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joannasteez · 4 months

Text

stay, please

pairing: roman reigns x blackreader warning: ANGST.. smut . explicit descriptions! so minors please do not interact! word count: 10k ... now that we found love, what are we gonna do, with it? ...

all that time ago, when you'd first met him, your acknowledgement of roman was flimsy, a shell of nothing, but the simple words and pretty smiles made him run warm all the same. "my tribal chief", you'd say, airy and teasing, void of awe. he was big and strong, hubris making him this mountain of a man, but he was just that, nothing more than a man, and you'd seen enough men to know that they did not differ much. they groaned in time with their irritations, made their problems yours. lusted wild and unapologetically. they demanded everything, in their time, in their way, and gave what little that they wanted. and roman reigns, the tribal chief, was no different.

his eyes, suggestive and sharp, had taken to the fit of your ring gear easily. the shaping of the fabrics in places and in others, the lack thereof, pulling his interest till his fixations melted something warm and devious into your skin. he'd approach you wolf like, this stalking pace as if to circle prey. grinning amused. "i think you can do better than that for me. a little more enthusiasm".

and he was a tower then, still is now, strides long, full of leisure. your eyes peered from under the fan of your lashes, indulging the domineer of his presence with the coyness of good prey. you'd done well to make the game, the chase, or whatever this was for him, at least somewhat entertaining if not completely so.

you'd indulged. leaned into the mass of him, one small step forward after another till the air had no choice but to be shared between the both of you. a finger lifting to trace faint over the lettering of his shirt. and it'd taken everything not to fall then, not to give in to the pull of him, like some small wayward celestial object fighting against the orbit of a great star. the heady note of his smell, the strong comfort of his warmth, the height of him, the sure soft ways his eyes drifted over you, like he'd just known without complete expression of words or deeds that you were his.

your touch had turned more firm then, from one finger to your palm, slipping down till it played at his abs. and a grin had curled, amused now too, feeling the rushing in his blood. "i can be a whole lot better for you, you gotta earn that though".

but your words, so teasing and strong then, built firm and made off your tongue to last, were not as reliable as you'd thought they'd be, for the gravity of him was this overwhelming thing. and before the rush of it could settle, before the excitement of lust could wane, you found yourself with him at every corner or surface available. your legs wrapped in his, your lips wet and your tongue tangled, pushing and licking to taste him. your breaths caught forever, short and desperate as they fought to be full. he felt good and the heat of him melted the worry in your bones, until it didn't.

until the fun of it became dense, so much so that it was unbearable. his touch becoming more nailed into the skin of you, and his words fixing quiet, each more vulnerable than the ones before them. these heavy sinking whispers in the night, your bodies laying sated and damp, thighs aching and your blood rushing smooth just after release. arousal still sticky between your legs where his hands and mouth had been. from him came these words, forming to sound like something similar to forever. but by then it was too late, to stop, to take back, to slip away from under him.

and in the midst of fighting and failing to keep away from his body, and his quiet bed time passions, creatives of the smackdown brand championed the idea of a more feminine edge to the bloodline. someone who could rough and tough it, take a bump and bounce back for more. someone who could smile and charm and manipulate. someone who could, in the blink of an eye turn vicious if need be. a character that had draw, that could have the crowd eating from their palm. and though yes, roman was not starved of womanly support by way of the viewership, the faction was in sore need still of a lighter touch. something, or rather someone less naturally brutish, that did not wreak of ego or that larger than life self importance. and so, from a charismatic mid-carder, to the upper echelon, you rose and dominated as an entity connected to the infamous crew.

the full silver of your ring gear slowly altered to accommodate the overwhelming red and black, his colors, till there was a more even mix. and it all spoke without words, the black and red these leading lines, binding you to the one called the tribal chief.

a botched spot in the ring kept you away for some time. a few months of recovery, the perfect amount of time to go cold turkey from roman.

and though he called and texted and face timed, his constant travels and your inconsistencies left him hallow. an emptiness that soon would leave his ego to pulse with a bruising pain. he thought, in the midst of all those months of your recovery, that it was just the tingling in his fingers that he needed gone, these simple bouts of lust that could be easily remedied. but it was more than that it seemed. aches in his chest and this drawing pull in his skin. a helpless sort of longing.

he wrestled harder in those months, brutal, bordering relentless. when you wouldn't answer at all, or would only answer with few words, he pushed the fire of his anger, drove it through muscle and nerve, about the bones that built him till it was all he could feel.

why the fuck were you dodging him?

and all that fire, that white hot anger, attempting to purge his bones of you, flared and burst wild till it could no longer. flared to consume him till it proved shallow and here you were, under his eyes again. the silver-red-black of your ring gear calling his fingers to run against it, the tips where his nerves live itching to flex and curl into your skin. the curve in there where your hip dips, the muscles in him remembering well as the feelings there form back to life with excitement.

you look as good as you did pre-injury. maybe even a little better.

he makes himself known, the tone of him rich, stunning. something dark amidst the allure. you'd forgotten how well it arrested you.

"hows your arm?"

"bendable, so it's fine".

you do little to acknowledge him, afraid of what even a little eye contact can do to the strength of already weak resolve, but you move your newly healed arm about rather flimsily, showing him just enough so he can go about his business.

the carpet ruffles with his every step. closer and closer he gets. your heart knocking into your chest. "recovery must've been good, should've been", his breath warm and feathering along your neck. your fingers moving with a slight shake as you make to clean an already clean vanity. "had to have been", his fingers taking a small trace over your shoulders to hold you there, "cause i barely heard a thing from you". his thumbs sooth into the fabric, soft and remembering.

your breath hitches, the tip of his nose running small at the line of your neck. and none of those months of recovery mean anything in the slightest, save for the healing of your arm. your pulse quickens and beats harsh, same as it did before, skin taking to a slight tremble as the warmth of him surrounds you here. and your own fingers, working to burrow into the hard shape of the vanity, itch to touch him too, though something nags at you to fight against him. to war with the resolute way his touch fastens to your body.

"i didn't realize you were my keeper".

he sighs, slightly annoyed by the way your words fight to push against his own, but it doesn't stop the straying of his lips along your skin. skimming where they please till they pull in to leave a faint kiss at your pulse. "you've been ignoring me".

"apparently not enough".

he laughs, pulls your hips close till they flush against him, and laughs some more. his mouth parting just at the shell of your ear. "you're not convincing", his fingers flexing, a firm pulling as they make their way to play between your thighs at the fabric covering where they'd itched and feened to be. "not even a little bit".

and how you'd gotten here, falling so fast back into him to be consumed, back into the deft maneuver of his fingers and the heat of his mouth, was not at all lost on you. just as similar as it was not all that lost on him either, to feel your skin and the faint release of your breaths. fighting on his own for months to undo you from him, all for nothing. both affected in full by the other, thirsty and bordering impatient. and when he curls in past the stretchy material to slip against the wet of your slit, your hips move with a mind all their own, seeking a harsher friction.

heat braces your skin, head lulling forward. your hips shifting rigid, fighting to still and losing as they chase the smooth circling of his touch. "roman", breathy. urgent.

"no, no, no, no, no", his free hand firmly at your neck. an upward motion to reveal your eyes again. "you don't run from me, not when you want it this badly". his finger slipping further to sink in knuckle deep. the push in of them lax and patient. a pace he takes to feel you throb for him. with every second, the length of it steeping in the soaked mess of you.

you gather words, a sloppy attempt to fire back at him and it fails as you moan through it. "who said i wanted this or you".

"you know what it is babygirl", the speed of his touch urged on by his ego. his need to prove you wrong. you want him, you want him and he knows it. if not for words then he knows it with how eager your hips grind into his fingers. the slip of your pussy easy and hungry as it pulses. so much so that it resounds into the dead air of the dressing room, the tune of it forcing his hips to rut into you. "you don't want it, you tell me and i stop". he breathes hot and hectic into your skin, into your neck, kissing between takes of air. fingers thick and glistening under harsh fluorescent lights as they curve in to fuck you deep. "c'mon, tell me how much you don't need it, how much you don't need me", eyes brown and blistered. of course you needed him, of fucking course you do how could you not? when he needed you. "c'mon sweetheart, tell me so i can leave". a tear struck the apple of your cheek, a simple roll that told of everything. your skin twitched and your muscles ached, ready to feel the draw out of release, but the cage of your chest rattled, flaming with a need to say something long unspoken.

but to do it, to say it, would be worse than breaking a bone. worse than the raw opening of slit skin. to give in to him, would be the end of it all.

"fuck", a whimper breaking. wrecking the strength of your voice. your hips working to rut against the curl in of his fingers. your head lulls at an angle to sink into his chest. hands free from the vanity as you grab to hold onto him. "keep it there baby, please".

