I’ve moved this blog to a slightly revamped, de-ouatified new one. I will still be rping with ouat characters, but all mentions of Storybrooke and the likes are gone, so, if you want, come follow me there ;)

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@ofdarkfeathers
I’ve moved this blog to a slightly revamped, de-ouatified new one. I will still be rping with ouat characters, but all mentions of Storybrooke and the likes are gone, so, if you want, come follow me there ;)

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I've moved this blog to a slightly revamped, de-ouatified new one. I will still be rping with ouat characters, but all mentions of Storybrooke and the likes are gone, so, if you want, come follow me there ;)
psa ; this is now a private blog.
— what exactly does that mean? That I won't try to keep this blog active, since I clearly fail at that; I will only keep this blog to write with my main rp partners, meaning that I most likely won't start new threads with people I don't know well enough. I will probably unfollow most of the blogs I'm following now, not because I don't want to follow them but simply to have a cleaner dash, only including people I really want to rp with. I'm doing this for personal reasons, lack of time and muse among them, but I care too much for Odile & Darcel to completely give her up, so I chose the third option and I'll hope it turns out for the best. In the meantime, you can still find me on asinkingsiren, or you can come plot with me on skype, I'm always there anyway ♥
I am not a woman. I am an inferno, I am a tempest. I am venom and fangs and claws. I am lightning and starlight, and I am hell in high heels.
(via brynja-storm)

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wingedbyday:
She was still in his space, going through his things, and she didn’t belong. She didn’t belong. This wasn’t her place, wasn’t her world at all, the same way that he would have stood out like a sore thumb if he’d wandered aimlessly into an eatery any more upscale than Granny’s Diner when liberally coated from fingertips to elbows in engine grease. The sheriff’s station was common ground, bars were places they could both coexist, the dark overlap of their respective circles on a Venn diagram. The only areas in which they could both be without it feeling wrong, and they were still places in which Darcel held all the power.
But that was just it. Artur didn’t hold power anyway.
His control was a farce, an illusion; strip it away with a glass of amber liquid to reveal the battered pugilist beneath, bent double with blood dripping to the ground from where it spilled between his teeth, but still trying to raise a hand. In defense or to throw a punch, he’d never been certain. He wasn’t certain of much, but especially not of why he was even bothering to do anything but tap out. Pride, maybe—not that he had much to be proud of, if anything. Sheer stubbornness, then. Because giving in made him less and he couldn’t let anyone have that over him.
Silence.
That startled him more than anything. The way the sounds of hands not his own digging through drawers of cutlery and knickknacks vanished before he’d realized it. When he did, his body twisted to regard the deputy, her finger tapping against the table. They were a madwoman’s words coming out her mouth, or maybe not that severe; confused. They sounded like his own words from earlier in the evening. His own thoughts plucked out of his head and spread before him for perusal.
“I’m gonna guess you’re not talking about your phone ringing in the middle of the night and working itself into your dream.” A poor attempt at humor and an even poorer attempt at a smile, on his part. His mouth had the right of it, corners curling up and out, but his eyes didn’t play along in the slightest. Artur had a moment of hollow silence to consider his next words, or to consider them as much as he could. Leftover fuzziness made thinking and consideration more difficult than it should have been, and he knew whatever he said wasn’t going to come out precisely as he wanted no matter how much prep time he gave it.
“Bits of you.” Was that what he’d meant to say? Close enough. “Something in your gut, yeah? Says to react a certain way but it’s… weird. Feels right but it doesn’t. Like it’s on the tip of your tongue but you can’t remember what it is or why it is. Something’s in the way.” Barriers cracked but not broken down by a drink, as he’d found. Something stonefaced in his stare was gone when he glanced over at Darcel again, just enough for the deputy to get a glimpse of what might have been a vulnerable underbelly. Unsure discomfort was there until he blinked and hid it all again. “But I’m just a drunk pain in the ass, right? I wouldn’t take what I say to heart.”
Frustration was clear on her face, as she stared at random pieces of furniture without really seeing anything remotely close to Artur’s kitchen. Those weren’t the right words, the ones she should have used to voice the pressing matter on the tip of her tongue. They were far from being right, actually – and she doubted she could even word that feeling. It felt a lot like stumbling in the dark, looking for the source of the blackout but unsure whether it wasn’t just her going blind; it felt like reaching out in the emptiness to lean against something, and only finding slippery walls and squishy things that made her hand snap back to her chest in disgust. But it didn’t make sense — it made no kind of sense at all, and neither did her trying to speak her mind with someone as useless to the matter as, she was sure, Artur was.
