#like. it was a tangible reality!!!!!!!!!!!

[sharieb]

Fragments of Her Light Chapter 3: To Stay, To Obsess, To Play

Synopsis: A destiny café becomes more of a sanctuary that stages for obsession, longing, and playful torment. He finds himself trapped between desire and helplessness as the person he had long been searching for appears in ghostly form, teasing and caressing him until his composure shatters, as he becomes unable to control his words or actions. Soon, he learns about the truth behind this mysterious café.

Pairing: LADs x Non-MC! reader

Genre: Fluff, slight hurt/comfort, slight crack

Content warning: The boys will be a bit ooc, Non-MC is a lil gremlin in this chapter, implied self-aware but with a twist.

Music selection: House of Cards by BTS (Full Length Edition)

Writer's notes: Lovelie, you don't want to understand how I stress over getting the boys' in-game dialogues that would fit this chapter. In the end, I had to make up my own.

Taglist (write in the reply if you also want to be added): @chaoticfivesworld, @crazyzombieblaze, @our-raven-strife-universe, @plzdonutpercieveme, @orianakira, @jcrml, @inthemoodforju

Time passed, and the café had become his new refuge. His escape. A place to breathe when the world outside pressed too tightly around his throat. He came here so often now that the Café Keeper didn’t even bother asking for his order anymore. The drink was always waiting. The back room, the quiet one behind the velvet curtain, had long since become his personal sanctuary.

Over time, he became more than just a regular customer. He became a patron of the café. A silent benefactor. He started providing financial support to both Destiny Café locations, funnelling resources quietly, without drawing attention to himself. It wasn’t for the coffee or the atmosphere. It was for that room. That one, small, secret space that had become his personal oasis.

Eventually, he made it official. He tried to negotiate with the Café Keeper to have the back room converted into an exclusive VIP area, a private space just for him. But the Café Keeper shook his head, explaining gently that he couldn’t promise full exclusivity. Others might come along who needed the space too, and he couldn’t in good conscience turn them away.

So they struck a deal.

Anyone who wanted to use that room would have to match his financial contributions to the café, a secret membership plan known only to a select few. It wasn’t advertised. It wasn’t on the menu. It wasn’t whispered about between patrons. It was a silent arrangement known only to the highest-level benefactors of Destiny Café. The room had become something of a secret tier, an unspoken refuge for those wealthy enough, desperate enough, or obsessed enough to keep returning.

From that day on, the back room wasn’t just a sanctuary. It was his private corner of the world, even if others technically had the right to earn the same.

He sat in the armchair, drink in hand, mind wandering. Maybe he’d sketch later. Maybe he’d read. Maybe he’d just close his eyes for a while and let the room hold him.

But today was different.

As he sank into the chair, something shifted. His limbs tensed. His fingers froze around the mug, unable to move. His body stiffened, locked into place.

Panic surged. His heart raced.

Why can’t I move?

His breath caught, shallow and frantic. The room tilted, not literally but in sensation. The air thickened, the walls softened, and the familiar golden light of the café faded into something else.

The fog.

But not like the other times. This was lucid. Controlled. It wasn’t the same fog that haunted his dreams; it was sharper, more tangible, as if someone had fine-tuned the boundaries between dream and reality.

His mind spiralled.

Is this happening again? Am I trapped? Is this my punishment, or something entirely different?

And then he saw you.

A ghostly, holographic form shimmered into view in front of him. His chest tightened. His thoughts collided into a singular ache:

You're here. Wait. How are you here?

Your form was almost identical to the woman who had been haunting his subconscious, the fog-bound figure he chased night after night. But now you were standing here. In the café. Real. Close enough to touch.

Except he couldn’t move.

His body stood up on its own, as if someone else had taken control. His lips curved into a gentle, per-coded smile. His hand lifted in greeting. None of it was his choice.

Inside, he was screaming.

No! Stop! That’s not what I meant to do!

But outside, he stayed calm. Affectionate. His body moved like it had rehearsed this moment a thousand times.

And then he saw your face clearly.

