#frances.

[hqessex]

some exclusive/very private restaurant - @frances-c-g​

     it wasn’t wise for the daughter of not only nathaniel essex but the essex house to be outside of the institute but it was driving her into something (or someone) she hated being confined in there. emmeline hadn’t been proud of her actions, that had been very clear when she had grovelled to xavier staff and indeed the escapees, who would later go on television to admit the true atrocities they suffered, ones that she wasn’t even aware of their happenings. although she had shown a great deal of remorse for her actions, she couldn’t help but hate seeing the escapees on the news. granted, it was a re-run, it had happened once but the woman felt cheated by that since two of them had abducted her from the institute and left her in a warehouse alone after having their fun with her.

      the appearance was a plead to the public, one that she had taken personally even though her name wasn’t brought up. she was an essex and that wasn’t changing. even some of her recent behaviours had only emulated nathaniel and that scared her. still in pain, the woman had continued to drink a bottle, that was only for herself, as she waited for her order to arrive.

[cyra-de-leon]

June 1st, 1998; Bergen Street Station || @frances-c-g​

Cyra walked slowly through the crowd, the panic and tension hanging thick in the air, barely contained within the tightly packed cluster of hostages. Santi had done a good enough job at convincing her that he was fine, at least for the moment, and she could go survey the station, look for other hostages that they knew. That she’d need to protect-- in case she’d have to choose. Though the threats their captors kept hurling about the looseness of the ceiling above them all seemed to make any other decision irrelevant. If they made good on their threats, if they tried to cave them in– she knew what she’d have to do. 

Still, better to survey. Better to know whose lives were at stake. 

Unfortunately, her conscience decided that the other half of Gabby’s making-- her former friend-- deserved a spot on that list. 

Somehow, she smelled her before she spied the nest of once-perfect blonde hair. That pretentious perfume that she’d once complimented, mixed with luxury hairspray and the familiar stench of old money. “Relax, congresswoman.” Cyra spoke softly so as to not draw attention to them, coming up to France’s side. “You’ll be fine.” Though the words implied an attempt at comforting the woman, Cyra’s tone held no warmth. She wasn’t trying to comfort, she was simply stating the facts as she knew them to be.

[rosctte]

quando: domingo, 1 de novembro de 2020, la toussaint.

onde: mandelieu airport

quem: fleur & @serafrances​

Fleur fechou a mala do carro e abriu a porta do passageiro, jogando-se no banco sem muita cerimônia. Após um suspiro pesado, cansado de mais do que apenas a viagem aérea de uma hora, deitou a cabeça no encosto e fechou os olhos. — Obrigada pela carona. — Lembrou de dizer pouco depois, mostrando a Francesca um sorriso grato. — E desculpe por ligar tão tarde. Eu... não consegui esperar até amanhã. — Seu sorriso se transformou num torcer contrariado de lábios. Ducret não queria admitir, mas estava tão decepcionada consigo quanto estava com Gabrielle. Dois só brigam quando querem. Quase podia ouvir a voz de sua falecida avó proferindo as palavras. — Mas e quanto a você, hm? Como está sendo o feriado? — Perguntou, sobrancelhas erguidas, tentando desviar a atenção de si. A mão que outrora repousava sobre a barriga fez caminho até o ombro da amiga, um gesto de carinho. Fleur gostava de contato físico. Por vezes, tendia a executá-los quase no automático.

[skaatewitch]

[skaatewitch]

[whitestetson]

mother

headcanon time come on grab your friends

The fugitive fell to the ground, shot, and Raylan holstered his gun. 

It was close range, lower than central mass. The man can’t help himself, screaming and thrashing, clutching his belly, bleeding out fast.

‘Shit, didn’t your mama teach you how to bleed?’

All the man offered in reply to Raylan’s observation was more pained moaning.

‘My mama taught me. I was a real late bloomer, in a lot of ways, and I don’t know if it got to me early or not, being roundabout the end of middle school. I think they made us wear white shorts for gym class, in coal country, just to keep our families buying soap, and you know what else, my luck, it was after Labor Day. Got myself in trouble for wearing a shirt tied around my waist. Wasn’t the strictest school as such, but there was some propriety to be followed. Funny, ‘cause it was my Science teacher who sent me to the principal when I downright refused to do as I was asked. Called my mother. I sit in blood all day, ‘cause she’s at work. She picks me up, looks over at pasty little me and says, ‘wipe your tears, you’re still livin’.’

The fugitive gets his voice back, ‘--the fuck are you talking about?’

Raylan steps forward, nudges the man’s wound with the toe of his boot, causing him to sputter. ‘My mama taught me to shoot, too. I think she did a pretty good job of both.’ 

[sprungyions]

a painting of sum kids who trip their teachers up

@judeinjune