#rooneypost

[roonerius]

jack stabbing barbossa and then barbossa pulling the sword out and stabbing jack with it before both of them have their zombie dickfight is still the most erotic toxic old man yaoi work of art i have seen to this date. unparalleled

[roonerius]

she was in so much pain and fear in this scene just put a bullet in my head already

[roonerius]

── held close all the time, knowin' i'm half of you.

tell me all the time not to worry and think of all the time i'll have with you when i won't wake up on my own held close all the time, knowin' i'm half of you.

note: hiii @demothers-empty-blog my beloved moot this one's for you 🫶🫶 heres to being mutuals across 2 deactivations and nearly 1 yr and i wish u many cuddles with our living weapon babygirl <333

(i swear i meant it to be pure fluff....who let the angst in?? beats me...)

in short: 3 times you held Sevika, and 1 time she held you. (song is "nettles" by ethel cain)

The first time: 

The two of you are children. It was a time when you ran through the smoke-clogged streets of Zaun, a time when people went missing to the gaping mouths of the mines on the daily, a time when there seemed to be never enough food to satiate the gnawing hunger in your bellies. 

She would be seeker and you would be hider, or you would be lion and she would be mouse. 

She would find bits of scrap metal and make you small trinkets, naming each little figure so that you'd recognize them. They were the dumbest little names imaginable. Glorp. Diddo. Tooms. 

(When you asked her, years later, if she remembered the little figurines she used to make for you, Sevika said that she did not.) 

(You wish now you had kept some of them, at least one, to show her. But you had thrown them all away when the two of you were fighting.) 

One time she had been attacked by street thugs, boys no older than the two of you, starving and scavenging for a coin, a scrap of food. They stole the day's wages she had made from the mines, and she had nothing to take home to her family. 

It was the first and only time you had ever seen her cry so helplessly. 

It was raining that day, the steaming kind of summer rain that did nothing to ease the heat. You pulled her beneath the eave of a store and curled up against the doorway, holding her silently, wishing with all your strength that you had something better to help her. 

But in the end all she could do was simply go home. Empty-handed. 

You never found out how she explained the loss to her father.   

The second time: 

She is twenty and already exhausted. Sick of the way things are, sick of living under Piltover's boot, and she tells you so every second she gets the chance. 

She's picking fights with you at every opening. Accusing you of playing lapdog. Accusing you of not giving a shit. Telling you Vander is right, the only way to get out of this hellhole is to fight your way out of it, telling you that you could work yourself to death in the mines if you wanted but she wasn't going to let the rich motherfuckers who took her brother's life control her any longer. 

You've learned by now that this is how she vents out her pain: by lashing out. By closing her fist and feeling it meet solid things. By making her words like the Topsiders' bullets she has seen take the lives of so many of your friends. 

You are more of the type to withdraw, to absorb the pain and turn it inwards. The angrier she gets, the more silent you are. You have learned from a young age to lower your head and wait out the fury of others like a storm.

But one night something snaps. You still don't know why. Perhaps you were tired. Perhaps you had been sick of your own suppressed emotions. Perhaps you simply wanted Sevika to see that you were angry, too. 

Neither of you can remember who threw the first punch, but all of a sudden the room was a battleground, and you were fighting her as if she was hell embodied. And then both of you were weeping, both of you were sobbing so hard you could barely draw a breath, and then you crumpled to the floor exhausted, utterly spent. 

I'm sorry, both of you were saying. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. 

The closest you'd ever been to her, so that you could see the sweaty strands of hair stuck to her forehead, the moles on her arms and the back of her neck, the flecks of green in her bloodshot grey eyes, holding her so tight your arms went numb. 

When you think of that night, the smell of sweat and blood returns to you first. 

And the shuddering warmth of Sevika's body pressed to yours, her broken whispers asking forgiveness.

The third time: 

When the explosion that shook Zaun to its core occurred, and the world seemed to fall to ashes around you. 

When Sevika scared you half to death. 

