#sometimes it's fun to just be silly though

[slurmpinheimer]

from @cyber-harpie !! spit that shit homie!! I thought this deserved to be seen because it brings up a lot interesting points—and I do agree with this, though it got me thinking again. I would like to add a few things to my initial statement because analysis and talking about Kim is fun;

(WARNING: MAJOR KIM-RELATED YAPPAGE BELOW)

I’ve watched several play throughs where (especially at the beginning of the game/if they have low psyche) people aren’t sure of Kim, or even go so far as to call him annoying, a buzzkill, or an asshole. At first I found myself getting really defensive about this. Obviously not to the point that I made any hate comments or anything, that would be silly— But just in my head, automatically dismissing it because I love him and didn’t want to hear it. I couldn’t imagine anyone disliking him, instead of thinking deeper and considering *why* people might come to these conclusions.

I believe the bits we get from Esprit and Empathy support my initial point that Harry is the perfect narrative device to meet Kim through. If I remember correctly, Kim was written specifically to find Harry funny, and Harry’s skills let us see that. and that’s IF you succeed the checks, or if you’re dedicated enough to save scum to see other possibilities/go through Fayde to see what other options might have held.

Like, before I learned about the end of the Homosexual Underground thought line, I certainly had my suspicions. I definitely thought Kim was at least queer-coded and headcanoned him as gay, but that thought trail is behind a legendary Composure check that I spent like 10 full minutes save-scumming. I had low motorics on my first run, and I only tried so hard because I had been spoiled and knew that it gave a thought called “Homosexual Underground” and needed to see where that led with my own eyes.

That’s just one example too—There’s several times that Kim Lore is behind hard checks (Ace’s High/Low, that tidbit about him smoking weed lol) or things he just refuses to elaborate on without specific circumstances. Plus there’s all the stuff that you can learn when you play a different quest line. I’ve had several people tell me that going through a fascist ends up with Kim actually being pretty open about things you don’t learn about in other questlines. I don’t even know all the details of that yet because I’ve been so busy doing the other quests and achievements that I haven’t finished a fascist run yet.

My thought process with all this is that without seeing Kim through the lens Harry, who works with him almost constantly for a week straight in a situation where deep and meaningful conversation is not just encouraged but *needed* to build a repertoire and ultimately solve the case—Not to mention the patience and care Kim treats Harry’s situation with—I can see how someone would look at Kim from the outside and find him to be… (anguish at typing out this word) …mid.

So yeah. On the surface level; Kim is a cop. He can be condescending and uptight, sometimes leading into lecturing people (something he himself admits). He plays his cards close to his chest, with both his moralist beliefs and even more so his sympathies for the rebellion—Which can make him look a bit like a fence sitter. He can be emotionally unavailable towards himself and others, making him hard to read and sometimes appear cold.

But past that, he is a beautifully crafted, deep character, and the perfect foil to the chaos that is Harry. He is the man that reaches out to shake your hand even though you ghosted him two days prior. He will pat you and give you a handkerchief when you throw up. He can be the man that sticks up for you time and time again, not just because he needs to in order to solve the case, but because if you really try, he believes you’re a good detective at heart. Past suicidal rants and nervous breakdowns, he encourages you to keep going.

He has been beaten down, ground and polished to a smooth finish by mutiple facets of oppression—from his glasses, to his race, his sexuality, all fundamental parts of himself that he cannot change. From years of working in a high-pressure, volatile work environment with low pay and little benefits other than the small satisfaction of completing a case, only to dive headfirst into the next one.

He pushed aside his lofty dreams of the skies to be down with the rest of us in the dirt and mud, trudging, struggling through life until we all inevitably burn away the fuel reserves and are nothing but smoke, a memory in the mind of fire.

Beyond that carefully constructed exterior, past his wall of professionalism (and habit of using his notebook as a shield) hides a goofy nerd, a lover of crosswords and cars, of silly radio stations, and a deep appreciation for beautifully bearded muscular men. He is an expert user of sarcasm and master of cryptic jokes, some even philosophical or political in nature. At his core, he wants to make things better for the people around him. He wants to believe he can make a difference, no matter how long it takes or how small the change is. Even if working for the RCM destroys him before he can see it come to fruition.

He is wonderful. He is amazing. He’s probably my favorite character all of fiction, and I don’t think there will ever be a day in my life that I stop loving him. That’s pookie you’re talking about. I’ll always have space in my heart for him.

He will live on as long as we do, as real as The Man From Hjemdall is to Roy because Disco Elysium *made* him real, handcrafting him, giving him life between margins and pixels. And that is worth everything.

Kim Kitsuragi is a fascinating character because there's not that much fun or interesting or compelling about him. And yet somehow over the course of playing Disco Elysium the game rewires your fucking brain around him. He's the middest man you've ever seen in both appearance and personality but at some point he says something kind to you or something critical of you and you feel like you just got hit by a truck and you need his approval like you need oxygen and like how tf did this happen. what are you

[royalarchivist]

This is what it feels like every time a new SMP has streamers I like

[pricegouge]

I saw you were asking for horror prompts 😈 so here’s my scary perverted one:

Vampire!Nik who’s turned when his milaya is still a baby. Comes back 20+ years later to haunt and turn her so they can spend eternity together despite the fact that she doesn’t even remember him❤️🥀

-🗡️

okay, yeah. i had fun with this one, thank you!

cw: incest. age gap, but only kinda cause vampires. horror elements. vague vampire lore, including thralls. dubcon kissing/heavy petting. blood. unedited as usual, sorry. abrupt ending cause i ran out of steam. ~5k

he can't be bothered to watch over you for many years. life (death, rather) is just all so very exciting. he spread his wings. proverbial, maybe, though he's heard tell of something more ancient. more literal.

he doesn't forget you. how could he? you haunt his waking hours for what seems an eon, days and nights blurring until he has to rest for long years, wakes to a different time entirely and worries about how much he's missed.

much, as it turns out.

you're a proper woman when next he sees you, headstrong and borderline unrecognizable. he follows you for days, weeks. learns all your patterns, the quiet parts of yourself you seem to keep hidden behind locked doors he can only pass because he installed them, the bones of the house shaped by his own hands - an estate that's fallen to ruin, once-lavish halls picked apart by collectors, barren and drab with the dwindled staff. he tells himself it's a morbid type of curiosity but he knows better the second he lingers too long, sees you for the woman you've become when you undress before him, gazing upon yourself in a mirror that won't betray his presence, even if he wants it to. wants to see confusion cloud your face as recognition wars with your fear. you must have seen photos of him, your governess keeping you educated on the man who'd given you a name and a fortune and left in the night. he doesn't look quite look like himself anymore, but he more closely resembles you than he does his re-creator. and surely that in itself should sway you?

