasn’t joking.

“Look, it’s weird.. trust me, I know,” he said.

He straightened his body on your bed to propose his idea. “…but we’re best friends, so, I’m willing to take one for the team,” He smirked before continuing. “So you don’t have to walk into tenth grade looking like a loser.”

You could tell he was joking at the last part, but every thing he said before ‘looking like a loser’ had seemed very serious.

What was so bad about kissing Rafe any way? He was a good ass friend to you, and here he was offering himself to you so you didn’t have to feel shitty about not having your first kiss. It’s not like the kiss would mean something to either of you any way, so why not?

“Okay, but.. I don’t exactly know how to either.” You said, clasping your hands together, and pursing your lips.

“That’s okay, I can teach you.” He shrugged.

You hesitated for a second then nodded.

He scooted closer to you, and soon after, brought one hand to your cheek.

You both leaned in,

And just when he got inches away from your face, you snorted. You couldn’t contain your laugh. And to be quite frank it was awkward. This was your best friend that you were about to kiss, and never in a million years would you have thought that this would ever happen.

“Y/n, be serious.” He rolled his eyes.

At this point Rafe was more adamant on kissing you than you were him.

“Okay, okay. I’m ready.” You giggled one last time before straightening yourself out.

He leaned back in, and you closed your eyes. this time, your lips connected.

You were confused on what to do with your hands so they sat neatly in your lap while his hands were caressing your face.

Your lips were still, while his were going all over the place, his head tilting to each side with every couple of kisses.

Even though this was supposed to be purely platonic, you couldn’t help but feel jitters in your stomach. Your cheeks were now feeling warm, as you began to kiss back. Your heart tightened when he swiped his tongue between your lips. And not long after you got the hang of it, you began swiping your tongue between his lips too.

The kiss was only supposed to last a second, but turned into a full blown make out session, and you were confused, but nonetheless, enjoying it. Rafe kissing you the way he did had unleashed feelings towards him that you hadn’t seen or felt before.

He pulled away from your lips with his hands still placed on your cheeks.

“And…” he drawled, his face falling into a smirk as he looked into your eyes. “Just like that.”

You never noticed how hypnotizing his piercing blue eyes were until you found yourself unable to look away from them.

You then leaned in for another kiss.

[beach-bear-enjoyer]

be honest chat is this choker absolutely hideous or am i an ungrateful snob

[realcube]

YOU GOT: KEIJI AKAASHI

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ matchup for @lady-of-endless

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ if you would like a matchup, read this!

'MBTI: INFJ'

𓆩♡𓆪 according to personality database, akaashi is an INTJ

𓆩♡𓆪 which i agree with tbh , usually personality database has some unqiue opinions based in nothing but imo INTJ is accurate for him

𓆩♡𓆪 anyway this means you are both very similar; you're both judging types which means you both tend to plan things out and make decisions based on logic and reason opposed to whimsy

𓆩♡𓆪 which is great because akaashi probably doesn't have the capacity to handle another bokuto

𓆩♡𓆪 he just needs someone stable and rational who isn't pushing him outside of his comfort zone every other day and that person is youu

𓆩♡𓆪 and your both introverts which is great because at functions he WILL be hanging out with you opposed to mingling

𓆩♡𓆪 not because he is shy though , literally just because he cba and he prefers your company anyway

𓆩♡𓆪 the only difference you have is you are feeling and he is thinking type

𓆩♡𓆪 and i think this is a very beneficial place to be seperated on because it means you can both learn to see things from a new perspective

𓆩♡𓆪 like you could definitely teach him to be more empathetic and open-minded

𓆩♡𓆪 while he could teach you to be more strict — since being compassionate, especially overly so isn't always a good thing and can lead to you being taken advantage of or needless upset

𓆩♡𓆪 and there is no way he is going to let something like that happen to you

𓆩♡𓆪 he finds how caring you are to be sweet though , and he wouldn't change a thing about you

𓆩♡𓆪 and being around you DEFINITELY makes him less cynical , thats for sure

𓆩♡𓆪 like he'll watch a murder documentary on netflix and be like "everyone is hideous on the inside and we're all just psychopaths"

𓆩♡𓆪 but then he'll hang out with you and be like "nevermind ☺"

︵‿︵‿୨��୧‿︵‿︵  

'going to the gym, listening to music, reading and studying, learning new stuff, playing the guitar'

𓆩♡𓆪 i can't imagine akaashi being a gym rat. like he i could defo see him as a person who goes to the gym, but not gym rat. he mostly just goes bc he feels like he has to

𓆩♡𓆪but omg if he finds out you go to the gym .. for fun..