His voice, shaped in some sort of a joke, came like a distant noise. “Uh…what?”. As if trying to wake herself up, Darcel shrugged, shaking her head lightly and taking a look around to spot the door. She had done her job, fulfilled her tasks, so there really was no reason at all to stick around. Surely she wasn’t going to tuck him into bed, christ — what the hell was she even doing still there, still listening to him, trying to find some sense in what he was saying? —No, wait. Actually finding it?
Despite her best intentions, Darcel found herself listening to him, and not in the way she would listen to his drunken rants, just to make sure he didn’t confess to some awful crime she had to report; no, she was actively understanding his words and comparing them to her own experience, overlapping thoughts to see where they fit and where it was clear that he was messing with her. Surprisingly enough, he wasn’t, and the way he spoke, it sounded a lot like he felt that same, unnerving sensation – something slipping, something constantly out of reach…
“Yeah”, her own voice made her snap back to reality. “Yeah, something like that”. And something that, she felt, was better not discovered. Better hidden in that inaccessible corner of her mind where it could do no harm, where it couldn’t disturb the dull quiet of her routines, or the precarious balance of her relationships. Once again, she shook her head, grabbed the bundle of cutlery she had taken from his kitchen, and headed towards the door – only to stop at his next words.
The way she glared at him was different from the “I’m going to make origami out of your skin” look she always reserved for him. It was more of a “I didn’t say that; don’t dig a deeper grave than the one I’d put you in” one. “Most of the time, yes. But that… —nevermind. Go to bed, Artur”.
Send 'SPIT IT OUT!' and I'll randomly generate a number. Whatever number it is, my muse will blur it out to you!
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Memo to self: never ask Nesh to make me a playlist ever again. Ever again. On a side note, the amount of feels this playlist is giving me has finally given me the strength/will to write the two replies I owe, but if anyone else wanted to plot, I'm feeling really...plotative?
let's just ignore the fact that they just cast my least favorite chick from alphas in haven s5 to be a supposed "doctor that cures troubles" and I'm fifty shades of pissed because if the end of the show is gonna be THE TROUBLES ARE GONE WE'RE ALL HAPPY FOREVER I'm seriously gonna kill a bitch.
Takes one to know one | Odile & Anders
wingedbyday:
Furious. An interesting choice of words. Fury was a word of many meanings: a fierceness he’d yet to show off, and a violent rage he kept played close to the chest far more often than not and watched as Gunnar displayed so much more easily, and mythological punishers who arose at the behest of victims and bore wings much like those of his daily counterpart. But again that not-smile twisted his mouth and if there was a touch more bitter entertainment in the expression this time, it didn’t bleed into his voice when he replied, “I was,” with easy agreement, only to amend, “I am. And I did do something stupid: I allowed it to happen.” Oh, that was unfair. Banished and cursed, what else could be have done? More, apparently was his belief, but he said it with a shrug and a distinct lack of harshness to the words, as though they were simple fact and he was merely relaying the undeniable truth.
And perhaps he was; the truth was relative, and if it was reality to him, what was to say it wasn’t the same, overall and absolute? It sounded terrible, and maybe it was, but there was precious little way to change a person’s mind once it had been made up. Anders’, especially: he bulldogged, got hold of an idea and clamped his jaws on it and wouldn’t let go, which proved useful in some things when it came to diplomacy, but acted against him now.
The scholar’s pose made him lips twitch back into the ghost of a smile, though this time enough lit up in his eyes that it was a far more real expression. Granted, it was short-lived, because at the question that followed Odile was suddenly straightening—not necessarily closing off but not appearing as open as she had just a moment ago. Her reply made her situation seem hopeless, as though this Rothbart was connected to her somehow, could always find her if he looked hard enough (and it didn’t sound as though he’d need to look very hard). Waiting, though. That felt familiar. That felt familiar in a terrible kind of way, because waiting was stagnant. Waiting was a lack of action, of ability to do something, anything. It killed as fast as the plague, killed the spirit even faster. And he’d no idea what he could do, what he could offer, if there was, indeed, anything at all.