for you must be as lonely as him.

night fall is the worst for you, those lingering hours after the staff have retired where sleep eludes you, entices you to pick up hobbies which have not given you joy for many years. you'd been moved to the master suite some time back, the overlarge bed as tempting as a siren. you'd grown slovenly, your governess always said so. lax in your studies and far too melancholy to find a suitor.

but what could it matter, really? the estate had been searching tirelessly for a match since your first season, the only bachelors who'd made offers old and penniless. you still had a pretty enough dowry, but no one wanted to be saddled with the get of some wayward lord. not when there'd been no proper abdication. not when the specter of your father loomed over every inch of the estate, his fist still clutching at every gem. sometimes you imagined the sheets even still smelled like him, a faint trace that would linger some mornings and burn up with the sun when you finally let the maid in to draw the curtains.

but it was just a silly fantasy, some trace of comfort born from loneliness. in truth, the only possible clue you could have of your father's scent rests in the humidor tucked in the corner by the secretary - fine cigars turned stale, full-bodied notes now arid. hollow as the house itself.

you're sat with one, dry, peeling paper tickling your philtrum as you try to discern what flavors still linger. licorice, certainly; heavy and cloying. something earthier under it, a fine balance. leather, maybe. it's a distraction, a mindless way to pass the hours before you could feasibly fall into bed without your prying governess saying anything, shut your thoughts off for a time. you'd already written in your diary, another dull entry. brief with the monotony of your life. honestly, cataloging the notes you can pick out of these ancient, abandoned cigars would make for a more interesting read. this one still smells the strongest, though the paper has turned brittle with handling. sometimes you watch the gentlemen of the ton, carefully memorizing the precise way they snip the ends off, roll the cigar over the open flame of their lighters. you often imagine doing the same, like to picture yourself smoking the aged rolls expertly.

really, you know you'll end up in a coughing spell loud enough to wake the whole house, but the truth is you've never tried. it's a curiosity that's grown on you, the slow creep of moss over rotting trunks. you swap the cigar for something less flavorful, something that won't be missed, and rifle through the secretary until you find the little cigar kit you'd kept safely tucked away. maybe, like the rest of society, part of you expects it's owner to return someday, reclaim what's his.

the cigar falls apart a little, once clipped. flaky shreds of tobacco and other strong herb shake out at first, but you moisten the edges of it delicately, lick your fingers as daintily as possible and fuss about the paper until becomes slightly more malleable. lighting it is less of a chore than expected, the oils long dried. shake catching like tinder. you yelp and wave it out, stamp the little ashes that rain onto the carpet with a slippered toe. feel silly after. sillier still when you take your first drag and think for a moment you've managed to imbalance all your humors - immediate expectorant clogging your nose, inflaming the column of your neck. rough wool, still matted and nettled from the field fills your lungs and you cough, ragged and silent.

small blessing, no prying governess to heed your call.

light-headed, you wobble to the window, breathe deep of the frigid breeze you let in. winter steals in around you, rattles the pane on it's way past and sends the curtains fluttering. it makes your chest ache in a new way, but is a balm to your overheated skin, soothes your throat as you gasp for each breath. clutched in your fingers, the cigar glows brightly in the strong wind, crackling away happily. as your sinuses clear, you note the lingering heaviness of licorice, a black tar that seems to seep down your throat, gags you. you give it up for a bad job and smother it on the pane before tossing it onto the roof below. with any luck, a curious crow will snatch it away before spring melt off can dump it into the pasture, catch the attention of the gardeners. you've no clue how well-acquainted your governess is with the brands your father used to smoke and you've no plan to find out, resolving to leave the window open all night if you have to in order to clear the stench of your foolish endeavor.

the candles have guttered but it's no matter, the moon bright enough that you can disrobe and navigate to bed even without them. it's not a difficult endeavor anyway, the bed such a ridiculously oversized piece it dominated most of the room and called into question the size of the man who'd commissioned it. you drown in it most nights, restless, twisting yourself up in sheets that stretched on forever, wound around you until you'd wake gasping, clawing at your own belly as if to loosen the stays of a corset that wasn't there. the physician who'd come to see to you was unsympathetic to your claims that the bed was simply too large - had suggested sleeping in your corset instead, claiming it would soothe your nerves and prevent you trying to bind yourself in your sleep.

it did not work, but your maid, alice, was loyal to the governess. tied your stays in the back, much too tight for you to undo once she'd left you alone. even now the boning digs at you, chest still heaving from your foolish endeavor. you settle on your back, try to keep your shoulders set back to encourage deep breathing and watch the shadows play about the room, curtains billowing with each icy gust. there's still too much smoke in the room, lingering up near your ceiling where it swirls about, never quite low enough to escape when the curtains ebb in a back draft. you hope you won't be stuck with the window open all night. already, fine dustings of snow slip past, tip toe up your bed to catch your covers and set your legs shivering.

the blankets twist about you again when you turn to your side, but for once you don't mind, your own body weight keeping them tucked firmly in place so the wind can't steal your heat away again. your breath evens as you finally begin to relax, body forming to the mattress just as much as it forms to you. sleep finds you slowly, lulls you into it with deep sighs, your breath matching that of the house itself. you time idly, watching the curtains in the cloudy mirror of your vanity - the only concession to your residence in the whole room. a gift from some minor lady who'd once hoped to sway your favor toward her son - only to have him elope a month later with a merchant's daughter -, the piece stands out singularly in the dark, masculine room. gilded framework and ivory inlay, it catches the moonlight beautifully, pearlescent in the chill. you let yourself be entranced by the vision it makes, orpheus overtaking you, settling over you like a calming, physical weight which shifts, presses a knee between your own -

it feels like the chill has taken your blood when your eyes tear open, body frozen in place as you watch your reflection stir, pushed slightly further onto your belly while the blankets move seemingly of their own accord. you tell yourself it's the wind tugging at them again, but the way the flatten against the mattress makes no sense - and it's the not the wind that whispers your name in your ear.

still trapped in the bedding, you thrash uselessly before you're able to escape its clutches, only realizing you're screaming when the breath is knocked out of you as you thud to the floor. help comes to lift you to your feet before you are able to do it yourself, alice's hands surprisingly firm when they dig under your arms and lift. you can't even manage to thank her, breaths stuttering out high and thin as you stare at your bed in wide-eyed shock: two distinct impressions of bodies, one curled around the other, yet completely empty. smoke curls above it, oddly thinner than that what still lingers around your ceiling. it breaks up on the next gust of wind, shatters around you with a cloyingly sweet scent.

