#owncurse

[lovedirges-blog]

“ hello, robert. ” her smile is warm. for the interested, josephine marcus is very aware that it looks a little - improper, unmarried women marching up to the houses of unmarried men, but she thinks she’s established in town that propriety isn’t one of her core values. and the other unmarried man that she visits is busy with what seems, to josephine, the world’s largest family. ( the earps aren’t all that unreasonable, but their personalities are so large that every one of them takes up the space of five. ) holding out a gift for him, marking the time of year: “ i don’t celebrate christmas. ” smile turning wry: “ this is just incentive for you to let me in. ” it’s a corked bottle of dark wine.

@owncurse.

[tombstcne-blog]

' where did you learn this, to leave those that want to stay? '

           he could play martyred and wounded and hurt, furrow his brow and tell him that after urilla, leaving people became the easy thing. burn through friends like lovers and the same again for lovers, a sickly trail of laudanum and common laws. let robert die. let doc rot. let sadie bear the brunt of getting older, the brunt of knowing that wyatt can’t die, that wyatt’s second curse - the one bulshar never knew he was placing - was to march on, timeless, watching his son grow from a distance, watching generations inherit his errors.

it would be so easy to act like there are reasons and explanations and justifications for everything wyatt has ever done. even his state of being, he has an excuse for that too; someone killed me first, robert, long before i killed you.

‘ — restive feet, i guess. ’ that’s the honest, ugly truth of it, that wyatt’s motivations for staying in one place are always thin and his mind is always racing. he left the triangle when robert died again. too hard in the jaw and too angry with his family of strangers for letting it get to this. came back as soon as he could, but — what if he’d never heard. what if whispers never came through it all to tell him of this revenant’s second coming. ‘ it enough that i’m here this time? that i came back for you? ’

@owncurse.

[guardengates]

         it’s a foggy mess, all of it, the dying and the undying and the being and the unbearable edge to everything, where she feels like something that’s been cramped underground in a box for years; stretching limb and wing with every step, and there’s nowhere better to relearn yourself than on the outskirts.

long, broad wings vanish like a trick at the audible crunch of earth underfoot - under someone’s foot. surprise, at the cold-shrunken, bewildered look of him, registers in her stomach and then dissipates, as though she shouldn’t be surprised at all. she had wondered if it should’ve felt different, if she was alive and he was dead, as she’d assumed - if she should’ve been able to feel his death like a phantom limb - and this — this explains it. it’s really hard to get dead.

‘ — robert? ’  //  @owncurse​.

[ownweapon]

@owncurse  —  continued from.                  the  thing  that  always  stings  most  about  bobo’s  barbs  is  the  fact  he  always  manages  to  give  them  some  completely  unavoidable  point.  she  considers  saying  at  least  doc’s  not  a  ghost,  but  -  really,  there’s  a  thin  line  between  ghosts  and  demons.  but,  wynonna  straightens  her  shoulders,  arms  folding  across  her  chest.  delicately:  ‘  i  don’t  wear  those  jeans  anymore.  ’  in  more  than  one  sense.  ‘  so  there.  ’

[baxterwitch-blog]

Sabrina knew it would seem strange showing up at a new place-- Just a girl and her cat trying to make the world a better place.

“I like your coat.” she said, gazing at the man who’s back was facing her. This town was small and secluded and she thought it best to ask around, get the feel of things. What was more suspicious? Asking questions or saying nothing at all. “Very chic.”

The trailer park was filled to the brim with people, all who seemed to be gawking at her like she’d grown another set of arms. Great! So much for fitting in.

[firstheir-blog1]

scooping his fingers into theirs, their thumb picking at chipped polish on his nails. ‘ don’t go back yet. come walking with me. ’ — @owncurse / sc.

[firstheir-blog1]

' did i not come to you on my knees with a kingdom in my hand? '

prompts / @owncurse​.

