SINCLAIR MATRIARCH.

(ㅤkept herㅤ) ㅤin the kitchenㅤ﹠ㅤthe garden, put herㅤ o̶n̶ ̶d̶i̶s̶p̶l̶a̶y̶ㅤ inㅤ 𝓹𝓮𝓪𝓻𝓵𝓼ㅤ﹠ㅤon sailboats

[matriarclair]

۶ৎ chin up, shoulders back

[matriarclair]

rereading the books this weekend......... it's been too long (it's literally only been like three weeks & that's on mental illness)

[matriarclair]

rereading the books this weekend......... it's been too long (it's literally only been like three weeks & that's on mental illness)

[matriarclair]

would the spellman's be allowed on beechwood

yes, but the invitation does not extend to your strange cat.

[matriarclair]

۶ৎ the sharp, jarring trill cuts through the kitchen just as the edge of her knife connects with the checkered - maple board, and it makes her pause. when occupying beechwood,  tipper sinclair is only reachable via the clairmont landline by anyone off - island.   especially during the month of may.   because those who truly knew her, preemptively harbor the knowledge that her cellphone would be far,  far away   …  one might say it’d be off in another land entirely.   and that is exactly where she believed it belonged.   there was no room for frivolous worldly distractions here in her magic castle, (THE EVER PRIVILDGED LIFE OF A HOUSEWIFE)  not when this time was specifically designated for them.   non - dominant palm swipes daintily against the apron sported at waist   – even though there’d been nothing on it –   before scooping the receiver out of its cradle, and securing it between cheek and shoulder.     “Sinclair residence.”     the greeting is a statement rather than an inquiry,  trusting whomever is on the other end will have the courtesy to announce themself.   she’s quick to assume that the incoming calls to this line are meant for her;  anyone looking for harris would dial him directly,  and the list of people entrusted with this number was slim to begin with     “Oh hello sweetheart,”     tone carrying a higher lit now at the revelation that the un- invited expected caller just so happened to be one of their girls.     “I always have a minute for you   …   but I have a feeling this is going to take more time than a measly minute.”     she sounds amused – because it’s a lighthearted jest –  but she does find herself intrigued by the requested correspondence   …   it’s rare that they hear from any of them prior to the first of june once mother’s day has come and gone.

[matriarclair]

teeny tiny small para starter call

[matriarclair]

to do list for accountability x intro post with basic ntk info for jumping right in. work on that starter call. default crossover verse descriptions. refluff my rules. cry about tipper sinclair's heart that was so big it gave out. froth about tipper's fat ass.

[matriarclair]

put on the summer i turned pretty for the first time - everything reminds me of her*

[matriarclair]

۶ৎ she has her reservations about this. having her picture made wasn’t something she’d normally have a reason to think twice about   –   then again,  no one has ever asked her to pose like this before.   it shouldn’t be as daunting as it is,  the younger woman had seen her in this state dozens,  if not hundreds,  of times before.   but it’s an entirely different kind of exposure that seems to rattle her   …   there’s something raw about bearing yourself before a lens   –   the permanence of a photograph invites examination.   flesh in motion is forgiving,  it doesn’t offer the time necessary to pick it apart,  to  CREATE   find flaws where once there were none,  to tear down your own confidence.   photographs are less mindful of the insecurities we harbor, it asks you to study them.   and tipper has never denied nor disputed the fact that she is beautiful :   but they say beauty if fleeting,  and once upon a time she might’ve rolled her eyes and dismissed such a silly notion,  but as the years tick by,  she herself is inclined to find truth in that statement.     “You’re certain I don’t look … foolish?”

SINCLAIR, M.   ⟳ 🍋 ... @0lderladies

[matriarclair]

wwl tonight?

yes ! yes ! a million times yes !!! thought you'd never ask

[matriarclair]

tipper has two looks ! & that’s it ! grace kelly in high society (affectionate) & catherine deneuve in belle de jour (derogatory)

[matriarclair]