---

your governess is cross to say the least.

the next day is spent in the kitchens, working away your transgressions into a particularly hard dough batch. she is unsympathetic to the terror that had overtaken you just before they'd rushed in to help. says she's certain they'd only heard your fresh coughing, although you try to point out that the cigar was already gone by then.

"don't be clever," she warns, an adage you've heard many times over the years. What man wants a clever wife?

she has the humidor emptied, says it should have been done long ago. you say nothing because probably, she's right.

alice isn't your friend, but sometimes she can be friendly. unlike your governess, she at least seems to have noticed your distress from the night before, simply nods in agreement when you ask her to warm your bed after she's done helping you dress that evening. perhaps she still sees it, the fear. she hums at you like she thinks you need at, at least, and maybe you do because it works quickly, your body exhausted after so much hard work and such little sleep.

---

despite your exhaustion, you do not sleep soundly. the midnight hour finds you fretful, though you're careful to remain still so as not to wake alice. you breathe in sync with her in an attempt to soothe yourself until you realize it's not her that moves but the house itself, curtains billowing in a breeze that shouldn't exist, windows locked tight for the night. strangely, the realization does not frighten you - not even when you turn to find alice staring blankly at the ceiling, eyes glossed over and vacant. skin leeched pale in the moonlight. you roll over to her, curious, and her eyes track over you uncomprehendingly, focus on a point at the far side of the room.

there's no decision to sit up, you simply do - chest rising first as if an anchor knot is rooted in your sternum, woven between the hollows of your ribs. the world tilts for a moment, and then rights itself, as if alighting with you on this new level. you observe the room much as it had been the night before, cold light filtering through whorls of smoke, though there's more of it now - thin trails of oily residue curling all around the room. it seems to ebb about the edges. even with the window locked tight, the room still seems to contract and compress, pressure increasing rhythmically before expanding again, fresh smoke rushing to fill it. you track the trail back to its source, a pin point ember which builds and gutters with swell, bobbing along on a tide. it takes a minute for your eyes to adjust but you make out the hand that holds it first, long fingers painted warm in the low light. it's the only bit of skin you can make out, the body attached to it settled so far back into the shadow it appears only as one itself - darker, deeper. barely distinguishable.

by its immense stature, you reason it is a man sat at your secretary. like alice's composure, there is a part of you that knows this realization should frighten you, but you're much too tired and curious to care, crawling to the foot of the bed so you can get a better look, continuing on over the edge and onto the floor when you still can't make out his features. your palms scratch against the worn wood, bearing too much weight in your awkward crawl, and room stills when you feel blood on the heel of your hand, the heat of it almost shocking in the cold air.

you only make it another stretch closer before the man recovers, the ember of his cigar flaring and popping as he takes a long drag, leans forward in his seat until you can make out a broad, stubbled jaw, two perfect white streaks glowing in the moonlight revealed when he finally drops his hand. his lips are wine-dark when they part, reveal a neat row of pearly teeth. he's impolite, blows his smoke directly at you. cloyingly sweet licorice and heady tobacco. you do not cough this time, though it's a near-miss. it seems to please him, lips tugging into a cruel smile as the smoke grows denser, begins to pour from his mouth in a thick, black cloud. it stains his chin, his teeth a black tar-like oil that smells too pungent. rotted.

you startle when alice screams, overcorrecting when you turn to her because she's there beside you, not behind, both of you still lying in bed.

"alice?" you start, trying to wake her, but your hand slips across her chest, slick with something dark and hot, and you freeze, unable to do anything as she continues to sieze and shriek beside you.

the governess comes, and then a doctor. in the confusion, you're shuttled off to the chair across the room. you're already settled into it by the time you realize it's where the man had sat, and you briefly take inventory of it, as if perhaps you could feel the traces of his body heat lingering. but the only thing of note is the trace whisps of dark sweets, easily explained away by your own mishap the night before.

they clean alice's wound and find a neat ring of teeth marks, your own good name saved by virtue of the doctor recognizing that they'd had time to heal - must have happened some other night, that alice must have been picking at them in her sleep. your governess's obvious distaste stills your tongue, unwilling to face her wrath if she believes you sympathetic to some street hussy. so you say nothing, even as alice shrieks about a man, about being accosted. even as they call her hysteric and pack her off. instead you sit silently, picking off the blood the that had dried to your hand when you'd gone to wake her. never mentioning the scrape you find beneath it and the congealed line of your own blood; the cut from when you'd flopped out of bed to crawl to his feet. because you can still smell it, the stomach-turning sweetness, and the heavy scent it had given way to, and you know what it was now, staining his handsome chin just as much as alice's breast.

and it's not fear, or even pity that settles low in your belly, simmers hotter than that ember which had sparked to life, woken you to his call.

you follow them when they walk her out, a small team of men needed to keep her restrained. she fights to be heard, but a part of you worries she fights to stay as well, the claws she sinks into the door frame intended to keep herself put for him. you feel ugly and selfish when you traipse back to your room, but you do anyway, stopping only long enough to smell the beautiful bouquet of dark winter roses you pass on the sideboard. they're lovely and sweet, though you can't help noticing no one has bothered to cut the thorns off. careless. you wonder who got them.

---

it's not the only life taking root in the house.

despite the grueling winter, you notice sunshine in the halls, dust motes dancing in the pale light. sconces you've not seen lit in years keep the shadows of night at bay. spices find their way into your meals, a small luxury you've been missing greatly. you can see your governess watching the staff suspiciously, but don't dare ask if she has her theories.

