#written by roman

[arthistoryiscooliguess]

yk what I love? that the first text we have written by a woman in England was a Roman woman inviting her best friend to her birthday

[z3nitsusgf]

paper bag

roman roy | reader

tw: fem!reader, toxic relations, manipulation, l*gan roy, romann is sick in the head, Roman says a slur (unsurprising), dog motif, teasing, dirty talk, ooc roman bc he's scared of pussy irl, this shit long af I’m sorry, backwards storytelling bc I’m inconsistent

The room is sticky. Sweltering in a post-august heat. The box fan churns and spits out whatever puffs of air it can muster, but the both of you still sweat on the linens of the motel bed.

The walls are stained from years of misuse and neglect, tinged a dirty yellow. You can’t tell if it’s oil or something more debauched that clings to the plaster, probably the latter.

It’s late into the night, too late for anything to be open and too early for it to be acceptable to up and leave. So the two of you are rooted here, stuck till daybreak.

The sounds of people arguing, a car horn blaring, and the buzz of fluorescent whir through your head. There’s a small box TV, it fizzles and pops every time you try to change the channel. Gurgling in a pre-2000s war cry. You could almost laugh at the circumstances.

You wonder how the fuck you’ve managed to snag New York’s brattiest billionaire, even more at how you’ve convinced him to fuck you in a shitty motel just outside of Hell’s Kitchen. Or to even fuck you at all, you only know rumors of his… strange bedroom endeavors.

You stifle an un-humored chuckle, Roman is lying like a royal Persian cat across the bed, shirt long gone and covered only in his boxers. A brand you've never heard of laces his hips, something expensive and out of reach. Just like most of him.

“What?” He asks, head resting on a closed fist. He draws shapes on your leg, neat nails dragging along the soft skin. He likes the smell of your lotion, something girlish and fresh like linen. Almost like something Shiv would wear, or a nanny from his memory. All he knows is that he likes it.

“Nothin’, just thinking.”

He likes your accent. It reveals your upbringing, obviously not the stupidly refined wealth that Roman inhabits but something humbler. It’s a little rough around the edges but not crass. Your words are straightforward and clear, unlike his family's. The bubbling words they offer to air up a conversation, you cut straight through that.

“Thinking about what?”

You give a smile, taking a long drag of your American Spirit and tipping your head back to blow it up to the stained ceiling. The smoke curls and swirls around before dissipating into nothing. He's not used to the smell, it gives the air a hint of pine-tinged outdoorsy aroma. Warm, comforting, familiar, and terrible all at once. Like something Logan would smell like when he came home, on the rare occurrence Roman was around him long enough to get a whiff.

“How I just bagged the Roman Roy, and how it’s gonna look in the papers.”

You joke, obviously. You’d never tell your endeavors to the pressing public or the sneaky little journalists that gripe for your small breadcrumbs about the family. Even if it is technically your job.

Roman hums, “Waystar son indulges in debauched acts with local journalist slut.”

He makes a gesture with his hands, eyes lighting up and going wide. A dopey grin rested on the plane of his cheeks, a row of sparkling whites glimmering under the citrusy glow of the lamp.

“Fuck you.”

You kick him haphazardly in the chest, his laugh rings around the room like a bell. Roman grabs your ankle, curling his fingers around the bone and yanking you down towards him. He’s uncaring of how you slip down the headrest, watching how you squeak and mumble small profanities.

“Prick could’ve dropped the ashes on me.” You mumble, not serious in the slightest.

“What would your father say?”

You snip, reaching down and dragging a hand through his hair, tussling the already licked-up sweaty strands. He practically melts into your touch, eyes closing and lips parting at the contact. He memorizes how your nails feel on his scalp, visualizing the soft pink of your polish running through the strands.

It feels good to have you touch him so effortlessly. As if he was nice to hold and caress, something soft to be sentimental with. Not a bad dog locked in a kennel for once but allowed to curl up on the bed.

But that's exactly what he is, isn't he? He is the dog that sleeps on the floor at the edge of the bed. Curled in on himself, happy to just be close. Nosing at the sheets, contempt with the presence of its owner. Even if he's cold, shivering from the floorboards - you just being there is enough to keep him warm. The few pats on the head allow him to sleep through the night. He is the dog that never leaves your side, sitting off to the right of you and waiting.

He lets out a bitter giggle, a small grimace twitching his lips. It hides the shimmer of despair that is pooled in his head.

“He’d probably be glad I got some pussy for once. Maybe he’ll stop calling me a fag.”

He laughs when he says it, even though a part of you knows he’s dead serious. You've come to learn he always is when it comes to his father.

The sadness cuts through the raunchiness of his words and you fight off the frown that wants to stitch itself across your face. A part of you wants to reach out and mend together the brokenness, another wants to pull out your journal and backlog it for later. A rotten, benign part of you wants to take this man apart and study it to smithereens.

