#my back deserves plush comfort and support when it's getting blown out

[impuretale]

Totally romantic and not at all concerning things that Gale says after you finally spend the night with him: "I'm glad you finally put out because I was seriously considering killing myself before that." :| Sir, I am begging you to say less, you are making me rethink this decision.

[yanderenightmare]

Hey, can I have yandere!shinsou to insult the chubby!reader bcs she really made him angry to her by being rebellious so it ended up with she is getting fuck so hard by him 🥵💦

yandere ! SHINSO HITOSHI

goodiebag WARNINGS: nsfw, dubcon/noncon, mind-control, jealousy

MISTAKES COME BEST WHEN SERVED IN THREES

She’d been bugging him all night. 

They were hauled up in his dorm-room with homework, had been so for hours. And it wouldn't have been too bad, but she wouldn't shut up.

She laid on her stomach, elbows propped up beneath her, tits mushed perfectly into his mattress, looking like a comfortable pillow fo support, squeezed like two plump balloons in her top with the way she bounced on them. She always bounced as she spoke, so bubbly, voluptuous lips sucking on her pen in those breaks where she didn't have anything to say, looking like a cute little bunny with the chubs of her cheeks, her legs kicking in the air, ass wiggling like a puppy wagging its tail, as she babbled on and on and on about her stupid crush.

Disgusting. He’d lost count of how many times he’d rolled his eyes, sustained clicking his tongue in an exasperated fashion, now feeling the growing need to go puke his guts up.

“He’s got such pretty hair too, like... it’s fluffy, like a cat, like he has secrets hidden inside there or something...” He wanted to claw his eyes out, but he couldn't stop looking at her, those lips, that cheeky smile, her childish giggle. His ears bleeding, not wanting to hear another silly foolish detail about whomever the fuck had her so neatly tied around there finger. “I just want to run my hands through it, you know?” She fiddled with a lock of her own hair while she daydreamed, finger raking through the pretty shiny treads. “Tangle my fingers inside it and ride his face.” That’s when he snapped.

It took only a split second to process, perhaps because he’d imagined it so many times already. Her plush thighs hugging his face, hands grabbing the fat of her ass, setting the rhythm, not letting her go until he feels her dripping down his chin. “Who?” He sounded like an owl, looked like one too. Eyes intense as they stared at her place on his mattress. 

Such audacity she had, talking up wet-dreams of someone else in his fucking bed.

Her brows knitted, looking at him, legs stopping to rub together in the air. “Hm?” She only hummed, but it was enough.

“What’s his name?” He repeated, and this time she had no choice but to answer.

Her features blanched, eyes pooling with void, enslaved, gorgeous, pupils blown large like a black lake, like ink ready to write all her secrets, to spill her guts for him. 

“Shinso Hitoshi.”

The name dropped from her lips without hesitance, and despite the monotonous sound of it, despite lackluster at the absence of her substantial voice, her full-bodied brazen wild tone, it still managed to make his heart stop, stammer in his chest, before beating along like it usually does, like a skipping rock, picking up its pace, soon to be hammering like some war-drum, fueling war-paint through his system, spiked and frayed, making the thin hairs at the nape of his neck rise, his purple mane frizz with static. 

Thoroughly put out, enough to lose his hold on her.

“Did you...” She shook from the shock, from the shackles. “Did you just-” Her palms pushed into her temple as her eyes scrutinized, pulling her knees to curl into a sitting position on the bed. “Use your quirk on me?” 

Her frame had bled into a blurry view at the light of his bliss, his smile widened into a sneer as sharp as a knife, eyes refocusing at the sound of her voice breaking the otherwise pin-drop silence and galloping of his heart.

He scoffed at her pout, at the brimming, swirling vivid look of betrayal climbing in her eyes, almost drooling at the bashful blush that adorned her cheeks, having never seen her shy or humiliated before and finding an unparalleled sense of victory at the sight of it. 

“What?” He shrugged, sly smile nudging further up on his face, smug and victorious, uncaring of whatever feeling he must have stirred with knowing how she actually felt plain and simple and outspoken, pulled right from her chest, still echoing on the walls, ringing in his mind, dripping from his teeth. He could almost laugh. “Not the guy you thought I was?”

“This isn't funny, Toshi.” Believe him, he didn't think so either. “I trusted you.”

“Your first mistake.” His lilac eyes shone with such sinister glee, such carnal sadistic pleasure, she felt it like a claw on her throat. “Liking me is your second.”

“You’re such a jerk.” Her voice strained, caught between being vicious to teary-wet. He could only imagine, like he’d done so many sleepless nights already, the catlike whimpers and whines she’d spill once he did like she suggested earlier.

She pushed herself off his bed with a bounce and huff and a sweet little sniffle, walking past where he still sat seated on the chair by his desk, hand drumming lean knuckled fingers on the table. “Leaving so soon, Kitten?” He didn't bother getting up. He didn't need to.

“Fuck- you.” She mumbled, her voice already a croak of suppressed cries, her heart aching in her chest as she walked to the door.

The smile cracked even farther, more salacious, more enjoyed, gorged and savored. “Fuck me? Heh, that’ll be your third...” He scoffed, laugh lacing his mocking words. “Stop.” Was all he needed to say to turn all her nerves against her and bend them to do his bidding. “Come here.” 

His hand still drummed on the table, not having bothered turning around as he heard her approach him again. Perfectly timed steps, one after the other, mechanical almost, until she stood, plain and simple, without resistance, between his legs, all up for grabs. His fingers stopped drumming.