---

there are cigars in the humidor. or maybe they aren't cigars, much thinner than the ones you're used to seeing. you've no idea how they got there, but neither do you know who to ask. who you can trust to believe you, even just long enough to look, see the proof for themselves.

but then, you're not sure you want anyone else to know.

they smell like his. dark and heavy, sickeningly sweet. it makes your stomach turn but you fish out the lighter anyway, throwing the windows open decisively. fresh air pours in around you, chases cobwebs from the corners. the sconses gutter before flaring back to life, leaving the room brighter than it's been in months, cleaner than it' felt in ages.

you hardly notice, too busy fighting the cough that builds in your throat as you take your first drag. you don't manage it, smoke sputtering sputtering from your mouth in fits and starts as you heave your way through a coughing fit, stomach turning with an unexpected wave of nausea. face turned to the cool relief of the window, you've got your cheek leaned up against the side of the pane when the smoke begins to waft away. it takes you a moment to make sense of the image revealed, inverted and near as it is. fear grips you before you even manage it, some fine-tuned instinct recognizing the viper at your feet and turning to run before you're even sure what you've seen.

but this is no viper, and the reaction warranted when faced with the immense silhouette of a man hanging inverted in your window, mere inches from your face, is to go still as a deer in the hunters' sights, evidently, and play the docile little pray.

he turns properly toward you, the shaggy hair dangling around his face catching in the wind. your cigar flares with it, wan light revealing pale skin and dark eyes which seem to glint in amusement when you stumble away, the whole of the picture revealed to you just as long fingers wrap over the top of the casement and pry it open, hinges groaning as they overextend to let his broad shoulders pass. he pours through the sill like butter from the pan, pools on your ceiling with a strong grip on your curtain rod. except, when he drops from it, he sinks from the rafters like a feather, none of the might his huge frame suggested anywhere to be found.

still reeling, your hip catches the edge of your wardrobe and you slip past it, put your back to the wall as quiet cries spill from your lips, pleas incomprehensible.

he greets you by name in a thick russian accent, and somehow, impossibly, you know, but you ask anyway, voice trembling. "who are you?"

a step closer, movements so fluid you can barely discern them. when did the candles go out? "your cleverer than that."

strange compulsion, you can't stop yourself before reciting, "men don't want clever wives."

"is that what you think i want? a wife?" amusement curls around the words, turns his accent lilting.

"i don't know what you want," you whisper, and he grunts - edging closer to irritation.

"and is that what you think i am, then? a man?"

"no…" the truth shocks you, has you casting about for an anchor. you only find confirmation when you catch sight of your vanity, the man in your room leaving no reflection. your cleverer than that. "you were here that night, weren't you? on the bed with me?"

"well, what's a man to do when he returns home to find a pretty young lady in his bed?"

"you're my father." it's not a question. you're not even certain you mean it as a chastisement. it is simple fact, roiling in your stomach like the nausea that lingers.

a fact he ignores, slipping closer and trailing cold digits over the inside of your wrist before taking the slim cigar from between your fingers. you weren't even aware you'd still had it. it glows back to life when he takes a deep drag, smoke spilling from his mouth when he speaks again, "do you like this one better than that other? they're very popular in paris."

you latch onto the wrong part of the question. "is that where you've been?"

"there," he shrugs. "everywhere."

more nausea, sinuses prickling with the added smoke. "anywhere but here?"

he doesn't seem to like this question, either, a stillness overtaking him. "i was… called away."

but if he can be angry, so can you. "for twenty four years?" you snap, voice ragged and sharp as it had been after your first inhale.

his stillness snaps, exasperation turning him away from you. he paces to the window and finally you can see more of his features - the high peaks of his hairline, the heavy brow and the broad nose. he's an older man, you know, and yet - he doesn't really look it, fine lines of his forehead no worse than a man ten, twenty years his younger. his voice is gruff when he speaks again. quiet. "a man can't help being needed -."

"you were needed hear!" you shriek, a reservoir of emotion you didn't know you'd kept dammed breaking free.

when he turns on his heel the candles flare again, and you gasp, shocked to find him suddenly before you, the wool of his overcoat scratchy even through your shift. he waits for you to settle, for your chest to stop heaving against his and your pulse to stop hammering so loud in your ears that you can't hear what he says when his lips move, tongue darting out to wet them. "am i no longer needed, then?" he finally asks, and you wilt against him.

"of course you are," you sob, trying not to notice his own breaths never come.

---

there's no precedent telling you what to call him. his name is improper, but 'father' leaves a bitter taste on your tongue. you plead of him 'my lord!' when his kisses linger too long and he groans, pleased.

you're not sure if you like him when he's pleased.

he frightens you, takes too much. he's a man of appetite as you should have known by the marks he'd left on alice, but you'd foolishly thought yourself untouchable, too gently borne to suffer such indignities. of course, the station of your birth matters little to your own father - if it indeed ever would have mattered to anyone at all.

but it's hard to refuse him when he's your father, and so huge, besides. his broad frame corrals you easily back toward the bed. he doesn't let you sink onto it until his kisses have trailed to the hinge of your jaw, cold nose nuzzling behind your ear. when he does breathe, his chest eclipses your own, tries to turn you concave, carve a space within you. his exhale stinks like his cigar, pressed into the corner of your lip.

it's improper. leaves you teetering between disgust and a guilty sort of pleasure, which only serves to repulse you further. your stomach turns, guilt eating its way up your throat. acrid with smoke.

the hand splayed over the column of your throat tightens minutely, long fingers threatening to pluck the tendons which flex when you gag. he misunderstands. "not supposed to inhale, you know?"

your head spins, the only relief from your mounting sickness found in the the cold relief of his hands against your cheek. "i didn't… i don't..?"

"shh. that's alright. papa will teach you. take this, it will help you feel better."

and your mouth when he does. wide, mimicking. eager for some tincture to help soothe your nerves. a strong dose to put you under, perhaps. he grins when you show him your teeth and a finger finds his own, long claw catching minutely on his lip when he drags the pad of his first two fingers over his canine. you're shocked when it comes away bloody - more so when he coos, eases them into your own mouth to stroke against your tongue. for a moment you're too shocked to respond, but then the heavy taste of blood coats your mouth and you thrash about under him, swatting and biting.

it only seems to encourage him, voice too thick with hunger and approval to be as soothing as he intends it when he tries to gentle you beneath him.

he gives up trying when his blood overflows your mouth, spilling over your cheeks as you continue trying to shake him off. he mutters something about a waste and then his other hand is pinching your nose, cutting off your air supply fully. you gurgle, trying to clear your mouth and he snarls, shoves his fingers deeper.

you're forced to swallow your mouthful when your vision begins to tunnel. he sighs in relief when you do, breath nearly as heavy as yours when you gasp and wheeze. he has the decency to drag his fingers down your chin as you struggle, staining all down your throat as he traces the path of the load you've swallowed.

