#without the accent

[lilbreadbun]

And then I noticed that jinx’s balloon she flies in on has bunny ears painted on it. And markings on the side to match her little goggles

Pain. Suffering even

[yellenabelova]

INTERVIEW WITH THE VAMPIRE (2022 - ) I 2.08

[egophiliac]

i love your riddle design so much, he's so pointy and british. so gracious. do you think he would enjoy a brazilian goiabada

thank you! ❤️🖤❤️ it's just. important to me on a level I can't explain that Riddle have an extremely pointy nose that he can stick into everyone else's business.

also goiabada is sweet and fruity and red, I think he would like it very much indeed!

not me stealth-editing because I forgot his antenna whoops

[shotmrmiller]

one night stand trope with the boys that ends with a baby except you picked him up from the bar, slipped him a fake name and took him back to your hotel, and months later when he flies out to your home town, there is no baby.

and that makes him very upset.

guess he's gotta have to try harder than that.

[sai-int]

hey yall mind if i practice my angst? no? well don't mind if i do....

simon riley x gn!reader, angst, i wrote this while listening to fireside by arctic monkeys, so listen to that

The rain hammered against the windows of your flat, drowning out the sound of your footsteps pacing the small living room. Simon stood by the door, soaked through, his black hoodie clinging to his broad frame, water pooling at his boots. His hair, dirty blonde and darkened by the rain, fell messily over his forehead, dripping onto the floor. He looked at you with that same unreadable expression he always wore—a mask, even now.

“You shouldn’t have come,” you said, voice tight, arms crossed over your chest as if it might shield you from what was coming.

“Had to,” he said simply, his voice low, rough. It wasn’t an excuse; it was just a fact, like the rain outside or the way he always had to have the last word.

You shook your head, biting back the lump rising in your throat. “Why, Simon? What could you possibly need from me that you don’t already have?”

He took a step forward, his boots squelching against the floor. He looked like he wanted to say something, but the words got caught somewhere between his throat and his pride.

“You don’t get to do this,” you snapped, your voice sharper than you intended. “You don’t get to show up here, looking like that, saying nothing, and expect me to just… what? Fall apart for you? Again?”

Simon’s jaw clenched, his shoulders rising slightly like he was bracing for impact. He always did that—closed himself off just enough to make you feel the distance. And yet, here he was.

“I don’ know how t'do this,” he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Do what, Simon?” you asked, stepping closer, your frustration boiling over. “Be honest? Let someone in? Or is it just me you can’t handle?”

He flinched at that, but his eyes never left yours. Those eyes—dark, stormy, always hiding more than they showed—locked onto yours with an intensity that made your chest ache.

“'M here, aren’t I?” he said, his voice rough, almost defensive.

“Barely,” you shot back. “You’re here, but you’re not. You’re in my life, but never really. You’ve lived in my heart so long, I don’t even know what it feels like to be without you, and it’s killing me.”

His shoulders sagged, and for a moment, you thought you saw something break in him—some piece of the armor he always wore. “'Never wanted t'hurt you,” he said, quieter now.

“But you do,” you whispered. “Every time you leave, every time you shut me out, you hurt me. And I let you. Because I keep thinking maybe this time, it’ll be different.”

The silence between you was deafening, broken only by the rain and the soft sound of your unsteady breaths. He looked down at the floor, his hands flexing at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them.

“Maybe I should go,” he said finally, the words like a knife to your chest.

“Yeah,” you said, your voice trembling. “Maybe you should.”

He turned to leave, but then he stopped, his hand hovering over the doorknob. He didn’t look back when he said, “I wish I could be better f'you.”

You laughed bitterly, wiping at your eyes. “No, Simon. You just wish I didn’t want more than this. But I do. I deserve more.”

He nodded once, his shoulders stiff, and then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him.

You stood there, staring at the door, the weight of his absence settling over you like a heavy blanket. You hated him in that moment—for his silence, for his distance, for the way he always left before you could even begin to put yourself back together.

The rain lingered long after Simon left, clinging to the air, clinging to you. You stayed by the door, staring at the spot where he had stood, the faint smell of cedarwood and cigarette smoke still lingering like a ghost in the room. It felt cruel how the world didn’t stop, how life kept moving while you stood frozen in the aftermath of him.

Simon Riley. He had been a hurricane in your life—silent, destructive, and devastatingly brief. Every time he walked away, he left pieces of himself behind, and you hated that you were the one who had to pick them up, to carry the weight he refused to bear.