“And if boredom leads him to leaving you be?” Anders had no idea if that was desirable or not, but if it meant not having to watch one’s back in case a powerful sorcerer took offense to one’s existence in general, it certainly couldn’t hurt.
Whatever stiff mood she’d been in a moment ago was gone with the next sentence, and while he couldn’t say he could keep up with the change as quickly as she could make it, he much preferred a more upbeat conversation to the somber discomfort of mutually unhappy histories. There was something easier in it, where comparing pasts risked becoming a competition. This way, unfortunately, he learned nothing new of Rothbart, who was of no small amount of interest. There was, however, time for that later, he supposed, even without speaking the man’s name.
“Nowhere in particular.” And that was the truth; where would eleven banished swans go? “Happening across a magic-wielder with the power and prowess and willingness to undo—” a vague gesture to both himself and the woman, “—this would be a stroke of luck, but we’ve hardly had the best of that.” A beat as he considered Odile. “Any of us.” He shrugged. “With no set destination, however, we hear quite a lot. Perhaps eventually we’ll catch wind of someone willing to do what we’re looking for.” Falling silent, he regarded his companion again, as though a longer stare might reveal something he’d missed the first time. “Would—” you like to come with us? The words were on the tip of his tongue, but the prince couldn’t’ speak them. It was no magic, no supernatural compulsion unless his brother’s influence without speaking a word counted as such, but he suspected it was nowhere near the same class as true witchcraft and sorcery.
Over the span of her brief life, Odile had seen many faces, painted with different shades of pain and regret, and heard many, many stories, way too many for one single life. In a way, she still thanked Rothbart for showing her things that she would have never been allowed to witness, had she remained with her mother to marry a shepherd and live her same, miserable life. Yet none of them had ever been quite as interesting as the way his lips bent around his words, the way his eyes seemed busy keeping in things he should have been letting out. There was an inner peculiarity about his ways, as if, beyond the prince and his upbringing, something more hid behind, something wild and just as furious as she had claimed he ought to have been. It was...odd, in a way. Fury was there to be shown, to bend and destroy like a hurricane, not to be tamed and held behind like a secret.
Those thoughts kept her busy, and for a minute her mind trailed off, his words some sort of bakcground noise to the engines working in her head. His was a question, and for a second she just stared, trying to recall his last words. "....Uh? Oh, then— then I guess it would be a victory, for me. Though I wouldn't be that optimistic about it". Odile shrugged, as if to shake that thought off her shoulders. She was done talking about him, done telling about her own story of stupidity and recklessness; his seemed much more interesting, in the way a book she had just discovered would be. There was an inner hope she could hear within his words, the hope somehow he would be more like her than any other unlucky wanderer who had crossed her path; the hope of sympathy and a cure for loneliness, maybe. That same hope kept bringing the corners of her mouth slightly upward, not quite a smile but something much more different from the eternal frown she had fixed on her face. Even her fingers, after a while, stopped torturing the reddened frames around her nails. Her hands now sat quietly on her lap, almost joined in prayer, although they were bound to start restlessly toying with whatever she could find soon enough. A small chuckle left her lips as she listened to his words. "I'm afraid the curse we share is not of much interest among the sorcerers of this side of the land. I'd travel East, where they say the true wizards live, but with no guarantee...I don't think it's worth it". Surely, it would have been different with eleven more companions - it would have been easier to cross the lands without unwanted meetings, and maybe even easier to get a consistent outcome out of her wanderings. Or maybe she was just daydreaming - it appeared she was doing a lot of that, lately.
His next word was not really a question - he stopped before his words could be formed into any meaning, yet her mind was already trying to fill in the blanks. If that was an invitation to join their crowded party, then she already knew the answer, but the reason he had stopped might have just as well been the reason why it wouldn't have been a good idea. Still. She had nothing to lose, hadn't had it in a long while; and, as things were, everything was to gain.
—either way, she was too far from home to go back alone, now. "Would you mind another companion?", her own question left her lips pretty easily, a fainted, glimmering hope showing in her eyes as her hands moved lightly. It was a long shot, by all means, and a negative answer would have maybe made more sense; she figured the eldest brother's tendency to take control would weigh in heavily into that decision. But that didn't mean she wasn't willing to give it a try, or at least give Anders the chance to speak his mind. Another bird to follow them around could have been a considerable burden, especially when it was so different from them, candid and princely swans (she would be an easier target for occasional hunters, at best) – but they were all misfits in their own way, all on the run from something bigger than them. Hunters couldn’t really weigh into the matter, could they?