"not so hard, was it?" he mutters, still painting your skin. you glare at him when you can finally manage it and he just chuckles, forces his fingers behind your bottom teeth again. even still the taste revolts you, tongue crowding to the back of you mouth to try and escape the cold copper, the thick licorice. if he notices, he is undeterred. makes you take even more when he pries your jaw open and spits in your mouth.

the vulgarity makes you heave, but his weight fights even that. keeps you in place when he shoves his fingers back until the webbing nestles against the corner of your mouth and his fingernails scrape against your throat. he feels when it constricts around him reflexively and his free hand smooths the hair back from your sweaty forehead, cold breath against your temple as he tells you to relax, voice fragmenting - somehow both soft, ethereal, and a very real rumble in your ear.

it's that quiet one that gets you, webs its way through your nerves until you're limp with it, energy sapped along with your will to disobey. his fingers pull back minutely, give you enough space to swallow the blood that's gathered at the back of your throat. when they push back in, he bids you suckle them in that same distorted voice and you do. easily, gratefully, and this time, the blood pools in your belly like an antidote. it soothes your nausea, leaves you hungry for more. he doesn't hesitate to provide it, fingers pumping in and out of your mouth as you begin to suckle at them, entreating him to stay nestled in the heat of your mouth each time he starts to pull away.

you're unsure how long he feeds you. long enough you that you feel sated and sleepy when he withdraws entirely. a strand of saliva follows him, snaps back to fall down your chest when he licks his own fingers after, thick tongue wiping clean what mess remains. his skin comes back whole and healed, a prospect that should surely frighten you, but there is no fear when you grow bold, pull him closer by a strong grip on the long strands of hair at his nape. his tongue is slick when it slides against yours, chasing the taste of himself. he follows it down your chin, panting against the column of your neck as his hands work up your chest, the pressure of them on your waist having been having gone unnoticed through your corset. his nails scrape your skin when he catches the hem of your dressing gown and finally, some base instinct flares back to life, tries to stay his hands with your own, fingers scrabbling against his. he just hushes you again, voice echoing softly between your ears. this time, when your fingers wrap around his wrists, it is simply an anchor for you, body feeling as though you may simply drift away under his care.

when his mouth finds your breast, you arch into him, bucking hard enough that he groans, lays his body flat over you to keep you in place as he feasts. even his weight is decadent, a relief from the way you feel untethered. he pinches your nipple between too-sharp teeth, soaks the fabric of your shift in saliva just to soothe you after. his mouth offers no heat, no balm for the frigid breaths he ghosts over the wet material. you beg for it anyway, fingers threading through his hair to keep him close. an instinct that will do you no good here, the man at your breast inhuman and cold.

it's a fact you can't escape from, not with his cold blood in your belly and his will in your head. not with his lupine teeth spreading wide over your heart, or the ecstatic relief when he finally bites down. your breath steams in the air as you pant beneath him, chest heaving into his mouth even as you try pulling him impossibly closer, and here, finally, is the heat - the bloom of blood that soaks your shift and warms your skin, even as you grow colder with the loss of it. he's insatiable, a man of appetite as you knew, and yet you give yourself freely, even as your breath grows stilted and shallow and your fingers twitch in his hair. he only surfaces when your vision grows cloudy, looms above you in a grisly mask of death turned two-tone with the moonlight and your fading vision. jaw stained dark, it appears an endless maw from which he speaks, demands to know if you'll join him in eternity.

and what girl could ever live without her papa?

dividers by @/cafekitsune and @/adornedwithlight

[clubsmarties]

He couldn't wipe the silly little smile off his face as she corrected him. She liked the movies and now he had even more inside look to how much she paid attention to movies. Disney movies to be exact. That alone made him chuckle to himself. "Who needs human companions when you've got Dolly." His pup knew his voice and even in her sleep her tail wagged. She truly did love him.

"Don't have to. You just said it." Wally laughed. "But, no. Talking to you keeps my mind from running back to work and the thousand other things that need to be done. Your voice is nice to listen to. Should do an audiobook of your favorite book. I'd for sure buy it." She could sell a sack of potatoes and he'd still buy it.

Her hey made him smile and had him chew on his lower lip. It was something he'd noticed when she truly enjoyed something. Where he thought she'd let her guard down enough to be seen. It was nice. "Not a bad thing. It's cute. Like dimples." Or so he had heard. People commented on the family trait more than he cared to admit. Then his eyes went to her arm covering her face and saw it. His hoodie. Even in the dark he'd recognize it. It was the one he had given her at the lighthouse. It was a funny feeling seeing her wear it when he wasn't around. It gave him the very possible scenario that she wore it more times than she had admitted and that it hadn't indeed collected dust in the back of her closet. She kept it. Now that made hope bloom in his chest. Maybe, perhaps, she did feel the same as he did about her.

Deflecting was the name of the game sometimes with her but that still didn't deter him. "Like what? If you say body then you can't say that. You can't copy me." He teased knowing that if anything whatever she stashed in her closet couldn't be as horrible as she made it out to be. "You'd have the best time with a collectible Disney sweater."

He laughed and shook his head. Clearing his throat a second later. "No, not forcing you. Your call remember. I just pack things in so you wouldn't be one to call me a boring tour guide. You can decide what you want to do. But I am gonna insist on the lighthouses trip. Those are always fun and you don't have to be attached to me the entire time. You can explore and meet me in the middle. Sunset tour is really cool though. If you like it maybe you can take Anna and Charlie and Orion out there."

He could tell she was on her way off to sleep and let her continue to talk. His somewhat lopsided plan was working of getting her to fall asleep first. That was the real reason he could fall asleep knowing she was safely off. Sweats and his hoodie made him smile. "Great idea, you got it," he whispered as he made sure to lower it and whistled lowly to his pup who had her ears perked. Gave her the snuggle command in French and saw his dog further lean her head on her chest. Goodnight lila. Was the last thing he said before he fell asleep without hanging up the call.

The morning light hurt his eyes as he opened them up and saw his phone was at 17% battery but still could see Dolly on top of Liz just looking at the screen. She put her head on her paws happily wagging her tail. He waved at her and made a shh sound as he got up and plugged in his phone getting up. He put it on mute so he could get the shower and eat something before she woke back up and realized they'd fallen asleep together on the phone and they were still on call.

After he finished and got dressed. This time in a dark blue long sleeve shirt and his hair was not covered in gel yet, his one bang laid on his side as he shuffled around cleaning up after himself. When he turned the phone around and unmuted it he figured he'd make his presence known.