𓆩♡𓆪 he will become the biggest poser on earth

𓆩♡𓆪 he seems like a "gym once a week" type of guy but as soon as he hears that you go daily or x amount of times a week, you can catch him on shoulder press machine 24/7

𓆩♡𓆪 not even ushijima HIMSELF could pull that mf away from the stair master

𓆩♡𓆪 all that just so he has the chance of running into you and having something to talk to you about

𓆩♡𓆪 but the difference between him doing it opposed to bokuto or someone else, is that he doesn't even know that he's doing it for you

𓆩♡𓆪 like he just starts hanging out in the gym more but in his head he is like "yeah i'll just stay for a couple more sets before i go... for my health... not for any other reason... hm"

𓆩♡𓆪 but deep down he is praying that you'll come in at any moment

𓆩♡𓆪 but that's like pre-dating. after y'all start dating he keeps this gym rat facade up for maybe a couple months before he admits he's a lazy shit

𓆩♡𓆪 jk actually dating you would probably get him going to the gym more anyway so maybe you never find out

𓆩♡𓆪he is definitely the reading type, i'm pretty sure it's canon that he is a manga editor after the timeskip??

𓆩♡𓆪 anyway he would definitely be giving you book/manga reccs once y'all start dating

𓆩♡𓆪 and he's unreal because if you give him a recc back he will ACTUALLY read it just so you guys have something to talk about

𓆩♡𓆪 even if it's abosolute trash , he'll still read it but just so he can complain about it and tease you for having horrible taste

𓆩♡𓆪 as if he doesn't read manga .. i mean, who does that?! (👀)

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

'Ideal first date: movie and a walk'

𓆩♡𓆪 oki this is defo what made me pick akaashi for you

𓆩♡𓆪 i can totally imagine him as a film snob though so you are going to have to deal with him putting on some pretentious ass "classic" film like fight club ARGH

𓆩♡𓆪 unless you're into that kinda stuff then y'all are just a match made

𓆩♡𓆪 or it could go the opposite way around and you convince him to watch a funny but objectively "poor" movie like sausage party

𓆩♡𓆪 or you could compromise and watch a critically aclaimed movie made for wide audiences like deadpool or barbie

𓆩♡𓆪 omg he sooo wants to watch something mentally stimulating and challenging with you so you guys can have in depth discussions about the plot over a glass of wine

𓆩♡𓆪 but on your first date bokuto told him beforehand "bro you gotta watch a scary film, she'll get so scared she'll jump into your arms and then you don't even need to make a move"

𓆩♡𓆪 and at first he is apprehensive but bokuto has probably had wayyy more gfs than him so he just goes with it

𓆩♡𓆪 so he puts on a horror movie and he isn't easily scared but it wouldn't matter if he was anyway because the whole time he is just passing glances at you like 👁👁 waiting for you to squeal and leap into his arms like bokuto said you would

𓆩♡𓆪 v disappointed when that doesn't happen

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

for @lady-of-endless: you are such a sweetie pie so you deserved someone as sweet ! akaashi was the first person that sprung to mind for you tbh. i briefly considered kenma but it was mostly akaashi supremacy for you

[hplovecraftmuseum]