They told you they didn't think she'd live through the night. 

You still remember the moment, seared in your memory irrevocably. The moment you arrived at the clinic and saw her on the operating table, barely conscious. 

And you sat at her bedside and counted the hours pooling at your feet, listening to the meaningless ticks of the clock. 

Sevika, looking the smallest you'd ever seen her. Smaller than you ever imagined she could be. The bandages swaddling her left side, the bitter smell of medicine and chemicals. The weak rise and fall of her chest. 

You stayed up night after night, watching her, silently willing her back to you. Begging her not to leave. Begging her not to go where you couldn't follow. Only when the doctors pronounced her in a stable condition did you climb into the bed on her right side and let yourself sleep. And that was how they found you in the morning: your body curled protectively around her, cradling her head. As though even in sleep you are terrified of being anything but tender to her. 

You can't forget how she has hurt you, and she can't forget how you have hurt her. But in the face of death the two of you are forced to acknowledge the depth of what you mean to each other. It's a terror beyond comprehension, the thought of how close you've come to losing her. 

Throughout her recovery you do not let her go. 

And you're the only one in the world she allowed herself to be held this way, the only one who has ever seen her break under the pain. And you forgive her, over and over again, in the silent, uncertain hours between midnight and dawn—when the light from outside hits her face in a way that softens her rough features, that makes her look, despite the deepening lines at the corners of her eyes and the scars impressed in her face, so achingly young.

And now…

Isn't it time we got up?

You never would have even dared to dream of this years ago. Never would have imagined you deserved anything like this. 

Sevika shifts against you. Just five more minutes.

You said 'five more minutes' five minutes ago.

Mm… She hums into your shoulder, tickling the side of your neck. The deep register of her voice sends a soft thrill through your body. She pulls you closer. Her arm is wrapped firmly around your waist, the warmth of her bicep pressed against your side.

You twist in her embrace so that you're lying parallel with her, so you can look at her features. Wondering still if this is real, if you are really, truly here with her: this handsome, tired face you've seen repeatedly in dreams and missed so desperately, these grey eyes and thunder-dark brows and scarred cheek and the solemn curve of her lips. You take her face in both your hands, reverentially. You kiss her where her hair fades into streaks of grey. You kiss her on her forehead. You kiss the bridge of her nose. You kiss her. You kiss her. Again. And again. 

She is here. She is alive. And she will be alright. 

At least, this is what you tell yourself. 

Sevika smiles slightly, gives another low hum. She leans her head against your chest, and you wrap your arms tight around her broad shoulders. You close your eyes against the invasive sunlight. 

Okay. 

Five more minutes.

[roonerius]

fortiche give me a picture of sevika's actor smiling. fortiche just one shot. it doesnt have to be fully rendered even. i'll be so good. i'll be so good for the rest of the year. fortiche i'll be so good. fortiche just one picture. fortiche i know you loved her so much. i'll be so good. fortiche

[roonerius]

actually since mamdani won i'm posting my new yorker sevika headcanons

((i wrote these in the summer when i was feeling rlly homesick. im homesick again now COLLEGE PLEASE FREE ME AND SEND ME BACK TO QUEENS😔😔😔😔😔😔😔))

new yorker!sevika who grew up in the forgotten parts of the city, the parts that white people used to drive through with their car windows up but are now gentrified, the locals driven out by rising rent prices. the parts where building walls were adorned with graffiti and the apartment window frames trembled as the 7 train roared by, where you could hear a different language shouted from every block, where the drunks wept and pissed on the doorsteps of some store run by an immigrant family, where the smell of dollar store plastic mingled with the trash bags rotting on the curb, where stoners sauntered through the park and children played in the water spraying from fire hydrants

new yorker!sevika who has a deep-rooted pride in her hometown of jackson heights, queens, where she spent her childhood clinging to her mother’s sari as they went through the streets of little india. where punjabi music would spill out from open shop doors and the smell of chaat wafted from the food trucks on every corner. where the middle aged korean man at the corner bodega called her Seh-bee-ka and never forgot her sandwich order no matter how long it’s been. where the old pakistani woman at the fruit stand still sends her regards to her mother whenever she comes to buy the mangoes in season.