"I'd totally share my waffles with you if I could. Though I don't know may rethink it because these are really good. Reminds me of the ones at the diner. The ones you didn't realize were hot."

"Nope. I did not quote. I merely commented on the situation and its comparative nature to this situation is all." Elizabeth rebutted, voice growing softer as she let the calm motions of absentmindedly petting Dolly and the stillness of not doing anything seep in. "And it's just a movie, no big deal. And for the record I'm glad too, she's a wonderful hiking companion."

She was too tired to keep up a façade about how he didn't make her smile sometimes, especially now when he acted like a kid. Ever since the lighthouse, in which she slipped up more than she usually did, she couldn't place her finger on it. At first she found it too childish, annoyingly so, especially from someone that was an Agent. Somehow, she had began to find it endearing? Was that it ? Well whatever it was, a wide smile replaced her usual stoic features. "Well, that sounds like a lie," She sighed snuggling closer to Dolly. "Seeing as you're still wide awake. Just admit that I am the only one that would pick up at this hour so you decided to annoy me. "

At the mention of her teeth, her hand came up to her face. "Hey!" There was no denying she was in his hoodie now as it was more visible. Fingers and his hoodie sleeve covered her nose and mouth, no one had ever mentioned it before or bothered to care or ever noticed her teeth. She hadn't ever thought them that prominent, just once when her stepmother called them out in her teens on a job. It made her feel seen, exposed. He had such an uncanny ability to hone in on the things others never saw. He is an agent, her brain reprimanded her, she needed to stop thinking that he was just someone else. One false move would land her where she never wanted to be.

"I'll put it in the box, don't want to be hoarding your things in my closet. There are things I could be stashing in there." Was she being slightly mean, sure, but she also didn't want me to get too comfortable. She would be gone soon, she kept telling herself, she just needed the right person to take over the office and she'd be off again. "I might borrow it though, if Anna and Charlie decide to come to the resort. I'll try to blend in."

Just the thought of all the activities that Wally was trying to cram into one week made her feel tired already but there was a sense of adventure that she couldn't deny. She was too tired now to start an argument about how hope is not real and just meant to crush people, it would be for another time. "Sunset Tour? You're making me hang out with you all day everyday aren't you? " There was no bite to it as nuzzled against the back of Dolly's head, the stillness, the quiet of the apartment seeping in and lulling her to sleep slowly. "Crowds are fine. I like crowds. Easy to blend in. Gossip to hear." She muttered. "Sweats. Sweats are comfortable. I'll wear sweats. And your hoodie." A soft sigh as her eyelids began to close over her hazel eyes. "It's comfortable too." Dolly moved slightly getting more comfortable herself, making Elizabeth smile lazily and sheepishly before snuggling against the border collie again. "Can we go to the falls? I heard its pretty. I'll do the cave if we can go to the falls." It was all soft muttering, not too different then when a child tried to keep from falling asleep.

[thewintersoldierdisaster]

William loves doggy. His large frame encloses your body in every way, overpowering you. The power trip he gets reminds you both just how much he can willingly mold you to his whims. His grip tightens, his breathing gets heavier, and his eyes glow with intensity. You can't say no, and you don't want to. It's in that moment that you know you belong to him. Loved your Willy blurb based on this.

thank you thank you!! i love writing these smutty, kinky silly blurbs! they’re a fun little exercise for me 🥰

anyway! we’ve established that willy is an ass man, he loves groping it, biting it, fucking it

some nights he gets you on your hands and knees as the second or third position he fucks you in, other nights it’s immediately to doggy style for him

either way, he loves seeing you from behind, the curves of your waist giving way to the heart shape of your ass. he loves kissing his way up and down your spine, until he gets to your ass cheeks where he’ll bite and suck at the skin until it’s red and the imprints of his teeth stand out sharply

if you’re being naughty, he spanks you, your body jolting up the bed with each smack. his handprint painted in red on your skin, the outline of each finger obvious for him to trace with his finger tips

william folds his whole body over yours, crowding you into the mattress, his chest hair rubbing against the sweaty skin of your back. you’ll drop down onto your elbows to change the angle of his thrusts, heavy and forceful, bullying your g-spot with the head of his cock

the feeling of his body completely covering yours is overwhelming and perfect and makes you come harder than usual. you love feeling his chest and stomach pressed against your back, his hairy thighs against the backs of yours, every inch of his skin touching yours.

you whine and wail his name and he loves it, loves it even more when his cock stuffs your cunt and he buries two fingers in your ass and you can’t breathe from the sensation, pleasure sparking at ever nerve ending until you’re sobbing and coming on his cock, gushing a mess of come onto him and the sheets

he grabs your hips in big hands, gripping you tightly so he can fuck your cunt harder, pulling you back as he pushes forward. he leaves finger shaped bruises on your hips that you love, because it marks you as his

after he’s stretched your ass with his fingers, he spits on your ass cheeks and watches it drip down your curves. gathers your come and the lube and gets your ass all messy and ready for his cock. he takes it slow, always. no matter how hard he fucks your cunt, he treats your ass gently at first, pressing the head in until you’re breathing shakily and begging for more. once he gets the head of his cock in, it’s easier from there, holding your hips in place so he can fuck your ass, watching his cock disappear inside of you

he likes to rub the thick shaft of his cock between your ass cheeks, halfway using you as a toy to get himself off until he comes on your back and his stomach, giving you a couple of quick orgasms with his fingers or his tongue from behind

william would rather come inside of you - either hole - and watch it drip out, but sometimes he shoots his load on your skin and rubs it in, like he’s lotioning up your skin, but he’s just marking you again, making sure you know you’re his.

you’d never think otherwise though, every piece of you belongs to william

when you’re spent, boneless and limp and laying flat on your stomach, william rests his cheek on your ass and nips at your skin, biting and licking until you swat him away too overwhelmed for another second of touch

[watermelonrindsstuff]

Sometimes I forget that TV series are a form of art created by countless artists coming together to materialize their vision. Binge-watching a Netflix show with coffee and chips in the evening, only to forget about it entirely after a few days, has been my usual experience. But some shows stick around; they make me think, speculate, and reflect. They make it harder to move on, forcing me to question something dormant within me. They slap you in the face, give a middle finger to the status quo, and take you on a ride that’s unpredictable, uncomfortable, fun, and gut-wrenchingly painful.