"yeah?", his neck craning to take your lips with his. tongue messy and suckling. and his fingers move with vigor, arm taut and muscle bound, veins striking against his skin. something similar to lightning. "and when you come what do you say?"

your breath catches and the sharp ways of your vision blur. the coil wound up in your core bursting wild at the seams as you rut and drip against the softening thrust of roman's fingers. your lips trembling as words flow hot and feverish. "th-thankyouthankyouthankyou".

even if the body was not made to do so, you could fly high, tumble, knock into, break at, and push over just about anything in ring. it's what made the rise from the mid-card so satisfying. it's what made the star studded rivalries so well anticipated and stunning. women of a particular caliber, head to head, their bodies and their wits and their wills stressed and strained until only one remained. at it's core, the work all by it's lonesome was easy. tiresome yes, but the pursuit of winning, that bright gold belt about the waist, was all a singleminded affair. easy. but the presence of him was, is, a storm. difficult to escape. reckless. ungovernable. and it seemed that the drifting of his eyes to find you and the remnants of his touch could not be undone. like a deep soldering under your skin, at the hard make of your bones.

he lingered, and beyond the shallow 'i don't want you's', the cut of your eyes and that cold far away disposition, something like need teemed, warm and fettered to your fingers, pressing slow into his skin, the fabric of his t-shirt, slipping into his hair. just before the quiet, when ecstasy was it's loudest, he could feel it running into him like nails, 'stay', etching red and raw into his flesh. and then a soothing kiss, more passionate, wordless but tender all the same, 'stay please'.

your inconsistencies were nearly earsplitting. i want him, i won't. i need him, no i don't. it made even the prestige of the women's world championship lackluster.

you'd won, your waist decorated in gold, but the true excitement of such a grand moment could not reach you beyond the loose way liquor paints your tongue. skin racing warm and control undone. the floor moving with this deep hard shudder, bass bleeding out. the air is thick from bodies, from the unintelligible roar of people. but what is clear, beyond the blur that comes for the eyes after chilly shots of espolon, is him. roman smiling in that faithful way that he does, wolf like, suggestive. clever and telling in the way that it so clearer reminds you of how small and good you can be as prey. something for him to take. to hold and guide and pull and pry at till he’s full. but that look of allure is not for you, no he'd done something fucked. he'd gone and found someone else to look at like that, some woman near the edge of the bar too oblivious and taken by the size of him to know that it was all a game.

a game you were losing at. your lips wet from the bits of your next shot that seemed to miss your tongue. you were too loose, too hot, too lethal. it was just barely easy to play the game when it was you, denying him and tugging along that thinly wound string that tethered itself from you to him, but when he made his moves to do the same, it wrecked you well.

tore you asunder. this deep splitting at the heart till you were left raw to the open air.

'fuck him, you're the women's world champion', the espolon steeped so well into you that it speaks. 'say it', persistent. you turn from him, your head lulling as your mouth greets another shot of that smooth tequila taste. 'sayitsayitsayit'

"fuck him".

but is it believable? the harsh bite and break of words as drunk lips form around them, bound to such a severity that only comes with the pain of pain.

the harsh bass nearly breaks your ears and makes your body tremble. you would like to leave, to tear your eyes away from them, from him, but you would also like to stay.

"you play right into his hand when you do that", a mouth near your ear persists above the noise. the well fitted dress of a button up forgotten for something sloppier and indicative of the loose, dancing, club energy. cody rhodes' face just a few ways away from beet red as he holds chilly water in one hand.

and there are crueler things in the world, things that grind against the spirit till it's worn and faint, but nothing pricks against the heart more in this moment than that woman’s fingers lingering against romans. the charm of her smile luring him in as she mouths to him unrecognizable things. "he wants to spite me, let him".

cody snorts, lazily throws his arm about you. "it wouldn't be anything you've never done". and you think maybe you hate the sense of his logic and his friendship. the filterless way he says things. so forthright, so readymade.

"fuck you, wheres the loyalty".

his cheeks pull high into the creasing corner of his baby blue eyes. fully amused. he probably thinks you're a damn joke, and maybe it's true, in the petulant ways you avoid and revert inward.

he hands you the cup of water and you sip it willingly, wishing maybe though that its something else.

"he'll play cat, you'll play mouse, he'll fuck you and hint at what you fear most, you'll run and we'll be right back to where we are now. so what the fuck's up with the preamble".

you shove the cup of water into his chest, picking up one of the many shot glasses that stand still on a tray. the taste of it not so dissimilar to water. he frowns, watching on as you glare into the emptiness of the shot glass. sometimes, in these short moments, when you crave things you aim to kill, he worries.

"didn't realize all my shit was so entertaining". you look angry, sound that way even, but the melodramatic coupling of words tell him you drift more towards a sullen pain than to anger.

"no, entertainment isn't this boring", he quips and you jab your elbow into his stomach. just enough to make him grunt before the break into a fit of little laughs.

but then you set the glass down and turn in to face him, to nuzzle closer into where your forehead meets his collarbone. eyes forming with hints of a glassiness that lend themselves to vulnerability.

roman's eyes take to looking about the club, instinctively, falling against the warmth of your embrace with cody. fire forms in his chest, aches with a burning.

your voice leaves off soft into cody's ear, muffled in the fabric of his shirt. "it won't work. not in any way that matters".

"you don't know that"

"i've been played before. i'm not new to games".

cody rubs soothing into your shoulder, the compassion making you melt in that drunken way that leads to the welling of a tear.

"games aren't made to last, that's why they get played, and why people play them. if it's real then it's real".

"is this what it is now? you don't speak when you see me?"

dead air and his own words, tired in their anger. 'how long can i go, before i break?', but the break came quickly, the silence disrupting him. he rests but not really, stands there idle as if to feign the strength of a stable man but his nerves stir with ill-control. they flip and they twitch, crashing up against the inner parts of him. you won't speak, and your eyes don't meet. and when the job forces your hand, you grow cold in this subtle way. warm still but a biting chill just like at the cusp of spring. and your lips become these masters of brevity. and he wants to say it here —where his blood rushes irate, wrought by adrenaline— that he isn't too far from hating you. your skin, your touch, your voice, your face, the pull of your lips when you smile, all the things that make him lov-

"we work together, i talk to you all the time".

and even in all this, he couldn't not move closer to you. one foot in front the other till he was arms length. "promos and in-ring action aside, y'know what i mean".

you fight your own urges. to meet his eyes, to touch him, to fall beyond the bounds of those drunken whispers from nights passed where you cursed his name. "it should stay like that, professional. it's cleaner this way, safer".

he scoffs. something like a tower now the way he stands over you.

"yeah?", smirk mirthless. "and what, me fucking you out back behind an arena ain't clean? you bendin' over in a dressing room ain't safe enough anymore?" each word slightly louder than the last.

"keep you voice down", you hiss.

"or what?", his eyes sharp and narrowing. scrutiny burned into the brown of them. "everything you do is convenient for you". and his lips spread in that mirthless way again, bordering disgust. "you get scared so you pull away, you feel good again and come runnin' back. you ain't never fit me in for consideration, not once, unless it meant me sticking my dick in you".

and when blood is drawn, words like venom dripping into raw split skin, isn't it only appropriate to do the same? to do him in with the violence he so easily struck with first?

"once upon a time i didn't have to consider you", meeting him with words, cold and mocking. "i paid you fucking dust and when i did acknowledge you, you were grateful for it". vexed and thrilled, you watch the silent ways his rage manifests. the flaring in his nose and the shifting in his jaw. beneath where heaps of muscle lie, just there at his chest, falters this steady beating. a deep plunging of his ego. it makes you smile, nicks pain into your heart just the same. "maybe we should revisit that and stay there, and not be so damn emotional about it".

he recedes into something like pity. "whoever he was before me, he did a number on you".

it's this rupturing that hurts the most. the pain of it, a distant memory long remembered. this great big wound. raw and the skin so tattered still and messily undone. "you don't know me".

"exactly", roman urges. still above it all, wanting to know something. the slightest thing. anything.

you leave, slamming the dressing room door.

it was as if the spite of him, that which that'd already existed —a small, near idle thing, had reared it's head to tear through him again. seemingly more brutal than before. whether cruel or not, whether it worked or not, he'd made the effort, against his better judgement to see you bend. not to break no, but to see something other than the usual push and pull that became the mainstay of whatever this thing was between the two of you. that night at the club—his own go at drawing up some jealousy, an attempt at cracking your little shell of resistance, to see if you even cared, but still he didn't know. not for sure anyways. so here he was, needy, spiteful, and a short ways away from brutal as sweat broke from his brows and a frustrated groan from his lips. hips swinging in lethal, teeth gritting, and the core of him coiling tight.

he couldn't remember her name, no, but she was too similar to pass on. she ran just parallel enough to you that it could work. similar skin tone, the nonchalance, the coy silence of the eyes, sly slim touches that roughed into something harsh—near skin splitting. but when she spoke, the puzzle piece couldn't quite fit. her pitch too bright, not bitty enough. it didn't wreck through him the same, didn't rush in to him or thrum his blood but he couldn't complain about it, not when the chase of his release was so close. just palpable enough to satisfy.

roman took a mild shifting, hiking up a leg to leave the other bent, his foot nailing further into the hotel bed sheets, all to work his hips deeper.

her face ran into the sheets, mascara smudging dark into the clean white. "mhmm- fuck! i-", her hips fluid, rolling against the swing of roman's. words nearly undone, breaths close to finishing. "pleasepleaseplease".

she pulsed about him, hips rocking to chase the burning in her limbs, the harsh twist up of her core. and where he dug into her she fought to keep him there, soaked and clenching but it just barely came close. she hugged him for dear life, fucked on him till she couldn't take him to the hilt anymore. attempted to possess him even, with sultry moans and the allure of whispered begging. everything he liked, everything he wanted but it didn't quite fit. everything lacked by only half of a half step but it all mattered. and it was evident you made the difference.

the lazy trace of your lips, the delirium you took—even in rare bouts of aggression—the burn of your touch like a piercing in his skin. the dulling of your eyes, till they rolled overwhelmed and undone. the shivers in your skin and the submission of your body, the skin and bones of you left for him to form back together.

he missed you, and yes of course he wanted to fuck you, completely break you in that faithful way that he did in times past, where you'd rush in dainty, words like feathers, thankyouthankyouthankyou, but he also wanted to hold you. wanted to mold himself to you till he was unsure of where he ended and you began. he wanted breath stealing kisses that rolled lazy and thick. he wanted to still the shivers in your body, wanted to caress you through the burden of release and even after, he wanted to keep you there. safe in the strength of him.

and it was here, in these thoughts, where he found the feeling. the pulling in his gut strong and subduing, tugging away from the wet mess of her to release. thick ropes against her skin as he groaned.