“I know herbs. I know how to cook them, and how to use them to heal wounds and diseases; and I’ve learned a lot about maps and routes, when I was with Rothbart. I know which places to avoid and where to find shelter and — I know a lot, I can help with a lot, I just need someway to feel…safer”. It wasn’t until she was done speaking that she realized just how much hope she had put into her own words; and how much of that could be crushed in the blink of an eye.

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— 55 Nico Tortorella 100x100 icons. — Giveaway prize for hookontheroger. — All icons were made by me. Don't repost / don't claim as yours. — Please like/reblog if they're of any use. Sample:
You can help. You are important and special.
puellaavis:
i did tell you mum i told you like last night over dinner but you were like “mhmm yeah uhhuh” and went back to eating because you know eating i don’t blame you but c’mon i told you ok don’t put this on me
and while i applaud the effort you can’t just go around grounding everyone
i mean not that carter’s parents would mind but still mum be a little kinder
yeah sorry I was kinda busy making sure you were eating because you don't and you're so skinny if you turn around you disappear and I know it's Carter's fault
I see it in his hair that he's the devil's spawn
and I can't be kinder I'm the deputy I run this town who run the world? MOM. MOM DOES. AND MOM GROUNDS WHATEVER SHE WANTS.
SWANSON OUT.
headcanon
After Rothbart's curse, Odile could never have children; it's simply impossible for her to carry a child and let it survive through her daily metamorphosis, unless some kind of spell or potions granted her to be free from her curse long enough to have a baby (which is what happened in the wendybird verse). Unless the baby was cursed as well, it could never survive; which is why, once in Storybrooke, and once the curse was broken, Darcel would never have wanted to go back to the Enchanted Forest; at least, in a land without magic there were no curses either, and she could find herself something close to a happy ending.
a tender sacrifice. like the pained april holmes ; + 26. s i l e n c e felt in the lost s o n g of a survivor, a dancer a mermaid ; or the bent & broken & occasional ray of feet of a dancing b a l l e r i n a . sunshine.
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✕ independent, non-fandom ✕ multiship, multiverse, o r i g i n a l c h a r a c t e r . o c & a u f r i e n d l y. ✕ 8 years of rping experience; ✕ mun is of age, and one on tumblr - (main blog: x). willing to rp nsfw themes. ✕ fc: emmy rossum; uses ✕ pre-set verses for tb, tw &, mainly icons & gif icons. ouat; possibly adding more. Open to all kinds of fandoms and plots!

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♚: Independent roleplay for the Cheshire Cat set in the ‘Once Upon a Time' timeline; heavy ’Alice’s Adventure’s In Wonderland' influences from Carroll & Burton & a dash of Disney “For me, insanity is super ♚: Two years of roleplaying experience & roughly s a n i t y; one year developing Cheshire; greater years of the normal is psychotic, writing experience normal means lack of ♚: Style varies from script to para to novella; i m a g i n a t i o n crack happens frequently lack of creativity.” ♚: Multiverse & Multiship friendly as well as — Jean Dubuffet original character friendly when well developed; Alternative Universe & Crossover compatible ♚: Uses primarily static icons but will also use gif icons, standard gifs, & bare writing ♚: Trigger Warnings and NSFW prevalent but always tagged and held under a cut when needed ♚: Written by Cecilia, aka. Queen of Lil Shits, breaker of feels, complete dofus
WONDERLAND | CURIOUS | INSANITY | LOOKING GLASS | CODE OF CONDUCT
puellaavis:
MUUUUUUMMMMMMMMMM
GODDAMN IT MUM YOU KNOW I’M ONLY HALFWAY THROUGH SEASON 2 OF ORANGE IS THE NEW BLACK YOU CAN’T JUST DO THAT YOU CAN’T JUST TAKE AWAY MY NETFLIX LIKE THAT WITHOUT WARNING MUMMMMM PLEEEEASE !! i mean no carter is disappointing and kinda sad but i’ll just sneak him through the window as usual it’s not like you noticed very much before i mean wot
wait. what the new season's out and you didn't tell me?
daughter ur such a disappointment ur grounded for life AND CARTER IS GROUNDED TOO