You looked like MC in this current timeline. Or at least, you resembled her. But there were differences, raw, imperfect differences that made his obsession spiral even harder.

A small scar near the corner of your left eye.

A mole just below your nose on the left side.

When you smiled, one of your canines twisted slightly, giving you a fang-like quirk that tugged at something primal in his chest.

Your bottom lip had a small, barely noticeable notch in it, as if you’d once bitten too hard in a moment of thought, leaving a tiny, permanent dent

A faint cluster of freckles dusted across your right cheek, just beneath the eye, like a smattering of stars only visible up close.

Your face wasn’t symmetrical. Your smirks were uneven. Your expression was real.

You were real.

And it ruined him.

He had seen this face in the fog before. But now, with you here, in waking life or close enough, the weight of his desire tripled.

You giggled, circling him.

"Oh, wow. The girls weren’t kidding; you’re a hottie up close."

You poked his cheek, brushed imaginary lint from his shoulder, and traced a line down his arm.

His mind spiralled harder as he blushed internally.

Why now? Why like this? Why can’t I move? Why can’t I say what I need to say?

His mouth opened against his will. The words weren’t his.

"You're adorable when you do that."

"Did you sleep well today?"

"Be good, and behave, sweetie."

"Careful, keep poking me, and I might start tying you up."

"If you're gonna tease me like this, at least buy me dinner first."

No! That’s not what I meant! Let me talk to her!

His hand rose to head-pat you. His fingers brushed yours. His body softened into a posture of affection and warmth, all without his consent.

It’s like I’m possessed.

His brain burned with obsession and panic.

I don’t want to headpat her! I want to hold her! I want to ask where she is! Why is this happening?

But you just kept teasing.

You traced your fingertips down his chest, tilted your head with mock curiosity.

"Are you blushing? Oh my god, you are. This is great."

"What would you do if I stayed here forever, hm?"

"Seems like you like this more than you let on."

His body kept responding: soft eye contact, gentle handholds, affectionate smiles. Inside, he was going feral.

She's here. She's actually here. But why can't I say her name? Why can't I tell her I've been looking for her? Gods, please let this moment stay just a little longer.

This isn't clinical. This isn't measurable. This is just purely an obsession now. And yet, I don't want it to stop. I want more. I need more. Just let me touch her properly. Let me speak.

Oh, you're cruel. Gorgeous and cruel. You're playing with me, and I should hate it, but... do it again. Go ahead. Make me spiral. Paint me into this corner.

I don't like not having control. I don't like being toyed with. But if it's you, darling? Fine. I'll let you. This once. Just don't vanish again, or I'll tear the world apart to find you.

I was supposed to be the one protecting you. But you're the one unravelling me instead. This is dangerous. This is reckless. And I can't stop it. I don't want to.

His thoughts continued to scream:

Let me move. Let me talk. Let me say her name.

Then something happened.

You teased him too much.

Your caresses grew bolder, your whispers circling his ear, and suddenly, without meaning to, his body turned away from you, facing the opposite direction.

Wait, no! What is happening? Why did I do that?! I didn’t tell my body to turn!

Behind him, you giggled mischievously.

"Oh nooo, did I go too far? I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to. Come on, turn back. Please?"

His mouth moved stiffly, words spilling out before he could stop them:

"I'm not turning back until you behave yourself."

Internally, he panicked.

God, why did I say that?! That’s not what I meant!

You kept touching his back, softly tracing circles on his shoulders. Then your voice dropped into a playful warning:

"Listen, if you don’t turn back, I might end up touching that cute butt of yours and maybe even start tickling you. You better be careful, I will."

His heart nearly stopped.

No, no, no! Don’t do that!

But he couldn’t move. He couldn’t stop you.

Worst of all, he was actually ticklish. Not that you knew it yet. The thought of you poking his sides or poke his butt sent his mind into a spiral of scandalous chaos.

When you finally did it, poked his butt, his external response varied wildly. His instincts flinched and internally yelped, and for a moment:

He turned his head slightly, giving you a look like you had just disappointed him. A helpless, harmless scolding.