Then there was silence again. But she would say the smirk on his face was loud, and so was the glint in those lavender orbs, warm in her head, in her cheeks, hot and heavy with how he eyed her, up and down. Hotter as those arms, lined with the muscles of a man, straining veins and fresh bruises from his training, reaching out scarred hands to touch her ample hips, pulling her closer, tighter between his thighs. Fingers, strangely confident and lax, unbothered and unhurried, soon fiddling with the clasp that kept her short school skirt together at the waist, pinching what pliable flesh he found as he explored. Other hand ascending with the same grace, working slowly as he twisted the buttons to her shirt open, popping one after the other, face buried and pushed into the welcoming warm embrace of her breasts with a heavy sigh, lips dragging up and down the valley of them, nose rubbing and cuddling into her skin, teeth soon gracing alongside his tongue licking at her. Her shirt and skirt falling to the floor, pooling around her ankles, meanwhile his hand moved to the back to pinch loose the clasp of her bra, where the other hand had made itself busy feeling up the thickness of her ass like putty between his greedy fingers.

“On the bed.” He growled, face still mushed into her skin, all clothes except her precious cotton panties left in a pile by the desk.

And off she went, Shinso getting up and out of his chair to trail after her, towering over her short frame, looking down at the back of her head and how it seemed to bob up and down as she walked, hips swaying like a feline from side to side as she stalked, until she turned on her heel and plopped down with a bounce. Always so bouncy. So plump and full of life. Juicy like a peach.

He got down on his knees quickly, hands reached out to grab her knees, prying them apart carefully, opening up for a view of soft plush doughy flesh and the valley that made her panties look like a heart just beneath her tummy, all for him to bite into. He groaned, hands curled as they raked down from grabbing at her ass, until they hooked under her knees, pushing her up and down on her back, tits bouncing from the fall, his other hand giving them the attention they deserve, kneading one breasts in his palm, fingers going from tweaking the nib to pulling at it like picking up a water-balloon by the tail, managing to wake her.

“Get off!” She gasped, whined at the harsh touch, hands coming to push at his hard abs. But he wasn't budging, hands easily and softly finding her wrists to keep them from flailing, his dark chuckle stirring that something deep within her gut.

“Get off?” He repeated, questioningly, a slight snicker playing in his tone. “What?” It was clear he was amused, that he had no regrets and no intentions of backing down. “You don't like it when I touch you?” He pushed her down, drowned her in the sheets, hiked his knee up on the bed to earn leverage and height, like a tower toppling over, pushing her wrists into the mattress, head dipping to kiss at her collarbone, nose sliding up her neck as she shook her head in slight protest were any verbal answers were sure to be taken advantage of. “Well-” He scoffed. “That’s a lie.” His words whispered at her ear, as he smoothly hooked his foot under her leg to push them open, knee fitting snugly between the tight space of her thighs, hiking her up over the tops of his own, fitting between her. “We both know you’ll love it when I touch you, Kitten.” 

He bit her earlobe with another snicker, kissed her cheek chastely, slipping his tongue into her mouth as he dunked in for one hungry sloppy kiss, loving her adorable girlish squeals beneath him, how her hands had stopped struggling, a tinge of rose blushing her cheeks once he pulled up for air. 

“There’s no need to be shy.” Pupils blown, his eyes had never seemed darker. “You belong to me.” He kissed down her neck, bit at her skin. “Every single inch of you.” His hands relieving their post, leaving two smaller hands to stay where they’d been placed. “These tits.” Lips kissing the bud of her breast, teeth rolling it on his tongue. Rough fingers grabbing like claws into the cake of her thighs again, spreading them further apart. “These thighs.” He growled, hands cupping her ass to rut his bulge into her thinly clothed sex, lips crashing onto her once again, even as she yelped against him. “This ass.” He groaned, rocking into her. “All of you. Every single curve.” He purred. “There won’t be an ounce of your being left untouched, unlicked, un-fucked once I’m done.”

[black-streak]

Ooh can I request something really fluffy with Timinette? It can be anything...just really fluffy~~~

Free range? Just whatever I want as long as it's fluffy? Oh anon, you don't know what you've done! I don't know exactly what your definition of fluff is, but I went a direction I hope you weren't even slightly expecting.

I love this. This was great to write. I hope you enjoy it as well. Let me know you guy's thoughts in the comments!

This is the last prompt from the spitefest. (Which seems wrong, I think a prompt or two might've been eaten by tumblr? Not sure) Either way, it's been a lot of fun and I'm thankful for all the support for this amazing ship that deserves so much love. Without further ado.

~---~

Nothing terrified Tim more than when Damian reached out for his help. Not that his little brother scared him in particular, more that, well, Tim was a last resort only. Damian rarely sought help and on the chance he did, it usually ended up Dick or Alfred. Cass or Babs if not. Jason if he ended up in a stickier situation. Tim was reserved for when the whole family left town. 

So understandably, he felt trepidation at the name flashing across the screen. Especially directly after an attack from Poison Ivy. Or rather evasion. Whatever. Point is, she likely poisoned or otherwise drugged someone and somehow Tim ended up the go to.

Biting the bullet, he answered, cutting to the chase, "What happened?"

"No name has been drugged. She ran off before I could pin her down. Looked to be in the direction of the studio. Whatever she was hit with seems to have an… interesting effect on her animal instincts. I would not have called, but she always seems to accept you the most when they act up."

Shit. No Name was the moniker they assigned Marinette whenever they couldn't recognize the combination of miraculouses she wore at the time and refused to come up with anymore names. They wanted to use only one for all her identities but couldn't argue the benefits of not allowing the rogues to know it was all the same person. Which was all fine if it didn't mean he had no idea what "animalistic tendencies" were being affected. 

Taking a deep breath, he spoke up, "You said she was heading towards her studio."

"Do not make me repeat myself Drake. Just find her and fix this mess." Despite the snappish tone, he could hear the concern hidden there.

"I'm heading out now. I'll let you know when I find her." He hung up without waiting for a response, knowing the brat appreciated the promise but not being hung up on. Shouldn't have snapped at him then.

He headed out, deciding to leave his gear at home. Robin would stay out and close by until given the all clear, but approaching her in costume seemed like a good way to get attacked. Better to present as a non threat. 