"fuck......".

your name slipping through. unabashed and clear as day.

roman winces, feels the recoil of it in his flesh. this awkward reversion where his body fights not to cave in on itself out of embarrassment.

why the fuck would he do that?

but she's moving before he can do anything, cleaning herself till she's rid of him. and damn it, why can't he remember her name? his back flopping into the sheets, an arm thrown over his eyes. he's tired and ill feeling, somewhat ashamed.

the woman saunters in, some ways from disgust. such a beautiful man, so obviously successful, and seemingly hung up on a woman who cares less than a fuck about him. thats what she can gather anyways. her fingers helping her slip her clothes back on. she grows curious.

"who is she?"

roman looks to her, realizing just how much she doesn't look like you at all. beautiful but not you.

"what?"

her eyes roll. that small sliver of curiosity done away with as she shuffles to adjust her heels."if your'e gonna finish all over me, the least you can do is remember my name".

she makes for the bedroom door of the luxury suite, leaving roman to fall deeper into his own silence. her voice carries, sweet and mocking.

"your little nda is signed. thanks for making me come".

roman grunts in response. feeling the slight rattle of the slammed door.

from the chill of new york city winter weather, to the warmth of one of the city's many luxurious hotels, came a firm dulling of the nights mixture of cocktails and whatever other light liquor your dear friend cody rhodes had decided was good enough for you. and what a dear friend indeed, always so caring, so righteous and so fucking motherly. his every word soft and urbane — "slow down, take this water, no more of that drink"—and his every look one of knowing and pity, until his glassy blue eyes and lisp-y mouth became resolute, even when in their own drunkenness, going as far as to putting you in a car and shipping you back to where you were now, at the hotel. "you're not even having fun, go sleep", his lips pulling into a gentle pout. his arms a warm embrace till they were gone, and you were ducking sullenly into an SUV.

he was all you could think about.

...whoever he was before me, he did a number on you...

and with so little said, roman had done you in to a silent sort of suffering. this shoddily made shell of something —your heart— playing at nonchalance, completely destroyed. stripped now, naked and fearful of whatever is to follow. the possibility, whether with or without him, the unknown, left you stunned, ill even.

...should you call?... fingers itching to reach, to slip against his contact ...but would he answer?... or would he, and rightfully so, do you the quieted sort of violence you'd done to him, time and time again?... those brutal ways your lips refused to speak, and when they did their words like daggers. your eyes never meeting, and when they came upon him, they bore over him icy and displeasured. like he was a nuisance, or even worse, a stranger. and the desertion of your touch, once upon a time, when the drive of lust and adoration was new in him, seemed that it would never leave. yes, you'd understand, but fuck if it wouldn't hurt, wouldn't pierce the greater parts of you, where strength of the ego and desire lives.

but its only when the phone rings that all hesitancy of the moment breathes hard. knocks unceremoniously against free inhibitions till you're wishing for him to ignore you. maybe, right here, right now, making the effort is enough, maybe it's all you need to say ...i did it, i tried... and nothing else. your whispers rushed and a bit scared and waiting. "don't answer, don't answer don't answer".

the ringing stops. he answers.

your breathing is soft, but present, the only thing that sings amongst the silence of him. what is this? after the callousness, the hardy stones you'd thrown into the glass of his resolve in an attempt to break him.

he's tired but not really. done but not really. he sighs, fingers roughing through his beard. "yeah?"

you giggle, breathy. a bit unnerved. your words rolling off, slightly slurred still. "thought i'd get your voicemail", you wonder how he looks, if his heart threatens to beat beyond the cage of his chest the way it does yours. "didn't think you'd answer".

he's quiet. breathing. "why'd you call?"

"you sound nice". the little thats left of the tequila pouring over your tongue into words. even in his tiredness he sounded beautiful. rich and dark and alluring. "did i wake you?"

"no". but he can't help himself, in being curious, in caring. "you alright?"

"i'mfine, ijust...i-"

"you sound drunk".

"tipsy".

"how much did you have?", a question but more so a command. the authority threaded in his voice lulling you in. it makes you shiver with need. makes you want to touch him.

"mhmm idon'tknow rome". and he can hear your shifting over the sheets, as you shift over answers to give him, that would satisfy him. you wanted so badly, despite your fears, to satisfy him. "a shot, a drink or two".

"lightweight for real", he chuckles. "who were you with?"

"cody. he got my uber".

is it so bad?, when the hour is late?, to think of seeing you, even if the thought is little and fleeting and ways away from dangerous? "you here at the hotel?"

"damn", and you're laughing. giddy at the way he worries. reeling with sarcasm "you want me to share my location?"

"watch yourself".

"yes sir".

and here the air is hesitant, forming fragile and ill-informed of whats to come. it shapes about the both of you wearily and groans even in it's stillness of how ill-suited it is at holding the ambivalence of this... love, lust, longing or whatever it is twisting about the both of you. it yearns for something new, for something unweighted and free and sweet.

roman asks you again. curiosity breaking a heaviness into the weight of him. "why'd you call?"

your bed sheets pinch and ruffle between your fingers, taking on the burden of your anxieties. "i figured if i went out...i'd-i'd get a little courage yknow? a drink or two and then i could call you, could hear your voice".

"hear my voice huh?", his jaw clenching. tone one of full mocking and scrutiny. after everything, all that was said, something like venom off your tongue in a means to poison his resolve, and now you wanted to hear from him? "and all that big talk, all that mouth and bravado, paying me dust and keepin it how it used to be", smiling mirthless. "what happened to that? where'd that go?"

you shiver, cold despite the warmth of the room. "i don't know roman".

"you don't?"

"i don't wanna argue with you".

"what do you want then? tell me so i know".

"it doesn't matter", something like a grin running through your lips, sullen and wistful. formed only by the sweet safety of what if's and what could be's, because those were always easier. "you'd leave". a single tear slips against your cheek. "you'd get bored after a while and you'd leave".

...but he isn't him, whoever that other man was, or could be, the one that'd seemingly broken you...

he sighs. "you're afraid of somethin that ain't happen".

"yet", you add.

"it's not going to".

"you don't know that".

"you don't either". and of course the fight is natural, this insistent war where true desires of the heart are subdued to the will of something comfortable and simple, because love, even at its easiest, proved always to be tedious and demanding. "i don't make it a habit of getting played".

"i don't make it a habit of playin", sincerity filling him whole. "how i've felt... how i feel still, about you? it's always been real sweetheart".

another tear and then another, till your skin is warm and nerves flustered. your chest tightening as your mouth trembles. "don't fault me for being scared, please?"

"clean slate. we can start over".

"ok".

and that restless buzzing, the harsh rushing of the city — cars and trains and people— works easy to overcome the natural fall of silence. breaths passing, his and then yours, one after the other and then together, in waiting, eager but unsure.

the emptiness is unsettling. makes you restless. urges the drive in his muscles to move.

your hand splays against a pillow, fingers curling in soft, your voice even softer. "what side of the bed are you laying on?"

"left side".

you hum. imagining him. hair splayed, long and gentle. "i hate the left side".

"i know", he smiles, small like and imaginative. thinking of older memories, where your legs find themselves curling against his own.

"it's empty, my left side".

"yeah?"

"yeah".

possibility, this mighty rushing in his blood.

"whats your room number?"

there was nothing flimsy about this, the gentle pull of his lips, tongue slipping cautioned but ready all the same, his fingers and palms seemingly made to do and withstand the brute force of many things but taking the time instead to hold you dearly. to savor with his touch what his lips cannot. but when the well of patience in him fills to the brim, when it overflows and floods him unsparingly, his persistence has no choice but to do the same. and your knees threaten to buckle, threaten to kill your resolve, as he cradles your head with one hand and the other anchored firm at your jaw —thumb and pointer— his kiss growing wetter, tongue sharper. because the time away —where neither of you could do more than fight and throw stones and break and avert, gazes and words and touches and thoughts and feelings— felt like forever. and then came the standstill, the white flag. clear air and even clearer intentions, over a phone call of all things. with simple words of the heart.

roman figured if anything, he was making up for lost time. your palms taking to his beard, thumbing over his cheeks, mouth forming soft over his.

you felt good, he felt good, but not so much that it couldn't be true.

and here, where you feel the abandon of his control grow, you break from his mouth, trying and failing to grab for something on a nearby shelf. but he's faster, reaches to grab the outstretch of your arm, flying it over his shoulder. his breath warm and enticing, rushing a thrumming in your blood as he nips the skin there. teasing.

your nails take this tender clawing into his nape, dipping into silky hair. "i thought we were taking it easy?"

his words mix between the twist of his lips. "we are. your clothes are still on". kissing along your neck.

but he doesn't loom here, statuesque in his anger. doesn't suffer your resolve to threaten a breaking or diminishing to fold under the weight of a harsh truth. knowing whether or not if his words would split you raw for a vicious bout of bloodletting. no he doesn't loom here, but his standing is firm all the same. gentle minded and secure. immovable in the way that it refuses to let you go.

you wonder if jimmy and jey and solo and naomi can hear him in the pantry from where they are in the living room. hear his groaning, and the smack of his lips as he takes yours. hear his lust and his love and his longing.

you hum against him in bliss. "you make it very obvious that you want to eat me alive when you look at me like that in front of everybody".

"am i supposed to feel bad about that? because i don't".

"being lowkey goes a long way sometimes".