Roman doesn’t say much, surprisingly. He’s reserved in his intimacy, holding back all the love and care that he wants to pour out. He's been starving for decades, yearning for a love that won't come. He's resigned to the fact he is broken. Besides, he’s not here to cuddle up to you for anything more than to get you to not publish your story on the Roy’s. You're both fighting for the same thing, just on different sides.

You respond the only way you knew how, “Fuck, that’s really fucking depressing.”

Roman admires your brutal style, honesty is a rarity that he treasures when it comes. It's why he noticed you in the first place, your articles about the wealthy family in the tabloids caught his eye. Especially the ones about him -it sounds different when you say it, not like you're vying for an undercut but like you're genuine.

He laughs.

You both laugh. Tipping your heads back and howling with laughter. He's got tears in his eyes, and you can't breathe.

///

“Not really your cup of tea, huh?”

You teased, flinging off your shoes and laying on the questionable sheets.

He gives you a snarky grimace and raises a brow, “Careful, you might get scabies or a fucking STD just from breathing in the air.”

It’s not the sort of place you’d expect to see Roman Roy occupy. You can hardly even wrap your head around the fact he’s here now. You imagine the Roy in lavishness, draped in silken white and cashmere. Sipping champagne from a crystal glass brought by room service. Watching the glittering of New York from a floor-to-ceiling window on the billionth floor of a hotel that costs your entire paycheck for just one night.

No, you can’t even pretend that Roman doesn’t look completely out of place here. With his no-tie, popped collar, Tom Ford wannabe pretentious ass. He’s comically out of place. It makes you want to giggle to hell at the way he looks so uncomfortable.

A pretty little rich boy who’s never had to worry about being in anything other than a 5-star. Who now stands in a seedy motel that looks more like a crack house than the Arlo in Midtown. And in place of the champagne, he chugs your shitty beer and water bottle vodka. Cracking open a six-pack of michelob’s and cringing at the taste. It’s painfully cheap, but alcohol is alcohol.

“Come on, don’t act so high and mighty. Relax.”

You pat the empty space next to you, scooting over so he can tentatively sit. You have your thick black journal resting beside you, inside containing all the juicy details and bits about the Roys that would burn down empires and topple over conglomerates.

You’ve hidden most of it well, you’ve had to, or else you get a hit put out on you from the man himself, Logan Roy. Using different names when publishing your work, making interviews anonymous - hell, you feel like Batman with the way you work in the shadows.

Roman inches onto the mattress, eyeing the notebook at your side. He knows, vaguely, what it contains. The secrets, the stories, untamed facts about the company and his family. Usually, he wouldn't give a rat's ass about what a snoopy little journalist had to say about him and his family.

He’ll admit your stuff is good, great even but it's all fluff, a buffer that fills up the sides of newspapers so they have more meat to them. And most of the time it's always the same thing; how horrible his father is, the treatment of Waystar employees, how disconnected the children of the billionaire were. But you- you dug deeper than that.

He never had a reason to look into you until now.

Your stories were revelations for the public. The lies, the coverups, the shady business that their media team works day and night to conceal. You spill it all. And now that you're gaining more traction, more popularity, they're losing revenue quickly. Business deals are turning to dust, stocks are dropping, and employees are quitting on the spot. It's making Waystar crumble from the inside out. And Logan refuses to lose from a puny little journalist, let alone a woman.

When Gerri and Karolina uncovered who was behind the articles, they wilted. If they had told Logan who you were - what you were - he would've squashed you like a bug. Completely ruined your life till you had nothing.

So they took a different approach, a softer more merciful route. They sent Roman after you, and like the loyal dog he is, he went. Mingling with over-eager, latte-sipping, pretentious journalists to get your contact info.

It wasn't as easy as he thought, more work than he wanted to put in. But regardless, he eventually a friend of a friend of a friend gave you up. Not soon after you got a very informal email from the COO, asking to meet up for an "interview" on the pretense of discussing your stories. Or your "allegations" as he liked to call it.

To say you were surprised was an understatement, you nearly passed out in disbelief. It started with meeting him on neutral ground, a coffee shop. Somewhere public and clean, nothing seedy or easily misconstrued.

And when Roman strutted into the small shop, you were very aware of how real this was all becoming. The starkness of his wealth is evident in comparison to the rest of the shop.

"Ah, if it isn't the little paper-pusher I've heard so much about."

Those were his first words to you.

“Mr. Roy, a pleasure to meet you.”

He sat in front of you, pulling off his jacket and haphazardly throwing it over the back of the chair. You're 100% sure it costs more than your yearly salary. At your words, he gives an obnoxious giggle.

“Please, don’t call me that. Makes me think we’re in some sick porno.”

You raise a brow at his crassness, “Ok.. pleasure to meet you, Roman.”

He stifles another giggle but reaches a hand across the table, shaking yours.

Once he’s pulled back he claps his hands together, “Alright, what do you get from this shithole. And don’t tell me you’re one of those hipster-loving morons who gets like matcha or some shit.”

Your eyes widen at how loud he’s being, uncaring that staff or other customers might hear his openness. You know what kind of person he is, you’re just not used to the oozing brattiness in person.