If as I have proposed numerous times in our exhibits here Lovecraft loved order, beauty, honor, and refined culture, why does he write of these things always in a state of decline? HPL loved visiting public museums, yet he ghost wrote THE HORROR IN THE MUSEUM for a client. He loved gardens, yet THE GARDEN OF YIN ends with a person eventually trapped inside a walled garden. Lovecraft appreciated those elements of Classical Architecture which he saw in the Georgian structures of his native New England. He despised the jumbled Victorian houses that rose up in the Federal Hill district of Providence. He wrote repeatedly of hideous ruins and moldering structures defying logic and natural law in his tales. Lovecraft never drank alcohol in his life or used any mind-altering drugs, but drunken persons and drug users appear several times in his stories. For Lovecraft what set humans apart from animals was 'culture'. By that I do not mean money or social status alone. Lovecraft hated the pretentious, the uncouth wealthy, the snobs who cover themselves in a thin varnish of refined appearance. Being a lady or gentlemen to him was not a pose. For most of Lovecraft's adult life he lived very close to poverty. Prisoners in most institutions likely ate more nourishing meals than he. His clothing was sometimes threadbare, but he always tried to appear neatly dressed and almost always wore a suit and tie. Some have asked why he did not make a more practical effort to write fiction for money. They say he wasted so much of his time writing letters - some of them incredibly long - to friends and associates. It might be said that Lovecraft was a slave to his own culture, or to what he believed being a cultured gentleman of letters MUST BE. This fantasy of almost maniacal loyalty to one's cultural is probably most perfectly reflected in the culture of Imperial Japan ending with its defeat in WW2. This recognition that the people of Japan would fight to the last man, the last woman, would suffer any depredation before dishonoring their culture is a element of existence that Lovecraft faced too. Of course HPL died before WW2 became an official event, but the world was spinning in that direction ever faster before he died in 1937. (Exhibit 581)

[forensicated]

05x13 - The Key Of The Door

Dashers pulls up outside a house. The posh lady who answers thinks he's there to view the property before he clarifies that he is Detective Constable Dashwood from Sun Hill Police. She mutters in response about 'the most hideous thing'. Mike doesn't understand so she gestures at the For Sale Sign. Mike tells her she doesn't have to have one if she doesn't want to.

Bob finds Pete crawling around a car. Pete explains the car belongs to a disqualified driver. He's planting a stone to prove his suspicions that the man is still driving it. "This your route back to CID is it?" Bob smirks. "Come on Sarge; three convictions for drunk driving?" Bob tells him he should have used chalk on the kerb to mark the wheels.

Tosh and Jim are sitting outside a suspected brothel, watching men leave. The men are averaging half an hour before leaving. They suggest hanging on a bit after one has just gone in before going inside. Both men claim they've not visited a sex worker themselves.

Dashers updates his victim that a glove print and plasticine was found during a forensics sweep. He asks for information about prospective buyers. She tells him to ask the Estate Agent but he's interested in what she remembers. She claims a 'fat and 50-year-old couple with dyed hair and lots of vulgar jewellery called. The woman had a very loud voice and told her husband which walls she would knock down if they bought it so she decided not to sell to them. She claimed they looked like market traders. "... Yes, I'm a snob." Mike smiles and tells her it's alright, so is he!

Bob chases a mugger - who luckily only spots the officer running at him just before he reaches him (!) Bob gives chase up some stairs onto an estate but loses his suspect. He calls the description in and returns to the shaken victim, Avril Hebberd. Avril doesn't want to report it and tries to sidestep him. Bob tells her work can wait and he'll walk her home and make her a cup of tea. Avril gives in and tells him the mugger only got £10. An elderly man greets Bob and tells him that he is doing much better than [Avril]. Avril shouts at the elderly man to shut up because it's none of his business. Bob's spidey senses are tingling.

The Estate Agent is not sympathetic to Posh Lady's plight. Her concern is only that she might drop the price or take her house off the market. Mike tells her it's not the only house targeted after being listed for sale locally. The Estate Agent snaps back that it can't be linked because she is the first one on their books that it happened to. While bringing up a list of those who viewed it, she tries to sell Mike a starter home on a rather exclusive estate.

Avril tries to stop Bob following her inside her flat. He insists on making them both a drink. It looks like the flat has been burgled as everything is in disarray. He asks if she's been burgled and presses her to talk to him. Avril ignores his questions until Bob asks if he's looking for a burglar and a mugger or if they're the same person. She finally speaks up. He's neither. He's her son.