Slipping into her workplace that she thankfully gave him the access code to, bypassing her security system seemed invasive even in this situation, he shut the door and relocked it softly behind him only to stop dead in his tracks at the sight before him.

Whatever animal she had resembled before would remain a mystery as she had detransformed and possibly changed based on the overly soft looking fuzzy shorts and tank top she wore. Or maybe those were pajamas? He couldn't tell, he hadn't seen them before. Maybe a new piece left here? That however couldn't capture his attention enough to draw away from the giant mess of fabrics, yarn, fluffy blankets, and plush pillows all piled into a corner of the room where she seemed to be building a giant nest of sorts with a single minded concentration as though nothing else mattered except making the most decadent, luxurious floor bed ever.

Alright. This could be worse. Hopefully she wasn't overly protective of the… nest. He'd go with nest for now.

She stepped away as though to assess her work and he chose that moment to make his presence known.

"Mari? Is it okay if I join you over there?"

She perked up, spinning around and bouncing on the balls of her feet. Her eyes were blown wide, clearly not fully here. Upon catching him within her sights, she made a little squeak before rushing towards him. 

He tensed in preparation only for her to stop before him, wrapping her hands around his biceps and raise to her tiptoes to rub her cheek against his in a long, drawn out motion. It startled him to the point of complacency as she moved around behind him,hands sometimes bracing on his lower back as she pressed her forehead into the middle of his back in a nudging motion, slowly herding him over towards the pile.

He planted his feet once they reached the edge and received a whine in response. She moved to tug him forward, dropping her weight down towards the soft fabrics at the same time to pull him off balance. He twisted at the last second to land beside her only to immediately have the nest start shifting around him as she adjusted it about, trying to mold it further to his form. 

Okay. So not possessive of the nest.

As this happened, she began to hunker down, a throaty type of happy noise permeating the air around them as she incorporated him slowly into the build. Once presumably happy with the set up, Marinette pressed herself bodily on top of him, nestled between his legs and nosing at his neck.

With the soft nuzzling being the only motion, he finally came out of his stupor, raising a hand to stroke down her back in a soothing motion as he carefully pulled out his phone. He managed to send out a text to Damian, letting him know he had found her and they were indeed in the studio before she swiped the device from his hands and buried it within some of the yarn. She was going to be so pissed off about the mess when she came to.

With the phone out of reach, she turned to pout up at him, leaning down to nip his collarbone in reprimand.

"Hey!" Tim yelped, body jolting beneath her which only prompted her to press further against him in an almost pin.

"Don't like it."

"The phone?"

"Don't like."

"Okay. I'm sorry."

She hummed and leaned forward to press her face to the side of his again. It almost felt like she was scenting him.

Before he could think further on that, the window flew open, Robin dropping into the room, prompting a growl from the woman above him.

"Why are you here? I told you, I found her."

"I asked how she was fairing. You didn't respond."

"She's fine."

"Then why is she literally growling?" He snarked, stepping further into the room.

"Well, she wasn't being aggressive until some blundering idiot decided to barge in with no respect for her space."

"Sure. That's why she has you caught in her grasp." He flippantly responded, slowly moving closer the way he would if she were a wounded animal, "just let me help you out."

"I had it under control."

With every step closer, even as Damian lowered himself onto her level, the growling increased, her hands tightening their grip on Tim's shoulders where they'd been resting. Once deemed too close, she snapped her teeth in his direction, raising slightly more into what looked like a… protective position? She chose this moment to speak, bringing everything to a standstill.

"Mine."

Okay. So she was possessive like this.

"What?" Damian asked, startled into taking a step away.

"Mine," she snapped her teeth again, blown gaze fixed in a glare at the boy, "back off."

"Is she claiming you?" Damian threw him a bewildered look.

"I… guess so?"

Damian went silent, taking a step back once more. The growling lowering to almost nothing, but the glare stayed firmly placed on him. Her hands relaxed incrementally from their hold. Damian noticed.

"What the fuck is going on, Drake?"

"Mine. My mate." She answered for them.

Damian's eyes went wide at the same time Tim's did. Before either could respond, she bit out another word, "Out."

Both flinched at the severity of the anger in her tone. With one last glance at Tim, Damian backed off, heading back out the window.

"Update me on her status."

"Will do," he mumbled, staring up at her as she watched the boy close the window and take off back to the manor. 

The moment he was fully out of sight, Marinette slumped back down onto him, exhausted from the display. His arms moved naturally to wrap around her and was rewarded with a content sigh, her head tilting back, nose nudging into his adam's apple prompting a rough swallow. This seemed only to encourage Mari, prompting her to start her previous nuzzling session anew. 

Tim settled back into the nest. It was wonderfully comfortable and she didn't look inclined to let him up any time soon, happy hums and sighs flowing in a steady stream above her captive. He might as well just accept his fate.

[theessaflett]

72 Hours (ish) in... MANCHESTER

Your friendly neighbourhood Essa has a look round a city best known for the industrial revolution, bees, and bad weather. 

…The start of my trip to Manchester wasn’t the smoothest.

The only thing I could find to eat at Euston station for my tea before my 19:40 train were chips coated in some sort of suspicious chilli dust, so it was a very queasy Essa who arrived at Manchester Piccadilly a few hours later and wandered around trying to find the exit. (I had in fact been to the station before last October as part of a band tour, but as I was VERY sick and feverish at the time I had very little recollection of the place indeed!) I trundled my suitcase out of the station and off into the night - and my, what a night.  9.45pm on a Saturday night in Manchester is quite the experience, and as Google Maps took me down back alley after back alley I found myself humming ”Just keep swimming, just keep swimming” to myself with increasing speed. One particularly memorable back alley held two sad looking figures, one of whom was violently throwing up behind a bin. 
“You alright, Tim?” called the other one, who was busy trying to use a wall to stay upright. Tim was almost certainly not alright. I left them to it. 