Buffy the Vampire Slayer is one of those rare shows. It demands you fall out of everything else and be present wholeheartedly. You have to let the beauty and terror of the show consume you. And maybe, if you’re lucky and introspective enough, you might come out of it a whole new person.

Even though it’s a show about mystical creatures like demons, vampires, and witches, it’s fascinating how it remains so grounded, unearthing real-life issues and addressing them with remarkable humanity. The characters aren’t flawless heroes or unrelatable paragons of virtue; they’re messy, flawed, and, at times, unapologetically jerks. Not the passive, harmless kind, but the kind of jerks we encounter in real life; the ones whose actions mirror the complexity of human relationships.

Out of the sprawling cast, you can barely count two or three who haven’t made a complete 180 at some point. And isn’t that true of life itself?

People you once trusted might turn their backs on you when you need them most.

Siblings, feeling unseen or isolated, act out in ways you don’t expect.

Parents misunderstand your calling, your passion.

Friends, the ones you’d have done anything for, out of jealousy and incompetence isolated you.

Then there’s loss; the death of someone you love, followed by the suffocating silence and disconnection it leaves in its wake.

People try their best to support you in all the wrong ways.

Unexpected moments of compassion and support from the unlikeliest sources.

The numbness of depression.

The yearning to do better for the ones you love.

The inappropriate silliness in the face of mortal danger,

The punning as if a joke could stop the world from ending.

I’ve felt all of this. I’ve lived it. And I know everyone, in their own way, has too. What makes this show the greatest of all time isn’t just the supernatural battles or the apocalyptic stakes. It’s the way it takes the raw, messy beauty of life and weaves it into something profound. It’s the creativity, the honesty, and the soul poured into presenting these truths that make it unforgettable.

Despite all its brilliance, the show isn’t without its flaws, many of which stem from its creator: a bona fide egotist. There’s the whitewashing of problematic actions, some of which were disturbingly endorsed. The underlying tone of misogyny often contradicts the show’s branding as a pro-feminist narrative. Add to that the mishandling of perfectly developed characters out of personal grudges and the abrupt departures of main leads, and it’s clear that the creator’s ego left its mark in ways that tarnish what could have been a near-perfect legacy.

However, given the immense contributions of the other writers, directors, cast, and crew who poured their hearts and souls into bringing this show to life. The producers and writers and their audacity to try out extremely crazy ideas and visions and sewing it as flawlessly as possible. The stellar performance of the casts. I can’t help but proclaim it as one of the best show ever! Their dedication and talent shine through every moment, elevating it beyond the flaws of its creator.

[youhideastar]

Oooh, I haven't done a tag game in lo, these many years - tagged by @rabbitcrimes!

Last song I listened to: Warsaw, from Dessa's Parts of Speech - a favorite. Honestly a crime that I have not mined it for fic titles.

Three ships: they come sailing in on Christmas Day? 😂 I don't know if this is supposed to be my all-time favorites or what I'm reading/writing right now, so I'm going to leave it there.

Currently reading: slowly working my way through Who We Are and How We Got Here: Ancient DNA and the New Science of the Human Past. It's good, and interesting, but the details of how the genetic analysis is done kind of make my eyes glaze over.

Most recent movie I watched: Argentina 1985, about the prosecution of leaders of the military junta. Not cheery! But very good. Gave me a healthy sense of perspective about the difficulties of my own trials--like, I'm exhausted and consuming nothing but chocolate milk for days and days, but at least no one is leaving bullets on my kitchen table or chasing me in the middle of the night!

Craving: Kiwi sorbet, which I've never found in a store, so that means I have to get off my ass and make it myself one of these days.

tagging: @queenofattolia, @existentially-yibo, @chrononautintraining, @miles-of-heart, or anyone else who'd like to join in!

[lurking-loaf]

It's essential to teach them color theory when they're young so they understand how to mix colors. How else will you get art that's good enough for the fridge?

Day 6 of DCA Promptober - hues plus bonus animation of Sun imitating the Mac's wait cursor aka the Spinning Beach Ball of Doom

[somegrumpynerd]

Blue always seems to have the answers

[mourn-and-watch]

the gentleman & jester relationship is so funny to me especially in retrospective. i love gentleman embracing his new-found Crime Boss Dad role but when he met jester he was explicitly the Crime Boss without the Dad part and my guy unknowingly sent his own daughter to places nobody should ever go without a gun and mighty nein didn't get one until hupperdook and it didn't help much anyway.

so back to the point. do you think he ever reflects on the days when mighty nein were working for him but now thinking of jester as his daughter and not some random weird girl. does he ever wake up in sweat colder than usual remembering that one time when mighty nein did that ophelia job and he started to make out with her in front of his daughter dreaming of reuniting her mom and long lost dad and to make it even more embarrassing it turned out they lost their buddy so he shrugged and tossed his kiddo some extra money so she can go buy herself ice cream to feel better or something

[buwheal]

Hey Spam, not to sound rude or anything, but i think something is stuck in your hair to your left. IDK what it is, but it looks like kinda spiky so please be careful!

[citricacidprince]

Sometimes I see the way certain people in a fandom treat a ‘tough love but well meaning and trying his best in the only way he knows how’ Dad and I can only think “You have a horrid relationship with your father, don’t you? 🫵👁️👁️”

[javierduffy]

DO IT. WRITE THE JOHN X KIERAN FIC AND I WILL READ IT TRUST

ALSO HAPPY NEW YEAR

happy new year to you as well :] !!! i hope it’s filled with fun and love and light !!!!!!!

WAUGH THANK YOU FOR THE SUPPORT 💔💔 now idk about a full fic but uuhhmmm i can offer you some silly doodles ? hopefully i’ll have the energy to draw/write them for real soon 😭

and of course the 3rd boyfriend

[5hehzada]

was talking w ree about lelouch's casual outfit and was like hold up but the cropped red jacket paired with a black tank is reminding me of something. and so,

[aroaceleovaldez]

finally finished my project of collecting voiceclaims that are as close as i can find for my hcs of the main HoO cast - just for funsies so it's not as perfect as I'd like but whatever, it was a neat exploration and exercise of me trying to think of literally any franchise for voice actors.

Leo got two cause I had trouble of finding good clips for the voiceclaim that's closers to my hcs for him (the second half of his section). Also got to play the fun game of digging through my art for decent doodles of each character.

Also fun fact, I am almost completely unfamiliar with 3 franchises in this video and was just digging for voice clips on youtube. Try to guess which ones.