Tosh and Jim watch as the 4th man leaves the suspected brothel. Jim suggests it could be something innocent like aromatherapy or reflexology. Tosh just scoffs at his innocence. "Ken Melvin's girlfriend, who's a medical student, told me that if you-" "Come on." Tosh cuts him off to avoid hearing more. "Depends what parts you press, that's all!" Jim pouts, following him out of the car. "Neighbours who complain about feet being massaged?" Tosh snorts. They hesitate outside, neither wanting to be the first. "Kim's Massage Parlour?" Jim asks as the door is answered by an attractive blonde. The woman confirms they're in the right place and leads them inside. An older redhead asks if they're 'equipment salesmen' because she thinks that's what they look like. Jim shakes his head and says they're just customers and they had trouble finding them because there isn't a sign outside. The redhead claims they like to be discreet and asks them if they want a massage or-... Jim cuts in quickly, "Just a massage." She smiles. "Just a massage to start with." They each hand over £10 - or rather Jim hands over £20 because Tosh only has a handful of loose change.

Bob gets Avril to sit down and makes them both a cuppa. He starts to clean up the broken pottery whilst Avril talks. She tells him that her son is 14 and only happy when drunk and fighting. He regularly assaults her and has done so since he was young. His behaviour is worse when he wants money. She's ashamed and tells Bob she's done her best and given him everything she could but it was never enough for him. She loves her son and although she doesn't like him anymore, she won't have harm come to him.

Bob calls Pete - who is chalking marks on the kerb.

Bob sends Pete to call in at Miskin Manor High School to speak to Avril's son, Richard. If Richard is at school he wants him to be brought to him at the flat. Avril wants to head for work at her daughter's school as a dinner lady as she knows her daughter will be worried if she's not there given her brother's behaviour. Bob asks her to at least give it a few minutes whilst they continue to tidy up and wait for Richard. Avil explains that her daughter is a good girl who avoids Richard. She hasn't been raised any differently to Richard so she doesn't get why he behaves as he does. As they talk the door slams open and Richard demands to know 'Why aren't you at work, you old slag?' Bob stands. "Hello, Richard..."

Richard sits with his head down as Avril explains that Bob saw them 'arguing' on the street and brought her home to make sure she was OK. Bob asks him why he isn't at school. Richard ignores him until Bob leans in and growls that he's talking to him. Richard claims he's off sick and Avril quickly confirms that 'he's had a bit of a cold'.

Mike calls Frank and tells him that he hasn't had a lot of luck at the first estate agent and so is going to call in the next one and will meet him in the pub as arranged in ten minutes. The Estate Agent stands in the doorway watching Mike. ".. Actually Guv, can you make that twenty minutes?" He tells her that he's going to give the starter home a miss and she laughs and says he's too tall for them anyway and invites him back inside.

She has remembered an 'off the books' couple who only had a telephone number as they had returned from Spain and were staying in hotels whilst house hunting. They gave their names as 'Mr and Mrs Rudge' and the telephone number is that of a pub. They hadn't heard of the Rudges when she rang it to give them an update on a new property. They are cash buyers, not wanting to go through the books. "Fat and fifty, dyed hair, lots of jewellery." "That's him..." "Him?" "I don't remember a lot about her except for her voice." Dashers is amused. He then asks if Julie [the agent] is leasehold, freehold or vacant possession'. Smooth... She shows him her engagement ring. "Under offer. But I'm quite happy to be gazumped." I bet she is...

Richard snaps at his mother that the tapes he wanted are sold out so she should have given him the money on Saturday when first asked. He tries to walk to his room and Bob tells him to help his mother clear up. Richard ignores him and goes to his bedroom, slamming the door and blasting his music. "You've seen him. Now you can leave us alone." She tells Bob, refusing to press charges. Bob tells her the problem won't go away and Richard is lucky there are no visible bruises on her as he would have taken him in. Avril refuses help from Social Services and insists she doesn't want Richard taken into care as the local children's home is known as "'The Rent Office' with children as young as 12 on the game." Bob tries to get Avril to call the police for help if she can't handle what happens. He doesn't want to split her family up, but he does want to help her.

