I had to get shitfaced for Deadpool and Logan, and even then I was hiding my face half the time. I'm a shy introvert realizing how lonely their are.
I mean, you have a dashingly handsome Scottish laird that’s great with a sword or a kilt. They ride across the land on his horse, trading insults and stealing longing looks, and when they inevitably bang that night, it’s perfection on hooves. I won’t lie, my body needs work, and I *have* been working on it. I have a big heart and am empathetic to a fault, a trait which serves me well since I’m studying to be a therapist, please make your message subject “idiosyncrasy” if you’re actually reading this whole thing because I won't answer you if you don't, and I spend hours of spare time per week as a crisis counselor online.
Except, a gently bred noblewoman isn’t going to be up for sex – she wouldn’t be used to hard travel, so her ass and thighs would be pounded into aching jelly, and not “slender and supple,” I don’t care how you justify it. Which basically means people come to chat with myself and others when they feel in danger of suicide or are otherwise in need of help.
Part of me is just a hopeless romantic who likes to sigh wistfully over cheesy stories before bed… I’m tall for a woman, and white enough that the proper shade of foundation for me is known as “Albino Blinder” in the classy shops and “Belly of a Dead Fish” at Target. My lips are all right – they’re quick to quirk a sarcastic grin.
but the other part likes to laugh at them because of the plots. Guess I’m old enough now that the two faint lines between my eyebrows from scowling fearsomely at whatever I’m concentrating on are permanent.
The downside of me having geeky interests is this: I don’t do well with blood and gore.