His eyes widened, scandalised, as if you had committed a crime. His voice, stuck in his throat, shrieked silently: How dare you do that!

He wanted to bluff back, to mask the embarrassment. "Do that again," he murmured, soft but laced with faux-threat, "and I swear I’ll get you back."

But inside?

He was blushing madly.

Mortified.

Thrilled.

No one had ever done something like that to him before, not in any life. It was new.

Embarrassing.

And, gods help him, he didn’t hate it.

Not at all.

She's so close. Her hand just, I can't even process this. My ears are burning. Do I look ridiculous right now? No one's ever touched me like that. I-I think I'm going to explode.

What is this? My vitals are spiking. This isn't medically advisable. But… gods, if she does it again, I'll let her. I'll let her do whatever she wants. I can't breathe. This is beyond obsession now.

Oh, sweetheart, you have no idea what you've started. My face is hot, my heart's in shambles, and yet, I do it again. Dare me to stop you. I won't. Not now. Not ever.

Scandalous little thing, aren't you? No one touches me like that and gets away with it. Except… apparently you do. Apparently, you get away with everything. I'm done for.

My face is burning. My hands are shaking. I'm supposed to be the calm one, the steady one. But right now? I'm wrecked. And all it took was you doing that. Gods help me, I want more.

He clenched his mental fists, breath catching in his throat.

Let me move. Let me say your name, please.

But before he could break free, you yawned softly, rubbing at your eyes.

"Looks like I have to sleep now."

You whispered, voice heavy with exhaustion.

His heart lurched.

No. No, no, no. Don’t leave. Please don’t leave. I just got you back.

But you soon slowly fade away, your holographic form dissolving into mist, leaving him stuck in soft, pre-scripted motions, still unable to speak freely.

Then the room shifted.

The fog melted away. The walls returned to their normal, warm, golden hue. His body relaxed, released from its invisible chains. His limbs moved again.

He stood there for a moment, breathless, mind spinning.

What just happened?

Without thinking, he rushed out of the room.

The Café Keeper was already waiting for him at the front counter, cleaning a cup like nothing unusual had happened. His eyes glinted, knowing.

"What was that just now?"

He demanded, breath ragged.

"How is she here? How did she do that? Why couldn’t I speak properly?"

The Keeper didn’t flinch. His eyes glowed faintly, an unnatural shimmer curling in their depths.

"Before you ask, yes, what you just experienced was all real."

The Keeper said softly with a little smirk.

"A little gift from the Overseer."

The baffled man narrowed his eyes, pulse pounding. He knew something was up. He went into fighting mode.

"Explain. Now."

The Keeper sighed, then gestured toward one of the café seats.

"Grab a seat, kid. I’ll explain."

Without waiting for an argument, the Keeper shuffled to the door and flipped the café's sign to "Closed."

He dimmed the lights slightly, creating a hush in the room that pressed around them like velvet.

Then he quietly brewed a cup of calming tea, the scent of lavender and chamomile curling through the air to soothe the boy's frayed nerves.

Once they were both seated, the Keeper folded his hands, his eyes glowing faintly.

"Right now, this world is real. You are real. She is real."

The Keeper held up a hand, his gaze steady but kind.

"Just for a disclaimer, your life isn’t a lie. This isn’t some false simulation. Everything you’ve lived, everything you’ve built here, it’s real. Just as real as her world. Both of your realities exist. They’re just seen differently."

He let the words settle for a moment, grounding the boy before continuing.

The Keeper's gaze sharpened slightly, his tone dropping lower.

"The Overseer planted me and my 'grandson' here to run both café locations. We’re not exactly who we seem to be. We’re part of the illusion, a set piece in Astra’s game. But we’re also not."

"The Overseer created a cosmic world link, a fragile thread that connects both worlds. But to keep Astra from realizing something has interfered with his game, and to keep us all safe, your little obsession just thinks that this is a game to her, from where she is. That way, the link stays intact."

The Keeper’s tone stayed calm, careful.

"The 'possession' you experienced? It's camouflage. To her, it's part of the game mechanics. The Overseer made it appear as possession because it’s still Astra’s system that is running underneath, but the Overseer bent the rules. Created a fork in the gear."