"... Well it wasn't reflexology...." Tosh murmurs getting back in the car.

"Just dropped my motor round the corner. Fifty quid for a tune up! I'm in the wrong business!" Frank claims, getting in. He asks if the house is a brothel and both men instantly say yes. Frank says they can return in the afternoon and 'nick the old slag'. "I thought she was quite a nice sort of person actually, guv." Jim cuts in, thinking it's unfair that she gets arrested for providing a service whilst the men who demand the service get off scot-free. "Not if they've been with Kim Hammersley they don't..." Frank murmurs, leaving Tosh looking rather uncomfortable.

Dashers tells Frank that a 'dodgy looking couple' attended the house of their burglary victim. Their description matches the description of a dodgy couple who go way back with Frank and Mike. Bobby and Vera Swan had 'retired' to Spain years ago but their son has just been released from prison. The couple are due to view two properties that day and Mike wants to mount an operation. The burglary matches Bobby's MO but he's too old to do the required acrobatics to get in through an upstairs bathroom window. Geoff - their son - isn't though... Frank agrees to go with him to catch them.

"Hello, it's Jim and Alf again!" Jim smiles, knocking on the door of the massage parlour. Kim is the only one present as the other, Paula, has just 'popped out for a yoghurt'. Jim comes clean and shows Kim his warrant card. "I'm too trusting, that's my trouble!" Kim offers a list of her regular clients and Jim says it's not necessary. "If you're keeping a-" "Disorderly house? That's what it was called in me mum's day," she says, handing him her record book. "I'm very methodical." Jim sighs. "In the eyes of the law, it's you that's guilty." "Yeah, the laws a man, innit." Kim sighs, putting her shoes on to go with them.

Frank and Mike pull up outside the first house suspected as the next target. They watch as the couple leave and confirm their suspicions. It's Vera and Bobby Rudge Donnelly Swan. Bobby plays the innocent and tells Frank he's too late to make an offer on the house they've just viewed as they'd paid cash for it after Vera fell in love with it. Frank asks if 'Young Geoff' will have his own key or if he'll use the bathroom window?" Bobby's expression changes... he knows the game is up.

On his way to Avril's to check on her, Bob passes where Pete's target car had been left to find that has gone. Pete radios Bob to tell him that the teacher has told him that Richard has a problem with women and frequently lashes out at girls and female staff but doesn't touch the boys or male staff She recalled his father was much the same before he left the family. She had heard on the school grapevine that the mother often has a black eye or fat lip when she reports to work. Bob thanks him and tells him that the red Cortina has moved.

The car is back in place when Pete gets to the scene. Pete feels the bonnet and snaps at the owner who he spots speaking to a neighbour with some cans in his hand. The owner admits going to the off-licence for his cans but denies driving, claiming the neighbour turns the car over for him so it doesn't seize up when he's able to drive it again. Pete points out the chalk kerb marks but can't do anything about it as it's lined up again - or rather, given that the owner throws a cloth at him - he'd rubbed them off and marked the kerb himself. Thankfully for Pete, the stone has not been replaced. Pete smirks and points it out before he arrests him.

Bob knocks on Avril's front door as he hears her son shouting at her inside. He looks through the letterbox and hears Avril screaming and things being thrown. Bob breaks a window to get in and catches Richard strike his mother. He restrains him and Avril watches in tears as her son is arrested for GBH with intent, dabbing her bleeding lip.

[the-bjd-community-confess]

I'm in a nice little discord for a local bjd group and it's nice but I just have to vent about how one person in it acts. We all love to share our photos and most of us have some flavor of cheap DSLR, but theirs is one of the super expensive high end ones. They take really good pics and have a good sense of composition and general photo ideas and I like seeing their pics and what a high end camera can do for dolls.