"yeah a little too long".

but that night had only been one of the first nights of this mending, this slow cautious maneuver of putting back together the broken pieces of whatever this thing was that had been brewing for sometime. and it isn't until you're sitting in a shared comfortable silence, sipping wine and tasting sweet deserts that the realization comes to you. that this —the sex and the passion and the strife— has only ever been a thing, something ill formed and without definite shape. uncategorized and hesitantly spoken of. it had all been rushed with hushed pleasures and secrecy, rendezvous and an inherent longing that would not, for fear of realer things, be spoken of.

but it was very clear now, as he dipped a spoon into tiramisu, that you needed him.

and the pace here is easy, as waiters and other patrons breeze by your table without rest, without wait, his eyes and his stillness forming well over the hold you have as you touch him idly. your palm at his knee, raising to take his hand in yours, fingers folding in, shy and feathered and bursting with a wordless affection.

from where you are, just a short lean in from his lips, his features are not so intimidating, not so all consuming in that daunting way he's perfected. his cheeks are freckled and round and the brown of his eyes are bright.

you kiss him, take that short lean in and meld your lips till he hums and thumbs your chin. because he isn't him if he doesn't touch you. doesn't hold fast to your warmth.

and even after you part, the intimacy laced in the air breathes slow and lingering. "thank you for being so patient with me, with everything". your fingers fiddle and caress over his. "i know i haven't made it easy for you".

"when it's something i want, i wait".

and wait he did, with a statues patience. but even the strength of statues fail, worn and weathered if left to stand against time and their own stillness. eventually they all crumble, some in such a poetic fashion that its destruction means more than its birth, and other's with a simple, unceremonious falling. but the undoing of roman's patience is fierce and alluring. and as you breathe short, in between the firm pull of his lips, water hot and raining against your skin, you feel the chipping away of that patience as well. and it isn't just the pouring in of the shower and the sweet warmth of soaps and candles, but the influence of him as well, melting underneath flesh and bone.

6:17 PM

the steam forms something amorous. thickens the anticipation and lulls your resolve into a surrendering. and the tight feeding of his fingers into your thigh doesn't help any, nailing sharp and greedy as they have your leg hooked about his waist, his tongue licking against yours. and here in the kiss his lust grows slow and exacting, in a means to savor. making you moan and forcing your hips to grind mindless. his body hard and wet and safe.

your fingers curl into the hair just at his nape, tugging to pull, to break his lips from yours, but he's fast and wanting, rushing in for another sweet assailment. groaning in time with his pleasures as his hips rut at your soft skin. you try again to break from him, to breathe even if the air suffocates you so, and he gives in. settles for fastening himself to you elsewhere, to supple skin, and to grinding his hard dick at you. his mouth roaming about your neck, nipping with his teeth and kissing gentle. a meager attempt to reigning himself in.

your touch wanders further into his soaked hair, mouth moving to trace his, to tease him. "we have a reservation for 9", you kiss him lightly. "i don't wanna be late".

he hums, rests his forehead to yours. taut fingers working your hips to a slow grind against his dick. working what nerves lay dormant in you to life.

"the restaurant is a 30 minute drive", his nose and mouth nestling into the plains of skin where your neck ends and your shoulder begins. drinking in the small breaking off of your moans. "plenty of time".

7:29 PM

and the minutes wandered away fast and teasing, forcing in an urgency as you fought hard to slip away from him and the heaviness of his desires. and it took much control, to part from his warmth and the heavy lust of his eyes. from the way his touch and his mouth maneuvered —with seductive method— and the heat of his cock laying at your skin, so terribly close to where you need him. but how odd the fear is here, after the pulling away of all that nasty pettiness and the settling of it, no longer scared of how much he would love you, or how well he could etch himself to the inside of you —with touches and deep words filled with passion— but now, weary of just how unbearable you would be. because it seemed now that he was stuck with you, and that if he would continue his affections with such an intensity, that you would have no choice but to return it. and even in this, your fears, your weariness of this love and lust and longing, were not so frightening at all. but exciting.

you're excited.

"tie or no tie?"

the bulk of his arm, where tattoos paint the skin, slip through a white button up. fingers deft as they take the time to do in each button.

"no tie".

your hands soothing over your skin with a warm smelling body butter. eyes trailing to his as he watches your hands work over your skin.

"and the jacket, yes? no?"

"yes to the jacket", but your answer barely registers, and how could it possibly do so clearly enough when the fabrics of your underwear form over your body the way that it does. everything about you soft and inviting to the touch as you approach him. your fingers undoing the top most buttons. the intricate designs of tattoos here at the curve of his pec peaking through. "and just leave this open a little". your palms smoothening away at the rest of his shirt, over his shoulders to adjust the already adjusted collar, fingers slipping against already buttoned buttons, and when the smallest wrinkle catches your eyes, you're already flattening it to straighten. and here he takes you in, arresting with silence and a never ending depth to his eyes that leaves you without words.

his mouth close enough, breaths are shared. and there is no other word to describe the scent of him other than divine.

you want to fall into him, as free as air and without hesitation.

his lips smile. "you're staring".

but it is justified, because shouldn't all beautiful things be looked upon with awe and a speechless sort of appreciation? shouldn't they be touched, the way you touch him, your palms possessing him to hold as you kiss him greedily and without wait. your tongue lashing through firm and without the mind to yield. moaning gentle into him and if not for his own strength he would fall to his knees. is this not how beautiful things should be treated? should they not be adored and reverenced? should he not pry at your skin the way that he does? dull nails sinking in to remember the forms they take as they go. your leg found slipping around his waist again as his fingers move swiftly to claw their way down till your panties push away helpless.

and he groans, lips parting only to find yours again, finding you warm and wet as his touch slips through the mess of your slit. and he wonders how long you've been like this, stewing in your own desires. his blood rushing hot and fast, feeling the heavy throb your body takes as he plays a teasing touch at your opening. something whiny and dainty tumbling off your tongue as you fight to reign in that wild burst of lust so loosely falling off your skin.

"roman", you warn. so small it nears a whisper.

"shhhh, relax", his finger dipping in to feel the heat of your pussy. a neediness to see you break bursting in the cage of his chest, his heart hammering at the sweet daze in your eyes. "just a little bit baby".

"we're gonna be late". you fight.

and you want to say how much you hate him, how much you hate the ease of his touch—such a terrible gentleness— and you hate how it makes you swoon, and throb harder, feeling the depth of his artful handlings. you fucking hate it, hate him, fuck, and your breath labors harsher than before, feeling the seam of his lips as they sit to hover above yours, and shit, his fingers stroking firmer than before, a slighter urgency in the pace that catches your breath and his eyes dim low but they hypnotize you, and no you don't, but, well yes you do hate him, but you don't, a moan stretching in sync from him and from you, and damnit you love him. love his touch and the proof of his lust, how naturally it is born from his love and his longings.

he can see the prickling in your eyes, the glassiness just before the burning brown of them. and you ruffle your face into his chest, into the balminess of his skin but he does not relent. and the sound your arousal makes as it coats his long fingers is lewd but it brushes over you warm and inviting. drives your waist to grind into his every stroke till release is sweet and so close.

the undoing is palpable, a licking flame against the skin. short tremors starting in your legs as you call to him. little whispers that beg, "please...please...please", hushed and slurred.

and just when it's there, it isn't, his fingers slipping out of you slow, wet still and gripping your ass to stop the mindless grinding your hips take.

"roman, no, what are you-", his lips kissing yours to stop the words and the worry. but he's kilt weeks, hell, months of such a lengthy build up, and your body rushes confused and unsatisfied. you pull from him, just enough to speak, feeling his palm caress into where he holds you. "what are you doing?"

"its almost eight", his body forsaking yours to step out of the bedroom. "need you to clean up and finish getting ready".

8:18

at your wrist

at the bend of your inner knees, your elbows

the skin of your neck just behind your ears

and just where your ankles roll inward.

his dress shoes click back into the bedroom to be met with an immediate assailment. but this violence is no violence at all, but rather a sweet, sultry thing. enticing. and he holds his wrist forward to check the time. 8:20. fuck the reservation, he thinks, stepping till he's behind you. eyes peering through the mirror, watching the delicate way you curl a thin brush over your eyelashes. a dark mascara that thickens and pulls the length and when you check the fruits of such minuscule labor, beautiful and satisfied, the crotch of his pants prove too thin, and uncomfortable. and as he dips his nose into your neck and molds his fingers to your hips, flushing you against him easy, you work into your nerves an air of dispassion. cleaning the dresser of miscellaneous things, fighting the urge to let him do whatever he wants with you.

and here, just behind your ear, the perfume proves to be intoxicating. his grip nailing in, curling to bring you impossibly closer. but his eyes never break. they hold, piercing hot and mischievous through the mirror.

in the silence you both suspend, weighing the importance of your plans.

he nestles into you. the fabric of your dress raising as his fingers pull.

and his voice makes you weak. thrums your blood.

"how important is this dress?".