The Keeper gestured toward the back room.

"This café is one of those fragments. A hidden zone where you can interact with her without Astra noticing. You’re still in his grasp. But the Overseer blindsided him."

The boy's chest heaved, his mind flooded with both hope and dread. His fists clenched.

"So... she’s really here. And I can reach her. But I can’t fully reach her."

The Keeper smiled softly.

"Not yet. It’s too early for you to do that. But the Overseer will make sure that you’ll have more chances. And when the time comes... you’ll know what to do."

Later, he sat alone again in the back room.

His heart still raced. His mind still spiralled.

One thought looped over and over: his recent first interaction with her.

It was her. It was really her. And she did all of that on purpose.

He smiled to himself, faint but deeply obsessive.

He’d be back tomorrow.

And the next day.

And the next.

Because if this were a game?

He would play.

Obsessively.

[sharmelasworld]

Welcome Back, Roman

I was standing backstage, watching the gauntlet match, which was deciding who would go after Gunther for the WHC title.  After Punk claimed the number one contender spot and was attacked by Bron and Bronson, something unexpected happened: Roman’s music hit. The OTC is back after being gone for three months. It was as if Roman had disappeared, and no one knew where he had gone, not even me.

After Roman’s surprise appearance, he came through the curtains to cheers and applause. I stood against the wall, watching all the fanfare, my eyes stinging with unshed tears. Roman hugged Paul, and then we made eye contact. Roman smiled, and my heart skipped a beat. Roman walked past me, not saying a word, and went back to the locker room.

After everyone left the backstage area, I sat in the production area trying to clear my head. My phone buzzed in my hand, bringing me back to reality. I looked at the phone screen, and my breath got caught in my throat. It was a text message from Roman.

“Downtown Hilton, Room 0525.”

The soft click of the door closing behind you echoed through the dimly lit hotel suite. Roman stood near the window, shirtless, muscles bathed in the amber glow of the city lights. Three months. Ninety days without him. And now he was here—real, tangible, magnetic as ever.

“You came back…” My voice broke slightly, emotions bubbling to the surface.

He turned to face you slowly, eyes dark with desire and something more profound.

 “I told you I would. I just needed time to clear my head... and to miss you properly.”

I crossed the room in a few strides, barely giving him time to react before my hands were on his chest, tracing the familiar lines of strength and warmth. His lips met mine in a kiss that wasn’t rushed—it was hungry but purposeful, like he’d been starving for the taste of you.

Roman walked me backwards toward the bed, never breaking the kiss. The world outside didn’t matter. Not the fans, not the cameras, not the storyline. Just Roman—the man, the fire in his eyes, the way his hands slid up your thighs as he whispered against your skin,

 “You didn’t forget what we are, did you?”

My breath hitched as he laid me down, taking his time undressing me like a long-lost treasure. Every touch was reverent, every kiss worshipful. The heat between us built steadily, until our bodies moved in perfect rhythm—urgent, raw, and filled with all the words I hadn't said for months.

Later, my head rested against his chest, fingers tracing slow circles over his tattoos. He kissed my forehead and murmured, “I came back for a lot of reasons. But this—you—was always the one I couldn’t stay away from.”

The sheets were tangled around my legs, my body still humming with pleasure, but my mind was slowly settling into that vulnerable, quiet space that follows intensity.

Roman’s large hand caressed my back with slow, rhythmic strokes, his chest rising and falling beneath my cheek. The room was still except for the soft whir of the air conditioning and the low, steady beat of his heart against my ear.

“You okay, baby?” he whispered, his voice thick with love and concern. “Was it too much?”

I shook your head gently and whispered, “No… it was perfect. I just missed you so much. I didn’t know how much until right now.”

He shifted slightly, just enough to kiss my temple and wrap both arms around me, pulling me tightly against his body. His warmth surrounded me like a blanket, grounding me.

“I missed this, too,” he murmured, running his fingers through my hair. “Missed how you fit against me like this. Missed taking care of you.”

