#words of ain

[dgalerab]

love the way aabria balances "those shenanigans are wild and i love it and will reward it" and "those shenanigans are wild and now comes the find out portion of fucking around" and rewarding kindness is. so good. miss aabria "catch these hands and also i'm kissing you gently on the forehead" iyengar ily

[bitter-hibiscus]

The real truth is that every single Jason Todd ship exists only for his benefit, and not his partner's. It's not just Jayroy, though that may be the most extreme example of it alongside jaytalia. Any character who is romantically involved with Jason has to be bastardized to some level, either because their morality would make it impossible for them to be with Jason (Roy, Kyle, Kara, Steph, Barbara, etc) or because Jason's character would go entirely against what their character needs/is working towards (Rose, Artemis, Kori, Slade, etc). It's always about what Jason needs and what Jason could get from that potential relationship, because he doesn't really... have anything to offer. Jason as Red Hood centers his story in violence and self-isolation. Even in his current The Hill run, where he's learning to trust people yada-yada, he's lonely. Because he chooses to be. And that's why every Jason Todd ship feels forced if you're a fan of whatever partner of choice, because Jason isn't at a point of himself and his life where he can offer anything in a relationship. Idk word vomit sorry

[favoure]

Scar doesn't have titties he got them removed that's why he's called Scar

anon what does it feel like to be the most based person ever

[what-breaks-my-heart]

[dancedance-resolution]

i started a supercorp portrait of a lady on fire au like three years ago. i'm never going to finish it, but the writing style is pretty cool, so i want to share it. so um enjoy the prologue and a bit of chapter one?

---

Prologue. Bonnelles, France. 1786.

“First, my contours,” Kara said, her voice soft and level. She looked out upon the dozen or so young women, their eyes darting back and forth from their papers to Kara herself. “The outline,” she continued. The increasingly swift sound of scratching charcoal prompted Kara to further instruct, “Not too fast. Take time to look at me.” She paused. “See how my arms are placed.”

At that moment, Kara saw the painting.

She swallowed and took in a breath; she schooled her expression before letting out the air with a pathetically soft “My hands.” Her students’ gaze followed her verbal direction, now observing as Kara’s fingers curled with remembrance. Their own hands now began to sketch the slope of hers—the slope that had once coaxed breathy moans from a lover, the slope that had once created that very painting in all of its hollow longing.

Kara felt her heart rate accelerating, and her attempts at calming deep breaths only made her shoulders shake unsteadily. “Who brought that painting out?” Her eyes darted around, landing on each possible offender, as she tensed her core and adopted a stern countenance.

Every student dutifully turned to look at the work.

It was an especially young girl who finally lifted her hand. “I brought it. From the stock room. Should I have not?”

Kara’s “no” felt like a brick, its weight threatening to pry tears from her reddening eyes. So Kara took another swallow, a handful of blinks, a few more steadying breaths.

“Did you paint it?” the girl asked innocently. Nia, her name was? She stared at Kara, oblivious to the flood of sound overwhelming Kara’s mind and echoing in the cavern of her heart.

“Yes,” Kara uttered softly, the word barely audible as they fell from her lips. “A long time ago.”

Nia’s head snapped back to examine the painting once more. It stood on an old but sturdy easel, tattooed and scarred but still standing. The artwork itself was brooding, with a white sun bleeding into a dark vignette. Heavy clumps of clouds occupied the sky and caged some of the sun’s rays, so the fire burning behind the woman was bright enough in comparison to create a dragging shadow of her figure. The flames crawled up the back of her windswept dress, bringing sharp tension to an otherwise lulling, melancholy landscape.

“What’s the title?”

The sound of the sea began to swell in Kara’s head. Her lips trembled. Her body unwittingly swayed slightly. “Portrait of a Lady on Fire.”

---

Chapter I. The island of Brittany, France, and the surrounding sea. 1779.

Kara squinted into the distance, her face scrunching up a bit as she desperately tried to shield her eyes from the harsh glare of the sun on the water. For all its gorgeous teals and sparkling peaks, it certainly did make her wish for one of those brimmed hats the rowers were all wearing. With every one of their paced paddles, the cork-like little canoe bobbed haphazardly. Kara rather felt as if she were in the wine glass of a thoroughly drunken Marie Antoinette.

At least she wasn’t prone to seasickness.

She still felt quite unsteady, though, being thrown about and forced to pathetically grab onto the boat’s low walls. She leaned forward, trying to regain her balance and ground herself despite the absence of ground.