After about 20 minutes of nervous trundling I arrived at Hatters Hostel. It turned out that Hatters was on top of a nightclub, opposite a nightclub, and instead of being part of the Hilton hotel chain as I’d originally surmised it was called “Hilton Hatters Hostel” because it was on Hilton street. I was beginning to regret some of the decisions that had led to this moment. 

Looks nice, doesn’t it. LIES. 

I tried to get the eye of the receptionist, was told I would have to wait as she was “doing the money”, and sat down on the only couch next to a man in gym clothes who had seemingly waited so long he’d passed out. Many minutes passed. In the end I passively aggressively opened and shut all the leaflets next to the desk  - Manchester offers two walking tours and a make your own beer festival, incidentally - and once Sleeping Man had been woken up and his booking put through it was my turn. Sleeping Man had been asked for ID, and I nervously started my explanation that I’d forgotten my passport but had my 16-25 train card when it was cut off by the receptionist. She didn’t really care, it was just a formality. Also, where had I dyed my hair? She’d tried to dye it that colour but it had just gone green and her mum had made her cut it off because green wasn’t an acceptable colour for her sister’s wedding. But now it was purple which was also cool. I murmured positive words about purple, took the key card and headed for the lift, trying to ignore the fact that the floor numbers on the wall were peeling off. I found 104, glad that the door looked less battered than some of the other ones, and after the second time of trying, keyed myself into my home for the next three days.

…The Hatters Hostel website photographer deserves some sort of award for misguiding photography. And possibly to be sued. I was expecting a fancy room, plush and cosy. I admittedly got quite a comfortable bed, but I also was given a TV that had been installed at an angle that meant I would need to be the girl from the Exorcist to watch it in comfort, a broken heater, no main light, no kettle, thin, pathetic towels…and a hell of a lot of noise. Here’s the thing about arriving, at 10.30pm on a Friday night, into a room on the first floor directly on top of a night club and opposite several other nightclubs: it is astonishingly, awe inspiringly, horrifyingly loud. The vibrations shuddered through the floor and up my legs, and my suspicions about the sturdiness of the walls were confirmed when I laid a hand on one of them and felt vibrations shuddering through the brickwork too. Some optimistic soul had put in double glazing on the one, sad looking window, but it was no good: the pounding music was coming up through the bare linoleum floor and in the cracks between said floor and the walls. Friends, I am not so proud as to deny that I had a bit of a disappointed sniffle as I sat on the edge of the bed in the cold, listening to four different nightclub bangers (that all had driving dubstep basses…they sadly didn’t even merge into one pleasing cross-rhythm beat) and trying to reassess my accommodation expectations. The reason for the massive tub of free ear plugs on the reception desk was becoming terribly, horribly clear. After a bolstering call to my parents where I let them know I’d arrived and tried to elicit some sympathy for the damp boombox situation in which I’d found myself (“Well go down to reception and ask if you can get another room then, sitting there moping at me isn’t doing anything”  is arguably the Scottish version of “Aw poor diddums” so I consider the sympathy bid a success) I mournfully trailed back to ground level and put on my best pleading puppy face. It was no good: there were no other free rooms for the whole weekend, he was very sorry, my heater should be warming up at any moment. (this was a lie. I am certain that I had no heating for the full three days.) I grimly stocked up on earplugs and, comforted with the paltry commiseration that the nightclubs shut at 1.30am, went back to my unappealing room. This was it, was it? This is what £264 got you for three nights in central Manchester? Bloody hell. Tried out the shower. It was cold. Went to bed and sulked. (To be fair, several Destiny’s Child and Britney Spears medleys later, the noise did mercifully stop at 1.30am. Which was just as well, as by that point I was fantasising about punching night clubbers.)

Day 1

My main reason for being in Manchester over the weekend was to attend a one-day writing course at the LGBT Foundation  - 2019 may be a year of me writing lots of things but there’s still not much time for writing “just for fun” so I was looking forward to writing anything I liked for a full day! I blearily made my way out of the hostel - glaring at anyone who looked like they might have been making noise six hours earlier - and headed off to the Foundation, stopping at the “park” (a few trees and a bit of squelchy grass does not a proper park make, Manchester) Cafe Nero on my way. This proved a wise move, as soya milk has not yet made it to the LGBT Foundation so I was sadly under caffeinated for the day…

The LGBT Foundation 

The writing day itself was lovely; I enjoyed the chance just to spend time tapping away on my laptop, the other course members were friendly and the heating was on. The only real disaster was lunchtime, when I ordered rice at a nearby Asian to-go place and got noodles instead. I can’t eat noodles. Ended up eating random selections of snacks and showing people my noodles whilst saying sadly, “Look, they gave me noodles!” (Received a satisfactory amount of sympathy from all.) The LGBT Foundation staff were friendly and it’s great that there’s such an extensive support centre in the heart of the Gay Village…my only quibble about the building would be that it was surprising and disappointing to see they only offered Male or Female toilets and there was no mention anywhere of the additional “IAQ+” that I’m used to London folk using most of the time. It would be a real shame if Intersex/Asexual/Non-Binary/Gender Queer young people used the building and didn’t feel like they belonged, when just a few posters and different bathroom signs  would make the Foundation welcoming to absolutely everyone. (Alright, snowflake millennial moment over!)

After the course I headed over to HOME   - stopping off at Pizza Express on the way, where a chatty waitress asked me if I was an artist…I considered creating a new persona but in the end decided I didn’t have the energy - to see the Old Vic production of Wise Children. 

Part of the HOME complex

Although I felt like some elements of the production jarred (why must new plays always include grim scenes of child abuse, incest and/or rape?) and the ending was just bizarre, I thoroughly enjoyed the onstage music and the breath-taking stage design…and the fact that I knew one of the cast members! Paul Hunter from Told By An Idiot didn’t look very different to when I worked with him on Get Happy in 2013 and it was great to see him in action, getting belly laughs from the whole audience as he strutted up and down the stage in full-blown comedic idiot mode.