You felt the tip of his finger lift your chin so he could meet your gaze. His eyes searched yours, soft and serious.

“I need you always to tell me how you feel. During… after… all of it. You’re not just mine in bed. You’re mine in all the quiet moments, too.”

Tears stung my eyes—not from sadness, but from the overwhelming tenderness of it all.

“I feel safe. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

Roman smiled, brushing my damp hair off my forehead. “Good. Because I want to be your peace.”

He stood slowly, disappearing into the bathroom for a moment before returning with a warm towel and a bottle of water. He sat beside me, gently cleaning me up with delicate care, his touch respectful and full of love.

Once done, he helped me into his T-shirt—oversized and soft—and tucked the blankets around me, crawling back into bed and spooning me from behind. His arm draped across my waist, palm resting protectively over my stomach.

“Sleep,” he whispered against the curve of my neck.

“I’ll be here when you wake up. No more disappearing.”

I drifted off in the safest place in the world: his arms, wrapped in the unspoken promise that he wasn’t going anywhere this time.

The morning sun crept through the hotel curtains, casting a soft golden hue across the room. I stirred slowly, cocooned in the warmth of Roman’s arms, my back pressed to his chest, my legs tangled together. His steady breathing against your neck was a quiet, rhythmic calm, both soothing and protective.

My mind drifted back to the night before—the intensity, the love, the way his hands never stopped reassuring me, even when words did. He hadn’t just come back to WWE; he came back to me.

A deep rumble in his chest vibrated through me as he shifted, his voice thick with sleep.

“You always wake up before me now?”

You turned in his arms to face him. His hair was wild, his eyes still heavy, but the softest smile tugged at his lips. God, he was beautiful in the morning—unguarded, peaceful.

“I was just watching you sleep,” I whispered, fingers tracing the edge of his jaw. “It didn’t feel real. You being here.”

His hand found your waist, pulling you closer until your foreheads touched.

“It’s real. I’m here, we’re here. And I’m not letting this slip away again.”

Your breath hitched, emotions rising in your throat.

“What happened, Roman? Why did you disappear without warning? I kept thinking… maybe I did something wrong.”

His jaw clenched slightly, eyes darkening—not with anger, but with regret.

 “No, baby. Never. You didn’t do anything. I needed space. Time to breathe. WWE… the pressure, the noise in my head—it got too loud. I was starting to lose myself. And I was afraid I’d lose you too if I stayed in that headspace.”

You searched his face, reading the truth there.

“I should’ve told you,” He admitted softly. “But I didn’t know how to explain something I barely understood myself.”

You placed a gentle hand over his heart. “I would’ve waited, Roman. Even if I didn’t understand everything, I would’ve waited anyway.”

His throat worked as he swallowed, then he kissed you slowly, sweet, steady, full of silent promises. When the kiss broke, he rested his forehead against yours.

“Then let’s start again,” he said. “Let me prove I still know how to show up for you. Not just when things are easy.”

I nodded, tears slipping silently down my cheeks. He wiped them away with his thumb, cradling my face in his hands.

“Today’s a fresh page,” I said, voice trembling.

Roman smiled—quiet, relieved, and full of something sacred. “Then let’s write it together.”

He pulled me closer, lips brushing my shoulder, my collarbone, every inch he could reach like he was reacquainting himself with the home he’d missed.

And for the first time in months, my heart didn’t ache. It beat in rhythm with his, steady and sure.

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[mumpsetc]

Stick in the Mud

[betty-fran]

#there is another post somewhere on this website about the difference between tos and aos in the postion as captain but yea (via @follower-of-many-fandoms - uh, yeah, that could be mine (but if not, it would be interesting to read someone else's opinion!), because I definitely brought this up, it's actually a pretty subtle and tangible difference in how for TOS Kirk, the captaincy is what gives him a sense of grounding, while AOS Kirk clings much more to the people he meets than to the captaincy (I'm sure he could just as easily drive a barge or fix motorcycles), and it has to do with how they both perceive control.