But man. I wish they weren't such a snob. The way they talk about their own photos is demoralising at best and obnoxious at worst. 'Ugh the colours in this look disgusting, it's completely unuseable' 'the lighting was unsalvageable so I only have this hideous mess.' 'Didn't save any of these because they look like shit so I just deleted them all. Every last one of those photos was something way better than me or probably anyone else in the group could do. For the life of me I can't even pick up the differences in the photos they're proud of vs the ones that are 'shitty and unuseable'. I think most people probably can't. There are also photos they're proud of and put up on their Instagram that I think look 'worse' than ones they complained and complained about and said can't see the light of day, (not that any of them are truly bad) so I can't even grasp their own criteria of good vs bad.I know being a perfectionist turns you into your own worst enemy, but it's really uncomfortable.

When they're trashing and insulting these amazing photos for not being Pulitzer Prize worthy it just makes me feel like they must think mine and everyone else's are even shittier and not worth sharing whatsoever. It almost makes me not even want to post photos where they can see so I don't have to worry about how they might feel about whatever minuscule error is in the picture barely perceivable to the naked eye but I also cant bring myself to care that much when I'm taking photos of my dolls for fun because I enjoy it.

Honestly if you're being this hard on yourself over doll photos of all things maybe you need to reevaluate what you actually want out of this hobby. It's meant to be fun. Photographing dolls is meant to be fun. If you're constantly beating yourself up over perfectly fine, regular photos then I really don't think you're having as much fun as you say you are, not to even mention how your constant negativity brings others down.

~Anonymous

[topazadine]

OC Fun Facts!

I'm joining in on the new game @mysticstarlightduck started with her post on the Scrapyard Boys!

I'll share some details about the three main characters from 9 Years Yearning: Uileac Korviridi, Orrinir Relickim, and Cerie Korviridi (Uileac's little sister).

Rules: Make a list of fun facts about your OCs. Like a headcanon list, if you will! Except it's actually canon lol.

Uileac Korviridi

He's obsessed with tea. Like, unhealthily obsessed. And a tea snob. Worst man ever. His least favorite household chore is mopping the floors because they just get dirty again in five seconds so why bother 🙄 If he had to pick a profession other than soldier, he'd be a horse trainer. While Uileac loves all animals, he has a healthy fear of chickens. They're just so damn unnerving. Something about those weird little beady eyes. He'd rather deal with a bucking horse than an angry rooster. (Yes, he knows it's irrational ok) His perfect day off would be spent going on a picnic with Orrinir, Cerie, and their horses to a nice spot by the Great Gold River. Of course, he'd have to stay on alert for Cerie shoving him into the river for funsies. When he's not in his Bremish Cavalry uniform, he's not very picky about his clothes. Just a normal tunic and a cozy pair of trousers. He's a bit of a homebody at heart.

Orrinir Relickim

His bad habit is being LOUD. The man has no volume control. Orrinir's pretty vain, especially about his hair. Look, it's gorgeous and luscious and such a nice cherry red - who wouldn't be proud? His signature cologne is an amber perfume stick Uileac bought him. Secretly everyone thinks it smells kind of awful, and Orrinir agrees, but Uileac bought it for him and now Uileac thinks he likes the smell so he's trapped smelling like amber forever and ever. Or at least until he grows a damn spine. At home, you're likely to find him wearing hideous paisley or floral prints. His sister-in-law Cerie buys them for him at festivals as a joke, but he wears them anyway. Both because it doesn't make sense to waste good fabric, but also because it makes Cerie mad to see him so unbothered by it. Orrinir loves to cook, which is convenient because Uileac hates to cook (but loves to eat). His favorite thing to make is yak butter scones with fresh elderberry jam. His favorite atribute about himself is being able to slice through damn near anything because he keeps his sword surgery-sharp.

Cerie Korviridi

Cerie is, and will always be, the baby of the family. She can't escape it. This is her eternal curse. Her brother Uileac and brother-in-law Orrinir spoil, coddle, and henpeck her about everything, well after the age when they should. Her bad habit is being a bit of a whiner, though she eventually grows out of that. Cerie's perfect day would be spent at the library inhaling random books about topics that she never cared about until right that minute. Unlike her older brother, Cerie has an insatiable sweet tooth. Her favorite is cardamom milkcakes, which are spicy and kind of glutinous. She can NOT handle her liquor. Get her drunk and she's just going crazy. Then crying about a hangover the next day. Cerie is a messy little shit so it's fortunate that she lives with her brother and brother-in-law, who always pick up after her even though they complain about it incessantly 😌 she has them very well trained.

