#thequeenalone

[ofhumanvoicearchive]

@thequeenalone

     The huff that escapes her is unqueenly and there is something distinctly childish about the set of her arms as she folds them across her chest. “Honestly, Regina, I can be trusted to be alone with my own grandson.” Alright, so a part of her understands her daughter’s reluctance, but that doesn’t make it any less insulting. “You’ll be gone, what, two hours at the most? Just what do you think can happen in that time span?”

[ofhumanvoicearchive]

"He wants something from me. I can see it in his eyes." for cora!

“No more than any man would want from his wife.” There were certain expectations that every wife had to fulfill- at least for a little while. She had kicked Henry out of the bedroom once Regina was born and she saw no reason why Regina couldn’t do the same to Leopold once an heir was delivered. “You’ll find it isn’t difficult. All you have to do is lie there.”

[alighttwixttruthandintellec-blog]

"I’m yours."

This meme.

The statement elicits a response that is somewhat tremulous. She knows only that she has to force her hand away from her own throat, away from where her thumb wants desperately to worry at the flesh. She instead covers it with her other hand, and ducks her head in something like a nervous smile.

“You aren’t mine. You can’t be,” Alana says softly, though now her thumb is kneading at her wrist, anxious, “You can’t-- be mine because you’re yours. No one can belong to anyone else. But we can-- we can choose to give parts of ourselves to each other.” Someone tried to make me theirs-- everyone has, and it’s been nothing but bad for me, please, understand--

“I mean, if you’re-- if I can have some parts of you, then I admit-- I’m... yours, and you may have some from me, as well. I just--” her voice drops, and she feels like she’s disappointed, crystal blue gaze hitting the floor immediately, “--I’m sorry. I’m sorry this is so hard for me.”

[leerofthevinegaroons-a]

"Don't. Touch. Him."

Send “Don’t touch her/him” to see my muse’s reaction to your muse defending them against a physical threat

Baribus’ head lolled, his golden yellow eyes hooded and unfocused. His head felt stuffy and his thoughts hazy as if a fog had rolled into his mind, preventing all but the simplest thoughts. He felt ill and the incense his captor burned didn’t help.

The door to his room opened and a tall, blonde haired man stepped inside, flanked by what seemed to be a pair of dingy squires whose filthy frock coat sleeves seemed to stretch long past their arms. He made his way into the room, the air thickening as his blue eyes surveyed the leer through his thin-rimmed spectacles. The man smiled and approached Baribus, glancing down at his ankles and wrists to ensure he was properly secured in his seat.

There was a gentle pulse in the room as if the air itself were a muscle or giant gastrine. Baribus stirred, roused by force and echoing threwd. A faint smile of satisfaction crossed the blonde man’s lips.

“Mm, good. He’s becoming more responsive to the threwd. Very good.” He reached out to touch the leers forehead when the air shuddered and a voice growled from behind him.

“Don’t. Touch. Him.”

Blue eyes glinted from behind brass framed glasses as the man they belonged to turned to look at the dark queen before him, surprise written on his face. He hadn’t even heard her come in, and only just began to feel her disturbing his Threwd with something dark and wild, like a wicked steed or wretchin.

‘She must belong to the force they call magic,’ he thought and smiled as he withdrew his hand from the pale leer’s brow. ‘I’d best be wary of this one.’

The dingy squires turned as the air shuddered softly with the man’s threwd, their heads and faces obscured by tricorns and neutral opera masks. Their fellow jackstraws would be there soon to deal with this intruder. In the mean time, their master wanted to satiate his curiosity.

“Touch him?” the man crooned with a smile and rose to his feet. “My lady, the thought had never crossed my mind. Rest assured, I needn’t physical contact to accomplish my purposes. Isn’t that right Mr. Thatch?”

Baribus lifted his eyes, his face gaunt and sickly as he gazed up at his Queen. Part of him surged at the sound of her voice, filling his muddled mind with a bright mixture of emotions - surprise, relief, hope, and honor - before being brought down by a single wave of unparalleled dread.

“M-majesty,” he murmured, but his voice failed before he could finish his sentence. ‘You shouldn’t have come,’ he thought weakly. ‘You shouldn’t have come!’

His tormentor looked from him to Regina, his eyebrows rising high behind his golden bangs as he let out a cackle of laughter.

“Majesty? Cudgels man, I knew you were in with the Heraldy girl, but gaining the favor of a queen? You have been busy!”

The leer scowled feebly as his adversary settled down to an amused chuckle.

