wallacepolsom
oozey mess
@theartofmadeline
let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open
Jules of Nature
Monterey Bay Aquarium
Peter Solarz
Claire Keane
Kaledo Art
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Origami Around
★
Sweet Seals For You, Always
ellievsbear
I'd rather be in outer space 🛸
taylor price
PR's Tumblrdome
KIROKAZE
h
❣ Chile in a Photography ❣
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@gutsymmetry
guidelines • muse list • character write ups • shipping
this is an independent multimuse roleplaying blog written by rabbit. there will be nsfw content and it is preferred that writing partners are 18+. activity level varies depending on inspiration. 🐰🌈🤙
1k followers celebration ★ favorite fictional character ↳ regina mills (once upon a time)
I’ll be honest since technically I’m writing Kate now I should actually watch the show instead of skip around in it but it is so.....so.........SO slow
ok. alright
@fuckingstripe
Kate’s tried, but there’s no budging Molly: she’ll come out of her room when she’s good and ready. It used to be that Zephyr’s visits brought her bounding out, all smiles, looking for a present, a laugh, a rumbling, “Hey, kid,” from the closest thing she’s ever had to a second mum--or a da, Kate supposes--but sixteen is a hard age. Not so easy to put off a sixteen-year-old with white lies and generalities about where Zephyr goes and what she does, about what she means to Kate, who she is to their little family of two. Not easy to explain why sometimes they’re three--wonderfully, happily three--but just as often, not.
Just the two of them on the sofa. Kate brings their cups of tea round. Sitting with her, she looks again--can’t help but look--at the fresh scar, a confronting pink, crossing almost the whole of Zephyr’s face in a slash across her aquiline nose. She makes a little sound of sympathetic pain, of frustration and tenderness, their mugs clinking onto coasters on the low table before she can scoot forward on the cushions and reach for her, taking her chin.
“Shouldnae ask where you got it, then,” she says. “No, I don’t want to know. C’mere.” She cups her face in both hands, looking deeply at her. Still Zephyr, fitting just right between her palms. Still all the usual questions--where have you been, what have you done, who were you with? Did you see someone else, touch someone else, while you were out there? Did someone else make you smile like me, and laugh? Did you miss me at all? And all the answers she’s afraid of, too. No, I don’t want to know. You could fill an ocean with the murk of all the things that go unsaid between them two.
She leans in and puts a kiss on the scar, right where it makes a jagged path over the bridge of Zephyr’s nose. “Poor lamb,” she says softly. She kisses her brow. “I’ve missed you. You don’t have any more, do you? That I can’t see?” It makes her gut clench to think of it. She needs to take inventory of these wounds, start pouring tenderness on them now.
it’s ok. i can rest now. im at peace
healed. blessed. i’m undiagnosing myself
it’s ok. i can rest now. im at peace
new neve pic... she’s thriving... i am now at peace. what on earth is the thing she’s wearing
😬 Joan will be moving to @ragearia
hey guys look at these completely unedited gifs of joan literally starting to breathe harder with marie’s head on her shoulder
velvetipped.
“ i wouldn’t say i make a habit out of it myself. “ yet, something tells abby that she frequents these particular ladies bars a lot more than her acquaintance. judging by the stiffness of her posture and the evidently uncomfortable manner in which she holds herself, abby can only be lead to believe that joan doesn’t quite know what to do with herself here. “ but yes, i’ve been here a few times. mostly because of the very distinct lack of men - those regular bars can get a little suffocating. you walk in as a woman and leave as an object and that’s not exactly a desirable notion. “ she reaches for her own drink - a glass of red wine, merlot. she lifts it to her lips and takes a rather generous sip before lowering it but not quite placing it back on the table. “ but also because, well, you never know what the night will bring. i don’t always come here to take somebody home. “ thumb taps a rather quiet pattern against the side of her glass as she speaks, dark brown eyes fixed on the face of the other woman - silently figuring her out. “ sometimes the mere company of a woman is enough. this place, unlike those regular bars, it shares a mutual respect. there’s no expectations, we’re just … existing. “
she does, of course, have questions of her own for the other. so after another swift swig of her wine, she presses on with them. “ forgive me for mentioning that you seem a little out of your depth but what brings you here tonight? colour me a little curious, joan - that’s all. “
Joan does not look at Abby. She looks instead at the surface of the bar. It is an effort not to think about how many other people have sat here, tarred the varnish with their stickiness, cocktails, liquors, sweat, perhaps other bodily fluids; she tries not to wonder about the cleanliness of the establishment, how many other mouths have touched the glass holding her whiskey. She removes her gaze from the bar and looks into her lap instead. Her chin stays level, her back straight.
“As you say,” she says. “I am here to... Exist.” When she leaves, she will vanish back into her ordinary life. She will return to her routines: polishing her shoes, ironing her work shirts, sipping vodka at her dinner table, alone. She will return to work: corralling the sweaty filth of the city’s underworld, maintaining order where none naturally thrives. These are the things that make her. But, she feels, perhaps... In them, she might not exist.
If she lingers in the thought too long, it makes her queasy, makes the edges of her mind tremble. She banishes it. She sips from her whiskey. She smiles a little, tightly. She has to make an effort. Abby can see that she is uncomfortable; she is not blending in. Pointless. She shifts on her seat and makes her shoulders lower a little. She reaches up and undoes the topmost button of her collared blouse, then the next, freeing a hint of skin at her pale throat.
She lifts her glass, offering it for a single musical tap against Abby’s. “To no expectations,” she says, and eases her smile into something more natural. “And... Good company.”
governinglion.
Well-kempt in all forms of appearance, the Governor stands tall. Jacket and pants, pressed and ironed; bun immaculate with no hair out of line. The image of perfection, personified. The shin of her shoes matches the glint in her dark, dark eyes that admire herself long before her attention is given to the woman demanding it - the woman she now is.
“If you find yourself asking that question, you’ve already lost,” Cold, calculated, her tone remains soft, yet distant. Still, she turns her head, slow and steady, looking down upon the incarcerated version of herself, wearing the teal. She is grey at the temples, downtrodden; a shadow of former glory, at rock bottom.
Joan turns precisely upon her heel to face Kath. A few steps forward and the sound of heels reverberates against the stone walls of the cell - a single note or two of the sound her large strides made, coming down the halls of this prison, on the other side of the bars. She exhales through her nose.
“Think… carefully,” A pause follows as hands fall behind her back in a parade’s rest. “What is your plan?”
Plan? Kath blinks. She tries again to imagine the prison outside the psych unit. The pack of slavering dogs. She squeezes her eyes shut and shakes her head. Her hands fist in her lap. She thinks again of Miss Bennett’s breath on her face and how she had looked at her with such cold eyes, gray in the yellow light of the overhead fluorescent. Plan? How can she reckon with that hatred? How can she possibly navigate it? She’ll drown in it first. The currents will rip her to shreds.
“I don’t...” There’s acid in her throat, bile welling up. She swallows it back into her queasy stomach. Her breath is still too quick. She needs control. How can she have that in this place? “I...”
She thinks of soldiers stranded across enemy lines, in jungles or on the far side of no-man’s-land. How would they survive? Stay low, conserve resources, move under cover of night. But these are hardly options available to her. She will be spotlit out there. No hiding places. And there are so many of them, and only one of her, islanded among them. What can she do? What does she need?
She swallows again. “I’ll need...” Her eyes search Joan’s face. “Allies.”
Happy Milfday Miss Torturemama how about a celebratory grubble 💞💞💞
i could get on my knees for you governor x
You will find our working relationship much improved, Miss Westfall, now that you've learned your place :)