I'm more interested in TOS on its own than in connection with the films, but speaking of them, in general, yes, I'm pretty sure they tried to show this idea of "finally finding a permanent place", but in general this whole fondness for antiques concept is a very TWOK thing (it coexists well with the image of an aging admiral, a retired captain, for whom objects are more of a sentimental symbol, an opportunity to touch other worlds/times once again) but TWOK is probably the most OOC film concerning TOS, so, well. The director of TWOK tried so much to make Kirk's glasses a complex emotional symbol, and it's really very sentimental in the context of K/S, but when in The Voyage Home, Kirk pawns them and doesn't even raise an eyebrow, I'm like "now I can believe this."

There is a very noticeable connection between Kirk's rather specific traumatic experience and his attitude towards things. In general, we tend to cling to "things" that give us a sense of grounding. There is a fairly wide range of psychological reasons for this (especially in correlation with childhood/or trauma), and it doesn't really change over time. Let's just say, for me, the very idea that Kirk is retired, finally having a permanent place and some kind of stability, starts buying antiques and stuffing the house with things, and feels a deep emotional attachment to them, doesn't work with what we know about him from TOS. It's not that he had this "impossibility of having" things, or some internal prohibition against getting attached to things (but, and this is important, he clearly has these issues in the context of love/personal emotional attachments), he rather had an experience of devaluing things, of forming this clear perception of a thing in its utility here and now, rather than in emotional attachment. He actually has a similar relationship with food; he perceives it not as a delicate pleasure, but as a primary necessity, it's rather a pressing issue of the experience of famine, and TOS reminds us of this more than once. So, IMO, he appreciates things, and he can enjoy them, but it will never be something truly important to him. The things that are truly important to him have no physical form. Even his desire for love is not so much physical as something beyond, that absolute union of two entities that he spoke of in Metamorphosis. I often think of TOS Kirk's experience in the context of our current realities (wars/genocide), and it really feels "wow, how relevant this is", and not that a lot of modern media talks about it like that.

But AOS Kirk, I think, is more likely to become attached to things, because his childhood experiences obviously tend toward emotional neglect/DA, and he is more likely to perceive the things that belong to him as something that gives him a sense of grounding. He probably won't have a lot of stuff, but what he does have will be really important to him, so having some favorite books, old and worn, that he carries around with him everywhere, oh, I can imagine that.

Speaking of books, I think this idea of "Kirk as old paper books lover" (although I have an absolute fondness for this concept, esp somewhere like the door) isn't really particularly canonical in TOS.

Kirk is clearly a book nerd (and not just someone who reads a lot, but someone who reads thoughtfully, and quite complex, personally expressive things for him, preferring philosophy and ethics), and we're told about this already in the pilot, where Gary Mitchell mentions Spinoza as an author who was an obvious choice for Kirk:

MITCHELL: Well, I'm getting a chance to read some of that longhair stuff you like. Hey man, I remember you back at the Academy. A stack of books with legs. The first thing I ever heard from an upperclassman was, watch out for Lieutenant Kirk. In his class, you either think or sink. … KIRK: (looks at monitor) You? Spinoza?

And we do see paper books in Kirk's cabin (at least in The Conscience of the King), hardbacks, respectable editions on his desk and in the cabinet by his bed, but it's actually a pretty modest collection. It's clearly more than any other average inhabitant of the computerized 23rd century, but a far cry from his lawyer's collection in Court Martial (an episode that actually made me doubt that Kirk really has some kind of unbridled passion for collecting paper books):

KIRK: (Notices the piles of books everywhere) What is all this? COGLEY: I figure we'll be spending some time together, so I moved in. KIRK: I hope I'm not crowding you. COGLEY: What's the matter? Don't you like books? KIRK: Oh, I like them fine, but a computer takes less space. COGLEY: A computer, huh? I got one of these in my office. Contains all the precedents. The synthesis of all the great legal decisions written throughout time. I never use it. KIRK: Why not? COGLEY: I've got my own system. Books, young man, books. Thousands of them. If time wasn't so important, I'd show you something. My library. Thousands of books. KIRK: And what would be the point? COGLEY: This is where the law is. Not in that homogenised, pasteurised, synthesiser. Do you want to know the law, the ancient concepts in their own language, Learn the intent of the men who wrote them, from Moses to the tribunal of Alpha 3? Books.