You can only gawk, “Well, um, usually I get a macchiato or just a regular cup of coffee.”

He nods, “Hmm, I see. Ok. I’ll get whatever you get. Throw in a Danish too, I’ll pay.”

You blink vigorously, “Oh no, it’s alright Mr. Roy-”

“Roman.” He corrects, giving a cheeky grin.

“And don’t worry about it, you’re not gonna break the bank with some cheap-ass coffee.”

You wonder if this was a good idea at all, but you quickly come back to reality. You’re here for business, you can’t treat this like a nightmare date from hell. Even if that’s what it feels like. So you do as he says, ordering the coffees and two danishes, even getting an extra muffin to-go.

Time quickly flew by, as much as you hated to admit it. You managed to tug the man back into the conversation you came for - Waystar. Though Roman was more elusive than anything.

Tapping on the table, leaning his chair back, and distracting you with other topics that most certainly were not work-appropriate. Like if you were just making all this fuss because you just wanted to get finger-blasted by the COO. That one made you flush and snap at him like a cat whose tail had been stepped on.

But he was so charismatic, in his own twisted way. Like a car crash, you couldn’t look away from, the smoldering flames and heated looks were more than you thought he was capable of.

After hours of talking he drew out your more playful side, the snarky little wit you don’t usually use with the people you’re working with. It was inevitable. And soon, it was late into the evening. With the coffee shop getting ready to close for the night.

“Looks like it’s time to wrap it up for the day.”

You moved to stand, dusting off crumbs from your lap. And Roman is quick to jump up, “Aw, you sure? I mean it’s not that late, wanna maybe head out somewhere?”

He’s vague with his words, you give him a smirk.

“Are you trying to get me alone with you, Roman?”

He chuckles and puts on his jacket, “Of course, I mean, how else am I gonna murder you?”

You both laugh, “Murder me? Sweet little me? What for?”

The two of you walk onto the sidewalk, the crisp night air breezing through your hair.

“We both know you’re not sweet.”

You smile, tucking a lip between your teeth. He’s magnetic, in a venomous and dark way. You know it’s wrong to do this, to get close like this. But sometimes you have to do things in order to get what you want.

“I know somewhere we can go.”

///

That’s how you got here, at least how you remember it. It’s all blurred from the copious amount of alcohol you’ve drank.

Now you have a very not sober Roman Roy on top of you.

He’s flushed, there’s pink smattering across his heated cheeks and he’s got blown pupils the size of the moon. He leers over you, his hand cupping your throat. He’s close, too close.

You can feel the curve of his lip on your cupid's bow, the prickle of his stubble. He smells like Costa Azzurra, citrusy and woodsy. It clouds your drunken brain, making you want to pant and sink your teeth into his neck.

Roman is mumbling, you can’t quite make it out but you feel the warmth of his breath across your cheek. It feels dizzying, like a waking dream.

“I’m gonna kill you. Not gonna let you leave, you’re stuck with me.”

He huffs against the warm apple swell of your cheek. You giggle at that; he feels the warmth of your laugh. The scent of lime and lone star on your breath. There’s a certain giddiness that flutters in your tummy at the words, a sick satisfaction.

One that a dark part of you craves. A feral depravity lies in between your teeth. One that aches to chew on his marrow and swallow him whole. When they trust you to completion, it makes you want to crush them completely.

“Oh yeah?”

You’re hazy. Starry-eyed with droopy lids, face hot from the alcohol and closeness. There are bruises in the shape of his teeth. Ringed purple marks that fade into shimmery blue and greens. Speckled aches across your thighs and neck - all from him. Like rabid animals fighting the very nature of their beings, you claw and tear at one another like beasts deprived.

He buries his face in your chest, trying to hide himself within it - claw his way in and sit inside your heart. Plunging his hands into your back and holding you to him like you were the only ones on earth. He kisses your skin, brushing his lips along your collarbone, down to the center. Straight in your solar plexus, like he could see through it.

As if he could see that beating organ as if he could reach in and take it.

“Yeah. Wanna keep you, like a pet or a girlfriend. What’s the difference?”

You squirm at his hot breath on your neck, the humid air making you needy. You grab his face in your hands, lifting his face up to you and pressing your mouths together in a sloppy kiss. He groans, he doesn’t even wait before he slips his tongue in. Sliding across your lips and flicking on the roof of your mouth. You make a choked sound, the feeling of his tongue invading your mouth.

You can feel the hard bulge of his cock pressing against your stomach, it makes you ache with need.

“Roman,” you pant, “I wanna fuck you.”

He hums, “Wanna fuck you too, wanna fuck your pussy.”

You moan, you want to tear him apart at the seams and eat him whole. Crack that soft apricot heart and bite down into his tissue. You bet he tastes just like it too, sweet and sugary like jam. You want to rip him to shreds, consume each sliver, and savor him like he’s raw slices of strawberries on your plate.