‘ — mm, you stole me away to your treehouse and made promises. ’ they’re being caustic in a way that for them is being playful, tone lilted just enough to show that, to settle next to him on the bed — their bed. he’s rarely on his knees for them, but when he is — they thrill to have him eating from their palm, to look at him and know he is kneeling for them. to think back to the first time they rattled at the chambers of his heart until he let them in. ( they kissed him first, they’ll — always remember that, scooping his face into their hands and barely believing he would let them be his willa. )

in the now, it’s an automatic action is to drift close to him and nestle their fingers against the warmth of his chest, to steal what kisses he’ll allow, and then to say, ‘ our treehouse, ’ no longer so playful, or acidic. ‘ our castle. the kingdom’s waiting. ’ out there. softly, as wistful as willa ever gets: ‘ there’s only a year left before we can claim it. ’

[ownweapon]

❤ listen. bring me the big dog face to belly smush. it’s time

touch starved / accepting / @owncurse.

he’s  hunched  down,  fingers  spidery  over  his  face,  eyes,  temples,  tips  pressing  in,  and  wynonna  has  the  shivery  feeling  that  he’s  trying  to  claw  some  of  the  bad  thoughts  out.  there’s  a  little  voice  in  her  head  as  she  crosses  the  distance  to  him  that  -  sounds  awfully  like  one  of  the  doctors  from  st  judes,  only  it’s  patronising  and  telling  wynonna  not  to  startle  a  wild  animal.  (  that’s  —  the  calibre  of  doctor  in  purgatory,  shrinks  who  treat  a  serious  case  of  bad  brain  with  the  wrong  kind  of  drugs,  with  padded  cells,  with  arm’s  length  and  cattle  prods.  )  he’s  not  a  wild  animal,  though.  he’s  -  a  person  and  a  revenant  and  robert.

‘  hey.  hey  —  ’  hushed,  and,  alright,  so  maybe  approaching  someone  who’s  not  feeling  good  is  a  little  scarier  when  they  could  in  theory  use  her  metal  belt  buckle  to  bodily  throw  her  across  the  room.  but  god,  no  one  else  is  going  to  do  it,  ‘  bobo.  robert.  ’  he  doesn’t  look  up,  and  hesitantly,  wynonna  puts  her  hand  on  his  arm.  ‘  ro  -  jesus !  ’

at  the  press  of  fingers  into  his  shoulders,  he  turns  whip-fast  and  buries  his  face  into  her  stomach,  his  own  fingers  hooked  in  the  back  of  wynonna’s  jeans,  grasping  for  purchase.  ‘  jeez,  ’  wynonna  repeats  with  an  exhale,  frozen  to  the  spot,  hands  up  and  fingers  splayed,  staring  down  at  him.  after  a  moment  her  spine  unknots  and  relaxes  just  enough  for  the  tension  to  come  out  of  her  posture,  and  —  bobo  responds  to  it,  exhaling  with  a  snarl  that  sounds  ...  wounded,  and  relieved,  all  at  once.  his  fingers  relax  into  the  small  of  her  back.  ‘  you  do  this  to  every  earp ?  ’

the  answer’s  yes,  but  she  doesn’t  know  that  and  robert  doesn’t  have  the  words  for  it,  not  right  now.  if  nothing  else  -  he’s  too  busy,  nuzzling  into  her  stomach,  though  her  shirt,  making  himself  comfortable.  wynonna  inhales,  and  this  time,  as  she  breathes  out,  she  carefully  puts  one  hand  on  -  a  little  in  -  the  tangle  of  his  long  hair,  and  drops  the  other  to  the  top  of  his  back.  now  the  surprise  has  sloughed  off  her,  there’s  something  indistinctly  upsetting  about  this  whole  -  thing.  no,  he’s  not  hurting  her  or  upsetting  her,  it’s  just  —  this  huge  wolfhound  of  a  man  seems  a  lot  smaller  when  he’s  using  her  whole  body  as  a  hot  water  bottle  for  his  head.  and  yeah,  that’s  it.  robert  seeming  small  is  upsetting.

‘  i  got  you,  ’  wynonna  murmurs,  since  no  one  else  does.  bobo  makes  a  sound  not  unlike  a  purr  when  she  haphazardly,  somewhat  instinctively  combs  the  tips  of  her  fingers  through  his  hair.  ‘  m’so  gonna  unlock  the  decontamination  showers  at  the  cop  shop  when  we  get  back.  get  you  some  coconut  shampoo.  maybe  a  little  bottle  of  zesty  lemongrass  shower  gel.  round  it  off  with  my  burnt-marshmallow-and-leather  body  spray.  ’

she’s  talking  for  herself.  which  is  fine.  he  doesn’t  seem  to  really  hear  her.  which  is  also  fine.  the  nestle  of  fingers  against  his  scalp  seems  to  let  him  settle  for  now.  on  some  stupid  level,  she  —  needs  this  too.  she  doesn’t  remember  the  last  time  she  was  touched  just  for  the  sake  of  it.  wrinkling  her  nose:  ‘  —  stinky  wolfpup.  ’