The flat felt colder now, emptier, as if he had taken the warmth with him. You crossed the room, your fingers ghosting over the armrest of the couch where he used to sit, his legs spread wide, his head tilted back as if he could find peace in your living room when he couldn’t find it anywhere else.

There were nights when Simon spoke in his sleep. He never realized it, but you’d stay awake just to listen to the pieces he let slip—names, places, apologies that never made sense. It was the only time he ever truly let you in, and even then, it felt like stealing.

You sat on the couch now, wrapping your arms around yourself, staring at the coffee table where he used to rest his boots, always muttering something about how your flat was “too clean to feel like a real home.” His words had been teasing, but there was an ache in them too—a longing for something he couldn’t name.

The thing was, you knew he cared. In his own quiet, fractured way, Simon cared. It was in the way he lingered by your door like he didn’t want to leave but couldn’t stay. It was in the way his eyes softened when he looked at you, just for a second, before he caught himself. It was in the way he always came back, even though he knew it would hurt both of you.

But caring wasn’t enough. Not when his silence felt like a wall you couldn’t climb. Not when he held you at arm’s length even while standing close enough to touch.

You leaned back, your head hitting the cushion, and closed your eyes, willing yourself not to cry. But the tears came anyway, hot and bitter, slipping down your cheeks and pooling in the hollow of your throat.

Somewhere, Simon was probably walking in the rain, his hood pulled up, his hands stuffed in his pockets. He’d tell himself it was better this way, that leaving was the kindest thing he could do. He’d convince himself that you’d move on, that you’d be happier without him.

But he’d be wrong. Because he wasn’t just a part of your life. He was the center of it, the axis everything else revolved around. And now that he was gone, you didn’t know how to spin without him.

In the quiet of your flat, you thought about calling him, about saying all the things you never could when he was standing in front of you. But what would you even say? Come back? Stay? Love me the way I love you?

He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. And you were tired of breaking yourself trying to fix him.

Instead, you picked up your phone and deleted his number. It wasn’t enough to erase him from your life, but it was a start. Because if Simon Riley couldn’t choose you, then you had to choose yourself.

And yet, as you sat there, staring at the empty screen, you couldn’t help but wonder if he was out there thinking of you too, if he felt the same ache, the same hollow emptiness you felt.

But you’d never know. Because Simon Riley was a ghost. And ghosts always disappeared.

mlist

[cool-person-yey]

she's so important to me

[ask-kas-n-lamp]

are you guys britian

-🛏️

💡: Quite a fine chewsday innit? care fuh the ol classic chinwag?

👾: oh why i'd be chuffed tew bits me ol muckah, aftah a quick elevenses!

💡: Righty-ho!

👾: yeah. we’re not british.

[izel-scribbles]

i hate that niles crane is like 70% of arthur designs

PLEASE im not tripping i swear

[chaotically--calm]

Nevermore voice claims

[aquavierra]

[good-morzan-inheritance-cycle]

I love the idea that Roran and Eragon would have thick country accents for a good majority of their stories.

As someone who had to unlearn her thick Texan accent when I was young to be understandable outside my region (I still hold it in my back pocket tho. Use it as a party trick.) I’d love the interactions that would be sparked from Eragon desperately trying to get someone to understand him while the other party is just sobbing at this mountain hick.

[tadpole-apocalypse]

Is this the best line in the game? I think it's a contender.

[crystalposies]

Bizzyboys come from the Drain, which is a local equivalent of Hell, and there are things that point towards them being italian. It doesn't make it the only italian representation of Hell, as we also have Dante Alighieri's "Divine Comedy". In this essay I will-

[petricorah]

almost done with the lineart for this dang comic!

[dont-fear-thereaper]

I should force myself to do more colored stuff, so yeah here's the purple eldrich jayvik baby

Creepy but loved🤲

[sirandking]

I get it when people headcanon Neil with a British accent because it's hot or whatever but let's get one thing straight. My man is born and raised in Baltimore Maryland he grew up in Baltimore talking to people from Baltimore. I don't care what accent he speaks with normally because he spent years on the run imitating local dialects so it doesn't even matter but if we're talking about his "native dialect" or "natural accent" this is not British it is a Baltimore accent. Please tell me you see my vision. Others are out here with the "oh it's British because he picked it up from his mother" No. I'm out here with the truth and the truth is Aaron earned an iron urn (for his mother's ashes)