///

He spreads your thighs, gripping your ass in rough hands, practically moaning at the sight of your fucked out pussy. There are silvery webs of slickness that glisten along your cunt. You’re panting into the sheets, fisting them as you shiver from the cold AC.

“Jesus fucking Christ, you’re so wet.”

His thumbs graze along your swollen lips, and you twitch - whining like a puppy that wants a kiss. Hips jerking into the mattress when he grips the fat of your ass and swipes your folds.

“Look at you, so fucked out. And you still want more?”

You nod, humming breathy whimpers each time he gets close to your clit. You let out a sharp yelp when he slaps a hand across your ass, hands flailing and thighs instinctively trying to shut.

He keeps you spread, knee coming up to prevent you from ruining his fun.

“Gotta say it, babe. Can’t read your mind.”

You’re trembling, lips swollen and drooling as you try to push out the words.

“Yes, I want more.” You mumble, face buried halfway into the sheets.

He’s mean with it, pressing the pad of his thumb onto your pulsing clit. Rubbing till he hears the sloppy sound and you’re jerking away with a scampery yip.

“What was that? Couldn’t hear you.”

You could cry, wet tears pooling on your lash line. Your cunt throbs, empty and flushed and fucking aching.

“Please, please I want more. Want your cock-“

He’s groaning, yanking you back till your ass is in the air. Spine arching and you feel the brush of his cock on your folds.

“Yeah? Want my cock?” You can hear the smile in his voice, hips shaking in his hold.

His tip is kissing along your entrance, and he watches with hearts in his eyes at the way you coat him in slick. Rutting the length between your folds, dipping in to watch you clench on nothing. Wetness clinging to your inner thighs and painting your pussy a shimmery diamond-esque.

“Mmhm, want it. Want you to fuck me, want it so bad.” You moan, half brain-dead with how stupid you sound.

He giggles, high a girlishy. Slipping in fast and quick, hips jerking till he’s flushed with your ass. His pace is like a rabbit, practically humping you into the mattress. You yelp at the feeling, cock splitting you in two.

“Roman-!”

“What was that?”

You can hear the smile in his voice. It makes you whine, gripping the edge of the bed as he slams harder.

“I couldn’t hear you over the sound of you getting fucking pounded.”

You let out a moan when he hits deep. Slotting all the way, flushed against your ass. His tip is kissing something untouched inside you, sticky head brushing along the cushiony pucker of your cervix.

“Fuck you-“

You choke on your words when he bucks his hips. Slamming impossibly farther.

“Huh? Speak up, baby. Can’t hear you, your wet pussy is too loud.”

You bury your face into your arm. Biting at your lip to keep the drool from spilling over your mouth.

“How’s it feel? Feelin’ good? My little paper-pusher like how I fuck her?”

He makes you insane.

You fist at the sheets, nails digging into the soft gray linen. He’s pushing you into a pretty arch, thumbs keeping your ass spread so he can watch himself fuck your cunt.

“God, your pussy is insane.” His hips are smacking against the backs of your thighs. You’re on the verge of tears from how good it feels, you can feel the veins of his cock pulsing in you. Mouth parted and spilling sticky moans.

“Fuck, how are you so wet?” He murmurs, shivering at the feeling of your tight walls gripping along his length. At this point, his thrusts are sloppy and uneven, but the tip of his cock is still able to hit that special spot deep inside of you.

“Oh fuck, Roman, m’gonna cum-”

You absolutely lose your mind when he rolls his hips against you, scratching the sheets.

“Yeah? Gonna cum all over my cock?”

You nod, waiting for the pit in your tummy to explode. But it doesn’t come, Roman pulling out in one even jerk.

You cry out, “What the fuck?”

“If you wanna cum you gotta promise not to publish that little article of yours, babe”

You’re hazy and desperate, in the back of your mind you know what he’s doing. And it clips your chest. But the pulsing of your cunt overrides all sanity. And you’re too fucked out to even care at this point, you just want to cum.

“What’ll be, huh? Wanna get pounded till you gush over my cock, or do you want to post a dumb story about me?”

You whimper, you’re dangling on your own leash of longing. He’s pressed against your back whispering all the fucked up things he promises to do to you if you just give in. Just let go, he murmurs.

Temptation licking the back of your heels like hellfire. It doesn’t help that he’s pawing at your tits, squeezing your tender flesh like clay. Cock slipping and sliding against your sodden cunt, slick with want and need. Dripping a honey-thick desire so brutal you’d think he was a demon sent from the inferno.

“Ok! Ok, won’t post it, just fuck me! Please, Rome.”

He groans, a hearty whiny thing that makes you clench around nothing.

“Good girl, good girl.”

It’s immediate, the way he slams back in and drives home. Your sticky skin slapping against his, thighs shaking with burning effort, stretched cunt a dripping mess against his cock. You’re babbling, hands reaching back to grip his thighs, nails digging into his flesh.

It’s not long before you’re gushing, clamping down, and seeing stars in your blacked-out vision. Hearing Roman moan and whine before he’s pulling out to cum over your back. The warmth spreads over your spine. He’s shivering, thighs twitching, and abdomen clenching. It’s never felt that good before.

