And both, frankly. I hardly see why I have to choose one or the other. though people have a tendency to peg me into one role or another, depending on what they want to see.
Unfortunately, that is the nature of man, be they human or otherwise. It is often easier to generalize a person they see instead of taking into account the complexities.
[Let us assume, for the sake of narrative convenience, that he has told her his address. Because in the next instant there she is, clad in a silk nightgown, her hair tumbling around her. She very clearly smells of tequila and mint (and maybe a hint of something else, because Stephen Strange is an ass who just comes into someone's room and kisses them and then leaves).
[There is a long pause as he looks at Rosalind in the middle of what he'd been doing. The canvas of his parents are, thankfully, covered in a sheet so he can tend to that later, but his fingers are covered in charcoal and paint. And so he's sitting, looking at Rosalind, thinking of what to say.
She looks very pissed off.
So he does the only reasonable thing, and that's definitely turning into a bat so he can fly out the fucking window.]
[But there he goes, out the fucking window, but joke's on him, because she's in his house. And he'll have to return here sometime.
She does not, actually, snoop. She very much wants to, but she won't break his trust so easily. Instead: she goes to his closet, pulling out a shirt and donning it; it's much more comfortable and covers a lot more than her nightgown. She rummages around until she can find something to read. And then she settles on his bed, her long, bare legs stretched out before her, and waits for him to return.]
[He does, very very very reluctantly return, because he does have a sneaking suspicion that she's stubborn enough to make sure she's going to be there, waiting, even if it's hours and hours. Which it could have been, he could have fled to Trevor's cottage (he did) and stayed the night (he did not).
So he does, and he just knows where she's going to be.]
You never let up, do you. [why do you always have to be right???]
[Good news: she's a little more sober than when she arrived. Bad news: that doesn't mean a whole lot in the face of tequila. Definitely won't throw up, but she's still pretty tipsy. Her nightgown lies on the floor, which suggests she's only wearing his shirt, because she'd gotten irritated with the duel sensation of cotton and silk.]
But no. I never do, not in anything. Sit down, Adrian.
[is she going to work his name into every sentence, maybe so]
[Logically: Rosalind cannot actually do Alucard any physical, long lasting harm, and he can probably take whatever she's going to say or do.
However: she is still her, a strong woman in many ways, and while he absolutely respects that about her, it is still mildly terrifying, much in the way Sypha would only have to look at him or Trevor to earn an apology when they'd done wrong.
[She isn't actually all that mad. Annoyed, maybe, at the start of the night, but even that was more playfully irritated than truly furious. But she rather likes the trepidation with which he regards it. It's good for a woman's ego, seeing that leery fear.]
Do we have something to say, Adrian? Some request? Some invitation, perhaps, so sarcastically delivered?
[She crosses one leg over the other, sitting up a little. Truth be told, she doesn't know quite what she wants, not yet; she has a bad feeling that if she fucked him tonight, it wouldn't be . . .
She'd be thinking of someone else. And that's hardly fair, when she enjoys him as a partner for his own sake.]
Perhaps. But come here, why don't you. You don't have to look so at-attention, I'm not going to yell at you.
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anyway hush, you're too quick to apologize
and no
stephen strange is simply frustrating, as always. it's nothing new.
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Should I apologize less? You do seem to like a bit of fight to these things.
Hm. I haven't had the pleasure. ...If it was a pleasure?
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& yes frankly
& yes it was but also no
he's very
confident
[Tequila is a lot, for the record.]
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You like the confidence. Not surprising. But I think you also like putting that kind of man into place, yes?
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i'm glad to know it.
And both, frankly. I hardly see why I have to choose one or the other. though people have a tendency to peg me into one role or another, depending on what they want to see.
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Unfortunately, that is the nature of man, be they human or otherwise. It is often easier to generalize a person they see instead of taking into account the complexities.
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a bit more profound if it wasn't about "step on me madam lutece" versus "i'm going to bend you over something", but you're still right.
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[Second, but whatever.]
its not as insufferable as it was at home
and its not that i dislike such things
i simply
would care to be asked rather than assumed
especially when the assumption comes in the form of some man yelling in the street
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I think that I do understand, to some degree. Certainly not as you have, of course. Does Stephen take such assumptions with you?
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those are two separate complaints
he's just arrogant
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So if I want you to step on me then, shall I ask prettily?
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Yes.
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She does not look amused.]
Do you want to ask that again, Adrian?
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She looks very pissed off.
So he does the only reasonable thing, and that's definitely turning into a bat so he can fly out the fucking window.]
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[But there he goes, out the fucking window, but joke's on him, because she's in his house. And he'll have to return here sometime.
She does not, actually, snoop. She very much wants to, but she won't break his trust so easily. Instead: she goes to his closet, pulling out a shirt and donning it; it's much more comfortable and covers a lot more than her nightgown. She rummages around until she can find something to read. And then she settles on his bed, her long, bare legs stretched out before her, and waits for him to return.]
im screaming
So he does, and he just knows where she's going to be.]
You never let up, do you. [why do you always have to be right???]
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[Good news: she's a little more sober than when she arrived. Bad news: that doesn't mean a whole lot in the face of tequila. Definitely won't throw up, but she's still pretty tipsy. Her nightgown lies on the floor, which suggests she's only wearing his shirt, because she'd gotten irritated with the duel sensation of cotton and silk.]
But no. I never do, not in anything. Sit down, Adrian.
[is she going to work his name into every sentence, maybe so]
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However: she is still her, a strong woman in many ways, and while he absolutely respects that about her, it is still mildly terrifying, much in the way Sypha would only have to look at him or Trevor to earn an apology when they'd done wrong.
So he sits, frowning.]
All right. Sitting.
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Do we have something to say, Adrian? Some request? Some invitation, perhaps, so sarcastically delivered?
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[She crosses one leg over the other, sitting up a little. Truth be told, she doesn't know quite what she wants, not yet; she has a bad feeling that if she fucked him tonight, it wouldn't be . . .
She'd be thinking of someone else. And that's hardly fair, when she enjoys him as a partner for his own sake.]
Perhaps. But come here, why don't you. You don't have to look so at-attention, I'm not going to yell at you.
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fuckinggg dreamwidth
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