"important enough", you hold against the balling his fist takes. "i paid money for it".

roman eases to his knees. undoes the neat knot he's made of his hair. he knows just how much you adore the feel of it. he pushes the fabric to rest above the curve of your hips. taps your right leg.

you lift it, angling it to rest your knee on the dresser. breathing labored. excited.

his own breath is warm at your skin, "and if we miss the reservation?" the sweet spice of your perfume meets him here too. his thumbs spreading you in a leisure manner.

anticipation consumes you. voice ragged. "it's not important".

he hums, delighted, his tongue lapping soft. testing and teasing. and your body leans forward, sensitive and longing, hips shifting away at such an intimate touch. but he holds firm, slipping wet through your slit again, continuously, his thumbs caressing where his grip tightens into your skin. and now that he's here, his patience to leave you undone forms new. bleeds a vigor about his every muscle and bone. your senses growing pliant above him, resolve melting as your hips shift to brush along the wet sweep of his tongue. and why he takes to such a leisure pace, you have no idea, but the pleasure simmering, fighting its way up the slope of your spine, grieves. wishing for something harsher. something less controlled.

the silence is remedied with a tender "please". teeth taking your lips to bite.

his mouth kissing, lingering, and you feel it spread. a smile. his mischief slipping into your skin before the inevitable pulling in, your clit caught, pulsing and needy as he sucks, thirsty and unstopping. and you feel arousal drip slow, glistening, his tongue catching it to savor. throat groaning as he shifts back forward to taste the fat of your clit. and though you stand above him, your hips shift ill-controlled and your voice leaves you soft and broken. belly coiling tight as his ministrations grow more singleminded by the second.

the nails of your fingers find their way to the roots of his hair, pulling him closer and running to soothe into his scalp. jaw dropped and gasping."feels so good baby".

and the slip of roman's tongue is lewd, caresses the swell of your clit as his mouth works your pussy. and as desperation mounts your bones, your other set of fingers tighten to hold against the dresser, arousal dripping its way past the onslaught of his mouth to run through his beard. the pricks of the hair there, rubbing your inner thighs to burn raw.

he grunts. "fuck", muffled and heated. dipping his tongue through till he's caressing the warmth of your walls. slow and reverential, savoring the tight clutch that holds him there.

white heat blankets your skin, fingers slipping to nestle through your slit, laying a dulcet touch to your clit. his tongue wide and gentle as it fucks you. and the sensation there is terribly sweet, solders hot and binding till your legs begin to tremble above him.

"roman", you call for him. tender and broken. he feels a blooming in his chest. heat and an eagerness. " 'm coming".

and the burden of that mounting coil shatters. pulses hard as you ride the sensation, fingers rubbing over the mess of your clit. thumb catching the soft nub to press against your pointer, trapping it to prolong that rich thrumming that flows about your skin. and roman takes to kissing you again, licking his tongue through the messiness of your release and kissing over your fingers.

8:50. the dinner reservation long forgotten.

but there are many other things forgotten besides white table cloth, wine glasses and intimately lit candles. the once so perfect button up he'd tucked into expensive slacks, now strewn about the floor, creased to hell next to the shine of abandoned shoes. and with all these things, left to be unremembered, is that mischievous sort of patience born from his teasing. where his touch was once salacious and mocking, unforgiving in the way it played well and denied pleasure better, is now just a filled shell of desperation. need running like flares of wild fire. and it shows here, as you sit atop the dresser, legs wrapped about him, the way roman aches and throbs, hot and demanding. cock thick and hard, reddened and leaking as he slips it through the stickiness of your slit.

his tongue growing sloppy, drunkly slipping over yours, pushing in the taste he'd savored so dearly. his skin teeming with a rushing, this great throbbing in his spine and the muscles in his core as he nestles the tip of his dick through the tight clutch of your heat. groaning in time with his pleasures as he sinks in, corralling your thighs forward to control the pacing, and deeper he goes till you're taking him to the hilt. the build of him seeming to crumble before your eyes, this mountain of a man trembling and undone by the warmth of you. delirium coursing fluid over bones as he stills to feel the softness and the pulsing. everything he'd missed, finally at his finger tips again.

and if not for the pain and the violence of it, you'd pull your nails through him. over taut skin and the great build of his muscles. not in a means to destroy, no, but in the hopes to consume him. a more permanent etching beneath his flesh where blood flows, just as he's done to you.

you hiss, breaths stuttered. mouth falling where the freckles at his cheeks live, balmy and heavy, attempting to find his mouth amongst the fall of his hair. to kiss him as he stretches you to take him. your fingers combing over the strays and flyaways, roughing your legs tighter to deepen the weight of him inside you.

you moan. something feathery and gentle. the fullness of him threatening to split your ears. and when his hips slip forward, fluid and strong, your fist knocks against the marble of the dresser. pain in your hand turning to pleasure else where.

"mhmgmh", his groan dark, feeling it rough up your body. and the carved marble of the dresser becomes more tainted by the second, the drag of him against the pulse and flutter of your heat so terribly charming. a soothing take to your pussy thats rigid enough to leave you breathless. and when your spine curls forward, head lulling to kiss the mirror, he leads with tongue to kiss your skin. "that's it right there huh?", but he needs no answer. pure evidence here, his dick rutting forward through the mess of you.

"yesss", stressed and drawn out.

the gentle pull of you, flexing wet and tight, a cureless addiction. his words slightly slurred, lips at your cheek, trailing to your neck, over your shoulder, plush and kiss swollen. "so soft babygirl". the draw in of him singleminded, throbbing and rutting. groaning as dazed eyes catch the feed in of his cock, a deep burying that shudders his skin. "love when you let me touch you like this", driving his fingers to form further up over your hips, dull nails curling at your back. "when you let me fuck you good", his hips pressing in as he stills, grinding slow, for you to feel him there, where he belongs. "how you need it".

you cry, a tear staining your cheek. the tremble of your lips forming over his as you kiss him. body molding to him, the go of his thrusts mindful as they work to fill you. and here, he slips in easy, steady still but with a gentler purpose. and his fingers, even in their dullness, don't run as brutal and the deftness of him proves with a tender rocking of his hips. arousal soaking him sweet as it sounds above the silence.

and the shock of everything takes hold. the ways you fought so terribly against him, to suffer in what you thought would be some less harsher fate than to live lovingly with him.

your voice stretches out delicately. into the safety of him. "don't leave me", quivering as you feel the building pressure in your body. "stay please".

"not going anywhere sweetheart", a hand at your cheek, thumb caressing there, "i'm right here", and the other pulling you impossibly closer by the thigh. lips over yours, sharing breaths. "you feel me? i'm right here", words whispered and groaning, the stroke of him deep and easy still.

and as he'd wanted since the beginning, your resolve crumbles as he holds you in his hands.

your heart heavy. fearful, excited. "....love you....", trembling as you come undone. "i love you".

he twitches, releasing thick and warm in you. pulling your lips in, passionate and relieved, tongue rolling to taste the words he'd waited to hear from forever ago, when everything about your attitude towards him was flimsy and hollow. and the bursting in his chest is undeniable, a smile slipping across his lips as the heat of the air sits easy about the both of you.

he kisses you again, lingering, with love and lust and longing.

"i love you too".

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mishoru · 5 months

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Don't you think I look pretty curled up on this bathroom floor?

#when I had the idea for this drawing it was about overcomig/living in spite of mental illness #mainly depression #However #while sketching I started to feel a weird nostalgia for all the nights I did spend on the bathroom floor utterly powerless #hopeless #This sinking pit of sadness in my stomach #that can't quite be described #that is always on the brink of consuming you #truly and fully #That drains the world of all it's color and drops you into a sea of uncertainty from which you can't quite escape #but that you also won't fully drown in #Endlessly suspended in a state of unbreathing but still alive #I haven't had a night like that in a while #If you do know that you are not alone and these nights too will pass.#I copied the text I wrote on instagram I hope that is okay #drawing perspective oof #illustration #art #self portrait #procreate #vent art #overcoming depression #the amazing devil lyrics #personal art

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boyfriendgideon · 10 months

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as yr favorite local jason todd fan sometimes i get so fed up with the apparent inability of most dc comic writers to write a class conscious narrative about him.

and yes, i know that comics are a very ephemeral and constantly evolving and self-conflicting medium.

and yes, i know they’re a profit-driven art medium created in a capitalistic society, so there are very few times where comics are going to be created solely out of the desire to authentically and carefully and deliberately represent a character and take them from one emotional narrative place to another, because dc cares about profit and sometimes playing it safe is what sells.

and yes, i know comics and other forms of art reflect and recreate the society within which they were conceived as ideas, and so the dominant societal ideas about gender and race and class and so on are going to be recreated within comics (and/or will be responded to, if the writer is particularly societally conscious).

but jesus christ. you (the writer/writers) have a working class character who has been homeless, who has lost multiple parents, who has been in close proximity to someone struggling with addiction, who has had to steal to survive, who may have (depending on your reading of several different moments across different comics created by different people) been a victim of csa, who has clearly (subtextually) struggled with his mental health, who was a victim of a violent murder, and who has an entirely distinct and unique perspective on justice that has evolved based on his lived experiences.

and instead of delving into any of that, or examining the myriad of ways that classism in the writers’ room and the editors’ room and the readers’ heads affected jason’s character to make sure you’re writing him responsibly, or giving him a plotline where his views on what justice looks like are challenged by another working class character, or allowing him to demonstrate actual autonomy and agency in deciding what relationships he wants to have with people who he loves but sees as having failed him in different ways, or thinking carefully about what his having chosen an alias that once belonged to his murderer says about his decision-making and motivations, you keep him stuck in a loop of going by the red hood, addressing crime by occupying a position of relative power that perpetuates crime & harm rather than ever getting at the root causes, and seesawing between a) agreeing with his adoptive family entirely about fighting nonlethally in ways that are often inconsistent with his apparent motivations or b) disagreeing and experiencing unnecessarily brutal and violent reactions from his adoptive father as if that kind of violence isn’t the kind of thing he experienced as a child and something bruce himself is trying to prevent jason from perpetuating. because a comic with red hood, quips, high stakes, and familial drama sells.

it doesn’t matter if it keeps jason trapped, torn between an unanswered moral and philosophical question, a collection of identities that no longer fit him, and a family that accepts him circumstantially. it doesn’t matter if jason’s characterization is so utterly inconsistent that the only way to mesh it together is to piece different aspects of different titles and plotlines together like a jigsaw. it doesn’t matter if you do a disservice to his character, because in the end you don’t want to transform him or even understand him deeply enough to identify what makes him compelling and focus on that.

and i love jason!!!!! i love him. and i think about the stories we could have, if quality and art and doing justice to the character were prioritized as much as selling a title and having a dark and brooding batfam member besides bruce just to be the black sheep character are prioritized. and i just get a little sad.