You both pant and heave, body relaxing into the sheets. You’re exhausted, eyes lidding and drifting, faintly feeling the sensation of a towel wiping across your skin.

“Holy fuck-”

You smile softly, eyes closed. Roman plops down next to you in bed, watching as you roll over and sit against the headboard. He’s sweaty and so very good-looking. You smile in a chagrin manner, brushing a finger against his cheekbone.

“How’s that for an interview?”

You laugh, swatting his arm.

“You’re crazy.”

He smiles at you, strangely content. A pinprick of emotions swells in his chest, and you feel that influx of rot starts to crawl its way up your chest. He’s so beautiful, that you’d hate to see him crumble when he finds out you already sent your paper to your editor to post.

But for now, you enjoy the small moment of peace between you two. You laugh and joke and keep this sweet until morning until he realizes what you’ve done.

[brother-emperors]

cassius and trebonius are interesting because there's about three or four different variations on how their dynamic falls into place that exist in my mind, and all are equally compelling to me. like, does cassius approach him first? or is it trebonius that seeks him out. maybe cicero is the one who initiates the first meeting! I could make full comics about each of them if only there was time.

this one, however, is much more balanced in that they don't really seek each other out for conspiracy, but conspiracy creeps in on it's own. brutus is a character here, theoretically. like, I thought about him when I was writing this, and cicero is here for two panels.

also, it's funny to me if they both stay up late complaining about caesar for six hours straight because caesar fucked them over on the political ladder in comparable ways, but also (in reference to (Plutarch, Brutus 8)):

cassius, 4am: and he took my fucking lions, man. trebonius, immediately: do you want me to kill him for you

it's like. aughghhhhh. weeping. wailing. can we talk about how trebonius is identified in association with cassius here.

Rome and Parthia: Empires at War, Gareth C. Sampson

and in turn, it is cassius who will act as retribution personified in the matter of trebonius' death

Philippi and Perusia, Ronald Syme

ko-fi⭐ bsky ⭐ pixiv ⭐ pillowfort ⭐ cohost ⭐ cara.app

[shivroy]

little style test for my upcoming succession project, vignettes of rome! it will be from shiv's perspective with a focus on roman. kendall will be hangin around too but it's mostly about shiv and rome. i'm super excited to get into it and hope i can get it out there in full eventually!

[joannasteez]

lavender based

pairing: roman reigns x black reader summary/warning: you've catered to his bruises long enough he thinks, wanting desperately to have you in his arms. | smut. hints of fluff. minors do not interact. explicit descriptions, 18+ word count: 2k music inspo: comfortable by h.e.r

it was a massage. sure tender hands running into his skin with a deep enough pressure to lull him into the fondest sense of security. a sweet burning incense curling up free and lavender oil smooth over reddened tawny welts and some day old scars. and if he could, he'd reach up, flex his core easy and push his lips up to yours to kiss the pout of them away. but you're determination proceeds any of the more amorous wants plaguing him. a feverish rush simmering through the run of his blood. its a fast sure course through his fingers to the steady hardness between his legs. and you can feel him there, stirring excited, more impatient by the second. it was a massage, but you weren't sure how long he would last.

he's smooth and clever, stains his fingers with the memory of your skin, palm coaxing a throbbing in your spine as it takes the journey to your nape. roman rests on the strength of an elbow. whisper's "c'mere", and revels in the leisure burning brown haze of your eyes. 

he moans, your tongue licking at the seam of his lips till they pass to push against his own. and it's funny, he thinks he has you, as you take to a sloppy kiss. something light and pitchy singing from your throat when he bites. tenses his teeth to tease your bottom lip. he thinks he has you good, stowed away in the hard set of his arms, your breath hurried and impatient when he breaks from you just to rush in again. but its all game and tactic. the slowest dance. 

your nails run a little with pain at their tips, trailing his neck till his own spine throbs in their wake. but nothing feels better than the wrap of them about his throat. barely pressured but your hand there all the same, feeling his pulse, as the other cradles his head. 

a short tug at the root and he's a mess of groans. clawing further into your waist till you're grinding into his lap. 

your lips break but stay just close enough to share breaths. 

you tsk. "this was supposed to be relaxing. your body is still healing"

he hums. falls, bringing you with him into a nest of pillows. palms slipping slow over exposed supple skin, meticulous, till something flares in the brown of his eyes, and then he's clawing in till you're roughed into him further. "you touch me the way you do and expect me to behave". 

your thumb reaches to soothe slow over tempting lips. a sweet caress as the lavender coaxes you to settle further into his embrace. "i just wanna see you better. hate it when you get hurt like this". 