The brilliant stage design for Wise Children

Getting back to the hostel afterwards proved a little more difficult than anticipated due to a lost Uber driver and there being two Hatters Hostels (naturally I was delivered to the wrong one) but I eventually made it back to Purgatory Room and grimly waited out the Michael Jackson remixes coming through the walls by watching Brooklyn Nine-Nine clips with my head underneath the covers to retain warmth. By 1.20am I was passing the time by fantasising about how I was going to switch on both of my radiators in my London flat when I returned on Monday night and toast myself in front of the two of them until the heat was similar to Barbados in August.

Day 2

I groggily crashed out of the hotel at 11am with only one clear thought: CAFFEINE. Manchester decided to give me a true North of England experience: it was cold, grey, and miserably wet. I tried to find my cafe of choice with some urgency.

Teacup Kitchen Cafe

Teacup Kitchen was recommended as a vegan cafe on Yelp. This, it turned out, was not wholly accurate. Some of their menu was vegan. Very little of their menu indeed was gluten free, but it turned out that that at least was easily rectified as they did have GF bread. As I had clearly stumbled into the Manchester equivalent of Shoreditch the decor was brutally bare, the music was loud and everyone was dressed in black so it was impossible to tell who were the waitstaff and who were just pretentious. (I found this very funny until I realised I was also dressed in all black, at which point I found it slightly less funny and instead wondered when it was exactly that London had turned me into such a hipster stereotype). 

Note the bare light bulbs... 

I ordered poached eggs and avocado on toast, which, this being Northern Shoreditch, came with chilli flakes and raw onion for some reason. I pleaded for no onion but got it anyway, which led to some sad toilet trips later.

General Public Announcement: Food intolerances aren’t just fads, everyone!!!

Who would ruin a perfectly good avocado by dumping a whole load of onion on top of it anyway?! 

Indignant with this most first world of first world problems, I paid an eye-watering £17.10 for what was essentially eggs on toast, a cup of tea and a juice (more expensive that Shoreditch?! Discuss)  and trudged out into the rain once more. …Then hopped into Forbidden Planet, because Forbidden Planet!! For the uninitiated, Forbidden Planet is a magical world of deep nerdy joy.  

If a non-geek person would react to an object by saying, “Oh that’s from that show you like, isn’t it…that’s nice…?”, they probably have it. That being said, they did not have nearly enough Doctor Who or Tim Burton merchandise for my liking and after wandering around having fun spooking all the nervous looking nerdy teenage boys (A woman!!, I could practically hear them whisper amongst themselves. The last time we had one of them in here was in 2009! Darren still hasn’t recovered!!) I headed off to the John Rylands library.

The (rather wet in this photo) John Rylands Library

Now, my understanding of the John Rylands library was that it was one, quite impressive, hall. This proved to be similar to saying that the Titanic was quite big. It was absolutely massive, with four or five main library spaces and lots of awe-inspiring  corridors and staircases in-between, many of which I am certain have been used in Harry Potter films. By pure good luck it was a great time to be visiting, as there were two really interesting exhibitions on about the role of women in literature and society in general. The Women in Manchester exhibition in particular was fascinating and gave a brief but vivid idea of how crucial the women of the city were both in the Suffragette movement itself and in protests before and afterwards. The “Historical Bathroom” is worth a visit too (if you’re as curious as I was about that description, it turned out to be a ladies bathroom that had been preserved exactly as it was when the library opened in the early 20th century. It was fully functioning but very draughty), as is the main Historic Library. 

The magic of the building overall was, for me at any rate, slightly dimmed with the knowledge that it wasn’t actually very old at all, just built in the style of earlier buildings by late-era Victorians wistful for an earlier “Utopian” age of social harmony, unnerved as they were by the unrest and turbulence of the Industrial Age in which they found themselves. I’m sure that most infamous of old-school folk song collectors Cecil Sharp, for instance, would have been delighted by the righteous pomp of the marble statues and stuffy regal halls, the library a grand symbol of an age and an Empire already on the way out when the building first opened.

That said, the John Rylands library is still beautiful, impressive and well worth a trip - just allocate more time than I did! I finished off my visit with an organic cola (would not recommend) from the rather chilly open-plan cafe then tried to decide what to do next. My initial plan had been to go to the Museum of Manchester, but a quick check of their website brought up the unwelcome news that due to renovations the only section still open was “Fossils and Meteorites”, which was not a gallery that exactly filled me with unbound excitement. In the end I decided to go to the People’s Museum instead  - admittedly because it was only four minutes away and, after inevitably going the wrong way and walking round in circles for a bit scowling at Google Maps, I arrived at the brutalist museum in dire need of the loo and a plug socket for my fast-dying phone battery. 

The rather damp looking People’s History Museum 

They had both of those things, so we were already off to a good start when I guiltily ignored the “Use The Stairs, Save Our Environment!” sticker next to the lift and saved my aching legs the climb to the third floor. It became fairly clear very quickly that this was a museum where if you accidentally started the exhibition backwards everything was really quite confusing, but sadly that was what I somehow did on every single floor. (There are still some things that I’m puzzling over, and probably will be forever.) I also started off foolishly presuming that as I was on the 3rd floor I would be going chronologically back in time rather than forwards, but it turned out that there was no such clear organisational system in place for the exhibits: rather, photographs from the 1940s and propaganda posters from the 1880s rubbed shoulders in cheerful harmony. This only added to my overall confusion but gave a nice overall air of linear history being an unnecessary construct of our modern-day society. The writers of the Old Testament would have approved wholeheartedly!