Interestingly, in contrast to Cogley's clearly shabby and reread many times, but truly impressive and authentically old book collection, Kirk's much more restrained one looks a bit faceless, in its uniform style, tangible presentability, being in such perfect condition that they are either read with incredible care, or very rarely picked up (and here both options are possible, actually.)

Given what we know about Kirk's childhood/youth in TOS, we understand that he never/or for most of his life, didn't really have a permanent, settled place. Theoretically, this was possible in his childhood, about which we know virtually nothing (Where did he live before Tarsus IV? The first mention of Iowa only occurs in the films, but in TOS it remains a blank spot, and he could equally well have moved from place to place until he ended up on Tarsus, or grown up in one place), and while it was also possible after Tarsus and before entering the Academy (he had to live somewhere for at least 3 years), given that it had to be right after Tarsus, I doubt it could've actually felt like something stable/permanent. And after that, his life was obviously not tied to one place for long, and was kept in the conditions of a dorm room/ship cabin/etc. In many ways, his captain's cabin is the closest thing to home he's had in years. And considering that of all the cabins we're shown in TOS, Kirk's cabin is actually the most restrained in details and minimalist in its contents, I don't think he was really used to owning a lot of things, or being particularly attached to them.

There's a really interesting moment in This Side of Paradise where Kirk, under the influence of flower spores, is packing a suitcase (a sort of suitcase to that pseudo-paradise with everything he can need for this sort of trips) where he puts only his captain's shirts, and is about to put one of his captain's awards, which momently sobers him up, reminding him of who he is, and it pretty well illustrates his attitude towards things, which are more a part of his identity here and now, his role, than something personal. While he can certainly enjoy things (he clearly likes his green tunic), he treats them as something temporary, something he can practically and wisely use in the moment, obviously valuing non-physical things much more, and this logically correlates with everything we see about him in TOS.

Therefore, I, pretty headcanonically, perceive the books in Kirk's cabin not so much as this small, personally dear, re-read and annotated collection of books important to him, but rather as a good selection of publications that interest him, which he can turn to if he needs to, but which he obviously prefers to PADD, not because he doesn't like paper books (he does!), but because it's clearly more practical.

[hekateinhell]

Remembering Anne Rice on the second anniversary of her death:

What does the word "vampire" mean to you? The vampire for me is a metaphor for the outsider, the outcast, the predator in all of us --- the lonely one, the heart and soul that feels immortal even when it knows that we all die. Vampire characters help me to talk about reality. They always have. When I'm with Lestat, and Armand and Louis, and Gabrielle, I'm in the real world. All colors blaze bright and music soars to Heaven and I'm not lonely for a while, I'm safe. And that's why I write about them and through them and with them.

X

[amtrak12]

I thought up this idea out of spite because I hate the first half of S8 so much and think it's LAUGHABLY unbelievable that Niles and Daphne held off on sleeping together for so long. I was not writing this idea because it's what I think should've truly happened in canon -- but actually I was wrong and they should've slept together right away in 8.01. Or at the very least, there should be a hundred other smutty 8.01 AUs because having their first time happen on what would have been Daphne's wedding night is unparalleled. Choosing to shelve the guilt for a night and just be happy? Exquisite. Daphne needing Niles to help unzip her wedding dress? Agony in the best possible way. The unbearable eroticism of Niles sliding out every single one of those damn bobby pins keeping her hair up and veil secured -- HNNNNNG!