"i'm alright", and you think he's never been so sure of anything. kisses against your fingers, your palm, and then back to your mouth. simple and sweet as he rolls over to continue. tongue and lips working in tandem till you're moaning and melting into the fluff of the sheets. " 'm alright enough to touch you", his tongue curling before it runs flat to lick your at nipple. “taste you”. lips catching to suck gentle. and the feeling is good to him, the bud rolling over easy. more so even when you pull his head in gentle for more, as if you'd ever have to ask. you'd never have to plead even, unless you wanted to. and just after he breaks, he pulls at the bud, teasing with his teeth. "alright enough to hold you". and he finds himself just at the other side, his tongue soothing over wet and more persistent than before. bordering closer and closer to that fine line of feral-ness. 

he hadn't seen you in sometime. constantly on the go, in cars, on planes, from city to city, till he was done, and then after that he was out of country and that distance only made the ache for him worse. and the ache for you just as unbearable. 

so you understand the burden, that wild edge to his touch. pushing and prying at your hot skin, hands ripping at the dainty sodden fabric of your panties. and you smell good, his nose breathing in, followed by the run of his tongue just at that plain of skin where your inner thigh folds. and something like possession corrals in him, forces his mouth to water and his tongue to taste. ardent and masterful, measured, like he's remembering you. a firm wet slip up till he's catching the nub of your clit. and then he remembers, why he aches so much, in hotel rooms across the country and the sea, flits his eyes up to see what a sweet mess he's made of you so far and remembers everything. 

"baby girl, you're beautiful y'know that?" 

he breathes warm over you, and it has you clenching about nothing, his words slipping a silly grin into your lips. "if i didn't, i know now". 

"need you to know it everyday". 

wet kisses at the underside of your thighs, thumbs holding at the bend of your knees till he's back where you need him most. 

and fuck is it perfect. an untainted bliss. his tongue a firm caress as his mouth closes in to suckle. raven hair like a veil as it falls around him. groans harsh. desperate and chest deep, resonating till it rides the course just under your skin. beard rubbing your flesh raw, and your spine throbs again, so much so till an arch fights its way there and you cry. whispered chants, fuck fuck fuck, your nails finding their way to the hair at his nape, tugging but pushing, overwhelmed but needing more. 

your hips roll into his mouth. a slow grind that catches his steady rhythm. 

you sob just slightly, releasing the tightness in your chest, but it seems inefficient when he pushes your legs further apart. breaks only to lay his fat tongue at your slit. the tip curling artful, pushing into a rhythm of gentle strokes against slick walls. a soft savoring as he traps your clit between his thumb and fore finger to remedy the pulsing ache. 

the drive of him is more methodical than not but forever underscored by a ready to burst primal urge. him, the rhythm, it's something dynamic and it shakes you down till you're quivering hard. 

and theres the beginnings of a soreness in your throat. a raspy moan that forces his hips to rut against the sheets. searching for some mild form of relief. 

"mhmm, please rome", a mewl, and it's featherweight, disjointed. surges into his nerves this restless need to see you undone. 

you tremble, a harsh bursting that treks over nerve and skin. a white heat that falls, a rushing in and a pulling away fast. release beating hard and unforgiving into your blood. but still his tongue swipes, along your slit till it flicks its way to the fat of your clit. a slow sweeping roll before he's pulling up and away to kiss wet at your mouth. less measured and lazy. his hair wild, your fingers pulling away fallen strands as you lap at his tongue to have a taste. it makes him rut again, clothed but hard still. painfully so as you continue to lap and suck at his tongue. teeth tensing the seam of his lips the way he does as often as he can.

he grows sloppy in the kiss, seemingly more needy, less attentive to the natural ways he controls the pace. your legs take to wrapping around his waist just as you break from his lips, a thin silky string of spit the only thing connecting raw, kiss swollen mouths. he licks out to take it in, that fine wet connecting string , till its riding the seam of your mouth again, waiting for access. 

and he's huge, strength more fierce than you remember it being, but he's sure to remind you as he pulls up to sit his knees into the bed. a relaxed kneeling position as you wrap secure about him, waiting for more of whatever he has to give you. and he steels his breathing, pushes at the constraints of his underwear till he's free and stiffening more against the cooler air. a single arm holding you up high along his chest and the other pulling hard strokes at his cock. a groaning "fuck", flowing between the both of you as he teases the dripping head at your clit. 

"missed this", you give him. words falling into the freckles at his cheek as he teases the slick mess of your slit, hands nailing into the fat of your ass, a hard grip, as he grinds your pussy against him. marveling wild at the slipping sensation, a mess and a half of moans, till he's too ravaged to take more teasing done by his own hand. but your at his ear still, whispering. "missed you fucking me". 

" 'm here now", he roughs out. widens the part of his knees. for more stability, more room to take you. 