The wooden pallet holding her canvas was, apparently, as unstable as she was, and the next thing Kara knew, it had been lurched off of the boat like vomit from a drunkard. Kara watched helplessly as it thrashed among the choppy waves, the sea carrying it a few feet from the boat.

The chief rower met her desperate look with exhausted resignation; he ceased his paddling as Kara shed her overcoat and placed a precarious foot on the edge of the canoe.

With a strained creak from the boat’s wood, she jumped into the water, dress billowing behind her. Her first gasp for air upon emerging from the water was audible; she could feel the effort in her throat. Her arms moved in laborious little arcs as she slowly made her way towards the floating pallet and finally made a desperate reach for it. Kara’s fingers grasped onto a wooden board, and she pulled herself up onto it with a grunt.

---

The incessant wind upon the sea was certainly not helping Kara. Dripping wet, she wrapped herself up in her overcoat in a pitiful plea for warmth. She held the edges of the garment up to her lips, the sensation of the dry fabric bringing her some comfort as she closed her eyes and left herself to the mercy of the mighty sea.

But the interminable rocking of the feeble boat wouldn’t allow her any rest.

Kara wasn’t very religious, not anymore. Yet, the sight of the cliffs and coast of Brittany moved her to relieved prayer.

---

The sun had already begun to set as Kara trekked up the sandy coast. Her legs ached with every stumbling, unsure step—maybe she was a bit seasick after all—and her hands were tired of having to grip her full skirt to keep it out of her way.

She paused on the rocks, taking a moment to manually wring some of the water out of her skirt. She filled her lungs with an arduous breath before slinging the rope holding the pallet over her shoulder. Next came the fabric sling, which housed her trunk of personal items—she positioned it on her back with careful poise.

The journey up the cliffs and towards the trees was exhausting. Kara’s skirt required repositioning every few seconds, the rope was digging into her shoulder, and the pallet and trunk slammed into her back with each wobbling step. By the time she reached the straight path up to the residence, her breaths were heavy and pained, and the sun was nearly fully hidden beneath the horizon.

A soft light emanated from the windows above the mansion’s door, helping Kara feel a bit more secure as she knocked. A short blonde woman answered her summon and introduced herself with a flat “I’m Eve.” She opened the door a bit wider and gestured with her body for Kara to come in.

Eve held a small candle as she guided Kara up the stairs, the sounds of their shoes echoing through the grand yet starkly undecorated hallway. The walls of the stairwell were cement bricks, and the wrought iron bannister was rather plain and geometric.

They came to a stop in front of a similarly void room, bare save a few heavy curtains and a daybed. The raised panels along these walls matched the white-painted wood of the window frames, and they gave the chamber some elegant character.

While Eve entered the comparatively less intimidating room, Kara stayed back a moment, taking in the shafts of muted blue light from the windows and the contrasting warm glow of leaping flames from the central fireplace.

Eve crouched down to poke at the fire as Kara set down her belongings. “It was a reception room,” Eve explained. “Though I’ve never seen it used.”

The fire crackled pleasantly. “Have you been here long?” Kara inquired.

“Three years,” Eve answered, directing her attention back to the fire.

Kara peeled off her overcoat and draped it along the wainscoting. “Do you like it here?”

“Yes,” Eve said simply as she stood up. She turned to Kara, meeting her eyes now as her hands smoothed over her skirt. “I’ll let you get dry.” And with a nod, she was on her way.

Kara watched her every step.

Once the door closed, she hastily began removing her overskirt. It fell to the dark herringbone floor with an unglamorous thud.

---

There was no method or grace to the way Kara wrapped her hand around the rusting crowbar, but with a few jerks, she’d managed to successfully pry the top off of the pallet.

After setting down the wood cover, Kara extended her hand, letting it fall clumsily onto the slick canvas in front of her. It was still wet, and her hand’s small circular movement caused moisture to pool at her fingertips, as if her touch had beckoned the water. So her hand withdrew, and Kara slid the canvas out from its container. Her eyes danced over the surface as she considered how to dry it, holding it in front of herself like the Communion host of an evening Mass.

---

Kara decided to accompany her drying canvas, which was now positioned next to the fireplace. Stripped naked, she sat in front of the fire and pulled her legs towards herself—she was vulnerable, sitting there bare and in a new environment, and the action made her feel a bit more small, compact, and safe.

Kara set down her candle so she could light her tobacco pipe with the flames. Her large, smoky exhales grounded her, in a way, with the familiar sight and smell acting as a sort of sedative. And she stared forward, expression blank but unmistakably worn.