new yorker!sevika who remembers the citywide free lunch programs her mother would take her and her brother to, who remembers the cool hush of public libraries and the stifling heat of a subway station in the summertime

new yorker!sevika whose mother wanted her to have a liberal american education and sent her to a charter school in the upper east side, against her father’s wishes. no one will be like her, she will be alone. endured the teasing from the wealthy white kids without a word for several years, about her accent, her smell, her height, but when her brother was enrolled and began to go through the same bullying, that was when she started swinging.     

new yorker!sevika who remembers a time she neither felt american enough nor indian enough, but now will not let anyone tell her she is less than what she is—will not let anyone tell her she does not belong in this country. who will stride through corporate manhattan as confidently as she navigates the borough of queens because she is indian by blood, american by passport, new yorker in the bones.

new yorker!sevika who worked out at the LICYMCA on weekends. lifting weights as she feels the rumble of the subway over the music in her headphones

new yorker!sevika who now walks everywhere, whether it’s two blocks or twenty, because she’s furious at the climbing subway fares

new yorker!sevika who never lost the hustler’s mindset, who grew into adulthood carrying the weight of her parents’ dreams on her shoulders along with her own. who worked for her little brother, for the kids who slipped through the cracks, for the single mothers scraping by on quarters and dimes, for the immigrant families living as strangers on a foreign land hoping for a better life for their children.

new yorker!sevika who never forgot, no matter how high she climbed, where she came from.

@archangeldyke-all do we concur 🙃

[roonerius]

season 8 rosa got me experiencing new levels of lesbianism i didn't even know existed in me

[roonerius]

you are trying to lock in. all of a sudden you hear an explosion of laughter from the next room. it is sevika. she is watching a video of a cat falling off a table

[roonerius]

the reason why Sevika is failed by both the writers of the actual show and the fandom is that people don't know what to do with the multifaceted and contradicting minoritarian identities she represents. she is a visual and conceptual aberration. there are so many surface-level assumptions that are wrapped up in the intersectionality of her character design and mainstream media only knows how to deal with one or two sides at most. what happens then, is that racist fucks will immediately dismiss her as a villain type and a dangerous concept of a person based on the morally reprehensible things she does and stands for in season 1 and her physical presentation, or fandom will project their desire onto her as a strong & tough dark-skinned butch and use her only as sexual and romantic wish fulfillment.

the show consciously enforces this binary of perception. btw. literally just look at her scenes. look at the angles on her body. look at the bdsm coded imagery. look at like. the two (2) things amanda overton herself said about her. i've talked about this again and again and i'm honestly getting sick of it. she is meant to be objectified by the queer female gaze. the objectification says nothing about her character but it is conflated with it. even the softer fics will reflect this image. the politics of her character design are not meant to force her into a homonormative framework. but i think because of the dissonance she causes as both a morally ambiguous character and a physically attractive queer-coded woman she is denied any characterization beyond the pleasures she can serve for the 'reader' character.

i don't want to pull the "iF sHE hAd bEeN a MaN" argument, but what i am so frustrated about is the amount of potential lost because of her position as either an illegible body or an object of desire. she is backed into conventional positions of feminine virtue (which is also conflated with submission to the dominant social class) by the end of the show because they didn't know what else to do with her.

at the end of the day she is still a fictional character and fandom culture is still fandom culture. but what upsets me about this is the implications of the violence done upon images of women of color. fiction never just stays in fiction and real life never just stays in real life. harmful perceptions bleed into production of cultural imagery and they circulate and perpetuate more harmful prejudices and assumptions.

free my girl. she can't be collapsed into simply the stoic-mean-female-villain archetype. neither should she be collapsed into the dom-top-stone-butch-lover archetype. her body should not be a site of your gratification.