"mhmm", uncontrolled and sweet from your throat. realizing just what he's doing as he grips his hands tighter before bringing you down for a vicious stroke. 

and the easy slip of you makes his chest huff deep, skin taking a sticky wet mold to his as he digs in and stretches you to take to the hilt, a milder form of a roughing as he feeds hard into you. teetering still on that line where patience ends and primal urges begin, as you cling to him. wet and warm, and so good for him. each down swing he moves your hips into birthing the sweetest lewd smacking at his skin. the hard front of his waist and lap soaked, pelvis hitting just right at the open spread of your slit enough to catch a dragging at your clit. 

and it goes like this for some time, both you stewing in the heat of the day as he lays claim to you once again, after so much time and distance, and you to him, biting at the tough skin of his shoulder for some sort of reprieve from the building tension.

your clit flutters. ready for another release. a small cry, the well of a single tear, and hes nudging firm, catching sweet at the spot that leaves you moaning and breathless. an unshakeable stir in your core, nails tempted to indent the wide set of his back, but your settle for a lazy swing of arms around his neck. not wanting to injure him more than he is already. 

"ahhaa fuck". breath catching with another release. 

a tight drooling spasm against his cock. his hips rutting desperate for more, a firm clench against him again that nearly drives him to swoon. " that pussy gets so messy when you come", he growls.

and you hum, long and weak, flexing against him again. taut enough to stir the coiling in his core. lips taking his into some slow disjointed kiss. molding together till it's broken apart for breath, leaving you to suck and tease at him. 

the sheets grow sodden, more as he ruts his hips and drags deep. digging into you hard, fire in the heat of his hands. fingers pulling, tugging and spreading, slipping lower to cup against the undersides of your thighs to pry your pussy open and over him. a mean growl toughing up out his chest as he fights to keep that steady downward stroke of your hips. 

"you're good for me baby girl", words falling along your skin. "so good". 

he stirs, roughs you into a grind as he comes undone. mumbling and groaning incoherently. curses and praise s that flow natural into a breathy silence. 

he works to still the raging in his chest. breathing into your neck and falling into the smoothening your touch gives the wild shuddering that takes to his nerves.

you fall with him, a gentle bounce as you lay atop him along the sheets. dripping in you still with a growing softness. skin sticky and hot to the touch but sated. air breezy and cool as it curls in, pushing past the sway of curtains. 

he can smell the lavender still on your skin, at the tips of your fingers as he kisses them. folds his fingers into yours, soothing over the patch of skin there. 

it was a massage. something better now. 

[cancerravenclaw]

I don’t know how to explain it but I will just never love anything more than I love words.

written, sung, read, said or whatever other form they take—

the way humans string words together is just my most favorite thing about being alive.

[let-roman-bite-someone]

one teeny tiny criticism i have about sanders sides is

the way

roman's emotional moments

are always played off as bathos.

“bathos is a term used for sudden change in fiction from a serious or important subject to a ridiculous or very ordinary one.”

i've noticed this happens way too much in sanders sides, especially when it concerns roman. he has been showing signs of insecurity and feeling ignored for a while now. it was hinted at from the Am I Original episode. and it's very rarely taken seriously.

even in scenes where it's not played off as a joke, his feelings are very rarely given the narrative weight it deserves. the other sides are allowed to feel sad or angry, without it being turned into a "haha funny" moment or brushed off as unimportant. even when patton tries to play his feelings off as a joke in the Moving On episodes, the others made it clear that he shouldn't feel the need to do that.

the only episode roman is allowed to be really upset and sink down without forcing himself to act silly again is, as you may know, at the end of SvS Redux.

since this was the most recent official sanders sides video, i hope that his issues will actually be addressed in the future episodes. i know he's one of the comic relief characters, but if patton is allowed to feel depressed and emotional, then roman should be too. patton's whole arc in the Moving On duology was about expressing his feelings instead of bottling it up. the same moral should be applied to roman.

[timetravellingkitty]

Mark my words, soon there will be a booktok trend along the lines of "romance is the girl genre, only men read philosophy and sci-fi 😒 this book is about the Naxalite movement but I'm just a silly lil girl I don't know what they're talking about 😵 can someone explain Crime and Punishment so that the girls can understand?"

[goldlightsaber]

Succession Season One: The Complete Scripts, Episode Two: "Shit Show at the Fuck Factory" / Succession 4.10, "With Open Eyes"

[vivitalks]

more adhd jason grace or die by my sword

[tequiilasunriise]

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.

[greypetrel]

French historians outraged by Ridley Scott portraying Napoleon as a tyrant be like...

Actual people who were military conquered by Napoleon, had a foreign ruler installing a random relative who knew nothing of the territory, installed a level of bureaucracy it's still hard to get rid of still today, destroyed monuments and infrastructures, stole artworks be like:

Tell me again: which European country was the one so feudal and with rules so strict and rulers so shitty that the people actually rioted and started a terror period?

You can have all the opinions you want about that movie and Ridley Scott's historical movies, but if your argument reaches defending Napoleon, maybe you should stop talking and read some books written in countries that were actually conquered by Napoleon.

[gay-for-zoya]

Can we all agree that the garden scene is one of if not the best zoyalai scene

[lupeloto]

“the best thing to ever happen to me” ficlet

so ian is struggling with a down and mickey does some reasssuring

Mickey stands at a still in the doorway for a bit, the lowering Sun peaking through the small crack in the curtains. It’s shining on Ian’s body, glistening against his pale-freckled skin, like it was made to illuminate him.