“Ah, my apologies, your majesty,” the blond man said with a smile, “I haven’t introduced myself. My name James Phelandus Hebers, I am the new Petchin of Altgird and Mr. Thatch here, belongs to me.”

[alighttwixttruthandintellec-blog]

thequeenalone (Continued from here.)

         Regina’s breath catches. She’s been soft with Alana, tender, wanting Alana to feel safe; trying to blunt the impact of her want, which would love to be rough with Alana, which right now would love to take, and take, and…          ❝ Just… Tell me if it’s too much. ❞          Her words are murmured in a rush of breath against Alana’s ear before her lips find that pale, lovely neck again, teeth now nipping inside her kisses.

It’s the way that neck turns obediently aside and she purrs inside the sound, a genuine whine escaping that is almost entirely made up of weakness, of nothing but want. A pawing thing. Very far from the wolf or the lion she is usually.

She can appreciate (want desire adore) little bites, little markings. She likes those. As long as they’re careful— she’s not much for the depth or the utterly rough ones. (She herself can be rather— vicious if she’s allowed, and she rarely lets herself.) But throat is shown so easily and Alana just murmurs, “You’re fine,” against an undercurrent of somewhat velvet laughter in her lowest register, “I’m fucked up, not fragile.”

[alighttwixttruthandintellec-blog]

♋

This meme.

♋ - My muse writes about yours. Perhaps the first time they met, or an event that was particularly important to our muses’ relationship.

Regina Mills is sort of like a person I don’t have words for. Except it’s not that I don’t have words, so much as I guess I can’t formulate them. For one, vastly fucking up and I didn’t meant to but it happened again and it just keeps happening I can’t figure out how to keep my mouth shut but all I want to do is help and still being invited over for sandwiches is beyond my understanding. Mostly because a personality type like hers shouldn’t be giving me room to repair my own idiocy. Which makes me conclude that evidently I’m somewhat important in some small way? I’m not sure. Writing down thoughts make more sense a lot of the time. Even if I never was one for keeping journals, but I never needed to before now. I just wish to some extent I could turn it off. The illogical irrationality that forces me to speak when I don’t want to speak, but there’s just a part of my brain that says but this could probably be helpful and yet there I am, losing the middle-man, human factor totally discounted. It’s callous, and selfish. It’s unkind. That’s something I never thought I’d be, but I don’t want to be it to her. Not to her. She speaks in the terse but congenial tone of someone who has a particularly guarded heart but she has a son who she must love sincerely. And to be truthful, I have no place in that dynamic. I don’t have a place anywhere, really, I guess that’s why I shifted places this way. It’s nice to know I’m forgiven. I’m grateful for it. I can only try to learn how to keep my mouth shut. But I think I really like her, but my track record for those I really like isn’t exactly a winning situation. Everyone I really like winds up ruined by the general nature of my ability to really like them. But I can try? I mean, if I haven’t completely demolished everything yet. 

[alighttwixttruthandintellec-blog]

          thequeenalone

      Regina, disarmed, didn’t even have time to startle. Her breath caught as Alana moved in, then released in a soft sound of surprised pleasure; she lifted a hand, touched Alana’s cheek as she kissed her back. God — Alana’s lips were so soft.

        The moment was over too soon, leaving Regina warm, tingly. ❝ Mm… ❞ She cupped her cheek more fully, thumb stroking over the line of Alana’s jaw; a line she’d love to kiss, if that option was now open to her…

         ❝ No, dear. No — you’re fine. ❞ Regina was already moving in for more. Maybe later, she’d overanalyze, question, pick apart the moment; for now, she was going to live in it.

You’re fine. Alana’s practically humming with it. You’re fine. You’re fine. Those two words. No. Three. ‘Dear’. What a great word. What a wonderful word. Keep it, keep it secret, keep it safe, keep it, keep it.

And Doctor Bloom’s own sound is a soft thing— kittenish, in its way. Almost a whimper, a wanting thing. And she is never touched, she really isn’t, but she’s made of that sound and those mirror-glass baby blues of hers. The way her mouth quirks in a jut, like a punctuation mark, just when she pulls back to breathe.

"Am I better than fine?" She asks, eyebrow quirked. And this is not the ramble that so often creates Alana. This is the sound of tell me I’m good. Tell me I’m right. This is ego, almost.

This is who she very well could have been, maybe forever ago.

Charming, confident, pretty Alana.

[xlocoparentis-blog]

holy shit. did you scope olaf's crotch package in that animated sequence you reblogged. no wonder esme and olivia couldn't leave him alone

(( I NOTICED THAT TOO HOLY SHIT. but you know what they say about tall guys *wink wonk* ))