The museum was truly fascinating, and quite shocking in how openly socialist-bordering-on-communist it was in its beliefs; lots of Karl Marx quotes on the walls and leftist liberal exhibit blurbs. I enjoyed it thoroughly -  particularly the excellent section about the Votes for Women movement - and was delighted to find the cafe offered a proper cuppa and gluten free biscuits. This was the life. The museum sadly shut at 5pm (as do many, many things in Manchester) so I was turfed out to wander the wet streets once more. After an accidental detour into a very posh outdoor dining area complete with more decorative lightbulbs than you could shake an over-priced mojito at, I arrived in China Town. My main aim was to get a good photo of the famous China Town arch, but as I achieved that in the first five minutes I decided to also do something else, whatever that might be. 

China Town’s Arch

I’m not sure what I was expecting from China Town, but I was expecting it to be big; instead, unless there were lots of shops hiding from me, China Town was largely just a square - bizarrely, a square built round a car park - with maybe 20 or so shops… and then that was pretty much it. Those shops were wonderful though, and I loved being an unabashed tourist and wandering round a seafood place full of giant tanks of lobsters, supermarkets filled with cans of things you never thought to pickle but apparently are in fact pickle-able… pickled mango was an especially interesting concept… and gazing hungrily at the menus tacked up outside the many Chinese restaurants. (I had no luck. Very not Essa friendly indeed.) 

Instead I settled for a bubble tea from Chatime. I made several bad decisions and ended up with an apple tea with little ball things (??? Tapioca??? Whatever it was they were suspiciously savoury and worryingly chewy) and rainbow jelly. I gave up halfway through as I could feel my teeth beginning to rot. 

Diabetes in a cup. 

Chatime 

After risking my life and health on some questionable 50p Asian sweets - they were covered in sugar and salt and my pathetic Western constitution decided it couldn’t quite cope with this final insult - I finished off my day out with a very nice sit watching the coloured fountain display in the “park” and then going off to somewhere I could confidently expect to be fed: Zizzi’s. 

The very splooshy water fountains. 

...They may have fed me undercooked, over salted gluten free pasta, but it was gluten free pasta never the less, and I trooped back to the hostel fed and happy.

After attempting to write my journal in the communal kitchen next to a group of very noisy Italian twenty-somethings making a very complicated meal that seemed to need lots of loud chopping, banging and semi-regular cheering, I relocated to the communal lounge instead and turned up Royal Blood to eardrum-bursting volumes to drown out the horror film the other two sofa loungers were watching. By 11.30pm even loud rock wasn’t managing to drown out the film and I was beginning to suspect the heating had been switched off as it didn’t seem much warmer than my own little ice box of a room, so I waved the white flag of surrender and beetled off to watch YouTube under the covers once more. Would it be too much to hope that Sunday nights at least were fairly quiet here in nightclub land…? My heading to bed was foiled, however, by the fact that the key card to my room no longer worked. I trailed unhappily back down to the ground floor and explained the situation to an unsympathetic receptionist who said, “Oh it always does that for 104, just try it a few more times” without looking up from his computer. I explained through gritted teeth that I had been trying it for five minutes, thanks very much, and he reluctantly came with me to see what the problem was. I passed the journey by mentioning how my heater didn’t work. “Oh, that heater,” he said without a hint of irony. “Yeah it doesn’t work, it’s just for decoration.” Apparently my room was meant to be heated by a magical vent blowing warm air into the room. I said grumpily that it did not seem to be doing that at all. “Well, it’s 104,” he said with a shrug. “It’s always cold and the door never works. Dunno why, it’s really weird.” As I contemplated the fact that I HAD BEEN STAYING IN THE POLTERGEIST ROOM THIS WHOLE TIME he swiped me through with his master and left me in my Spectre Apartment. I lay in bed in the dark that night pretending very hard that I wasn’t the slightest bit unnerved and listening to the pounding bass coming through the walls (one stubborn nightclub somewhere in the middle distance was subjecting its patrons to Sunday night indie rock) until 1.30am blessedly rolled around and Geoffrey the Ghost and I managed to get some sleep.

Day 3   

By this point I was thoroughly sleep deprived and just generally over the whole staying-in-a-hostel thing, so it was with a happy song that I stuffed my belongings back into my suitcase. It was an uneventful exit from Hatters apart from one heart- stopping moment when a bit of the shower fell off at exactly the same second that the bathroom light went out (…It was just the timed light clicking off and me turning the wobbly thermostat wheel too firmly. But, hey -  let me tell you: when you’re standing there in the pitch dark, naked and alarmed, “ARGH!” is the defining first thought rather than “I’d better wave my arms and get the light to switch back on.) I strode out into the Manchester streets and decided that as I’d had an improvised breakfast of snack bars I didn’t really need anything else apart from a cup of tea, which I could probably get at Chetham’s Library. Second library of the trip, here I came!

After a significant amount of lost trundling, sometimes round in circles, my suitcase and I finally arrived at Chetham’s, which is situated next to a very nice but sadly throughly fenced-off park and an absolutely enormous museum about football. I sat on a little stone pillar, tried to enjoy the park’s water feature despite the massive fence and munched on fruit I’d bought from the nearby M&S (it had occurred to me that I hadn’t really had much in the way of fruit or vegetables since arriving in Manchester, which is possibly a true representation of the Northern diet but it did seem a shame to get scurvy on my weekend off). 

The very picturesque park with a very large fence. 

It was all very nice but I needed the loo  - an ever present theme in my life - so I decided to get a move on and go see the Library. This is when my day went horribly wrong.

I had not, you see, realised that the Chetham’s Library  - unlike the Bodleian Library -  didn’t have anywhere for visitors to dump their suitcases. Worse, the grumpy security guard refused full-stop to let me take my suitcase anywhere near the building whatsoever. What was I meant to do, I asked him with quite poor grace. I had the suitcase. I wanted to go and see the library. Couldn’t he look after it in his little security hut? What if it had a bomb in it? I assured him there was no bomb. No. Absolutely not. I had a suspicious unidentified suitcase. Hadn’t I seen the news recently? Maybe I could see if the station across the road had lockers.