Mickey stalls in the doorway a moment longer, his heart slightly weighed down at the sight of Ian in the same position he left him in this morning… covers draped loosely over his stomach, arms curled underneath his chin, back turned towards the door

“Hey sleepyface,” Mickey shakes himself, forcing a smile on his face as he makes his way to Ian’s side of the bed.

Mickey crouches down in front of him, bringing his hand up to gently caress his cheek as Ian’s eyes flutter open slowly.

A small, almost unnoticeable smile tugs at his lips at the sight of Mickey, “Hey,” he says in a barely audible whisper.

“Hey,” Mickey grins, “Can I make ya something to eat? I’ll see what i can do with the fuckin’ pizza rolls and pop-tarts we got.”

Ian doesnt respond, simply shifting the comforter back on the spot next to him, signaling for Mickey to join him. Although irritated at being ignored, he feels a rush of relief flood his body. Ian wanting company was a good sign.

“Alright softie, gimme a minute,” Mickey tugs off his work uniform before grabbing a pair of sweatpants from the drawer. He pulls back the comforter, a sigh of relief escaping him as the cold sheets hit his bare chest. It had been a long day taking on deliveries himself…not that he would ever complain.

“Ya wanna turn around? Haven’t seen that face all day,” Mickey touches Ian’s shoulder lightly.

Ian slowly turns his body around, a certain sluggishness plaguing his movements, “Telling me you miss my face and i’m the softie?” He speaks slower than usual, a lag in his joke delivery but a small smile on his face anyways.

“Fuck off,” Mickey says through stifled laughs. He revels in this moment, that sunset now revealing a dusted pink through the curtains that shine on Ian’s face, perfectly complimenting the dusting of orange freckles.

“I’m sorry,” Ian whispers, facing Mickey, hands curling up under his chin again.

“I know it’s hard. It doesn’t just happen to me,” he hesitates, stumbling slightly over his words, “It-it’s happening to you, too. And i’m-“

“Hey,“ Mickey leans his face in closer, eyes staring up at Ian, “Shut the fuck up for me.”

“Don’t wanna hear any more of that shit. You happening to me was the best goddamn thing I could’ve asked for,” Mickey rolls over on his back, slightly insecure at the level of intimacy in the statement.

“Hey,” Ian touches Mickey’s chin, turning his face towards him, “You’re the best thing to ever happen to me too.”

“Yeah?” Mickey asks, flashing that one-smile he does paired with a flush of his cheeks. Ian fucking loves that smile. From the minute he first saw it he never wanted it to leave, promising himself to make him smile like that every single day he could.

“Yup. Known it for eleven years of my life,” Ian says, a slight higher register in his voice that lifts a small weight off Mickey’s chest.

“Alright, enough of this shit you sappy-ass. I’m starvin’, want some pizza rolls? Pop-tarts for dessert?” Mickey questions, raising his eyebrows sarcastically as if he had just offered Ian a five-star meal.

“Sounds perfect.” Ian says through a satisfied sigh.

Mickey fumbles out of the bed, leaning over the place a quick peck on Ian’s forehead, moving to his lips for a slightly longer one.

They pull away, a smile on both their faces, “Now get your ass in there, Gordon Ramsey,” Ian grins lightly, poking fun at Mickey’s five-star dinner proposal, feeling a blanket of warmth settling over him.

[brookheimer]

roman roy is always wrong roman roy is always wrong roman roy is always wrong roman roy is always wrong roman roy is always wrong roman roy is always wrong roman roy is always wrong roman roy is always wrong roman roy is always wrong roman roy is always wrong roman roy is always wrong roman roy is always wrong roman roy is always wrong roman roy is always wrong roman roy is always wrong roman roy is always wrong roman roy is always wrong roman roy is always wrong roman roy is always wrong roman roy is always wrong roman roy is always wrong roman roy is always wrong roman roy is always wrong roman roy is always wrong roman roy is always wrong roman roy is always wrong roman roy is always wrong roman roy is always wrong roman roy is always wrong roman roy is always wrong

[idyllic-affections]

i can't STANDDDD the abyss sibling. in my case, it's lumine. anyway i can't stand her. imagine your sibling chasing after you, pushing themselves to their limits JUST to find you--to find answers about you because they love and miss you more than anyone else--and when you finally decide you will see them again, what the fuck do you say? NOTHING OF VALUE?????? and you just go on your way, acting like you don't give a fuck????? when that's literally your only family, you walk away without reassuring that you do care for them and it's just that you have your hands tied or... fucking SOME explanation for why you won't talk??????? the abyss twin does not care about the other at all i swear. like imagine making your allegedly "beloved" sibling stretch themselves so impossibly thin just to find you instead of using your words and, idk, talking to them???? i would just stop looking for them at that point fuck that. anyway this is just a pet peeve about the genshin storyline. it's so annoying.

(i am not an only child btw. i do have an older sister.)