But Does He Suck The Depression Outta Yo Tittes Tho

But does he suck the depression outta yo tittes tho

roman : msg    -    sent     ›    me, obviously. no one is gonna' try to calm your crazy ass down anyway.

roman : msg    -    sent     ›    it would be, huh? but you didn't earn that with your last tantrum.

roman : msg    -    sent     ›    but i'll be nice, real nice for you big guy. i'll head on over if you get me a nice plate to chow down on.

roman : msg    -    sent     ›    yeah, yeah. follow your own advice, moses.

really, he needed to be more cautious with his choice of words. roman was a lot of words, many words that could fit such a man in both english and spanish dictionaries. but, at a certain timeframe .. he was rather cold, dismissive; however things have changed, the latino wasn't sure anymore. he didn't know how to manage this, too accustomed to being dismissed— to be thrown away. the realization that someone wanted him to stay, to linger and rest against the door frame was frightening. but to be denied was far worse, grimacing to himself as he pulled his hand away— as if he was too dirty to touch. he wasn't clean, he wasn't perfect enough for this— for him. “ they need me too, " is all he could possibly mumble out.

it was a void, a bottomless void that damian kept scratching at. he was lost his own thoughts, the downward spiral. death was too gentle, decided they didn't deserve such. that was something he's certain of. death was too kind, far too peace for what they done. what finn has done. it wasn't the title lost, but the knife. the bittersweet yet expected betrayal that found itself stuck in his thoughts like a record that won't stop playing. times he told rhea that he didn't trust the irishman, times he told her to throw them out all ignored.. and now they're back at stage one. the multitudes of grief, and all the latino could do is sigh once she uttered those words. “ i know. "

never discouraging, fingers firmly gripping on wet flesh that the new yorker managed to hold onto. so tall, towering and commanding yet — his desire left him pitiful. a hiss escaping, eyebrows furrowed together. it was torture, how mox left him wanton for more. playing with him effortlessly like a piano. a hand guiding itself to grasp firmly against the man's head, like mother mary. caressing, holding him still as he arched his head in — it was awkward, pressing a wet kiss against his cheek as he tried to regain some control. but all he could do is slowly fall into the abyss, a inferno of his desires manifesting themselves. “ there's a lot things that would feel better than that, don't cheap out on me tonight. " he sighed, allowing himself to get this [..] to let go those iron reigns he held onto so tightly.