It was an unimpressed Essa that stomped into Manchester Victoria on the hunt for a locker. There were no lockers. The Information Centre might have been a useful place to ask for advice about what to do next, if it had been open. I went to the loo (always a good thing to do in a time of crisis, I find), stared suspiciously at a very creepy statue of a bee in a dress and decided that as I seemed to have found the busy hub of tram travel I might as well get on a tram.

TRAM!!! I thought the trams were very exciting. 

 After trying to buy a tram ticket at a ticket machine for actual trains for an embarrassingly long amount of time I realised that the tram ticket machines were on the tram platforms and navigated the alarming open-track walkway to get to the right bit of the station. (Manchester runs its public transport system from the viewpoint that if you’re stupid enough to cross a walkway without looking left and right first you deserve to get mangled by a massive tram. I only nearly died once, which frankly is quite good for me all things considering.)

I bought my astonishingly cheap £1.40 one-way ticket, tried to tap my paper ticket on the machine for tapping in plastic travel cards and was puzzled for really an unacceptably long amount of time for a 23 year old before I figured out what was going on, and got on my first TRAM!! It tooted to another tram and I felt like I was living my best life. It would have been even nicer if the tram hadn’t smelt of weed and wee, but as most of Manchester seems to smell of weed and wee I accepted my fate. I realised I had previously been unfair on the “park” as we rumbled through it  - there were considerably more trees than I had first thought and the grass looked less mushy. I admired the greenery, noted with resignation that the tram was making me travel sick and then realised it was time to get off! In a…deserted dark tunnel…? I really don’t know what I did, but I found out later there was actually a legit way to exit the tram station, with proper doors and a little escalator and everything, and I most definitely did not do that. I ended up wandering around a tunnel, nearly getting run over at one point when a tram unexpectedly came round a corner (told you I’d nearly got mashed) and finally finished my mini underground journey by being spat out next to the taxi rank. After some seriously bemused searching I found the train station, only to decide that it was actually just too draughty a place to wait out out a few hours and marched down the hill towards the Costa…that was about an 8 minute walk from the Hostel I’d left with so much optimism several hours previously. Ha. Ha. Ha. Isn’t life funny. As I was meeting a friend at Manchester Piccadilly I decided to just call it quits, buy several random Costa snacks to create lunch and have a quiet few hours in the warm before having to heave my suitcase back up the hill to the station for 3pm. Who says I don’t know how to live a wild life…? 

After a very enjoyable catch-up I was back on the train and headed, feeling slightly battered, back to to noise and grime of Euston station. It had been quite the weekend, and I left still unsure of what I thought about Manchester. At times it had seemed ruggedly attractive, the several red-brick old buildings nestled in amongst all the mid-20th century concrete particularly eye-catching, and at times it had just seemed…wet. And a bit grey. 

The whole “bee mascot” thing has, to an outsider, been taken to a slightly unbelievably wild extreme - there were bees everywhere. On walls. On doors. In restaurant and shop logos. On mugs. On bags. On posters. Even on street bins. As someone who doesn’t particularly like bees, this was a bit unnerving.

On the whole, I did like Manchester - and I would certainly visit again, which says something in itself. 

Next stop: My mum and I’s trip to Berlin in April! Where should we visit? 

What Essa saw:

Manchester LGBT Foundation 

https://lgbt.foundation/ 

HOME Manchester 

https://homemcr.org/ 

Teacup Kitchen

https://teacupandcakes.com/

Forbidden Planet Manchester

https://www.facebook.com/fpmanchester/

The John Rylands Library (free entry)

https://www.library.manchester.ac.uk/rylands/ 

The People’s History Museum (free entry)

https://phm.org.uk/

Manchester’s China Town

https://www.visitmanchester.com/things-to-see-and-do/chinatown-p275031

Where Essa stayed (but does not recommend):

https://hattershostels.com/manchester-hilton-chambers/ 

[smoothshift]

A Tall Person's Guide to Convertibles via /r/cars

A Tall Person's Guide to Convertibles

Reference: I'm 6'4" - 145 lbs - Los Angeles - Single

Priorities (in order of importance):

HARD TOP

Essential for quiet, comfort, temp, safety, and security while both driving and parked. Requires compromising weight, performance, mpg, storage, and steep repair costs if it malfunctions.

4 SEATS

As a primary car, even if the rear seats are basically unusable, having them as back up is better than having no option. Plus, with the top retracted in the trunk, there'd be no storage for the 2-seater rendering it unusable for trips, especially with a companion.

COMFORTABLY ACCOMMODATE HEIGHT / LEGS

After road-tripping my whole life, I assumed the soreness and discomfort was an unavoidable aspect. Many economy cars don't have the thigh support people with long legs need, forcing knees to bend and the weight carried on your feet. They also have a more upright position that forces your weight to be carried in your butt - making it sore. A reclined sitting position distributes weight over the body and reduces sore spots. In order for a tall person to feel comfortable reclined, it requires the ergonomic adjustments frequently only found in luxury brands. Additionally, many convertibles have small/angled windshields where a tall person's head would stick out and get buffeted by wind.

SMOOTH SUSPENSION & FUN TO DRIVE

L.A. has terrible roads that are uncomfortable with a firm suspension. While a priority is a smoother ride, I still want it to be fun and responsive.

SMALL CAR

Easier to navigate and park.

LIGHT INTERIOR

This is both form and function in that light interiors are refreshingly airy and less claustrophobic/cave-like. Plus, you also don't want dark seats heating up when the top's down. However, light light interior does scuff and show dirt/stains - requiring more frequent upkeep.

