#virgilsbohnes

[virgilsbohnes]

Hot take:

Alexander Dumás was a hoe for anyone but his current wife

Et Edmond Dantés était un gentleman pour tout le monde sauf sa femme

[virgilsbohnes]

Hot take:

The Inferno was a fan fiction

[virgilsbohnes]

No one:

Literally no one:

Not a single soul i promise you!:

Me: "Dante had a mad boner for Virgil"

[virgilsbohnes]

Tired

“Tired” she muttered to herself through the grim and the gloom of her dusty halls, invasive with cobwebs and spiders the likes of Eldritch horrors beyond the possible. Eight legged and incredibly meticulous in their silk spinning movements, they roamed her manse by the thousands, dropping by on occasion here and there for a silent conversation with the raven haired woman; observing her steadily as she looked to the reflection of her violet rimmed eyes within their black soulless orbs…always watching

    She knew of the fact that she was alone in such a gruesome expanse of winding halls, yet the perpetually fatigued woman still found it necessary to repeat it back to herself; As if to only further confirm her chosen solitude, to which she valued greatly. Infact more than she was willing to openly express, Beatrice reveled in her solidarity and even took comfort amongst the bleary tune that strummed to her steady presence amongst the dead silence of her manse.

    The fact that she felt as though it were 3 am when it was indeed the apex of the sun within their skies spoke volumes about the kind of person Beatrice was; Grim and menacing with just the right amount of un-ironic sarcasm to stuff a person’s throat full of how much the ravenette truly disliked them. The gaunt woman was tall, menacing, filled to the brim with a somber purple gloom, and most of all…tired.

    Tired like none other, as though the moon itself would never sink beneath the horizon of her vision, only ever just skimming the edge of the devouring line in which separated her from the sun before beginning to rise once more into the Atramentous night. The kind of weariness that would never be sated by even the most copious amounts of sleep (to which she has tried before); an internal exhaustion wired so heavily into her system it nearly crippled the woman to get out of bed every morning. No amount of words within the countless upon countless books that she’s drawn her indigo eye across to describe it better than that one, oh so repetitive statement.

    “Tired”

    And then came a knock…

    A resonating pound of flesh against rotted redwood in a striking pair of two no less, immediately giving way to the curtain that concealed her unexpected visitor.

    “Otto '' the pale woman whispered from atop her balcony where she lay. Barely audible was the double syllabled word yet it spoke for itself in volumes the likes of an orchestra. One that strummed an even tune of string and percussion that the tired woman happened to find quite annoying…yet to an extent she would never be able to explain, nor would she ever willingly express…comforting