۶ৎ when their eyes meet remorse hits her, hard, rattling every bone that makes up her ribcage. she’s choking back a grief so large it fills her chest, leaving her frozen, weighed down by every thought she’s cradled wastefully protectively in silence. now struck by the need to apologize. for not coming sooner, for leaving him to navigate these uncharted waters without a map, for dying. but he guides her from his study before she has a chance to say anything else – without hesitation, unexpectant of an explanation, proving that his love remains as effortless and unconditional as it always had: in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do us part … she wonders if they will ever find truth in that last testament, she hopes that they never find truth in that final testament. “Always yours.” she had intended to deliver the conviction with strength and certainty, but voice betrays her with a quiver. still, she does not falter. without missing a beat, neck turns and lips kiss the heel of a palm, the weight of her head settling trustingly into the steadiness of his hands. one of her own hands curls gently around his wrist, providing a soft tug, not one to draw it away from her face, but a silent invitation, a request. wishing for him to join her in the bed – their bed – the place he’s avoided. she’d watched him search restlessly for what she can only assume is sleep, from the arm chair by the window, to the lounge in his office, drifting unsuccessfully until it seemed he was opting for naught at all. but now she is forcing him to face it, and it’s fitting they should do it here. every trial they’ve ever conquered could be traced back to their marital bed(s), having remained their dedicated sanctum since the very first hardship. though the approach tipper’s decided on is different than every one prior, because this circumstance is unlike any they’ve been met with before. facing it head on would mean accepting the hand they’d been dealt – never take no for an answer – so the only way out, is through around. “Has everything needing to be done for tomorrow been handled?” removed but still present, unspecific but still unmistakingly deliberate in addressing the preparations that she would’ve overseen for the fourth of july if she had been permitted to, if she were alive. “Because if so,” she murmurs softly with fluttering eyes, a lazy roll of her neck presses her face deeper into his hands, almost feline in nature, unwinding the tension gathered between shoulders, softening the calloused grief hanging between them. “that means his majesty has no duties important enough to call him from his queen’s embrace, until he so wishes to leave it.” and this time when she seeks out his gaze, she’s collected herself, and the smile curling at her lips is warm and inviting. she reaches out, hands lie upon her husband’s chest like they had hundreds of times before, stroking upward over his shoulders and down his arms. “Why don’t we get settled for bed?”

[aaylaprompts]

musings found on pinterest that resonates with my oc. a collection of writing prompts based on various musings i found on pinterest, all of which i've saved in relation to my oc. the musings are from mixed media, and i claim no ownership. some of the sentences may have been tweaked to apply. feel free to edit as you see fit to match pronouns, names, etc. meant exclusively for roleplay purposes!

"there is blood everywhere and i am lost in it. i breathe blood, not air." "she didn't deserve death. i did — i do." "your hands are wet with the blood of an empire." "is it my fault?" "survival is not beautiful." "i'm not dead but not alive either. i'm just a ghost with a beating heart." "a wolf is a wolf, even in a cage, even dressed in silk." "i'm afraid of what i've become." "how quickly the blade becomes you." "i was trapped in that nightmare, shaking, trembling, terrified." "darkness there, and nothing more." "i'm going to be the deadliest piece on the board." "have you ever looked fear in the eyes and said, 'i just don't care'?" "i think i am a better ghost than i am a human being." "inside me, something seethes. inside me, some feral animal claws at my ribcage, trapped." "i am someone who did not die when i should have died." "your worst sin is that you have destroyed and betrayed yourself for nothing." "i met evil when i was only a child." "inside my head, the war is everywhere." "my bones are smouldering and my knuckles are bloody. forgive me. forgive me..." "it's time to forgive yourself. you're not that person anymore." "i exist. in thousands of agonies, i exist." "i wanna be me again." "my soul bleeds.... and the blood steadily, silently, disturbingly slowly, swallows me whole." "can you remember who you were?" "i want to rest. i want to breathe quietly again." "i feel it's my anger that has helped keep me alive." "you can't burn what's already been scorched." "how can i ask anyone to love me, when all i do is beg to be left alone?" "the cage is open. you can walk out anytime you want. why are you still in there?" "fix it, please... fix me." "i'll survive. somehow i always do." "i can't get back to myself." "i can't remember." "tell me a ghost story." "a wolf will never be a pet." "i was burning, while you came blaming me for the smell of ashes." "fight me." "i did not mean to be cruel. i swear i am good. i am good, i am kind. i have love inside of me... some place far, far away." "you will survive; but you will become someone else." "you have been much alone these last few years. alone and angry." "memory is punishment." "your throat is raw from screaming to a god who isn't listening." "if i am anything, it is violence." "for most people, it's history now. but for me, whenever i close my eyes, it all comes back clearly." "how tired i am." "crawl inside this body — find me where i am most ruined, love me there." "i was born in an abundance of inherited sadness." "i punish myself for my whole life, my whole life i punish." "is the blood on your hands dry? is it slowly disappearing? mine isn't." "i have done bad things. i can't take them back, and they are part of who i am. most of the time, they seem like the only thing i am." "if you feel nothing then why are you shaking?"

[valbyes]

. . . ———————— A MULTI BY BRI. TWENTY1+ ONLY. CARRD.

