#pensivemercury

[ipaintedthemredarchive-blog]

If several flocks were to catch my fancy; would I owe the Walrus a thing?

           “Well, that would depend, wouldn’t it? If the Walrus owns the flocks, or if the Walrus buys them for you. Of course, it depends on what kind of thing and what kind of fancy and—

                                —are you taking a fancy to something that isn’t me, Jefferson?”

[jackalsraised]

Pєянαρѕ Ｗｏｎｄｅｒｌａｎｄ ιѕη'т ѕσ ƒαя 域 αƒтєя αℓℓ.

[ipaintedthemredarchive-blog]

pensivemercury said: IT IS INDEED

 -loudly whispers- can we do a celebratory thing because alice has missed jay so

[ikarosopallios-blog]

{ pensivemercury }

"I don’t think—”                He cooed, yes, cooed, and that’s exactly the word he’d use for it, too, even                if he felt slightly ridiculous for the use of it.                                                  ”I want you in anything today, poppet.                                                               We do happen to have some time off.” He’s lying, of course— he often is.                    Their presence was anticipated at the Duchess’s in just under an hour;                    and he was certain Emma was not going to appreciate using the train                     again.

Emma rolled her eyes, fingers still picking through his curls.                        "You'd rather I run around                      naked for your enjoyment?"   A scoff escaped her, "That's not happening."   Her eyes trailed over his face, and she canted her head slightly.  She licked her lower lip and pressed a kiss to his cheek this time.

[notathimble]

[ pensivemercury ]

                   Sнe wants to dance to the music.                         Her body wants to sway to the thrum of the beat,                      like small, energizing vibrations on her skin.

But she refrains; on duty means that she can’t fully lose herself in the crowd, she can’t allow herself to let the beat, the strobing lights, take her completely. Yes, she pretends—pretends that the alcohol in her drink has effected her, that the subtle sway of her hips is indication enough that she’s lost to the moment, no longer connected to reality.

           Her mind, however, is glued to reality far too much.

Every body, perspired and sweaty, that pushes and grinds against her makes her want to scream. This isn’t Wendy’s—no, tonight, she wasn’t Wendy. Moira—place. All she can think of is her purpose for being here. She reminds herself that there’s a reason she hasn’t punched the owner of every groping hand she felt, that there’s a reason she put on such tight, confining clothes, that her lips were a bright vermillion.

She has to entice the right person—the right monster—and she can’t do that if she’s in a wool sweater and jeans.

Moira—get used to that, she tells herself, tonight you’re not Wendy—pushes through the crowd, her hand craned overhead to keep her drink safe; all the while, her eyes glance around. To this day, she still isn’t sure why it’s so easy to spot them; they’ve learned to blend in so easily, but there’s just something about them that ticks her off.

          And she’s sure that this is their place.             So many girls  have gone missing from here.                              She’s so sure.

The barkeep is kind to her when she hands him the glass, re-filling it (how many of those has she had? One, two, and she’s still sober?). She can hear him speak, but she doesn’t seem to pay attention as she watches the crowd, hazel hues focusing on individuals that catch her eye.

A hand drifts down, tugging at the hem of her skirt, the leather straps wrapped around her thighs, uncomfortable, but a necessary thing considering what she managed to sneak into the club. She can feel the sharp points prick her fingers; she’s gotten used to the familiar sting. It’s her only reassurance that she was safe, should she come across one.

             “Pickings are slim tonight, aren’t they?” She says aloud, just as she              reaches back to grab her drink. “I suppose I’m going home alone tonight, yeah?”

                        But she can’t. What kind of hunter would she be if she returned                         empty-handed?

[morethansavage]

[ pensivemercury ]

❝ That's what I find so funny about you;    you choose to steal when you could    have traded with my father. So comp-    licated. ❞

[aurevm-blog]

{ + pensivemercury }

       ' what are you doing in here? '

  sharp tones shattered the silence in her study,   the door trembling in the wake of her barged   entrance. the stranger at her desk was most   unwelcome; and the golden monkey hissed at   her side, showing how they were to be f e a r e d.    ' how did you get in? '

[ikarosopallios-blog]

{ pensivemercury }                ||                the horror of our love

     Emma always caught him calling her Alice.  She knew the  story, and she knew she wasn't Alice. Despite her many attempts to tell Jefferson otherwise, she would catch him in the middle of sex, groaning Alice repeatedly.  Emma would either tell him— obviously too annoyed to continue—or she  would let herself fall into his illusion.  

                                                           His illusion was dangerous territory. Alice was someone else, and Emma was Emma.  Simple as that.                          She pressed her lips to his, hands on either side of his face.       Emma, in a rather short and mostly revealing dress of Jefferson's design,                    settled onto his lap, fingers running over his jaw, his neck,            but careful of the scar.                                                            She expected it now.  She knew                                                            he would slip up and call her that                                                            name again.  Emma waited, hands                                                            unbuttoning his vest to expose him                                                            as much as she was.   The bottom of her short dress barely covered her ass.  Emma rocked her hips over his lap, lips smashing against his.                                                      W a i t i n g .