#jason todd #jason todd meta #red hood #batfam #batman #dc comics #comic analysis #classism #tw: csa mention #maybe someday half of the most intriguing and nuanced aspects of his character will be touched upon #red hood outlaw 51-52 had some cool moments wrt jason + class + hometown friends + systems of power but. that was a two issue arc #and even then it was admittedly messy #GOD i want him to be three dimensional and well rounded and well used #even if a writer wrote a fucking. filler comic for an annual or smthn exploring what jason does outside of being red hood #keep the name if u want. have him have deliberately taken the name of his killer and twisted it until ppl from his city know rh #as a protector of kids and the poor and sex workers and so on. that WORKS. but show him connecting w his community #have him get involved in mutual aid. have him do something when he’s not out as red hood at night. let us see jason & barbara interact more #or jason and steph !!!!!!!! or another positive but complicated dynamic (he has a lot of those)#i just. i think that his stagnancy makes me fucking sad. i liked some aspects of task force z. felt like it ended too soon tho #FUCK the joker lets unpack his self concept & have him be a real person outside of vigilanteism (?) and vengeance #i liked some aspects of the cheer arc in batman urban legends mostly bc he had SOME agency and bc he wasn’t completely flat #even tho i hate the retconning of robin jason being angry and moody and so on #part of the problem is we don’t see him too too often for more than semi brief appearances so im so happy to see him i’ll just accept it #love the idea of a nightwing & red hood team up comic. hate that tom taylor a) wrote it and b) gave jason that stupid ass line abt justice #u think this man trusts cops ????? or the legal system !????????? BITCH.#get jason todd into like a sociology / gender and intersectionality / feminist studies class NOWWWWW #ok im done im sleepy and going to watch nimona. thx for reading to anyone who did #PLS anyone who reads this let me know what u think im frothing at the mouth rn #wes.txt #mine

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tblsomedoodles · 3 months

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Just a young Rider with his baby dragon. Nothing bad will happen to them. honest.

Rereading Eragon (b/c reading fourth wing and Iron Flame only succeeded in making me want to read something that actually focuses on the dragons/dragon riding aspects. b/c that's why i was there) and thought, hey this would be cute to draw for a speedpaint.

My computer thought otherwise and decided to shut down when i was almost done, corrupting the video.

The doodle got save (thank you csp for your recovery feature!) but yeah, no speedpaint to go with it.

So back to the drawing board. Literally. (and the speedpaint is already late too : / )

#the inheritance cycle #eragon #saphira #my doodles #i miss this series so much #i read these in like middle school #and absolutely adored them #it's funny #reading it is reminding me of the old fanfics i mentally wrote for this series #ones i completely forgot about until now #i wasn't physically writing or drawing much at the time #they were only planned stories i'd tell myself on repeat when i was bored #so there's nothing to reminisce over really #it reminded me enough to tell me they were once there #but not enough to completely recall them #actually kinda sad now that i think about it #anyways #have this failed speedpaint #i'll try another one soon

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robbed-ghost · 3 months

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First, they discontinue super sons issues, bringing it back for a Halloween special edition and then ghost.

Then, they have Jon age up and date immediately in time for pride, no warning.

Then, he’s Superman.

Then, we get a super sons movie where he’s 10 again (?)

Then, they have Jon and Dick team up as a protege-mentee situation—not bad! Just…not quite the character we’ve just established. Not quite Jon

Then, they have Jon and Damian babysitting wonder woman’s daughter for *checks books* 7 years????? Making Damian and Jon 21 and 24 respectively??? Ok…?

Then, they do Beastworld, and Nightwing comics, AND Superman comics AND Wonder Woman issues with Jon in ALL OF THEM at the SAME TIME and looking vastly different in all of them, with vastly different characterizations, none of them solid, consistent, or acknowledging the fact that he’s been trapped inside a volcano and travelling the multiverse and having a boyfriend all in the same breath.

What am I supposed to be believing right now, DC.

#what am I supposed to take away from this other than Jon from their greedy stupid hands #they don’t know what to do with him or how to characterize him and it’s so so sad #his parents are CLARK KENT and LOIS LANE and he was the perfect coming of age character. so much potential.#he could be smart and sly and emotional and kind all in one in canon IN CANONNNNN #we’ve already shown it’s possible in the comics before super sons w him and his family #dc #jonathan kent #salt #super sons #trinity #girrrllll I am reading this back a few days later and when I tell you I was so mad 💀#i wrote this right after reading the newest Trinity comic and seeing Jon confirm Damian’s not straight IN A THROWAWAY JOKE HED NEVER SAY??!!#like sir. you do not speak like that but also even if you did the writers should do better to not just jump to that #anyway.

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ghostlydeanbailiffcloud · 3 months

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The live with Etoile really reminded me how much they know each other.

Pierre and etoiles have known each other for yearsss and that appears in all the conversation they had with each other in the server like when they would reminisce the past, talk about past friends and things they did together ( the fact that etoiles often asks pierre about things in private about minecraft or not) they have a relationship of trust, they know how the other will react because of everything they went through already.

All in all I feel like their friendship is often overlooked which pains me a little because in my own little headcannon world, I saw them as like older figure/prof and in some way student because pierre factually and in qsmp cannon continues to teach etoiles little things here and there about the mods or things like that even though etoiles is very independent and likes to make progress on his own and strives to get better he still always goes back to pierre to discuss or for help, for him to teach him new stuff ( like when etoiles asked pierre to teach him create), they also make each other's gifts like stuff or when pierre gifts farms to etoiles. Etoiles knows he can say anything to pierre, that he can ask him anything, that they are always available for each other and we saw it happens so many times already.

(I see people talking about etoiles link to philza in the way I see his link with pierre when I clearly feel that Etoiles and Phil are simply people that can connect over past experiences and trauma)

Their minds work alike and I know their two characters are very morally neutral and will accept a lot of stuff ( like they already did by the way) coming from the other, we could see their complicity in the prison and I was so excited for people to see them as a "them" but not at all I mostly see people talking about things they did together as if there was only etoiles... so obviously when Etoiles said he was pushing pierre to come on qsmp v2 and said he would give him stuff or when he said he would spend a day with him I foolishly thought that the new viewers will finally see their friendship for what it is.... let me tell you how disheartened I felt when I could not find a tweet or tumbler post talking about them, so yeah, I'm sad bros

( I know that it's probably because people dislike pierre so they just erase his existence when posting but I feel particularly bad when people give all the credit of some ideas to etoiles when it was pierre that gave them to him (it used to happen a while ago a lot not something that recent) don't be a hypocrite, just don't say anything if you're gonna overlook the one he had the idea with please its just disrespectful ( it's not etoiles fault, he always brings up pierre this is mostly addressed at the pierre haters))

#please #i beg on my knees #was there an account posting about it and i simply didnt see it or i am doomed #like did i somehow miss the posts or..#anyways #i want people to see them for what they are #that is mentally unstable cubitos that found a form of unstable stability in each other #im sad when i see people overlooking the bond that pierre and etoiles have in game and irl #qsmp #qsmp aypierre #aypierre #qsmp etoiles #i wrote that in one go so my ideas might be wonky sorry #might have to take this down and rewrite it once my braincells start working #the typos man theyre everywhere its crazy

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rambheem-is-real · 2 months

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Cross My Heart Pt 1

pairing: kid varadha x kid deva

Summary:

Deva barely makes it a few feet out of the arena before he collapses from the pain. His family and Varadha have things to say when he wakes up.

breaking news: in a *shocking* twist of events, touching a live wire can in fact fuck you up

Deva walks out of the arena, feeling like his nerves are vibrating inside of him. He can taste thick, coppery blood through his teeth, there’s a ringing in his ears, and there’s a searing pain across his shoulders that he knows means there’ll probably be a scar later. He can barely see five feet in front of him, his vision is so blurry.

But he can’t show weakness now, not after everything he’s done.

He’s gotten Varadha his mukku pogu back, had won it for his prince. That bastard had dared to lay a hand on him, to take what rightfully belonged to Varadha, but with what he’s done today Deva knows Rudra won’t go after Varadha for a while.

However, that depends on Deva staying strong now. He’s in no position to fight, he’s aware that he probably fucked something up internally, but he had tried to project enough confidence and anger into his warning to Rudra that he hopes the act was convincing enough.

Keep going, he wills himself, begging the adrenaline coursing through him to not abandon him right now.

Deva can see Varadha’s proud smile out of the corner of his eye, the bounce in his step that was missing this morning when he sought Deva out, nose bare. He can’t let Varadha know how badly it hurts, knows his friend will blame himself for it when it wasn’t his fault at all.

They make it past the gates of the arena, thankfully not followed by Rudra or his lackeys. Varadha beams at Deva, and opens his mouth, probably to say something adorable as usual, when Deva feels the last of the hormones leave him. Varadha’s joyful face morphs quickly into horror as Deva lurches forward, catching Deva in his arms. He cries out as Varadha grabs at his sensitive shoulders, and feels Varadha tense at the sound.

Fuck, Deva thinks. His plan of not letting Varadha know was a bust. The world fades to black along with Varadha’s panicked cries of Deva’s name. Sorry raa, Deva thinks before he finally blacks out from the pain.