[icewindandboringhorror]

I've referenced before how I have a big google document to keep track of every media I've ever seen in my entire life (just for reference because I like to track everything possible lol… I am the Data Collector), but recently as I was updating it, I thought of actually evaluating them to find out random percentages (like for example, out of Total Shows Watched, what percentage did I finish vs. stop watching, what percentage did I like or dislike, etc.)...

Evaluating these things is made easier by the fact that I already place everything on each subsection of the list into 6 broad ranking categories, so I don't have to go back and guess to figure out how I feel about them or anything. The categories are: Ranking 5 - overall best* (despite some criticisms of course because I'm too much of an Analyzer to ever find anything Perfect lol) Ranking 4 - more positive than neutral, but not good enough to be 5 Ranking 3 - either the good + bad negate each other, OR it's just not memorable/interesting in any way enough to be ranked higher or lower (this is the Default category ALL things are placed in if no other rank applies) Ranking 2 - maybe a few redeemable elements but largely more negatives than positives Ranking 1 - So bad that it circles around to being fascinating to observe in some way (not necessarily Funny, or Good, but just interesting somehow) Ranking 0 - Bad in a genuinely frustrating or obnoxious manner

*("best" primarily defined here as most interesting, rather than most good in a technical sense, or some other measure. I tend to value more highly whether there's something novel or thoughtful about the worldbuilding, tone, writing, base premise, etc - than about whether it's actually executed perfectly.)

And here's the amount of shows that have so far been placed into each category -

TV shows ~ Rank 5 (highest) - 20 shows ~ Rank 4 (mid-high) - 28 shows ~ Rank 3 (neutral/default/meh) - 114 shows ~ Rank 2 (mid low) -33 shows ~ Rank 1 (low low but intriguingly so) - 14 shows ~ Rank 0 (iredeemably low) - 2 shows

This would make for a total of 211 TV shows overall. However, there are 57 shows within these list marked as "didn't finish" (typically meaning I quit on the very first or second episode - but log them still to keep a record that I at least had a brief view of them).

So my total of genuinely fully watched shows would be more 154. 211 Total, but a More Accurate Total of 154.

Counting them all and using the Total Number Of The List (211) -- that means roughly 9.5% of all total shows I have ever watched (or at least attempted to watch) have been Mostly Good, 13% have been Moderately Okay, 54% have been either entirely Forgettable or some mix of good + bad that lands them right in the Neutral Middle, 15.6% have been Mostly Bad, 6.6% have been Bad (but in an interesting way), and 0.9% have been Terribly Bad.

Additionally, I didn't even get past the first two episodes of about 27% of the total.

Sooo, discounting ones I didn't finish, my total TV shows ever watched in my life would be about 154 (maybe give or take a few, assuming I might have forgotten some from very long ago).

But instead of entire life, let's just say this is the total for 'About 20 Years' (so, not counting very early childhood when I likely wouldn't remember things I saw/have no detailed recollection of them (like for example, I'm sure at some point when I was like 4yrs old I must have seen an episode of Spongebob or something, but I have zero distinct memories of it, can't quote anything of it, and barely recall the premise - so I don't count it on the list, etc.)).

In that case, 154 divided by 20 would be roughly 7.7 shows a year.

Which is actually surprisingly low considering that I often have stuff on in the background for hours whilst I make sculptures and do costumes and stuff (maybe I should have also marked some distinction between 'things I fully paid attention to' and 'things I kind of half listened to whilst sculpting', but that would further split the categories too much probably lol), but I guess a lot of that is youtube videos or random documentaries, so .. eh.. maybe I get it being lower.

Now, doing the same thing for movies-

Movies ~ Rank 5 (highest) - 4 movies (3.4% of total) ~ Rank 4 (mid-high) - 12 movies (10.3% of total) ~ Rank 3 (neutral/default/meh) - 91 movies (78.4% of total) ~ Rank 2 (mid low) - 8 movies (6.8% of total) ~ Rank 1 (low but interesting) - 1 movie (0.8% of total) ~ Rank 0 (irredeemably low) - none in this category (0%)

That makes 116 for a Total (Actually Remembered) Movies Watched In Lifetime (Or At Least In 20 Years).

116 divided by 20 is roughly 5 or 6 movies a year (I feel this has probably been skewed though by adding everything since like elementary school onwards, as I remember a lot more movies from child/teen years.. Whereas, the past 3 years I feel like I've barely seen maybe even 5 movies?? lol). I also have "Didn't Finish" marked on 18 of them. Which means I quit halfway through about 15% of the total movies.

So, a for broader summary stuff..

I seem to be less forgiving to movies than tv shows, by far. Which makes sense to me, I guess, because I love elaboration and details, so "short form" things that only last an hour or two are often lost on me a bit. My biggest complaint with movies is indeed usually walking away just wishing there had been more exposition, more scenes where characters are doing nothing, more "mindless bantering" conversations, more Quiet Downtime and Lore Elaboration and so on lol, so... of course most 1-2hr films end up feeling a bit Not Enough To Draw My Interest/Nothingy to me.

If you count 5 and 4 as "like" and rankings 2 to 0 as "dislike", then for TV shows I at least somewhat liked 48 of them, and at least somewhat disliked 47 of them.. So it's almost exactly the same lol. I'm just about equally as likely to find something bad as I am to find something redeeming about it. But overall, the largest chance is that I just won't really care much for it at all and it will be tossed into the 'neutral' pile, forgotten forever. Movies have a bit better of a balance, "liking" 16 of them, and "disliking" only 9 of them. So I'm slightly more likely to enjoy a movie than to find it annoying - though still VASTLY more likely to just not find it anything in particular, possibly not even finishing it.

ANYWAY.. this is vague and literally pointless, but like I said, I just really find information fun. Like my document where I've rated every apple flavor I've ever tried (like 40 of them now?), or reviewed every oreo flavor (32?), or ranking data from my entire 10 years of Trying To Make Friends process (out of 100 people, roughly 8% chance of a moderate compatibility, 3% chance of high), or etc. etc.. I love to have random pointless things to analyze I suppose lol.

I doubt anyone tracks things in their life in this same exact way, but I'd be interested in hearing any at least somewhat similar data !!! (like, how many TV shows you watch a year on average, and what percentage of those you like vs. dislike (if you keep track of that sort of thing), etc.)). I guess it might be easier with movies, since I think some people use those websites where you curate a list of movies you've seen and you can rate them or something, so maybe the numbers are already available on those places. :0