And this isn't even to kick off the smut! (though it sure puts it in their minds for later) This is just them changing clothes so they're not still in the wedding getup. GOD! 🥵

[themoonking]

some people are so weird about the tv show like “can you believe this show that isn’t out yet and hasn’t even been greenlit past season one is absolutely 100% for certain going to do this awful thing when it gets to [event that won’t happen until at least a hypothetical s2 if not later] ugh i hate it” like girl do you hear yourself

[pespillo]

how long will it take the ggg fandom to racialize the bizzyboys in a bad way and project negative traits on their group (and the rest of the drain) forgetting they started very much as problem solvers for the drain and up and it was probably the culture clash and unresolved trauma and issues that lead Inspekta getting that way (stares very intensely)

[riddlerosehearts]

okay azul having a dream where he like... apparently just wasn't bullied and so he never became friends with floyd and jade, never went to NRC and eventually became super successful and beloved and popular in the coral sea? is fascinating to me because based on the previous dreams where for example lilia and idia's loved ones still suffered and kalim was still causing trouble for jamil, i didn't think the spell they're under would be able to completely erase traumatic experiences like that. jade even explains that he knows azul couldn't be who he is in reality without those experiences--and that's why they're all so shocked to see that he's a star athlete in his dream, because they had just been trying to guess what the azul they know would've been dreaming about! instead they got a version of azul that makes no sense! and i guess it's because as they explain in-game, azul just has such a strong imagination that he's able to carefully construct something like this. which is also fascinating to think about in the context of so many of the other dreamers who just couldn't imagine what their lives would be without the people and experiences that have shaped them, and had dreams that weren't nearly as far from reality than this or were off in very different ways. like vil is literally a mega famous and talented professional actor, and even he couldn't imagine his life without neige around but here we have azul dreaming about his entire life and personality being the complete opposite of who he really is... and not only that but he invited a group of land dwellers to a party just so he could humiliate them for no reason?? azul ashengrotto may be an asshole and yes he may have done terrible things to try and be better than his bullies--but that's the thing, the real azul does want to be undeniably better than them, not just stoop down to their level. so it's just really unsettling to see him like this.

[itsalmostavengers]

my instagram is currently full of mcu edits and i am once again discovering how obsessed i am with tony fucking stark, my heart beats faster when i see him, i giggle and kick my feet, i cannot look away i need to inject this man into my veins i am insane about him

Whenever someone around me mentions iron man in any capacity my body responds like someone just pulled a gun on me. Like that’s my blorbo. That my guy. What do you mean you’re talking about him. Him??? My Guy???????

[baconcolacan]

Random question but would Eduardo + Edd like Bob Ross? (I think Eduardo would try to follow a Bob Ross painting tutorial)

I think Eduardo would like it more than Edd would! I always thought that Edu was more classically trained than Edd, as Edd would specialize more in stylized illustration, not that he doesn’t have a grasp on the fundamentals, he just often prefers breaking them more.

Edu would most definitely use Bob Ross tutorials as a relaxing exercise, meanwhile Edd WOULD find it relaxing at the start, his mind would most likely start trying to take off in the middle in favour of painting something more exciting using the techniques Bob is teaching

[rosykims]

who do i have to seduce at bioware to guarantee a moment in veilguard where lavellan gets to tell solas to grow up. just point me in their general direction and i'll take it from there

[swallowtailed]

fantastic dnd session today. our dm offered my character a level in cleric or paladin and i did not take it :):):)

[regularhill]

something i've noticed abt "proship" types anywhere online is that they claim that "antis" or people who otherwise criticize them for their takes on fiction as joyless miserable fun-police moral-police buzzword here and buzzword there and yet they keep fucking posting abt/resharing posts complaining about these people. and i'm supposed to believe you guys are the ones having fun.

[bithand]

Idk where I'm going with this, I'm still sipping my coffee. But there's something about Thedas being a continent of certainties in so many ways. They KNOW magic exists. They KNOW spirits / demons exist. They have tangible, demonstrable proof of things that in the real world and many fictional settings are a matter of debate and faith. The majority of groups even know for a fact that their gods exist and work in the world. They don't need to take it on faith. They can reach out and touch them.

Andrastians, meanwhile, are the only ones left in the end who have no proof and never will. Faith is their only option. Which plays a role, I think, in them being more focused on Andraste than the Maker. Because they are living in a world of certainties, and She is the only proof of the divine they've ever had.

[rorbison]

Ohhh. I'm like crazy for real okay. Well that's not very good! I thought I just had a little psychosis and now I come to find I have a lot of very detail oriented psychosis!