Open tag!

[rosellabascomacapinlac]

Oh dear God,

Why I was being rejected, snobbed, and underestimated? Because of an overprotected ugly faced class bully in high school spread false rumors about me since first time I met her, what very strong sexually thirsty spells are those? I never liked to let that feeble minded immature hideous matured faced hooker rape me not even for the money and candies, what a cheapstake. Before it was the violent psycho who almost broke my arm, then that rapist hooker from Highschool, then the false rumor-spreading jealous witch from high school, miserable college life, Sriram Bronzo, and now a random rapists came to me plus my grandma’s house cleaner the Mr. Imperfect go rapist mode and a gold digger mode after those other video games released some trailers. Video games trailers after they saw my face at outside, every time travel with my family.

Why I was being rejected, snobbed, and underestimated? Because of an overprotected ugly faced class bully in high school spread false rumors about me since first time I met her, what very strong sexually thirsty spells are those? I never liked to let that feeble minded immature hideous matured faced hooker rape me not even for the money and candies, what a cheapstake. Before it was the violent psycho who almost broke my arm, then that rapist hooker from Highschool, then the false rumor-spreading jealous witch from high school, miserable college life, Sriram Bronzo, and now a random rapists came to me plus my grandma’s house cleaner the Mr. Imperfect go rapist mode and gold digger mode, if I refused to pay him because it's a big waste of time, money, and hygiene, then he will gonna sued me for my money.

It's extremely not cool, Castlevania, street fighter ex, and Fighting ex Layer

[coldflasher]

not to be a snob, but i'm gonna---in i thiiiink 9x01, i believe it's mentioned that barry and iris will be moving into joe's house to raise bart and nora when joe leaves CC and while i can appreciate a little childhood nostalgia as much as the next gal, i do not understand why they would do this. it is canonically established that joe's house is tiny. you could probably fit three or four of that house into barry and iris's monstrously large and fancy apartment. it's SUCH a downgrade. imagine raising two speedster kids in a house where there isn't enough room to swing a cat. they'd be climbing the walls!! probably literally because SPEEDSTERS VERY MUCH CAN AND DO RUN UP WALLS!!

admittedly i do think the suburban location is more desirable than barry and iris's inner city apartment, but from a logistical perspective i feel that barry's comings and goings as the flash would be far less noticeable in a busy city location than out on some quiet cul-de-sac on the city limits

once again this boils down to this obsession that tv shows (or perhaps americans generally? i say this with love and curiosity because i have no idea if this is actually reflective of people's actual real-life decision-making so if this is a tv show thing i do apologize for the generalization) have with legacy and like, heirlooms and family history that i feel isn't such a sacred thing in england? i don't know if it's perhaps related to the relative youth of the country that results in this desire to kind of create a history for one's self and really prioritize that personal family history and legacy, but particularly in shows the characters always seem to borrow or inherit things, from abstract things like names (every tv show character's kid is named after a (usually deceased) loved one or relative, we already know i hate this) and career paths to physical objects like property, with engagement rings being the biggest offender. has any american tv show or book character ever had an engagement ring that wasn't passed down from a previous generation, with no consideration of individual preference or taste?

maybe i'm just a cynic and also generally a hater (i maintain that 90% of fictional women have ugly wedding dresses and also, bella swan's hideous ostritch egg-sized wedding ring comes to mind) but it bothers me personally as someone who would very much want a say in the appearance of the ring i would presumably be wearing daily for the rest of my life?

i don't know where i'm going with this but just. why would they get rid of their large and beautiful apartment to move into joe's tiny house that's a quarter of the size?? WHY!! YOU ALREADY HAVE A FAR NICER PROPERTY! and also barry you are a millionaire at least. you could just buy another house...