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Taking all those variables into account, that leaves only a handful of cars to consider. I tried to test drive them all to compare side-by-side and make as informed of a decision as possible. Here's my personal reactions to each test drive:

CHRYSLER

200 / SEBRING

Ultimately didn't test drive due to there being none local enough in reasonable condition. Reviews say "strong engine" but "cheap/uncomfortable interior." That, combined with negative reviews, brand, and reliability caused me to give up on this one.

BMW

325i

This thread reports very little difference between 325i + 328i. Both fine with 328i feeling comparatively lighter/spriter.

328i

7/20 - Test drove 2011. Great in both style and size. Cabin is spacious with considerable leg room, but seat lacks thigh/leg support to an extent I struggled to find a comfortable position. Despite the leather, seats are more firm than plush. 2nd best windshield and viewing angle after VW Eos. Sitting closer to the window prevents the frame from obstructing as much view. I’m extraordinary picky about that and didn’t have complaints - especially since it did a great job keeping the wind off my head with top down. Steering wheel was so firm it didn’t feel powered and resulted in a hair trigger response that may be appealing for performance, but gets fatiguing after too long. Similarly, suspension was so firm/transparent, it’s too evident just how bad LA’s roads are. What killed it before even test driving was the abundant reviews from owners regularly paying 4-digit repair costs. It doesn’t sound like it will take long for the repairs to surpass the purchase price - defeating the whole point of a budget and going used.

335i

This article says 328i is superior to 335i due to handling power better.

INFINITI

G37

7/20 - Test drove 2011 Base. Great looking inside and out - the most elegant/classy. Leather seats were only a bit more plush than firm and lacked thigh support. Windshield offered fine/good visibility and the side window height was a surprising perk. Speakers in headrest sounded crappy, but A/C in seats was a godsend. Top down, I think I felt wind hitting my head over the windscreen. Curiously, it didn't feel as special with the top down. The drive was firm, responsive, with a smooth suspension that wasn’t numb. You can feel the car’s weight, but it handled well enough. Came closest to replicating VW's fun acceleration, but only after a bit of an annoying pause. 2nd place after VW Eos.

Q60

None under $20k, so didn't test drive because out of budget.

LEXUS

IS 250

7/19 - Test drove 2014 IS250C Base. Sexy body with aggressive looks. Leather seats were more firm/supportive than plush/soothing. Lacks the most in thigh support, but seat is otherwise sufficient. Windscreen was smaller/narrower than VW Eos and similar to Volvo C70 -but a bit better. Great side window makes up for it with refreshingly unobstructed views (Infiniti G37’s is even better). Top down, the wind only occasionally glanced top of head - seemed relatively minimal/normal. The drive was firm with the best suspension yet, but there's a numbness you have to fight through. Couldn’t replicate the fun acceleration of the VW Eos. However, something about it did “feel good” to drive. It still managed to evoke pleasure despite lacking clarity. 3rd place.

IS 350

This article says the bigger engine is worth it, but none under $20k

SC 430

7/18 - Test drove 2003. Good small size, yet comfortable leg room, thigh support, and headroom is just sufficient. Luxurious cabin has wood paneling, leather, and feels like sitting in a plush recliner. Windshield is too low/narrow and feels excessively closed-in with top closed. Top open has better visibility (than VW Eos) due to small windshield, but results in unacceptable wind buffeting top of head. Super soft suspension, but not fun to drive. Feels heavy and boat-like with imperceptible acceleration. As though all the attention was put to making the driving experience as smooth and invisible as possible at the cost of all responsiveness. Last place.

PONTIAC

G6

Couldn't find any local in reasonable condition to test drive. MPG 15 city / 22 hwy, but lots of people commend its reliability if taken care of.

VOLVO

C70

7/19 - Test drove 2010. Compared to VW Eos, everything about it seemed just...fine. Not better, not bad, just...fine. Not nearly as big of an improvement from my Honda Fit as the VW Eos. The two biggest downsides are reduced visibility from the smaller/narrower windshield and underwhelming acceleration/drive. Whereas the VW’s peppiness put a smile on my face. This cabin was fine with leather, if a bit firm and less plush than others. Comfortable and supportive seat with good thigh support and leg room. Wind felt a few inches above my head, but view/angle of road didn’t feel that great. Handling is nicely light and responsive - just lacked fun acceleration. 4th place.

VW

EOS

7/18 - Test drove 2007. Perfectly small like my Honda Fit with similarly spacious cabin and few inches of headroom. Good thigh support, leg room, and comfortable seats. Good visibility and skylight (which no others have). Surprisingly light/zippy drive with incredible acceleration that gave smile-inducing gforces. Smooth suspension. Tasteful design, not cheap plastic. Shocked by not having any complaints. 1st place.

7/25 - Test drove 2012. This second test drive was to make sure because I found it hard to believe how superior this car was too all the others in drive, comfort, and design. I was shocked that none of the "luxury" brands came close to satisfying all my requirements as well as the VW. But after test driving it again, it only solidified that this was unequivocally "the one."

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TL;DR

In the end, I purchased a 2013 VW Eos with 7,200 miles for $18,900 and have been driving it for a month. I did an inaugural 3-day road trip and was blown away by how comfortable and not sore I was by the end. Every time I get in, it feels like more luxury than I deserve...like traveling 1st class. I was complimented by 4 different strangers within the first week of owning it. That's never happened a single time before in my life. I love this car like Han loves the Millennium Falcon. It's shocking to realize how much I was missing before finding one that actually accommodates my body size.

As with anything, there are compromises. VWs don't have great reliability and repairs are costly, so I'm expecting pricey upkeep. It takes premium gasoline and costs $50 every fill up. If there's any problem with the roof, they generally aren't repaired and must be replaced for $10k (wondering if a rider on my car insurance is possible/worth it?). VW stopped producing the Eos in 2015, so unsure what costs/consequences that'll entail.

After personally comparing all the cars, I just couldn't get this one out of my head. I knew nothing else would make me as happy despite its trade offs. It may be wiser to go with a more reliable brand, but I'm hoping the low miles will help with that.