[matriarclair]

۶ৎ it’s not often that they have the privilege of finding themselves down here unattended. by nature, beechwood is private – no other homesteads or lights illuminating in the distance, just the ocean stretching as far as the eye can see. in fact, you’d have to go about half an hour out to find civilization from any direction. their kingdom is secluded, but seclusion does not promise stillness, and being private did not guarantee privacy. so when a rare moment like this presents itself, you seize it. that’s why when the last of their little golden touched heirs had bid them goodnight, the queen hadn’t wasted a moment reclaiming her throne. with innocent intentions of course, never having mastered the concept of personal space when it wasn’t necessary, she had climbed atop of the king’s lap. but as the logs in the fire surrendered to the flickering flames, a different kind of fire had started to burn … and this one ignited in her stomach. she’s unable to pinpoint when the conversation had naturally run its course, when her thoughtful words had become fragmented yeses and noes, before turning into little more than hums of acknowledgement … not that she had the faintest idea about what’d been said. how could she with the heat of his breath falling on her ear, crawling down her neck, making her writhe. “Edgartown?” her husband’s palms press into the soft flesh at her waistline, hard enough to hit bone, his fingers dredging, unrushed but certain, until they find anchoring at her hips, and then he draws her down against the taught muscle of his thigh. “Oh!” the high, airy interjection is all tipper can offer. she swallows hard, and her head gives a soft shake, as if that will help her regain any semblance of composure. “Yes, Edgartown that sounds…” molars digging into the delicate tissue of inner cheek to ground herself, but it certainly was all for nothing – because when her legs spread, it forces her to balance atop of his lap, “Harris-” and the sensation pulls a soft whine from her shaking lips. “Just like that.”

[matriarclair]

۶ৎ silence slips between them naturally after he offers an answer. so she presses closer, not yet ready to address the elephant ghost in the room. instead she focuses on the heat of him beneath her palms, and for a moment it distracts her from their reality. the feeling of his hands against her skin, the way their grasp tightens with each passing second - anchoring her. the steady rise and fall of the chest she’d fallen asleep atop of most nights of her adult life. after weeks of his absence gnawing at her, she feels her rigid shoulders finally begin to relax, and the ache that’d festered behind ribs starts to subside. “But have you even tried, darling?” it’s mumbled against the fabric of his sweater, and followed by a soft lingering kiss there. when her head lifts again, in no rush, it’s so that an attempt can be made to press her nose directly into the skin of his neck. the smell of him is overwhelming: sandalwood, bergamot and lavender, clean linen and whiskey. “I missed you.” those raw words slip from her trembling lips without permission   …   she wonders if this will have been a mistake – if coming to him will play a part in his quiet torment instead of offering him solace – it’s too late now to go back, it would be cruel to taunt him like that. a hand frees itself from the mooring he’d created, and delicately do fingers pry the aid he’d been turning to lately from his grasp, setting it haphazardly on the end table. tipper finds herself ill prepared to handle the weight of their emotions, unable to pull her shoulders back, even her legs are unsteady. “I’m tired,” so she does the next logical thing … she surrenders to the instinct she cannot resist, turning to what’d kept her sane for decades … she redirects. “will you take me to bed?”

[matriarclair]

۶ৎ she’d risen well before the sun,  sleeping alone never did bode well. she could only lay awake for so long before restlessness curdled in her stomach, turning her organs to liquid   -   corroding her.   a proverb her mother had so loved comes to mind in these moments:  idle hands are the devil’s workshop.   she needs to make use of her hands, she needs to be useful. that’s why it’s a quarter past six,  and her muffin batter is mixed and resting in the fridge already.  the oven whirring softly in the background as it heats to the desired temperature   …   why her functional mess of ingredients stacked uniform on the counter await the appropriate time for the kitchen to come to life. in the form of mindful clinking and soft clattering,  the wafting aroma of french toast accompanied by a melancholy hum of a familiar tune.

this isn’t her kitchen,  but she’s made herself at home.   these aren’t her cupboards or utensils or dishware,  but she’d navigated them with such profound grace you wouldn’t know any wiser.   there are times when she wonders if the apple had   RUN  rolled away after its fall from the   PEDESTAL   tree,  but then she is greeted by something as mundane as a kitchen organized in a similar fashion to the one she keeps and knows that she’d done at least one thing right by her.   because oh yes,  what is your worth if your performance is not pristine?   what is your purpose if not for maintaining that carefully cultivated lifestyle behind closed doors.   that is a lesson tipper hadn’t failed to teach   …   OR PERHAPS SHE HAD.

i’m not the only one who's been busy this morning.     is what she’d liked to say,  but exchanging petty quips is not her style   -     “Yes, well,” ever smooth and composed as fingers gently drum against the cool granite. “I’ve always had a hard time sleeping without your father   …   so i thought i’d make good use of my restlessness and get a start on the day   …   had you waited another half hour to do your walk of shame, I could’ve had your breakfast plated.”     -   well, actually, maybe it is her style.