Deva wakes up feeling like he got hit by a bus, with a headache the size of Mars, but at least that infernal ringing noise is gone. His vision is still blurry, but not as bad as it was the last time he was awake. It’s enough to make out the figure of his father sitting on a chair beside the bed Deva’s laying on, looking worried somewhere above Deva’s head. There are voices from that direction, and Deva focuses to hear his mother and.. Varadha? arguing with another man.

“What do you mean you can’t fix him?” Amma demands.

The man, probably a doctor, sounds nervous in the face of Amma’s anger as he tries to placate her. “I’m sorry, but the shock he went through will have long term consequences. There’s nothing I can do about that.”

“You’re the doctor though, isn’t it your job to fix people?” Varadha asks, and with a pang of guilt, Deva notes that his voice is rough, like he’s been crying for a long time.

Deva tries to sit up, but realizes his muscles feel so heavy he doesn’t have the strength to move anything other than his head, and maybe if he tries hard, his hands. He tries to call Varadha’s name, but his throat closes up and he can only manage a truly pathetic cough. At the sound, everyone immediately crowds around him.

“Deva, how are you feeling now?” Amma asks, clutching his face, and he can see tears in her eyes.

“I’m okay, Amma,” Deva says, trying his best to project strength, and can see everyone visibly take a breath of relief.

The doctor examines Deva briefly. “I’ll let you all talk to the patient first,” he says, gathering up the medical supplies haphazardly placed on the table next to Deva’s bed. “I’ll be back to do more tests soon.”

As soon as the doctor leaves, Varadha throws himself on top of Deva, sobbing. Deva tries to comfort his friend, but he can barely lift his arm high enough to simply place his hand on top of Varadha’s soft curls. He looks up at his parents, trying to see what he should do, how he should comfort Varadha, but is met with two stony faces. Deva winces.

Amma immediately starts yelling. “What were you thinking? Are you crazy?”

Dhaara joins in, voice thick with worry. “Touching a live wire like that!”

“The next time you pull something like this I’ll kick you out!”

“Varadha told us what happened-”

“Then you’ll know, once you feel what I felt when-”

“-could’ve died, you’re lucky the current wasn’t high enough to kill-”

The voices start overlapping as Deva’s headache worsens, and he shuts his eyes against the sensory overload. He also doesn’t really know what to say that will get him out of this, so he stays quiet.

They pause for a few seconds, realizing Deva’s not listening.

“Deva,” Dhaara starts gently. “The doctor says you’re going to have complications for the rest of your life.”

Deva opens his eyes. “Like what?” Not like he really cares, but might as well know.

His parents look at each other, then back at him, like they’re unsure of how he’ll take the news.

“The doctor said you’ll have a lifetime of unpredictable muscle tremors and temporary paralysis. And that’s the bare minimum. You’ll still have to be tested for the next few weeks to make sure you don’t develop cataracts in your eyes, and see how badly the feathering marks across your shoulders scar.” Dhaara says, looking more and more devastated by the time he gets to the end. “You’ll also have to be monitored for any neurological damage.”

“Ok,” is all Deva replies.

His silence seems to enrage Amma even more. “Do you even care? Who’ll take care of you when you’re old and paralyzed? Who’s going to marry you with those scars on your back?”

Dhaara winces. “Ammadi, why are you bothered about all that? He’s barely ten.”

“I’m his mother, of course I’ll bother about it! It’ll be me tending to him decades later if his condition worsens!”

“Of course I’ll be there too, he’s our son, we’ll both take care of him-”

“That’s not the point-”

Deva tunes them out once again, realizing that he’s regained enough strength in his fingers that he’s able to stroke through Varadha’s hair. I’d love to braid the hair if it gets longer, Deva thinks absently. He only knows the traditional Shouryanga ones, but he resolves to find out if there are any special Mannarsi braids.

Dhaara is the first to quiet down, and gently mentions to Amma that they should calm down since Deva is still hurt.

Amma sniffles. “Ah, like he has that consideration for his poor parents. He doesn’t care if we live or die.” The tone makes Deva feel awful even though he knows she’s exaggerating. He refuses to feel regret, though. No matter how upset it makes his mother feel. He won’t ever regret defending Varadha, not even if he loses his life in the process.

Dhaara sends one last worried look towards his son before he leads Amma out of the room to let Deva rest.

By this time, Varadha’s sobs have quieted, and he turns his face to look up at Deva. His eyeliner is completely smudged, falling in black streams down his face, his cheeks are red and blotchy, and there’s snot in his nose from crying so hard. Deva thinks he’s still the most beautiful person he’s ever seen.

“Arey Vara,” he starts.

Varadha sits up and quickly punches him in the chest again, making Deva recoil.

“Ow, what the hell?”

Deva regrets every single time he’s teased Varadha for not being aggressive enough towards anyone he’s angry at as Varadha tears into him.

“You absolute fucking buffoon! Look at the state of you, yedava [idiot]! What the hell were you even thinking?”

“Not you too,” Deva groans.

“I thought you were fine!” Varadha cries. “You got up fine, you threatened Rudra and you were fine, you walked out fine, I thought you were FINE! And then you collapse in my arms, what the hell was I supposed to think?”

“Sorry raa.”

“No, that’s not enough! I had to carry you all the way back to your house, asshole! I thought you were about to die in my arms!” He’s close to tears again. “All for what, a fucking nose ring? Let him have it, I would rather have you, alive and well rather than a stupid nose ring!”

Deva stubbornly looks through the window next to him. He’s fine apologizing for worrying Varadha, but if Varadha thinks he’ll get an apology for getting his nose ring back, he might as well give up now. Varadha’s too nice for his family, he needs someone like Deva who’s willing to get fucked up to make sure Varadha gets the respect he deserves. He may not see it that way, but that’s just Khansaar for the both of them. Only the strong survive in this place.

“What, are you gonna give me the silent treatment too?”

Deva avoids Varadha’s glare. He’s pretty much paralyzed right now, it’s not like he can do anything else. He can keep playing this game.

Finally, Varadha gives in, and softens his voice. “Fine. Please raa, just promise me.” He lifts his hand up, and Deva looks over. “Promise me you’ll never do anything as reckless as this again for me.” Deva hates how desperate he sounds. He so wants to promise Varadha anything he wants, anything he asks for, never wants Varadha to cry again in this life if Deva can help it, but he can’t promise this.

Varadha seems to notice his hesitation. “Ok. Don’t promise. Just.. just say you’ll try your best. At least give me that.”

Deva sighs. It’s the best he’ll get. He tries to lift his arm up to put his hand in Varadha’s awaiting hand, but it takes him a few seconds to get there. He pretends not to notice the way Varadha’s face falls as he sees how badly Deva’s hand is shaking.

“Fine. I’ll try my best to not be reckless again.”

Varadha frowns. “Try to keep your word Deva, please. Don’t make me go through this again.” His voice drops into a whisper, and another tear slowly makes its way down Varadha’s face. “I thought I lost you.”

Deva doesn’t know how to respond to Varadha being this honest with him, this vulnerable. He’s never been good with comforting words, so he attempts to shrug and tell a joke to cheer Varadha up, but fights back a groan at the searing pain in his shoulders as he attempts to lift them. Varadha’s eyes track the movement and the subsequent twitch of pain, and Deva internally winces at the resurgence of guilt he can see in them.

“Varadha… Rey. It wasn’t your fault. It was fully my decision to challenge the pailwan.”

Varadha visibly debates responding to that, but seems to realize Deva’s just as stubborn as him, and gives up. “Whatever.” He fidgets for a few seconds, then comes to a decision. He looks Deva in the eyes. “I’ll always be there for you, raa. You know that, right?”

“Of course I know that,” Deva says, confused.

Varadha shakes his head. “No, I mean, what your mom was saying earlier… she’s wrong. If this does fuck you up in the future, when you’re older, I’ll be there to take care of you. No matter what I’m doing, no matter where you are, I’ll find you, and I’ll be there for you.” There’s determination in his eyes, and Deva knows he meant what he said, every bit of it.

Deva gives him a small smile, floored by the depth of affection Varadha has for him.

Varadha frowns at his reaction. “Unbelievable. You actually thought I’d let you do something like this and then not take care of you afterwards. Yedava.” He settles back onto Deva’s chest. “You won’t get rid of me that easily, don’t worry.” Varadha moves so his ear is directly over Deva’s heart. Deva feels a warmth slowly expand inside him as he realizes Varadha’s trying to comfort himself by listening to Deva’s heartbeat.

“Does it hurt a lot?” Varadha asks softly, tracing the feathering marks on the back of Deva’s arm.

“Not at all,” Deva says, and Varadha scoffs, but is it even a lie? He gets to feel his Varadha’s cheek pressed into his chest, gets to hear him all but explicitly say that Deva is someone he genuinely loves and cares for. What more could he want?

They sit in silence like that for a while, enjoying each other’s company.

Before he slips back into unconsciousness, Deva can hear footsteps coming back into the room, then stopping abruptly. He knows Varadha is asleep by now, can feel the even pattern of his breaths, and he himself probably looks asleep as well. There’s silence, then a hushed “Dhaara, what are we going to do about this?”

Deva fights to stay awake, wants to hear the response to that, but is rapidly losing the battle.

The last thing he hears is an amused, “I suppose we’ll have to start being nicer to Raja Mannar, if he’s going to be part of our family in a few years.”