---

Kara walked barefoot along the cement floor, making her way through the hall and to the pantry room wrapped in nothing but her robe-like smock.

[crowithy]

You know you Texan when your eating on a patio while it's raining harder hell and thundering every 5 seconds

And you call it relaxing weather

[blissfali]

2 yearsago i put a bunch of stuff on a usb because i didnt want to look at it on my pc anymore and then i thought i accidentally threw it away/lost it and today i was cleaning out my little pen cups and i decided to go through my pencils and i fucking pull out the usb and my jaw opened so damn wide it hurt Bro im in tears i gensrs thought it was gone forever i was devastated AND ITS HEREEEE HOLYYYY SHIT

[sloanaffirmations]

🤟🤩🤟Like,Share,or type "LET IT SHINE" to affirm💖💿🎧🎵

✅️She is unrelatable and does not inspire me🙅‍♀️✨️

✅️*laughs

✅️My recent inactivity on this account proves that I am getting normal about Sloan🤩🤟

[thecactuscottage]

I’d gladly break the laws of physics for you, dear. I’d crumple up space like paper ball. I’d pluck stars from a black hole to craft. a bouquet and I’d show up at front door in a suit of dark matter with a dwarf star lapel. I’d sweet talk Newton until he makes an exception just for us, so as we glide across your kitchen floor to the scratchy sound of your radio our inertia carries us forever and a day.

[dgalerab]

don't want to rb with op's username attached bc i'm sure they're already getting a bunch of ribbing in the notes but like lmao what the fuck of course you just go for it and pray its good. how else do you find the niche dorky content made only for you. how else do you avoid living only in the fandom approved flanderized nonsense. are you insane. if you don't like it you just leave. this makes me insane.

[batri-jopa]

Another one of my centaurs

[kitwing-moving]

ain pretends to be a priest and also hates humans i think

YEAH if i can be honest i ***** ******* ** ***** ******* ** ***

[a-wild-things-rambles]

my drafts count has gone up by 6 but shout out to good american country for hitting most the spots of my complicated ass identity and standing in this world. it fuking sucks that i have barely anything that speaks true from people who actualy lived my spesific intersection, but anything that speaks to that, even if its from across ocean, means so much to me.

solidarity my far away friends, fuck the pigs and fuck the businessman and keep walkin these paths, they can make us suffer but they will never truely know the softness of the summer evening air, they will never know what it means to be truly free, even with all the weight the world puts on our shoulders.

[incorrectelswordquotes]

Ain: I just realized "RATatouille"

Ain: the movie used a word that has rat in it its a pun

Raven: yeah youre doing this on purpose now

Ain: i genuinely never looked back on that movie and when I first watched it i didn't know english so it hit just now

Raven: whats the angelic word for rat

Ain: עכברוש

Raven: well shit i may have to let you go this time

[summeronceagain-if]

"I have fallen helplessly in love with you" for Aine the (literal) ice queen ❤️

I have fallen helplessly in love with you, Aine writes.

They read the first two words out loud, manage the next one just fine, but the rest of the sentence continues to exist only on paper. The words catch on the roof of their mouth, a steadfast refusal that leaves them at a complete loss.

They crumple the parchment, and magic does the rest. The confession burns to ash and slips between their fingers.

Aine is so in over their head it makes them feel sick. It’s funny really, because they’ve always thought they had a tacit understanding of their own mind. But whenever they dwell on the situation, turn the thoughts over and over, the precarious act they've been masquerading under feels so suffocating that they think it'd probably be gentler if they were ripped in half.

And to be perfectly honest, maybe the romantics are right, have been all along. An idealist’s conception of love can’t be that far off, can it? There’s no reason to state with certainty that between, say, heartfelt confessions under a thousand glittering stars, and Aine feeling like their organs are being yanked this way and that every time they say hello, that their feelings can even be classified under the same category.

Where's the boundary? What's the answer to the press of their hand against a doorknob, burning feverish and clammy when they don’t feel freezingly numb and thinking please visit me, please don't visit me with all their might?

Behold, the almighty Witch of Eternity. Reduced to agonizing over something as insignificant as their own heart.

This isn't love. This is only because the relentless movement of time has forced them into solitude for too long — all feelings are transient, and this is nothing more than a novelty to them. This isn’t love. This is just a misconstrued notion, nothing more, nothing less.

That’s all it has to be. That’s all it can be.

[noxtivagus]

ff & gbf 🥹🫶🏼