#salaar #salaar fic #varadeva #i needed some deva whump so i wrote it myself #this shit is factual btw i did actual research for this #made myself very sad in the process #honestly this could be very much canon compliant deva's hands tend to shake a lot when he's angry #jail scene i'm thinking of you #also the mood swings

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tequiilasunriise · 10 months

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Annabel Lee & Fears: A Short Essay Based On Ep70

Here it is, folks, the truest crux of Annabel’s character, her deepest fears is not going mad or even people discovering she’s not as put together as she tries to appear, but rather:

Was that gambit of constant scheming and using others worth it, Annabel? Was always trying to think ten steps ahead and always keep yourself in a position of power and control truly worth it, because how can you ever be trusted when all you do is play 5D chess with everyone?

There is is, folks!!! Just like her greatest strength- her cunning willpower- is centered around a certain bright moon, Annabel’s greatest fear is rooted in Lenore. The deepest, darkest trenches of her soul, the one thing that would shatter her heart and send her lungs choking fer breath? The killing blow that would end her and make all these charades worthless? It’s Lenore seeing her constant conniving and asking Annabel, “Why would I be any different? You already have no problem using everyone else as a pawn, how could I ever possibly trust you, Annabel Lee?”

The way Annabel is SUCH a great morally grey character, y’all tell me you love hot villains yet many a time I’ve seen people calling Annabel too heartless. She’s the opposite! She cares!! SO MUCH!!! She would burn the world down if it meant kissing Lenore one last time, to the point where her deepest fear is losing Lenore in the process of trying to protect her. All Annabel knows is using manipulation to gain the upper hand because simply being born a woman in the Victorian era she was so throughly disadvantaged by such a horribly misogynistic society that girlypop had to scrape together any form of control she could. Annabel wants so badly to protect Lenore but all she knows are her own methods of protecting herself, which involves plausibility deniability and facades and sometimes sheer cruelty, and that’s where the conflict arises. From the start Annabel assumed Lenore and her had the same understanding of this ‘fake enemies’ ploy going on but surprise surprise babygirl, not everyone is overthinking four parallel universes ahead like you do. This boils over into her lover having doubts on what’s real and what’s not, which then culminates into Lenore asking if Annabel is using her affections as empty currency to get what she wants, and Annabel’s first move to tell Lenore to fucken kill her????

“To you alone, I have left myself completely defenseless.”

The drama of it all!! The shattered facade leading to exploding vulnerability of it all!! The dim sun sparking out into a heat death just to prove her sincerity of it all!!! The exposed innermost organs ripping out my heart with my bare hands and begging you, “Do you see it now? Do you see the way it beats for you and only you? Tell me you see it, tell me you see me…” of it all!!

Oh baby the way Annabel still retains this deep fear of Lenore not truly believing in the “only thing that’s real” to her, the way her lover’s ghost still lingers and haunts her and is then ripped up from her innermost psyche like a desecrated grave and given form by Ada’s power. The way, after all this time- and I mean all this time from Lenore’s constructed resurrection, to their relationship blossoming into a wedding, all the fucking way up to that bell tower scene, the fucken way Annabel still never truly let go of her fear that Lenore doesn’t see her, doesn’t see how she alone bashed through all of Annabel’s walls and made a home where her heart laid. I’m sure during their living relationship all the way until the wedding Annabel’s fears were greatly settled, but it’s the fucken way these panels implied that this wretched heartache never completely left Annabel’s guilt-wracked soul.

I just know, okay I just KNOW, that even up until she was putting her wedding dress on Annabel still questioned if she even deserved this happy ending because she still feel phantoms of guilt fer this betrayal. This comic only furthers this implication of unabsolved guilt when it’s made clear as day that Annabel’s biggest fear is Lenore not believing in her love. And before anyone argues how Annabel can currently feel guilt fer betraying Lenore when she hasn’t recovered the memory yet, I’ll argue back that from the very beginning of the comic these two were inexplicably drawn to each other even when they had NO memories. Therefore, even if she doesn’t have the explicit memory, I highly doubt Annabel’s subconscious would ever let go of something as huge as deeply hurting the one person she truly cared about in such a wretched way.

Fuck, dude, I mean Annabel’s greatest fear wasn’t even Lenore dying- which was already a huge thing if y’all remember her tearstreaked, panicked, “What is left? If she’s not here, what’s the point?”- no her greatest is Lenore!!! Not!!! Believing!! Her!!! Like yeah losing Lenore physically definitely would’ve cut so deep even her bones would bear the scars, but losing Lenore in the form of the other woman walking the same ground as her but choosing to stay away?? Call her fucking selfish because some people would rather have their other half still be alive even if they’re not by their side, but Annabel ain’t one of them that’s fer sure. Babygirl has spent a lifetime perfecting the craft of deceiving others fer her own gain, but the ONE TIME she’s genuine her heart is to be called nothing more but empty??? Oh babbyyy that’s gotta fucken hurt.

The thing is, I don’t think Annabel really loves herself all that much. I really don’t. A huge focus on self-preservation doesn’t necessarily mean one really loves themselves, and when we add the aforementioned guilt she carries? Plus, the fact that Annabel being forced to swallow down her anxiety attacks from a young age could easily lead to her having a rather sour view of her 'not normal' self? Yeah no yeah, I truly don’t think Annabel loves herself that much, if at all. So really, this line is adding immense insult to already grievous injury. Not only does Annabel deeply fear Lenore not believing her affections to be true, she also fears the New Yorker misconstruing her as nothing more but a shallow as hell, prissy, little pampered damsel, a role pretty much everyone else regulates her into whether she wants it or not (right from the beginning, before she even set her schemes in full effect, Annabel was already explaining, “Ada wanted a queen, so I gave her one”). Lenore, the only one Annabel had believed to ever really see her fer her, is now discrediting Annabel’s vulnerable affections AND seeing her as that unloving ice queen like everyone else?? Horrible terrible horrible!!! She may have a ribbon threatening to strangle her right now, but it’s clear that ghost!Lenore’s words are what truly cut her down to size. Y’all seeing that fucken pain in Annabel’s eyes? Her worst fear is just so… personal.

Which actually leads me to my next point, which is how just before Annabel’s worst fear is revealed in stark, horrifying detail, we see Prospero’s. Lemme just preface this by saying what Prospero went through is n o t any less terrible and is a super fucken mega valid fear/trauma, but let me cook y’all just hear me out. Prospero’s fear seems to be about medical malpractice and/or being conscious during a painful operation that likely went south (aka ‘oh shiiitttt he fucken DEAD-‘), and that’s fucking tragic as all hell. Yet, okay let me cook here, it’s more… I don’t want to say general, because that does NOT mean his fear is any less significant but it’s like. Way back when, death via medical bullshit was more or less fairly common, especially during wartimes (which is the era I headcanon Prospero to be from); meanwhile, Annabel’s fear is so uniquely hers, it’s borne of a culmination of specific experiences tied together by her relationship with Lenore.

By contrast of a more common fear vs something so deeply personal and specific to this one person- because it’s not just unrequited love, it’s being so vehemently denied and misunderstood by the ONE (1!) person who you wholeheartedly trusted in your entire life who also oops mega died on you- this distinction gives way to an almost more raw, more visceral feeling to Annabel’s fear sequence. Again!!! I am not undermining Prospero’s own trauma, I promise!!! But you have to admit that there’s something, from a narrative standpoint, that hits so much harder with how deeply personal Annabel’s fear is. The contrast is even more great when you look at how Prospero’s involved a buncha bloodied hands not really tied to any faces or even any indication of personhood like accessories, scars, etc etc. It could’ve been a group of anyone holding him down hurting him; on the flipside, Annabel is being restrained by one very specific person we see in full view. The faceless crowd who could’ve been anyone at anytime vs the lone perpetrator whose history you know like a second name. It’s just!!! So personal!!!

In conclusion, on the surface level, one would think a character so deeply ingrained in using deceptions and manipulation would have her greatest fear tie into having her true nature revealed to everyone she’d fooled, but then it turns out it’s the complete fucking opposite. What homegirl fears the most is her truest, innermost self not being believed and accepted by just one (1!) person. The way it’s framed is just so heartstabbingly personal, especially when you parallel it to a previous fear sequence just a few panels preceding it. This is it, your honor, this is Annabel’s deepest driving force broken down to its bare essentials. To hell with whatever reputation she’s carefully crafted! Who cares what anyone else thinks of her if she doesn’t believe her, if she doesn’t SEE her. Really, truly see her. Lenore is the defining point that Annabel has revolves around so wholeheartedly, and there’s no point to anything anymore if Annabel loses her. This crux of her character, OHHH BBAAABBYY it’s just so well done because we, as the audience, have been given clear evidence to build up this narrative of Annabel’s characterization fer so long now and to finally see it come together in a fiery explosion of lesbian angst with this latest chapter??? Gods, the writing of Nevermore will never not drive me absolutely insane in the membrane.

#if yall think this essay went crazy i need yall to kmow i once wrote a legit MLA cited college research paper about mf Bumbleby #and I got a high grade and everything yall heard me it was 12 pt new times roman and had literal academic sources to back up my points #i had to cut it down from 15 pages to like 10 bc of a max word count my prof set it was so sad #so yeahhhhhhh your girl may or may not just go crazy on the fictional analysis #which makes sense when u know that imma character-driven writer #anyways in conclusion i be clocking in to fight fer annabel as an amazingly written character like its a 9-5 job #to all the ppl who doubted her how yall feeling rn hmmmmmmm #annabel lee whitlock ur just so much fun to dissect like a lesbian lab project #nevermore webtoon #white raven #annabel lee whitlock #lenore vandernacht #prospero nevermore #<—i swear i care fer the rat man guys i rlly rlly do #but man. the way annabel’s shit was just to personal. it rlly got me okay???

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