“—Do not start with me. It won’t end well, and you know better.”

"Apparently if I don’t start with you, no one will. Just what the hell did you think you were going to accomplish by hiding this shit from me? The girls I understand - fuck, your daughter, I understand - but me, Fiona? Of all fucking people, me?!

“Fuck you.”

*NOMS ON THE COOKIES THANKYOU SO MuCH<333 *

[ ♛ ] send me a url and i'll tell you the following;

my opinion on;

character in general: I BOTH LOVE AND HATE FIONA A LOT OKAYhow they play them: PERFECTLY-- ARE YOU fIONA??? WE JUST DONT KNOW, WE MIGHT NEVER KNOW, BUT YOU CAPTURE HER VOICE AND HER EXISTENCE SO WELL TBFHthe mun: WE’VE ONLY SPOKEN BRIEFLY ABOUT A PLOT (THAT I STILL OWE YOU A STARTER ON WOW IM TRASH BUT I JUST WANT IT TO BE gOOD OKa Y) BUT SUPER SWEET EACH TIME WE’VE SPOKEN AND I CAN TELL I LOVE YOU ALREADY OKA Y

do i;

follow them: YEPPERSrp with them:  i oWE A STARTER BUT yE S SORT OF AHAHHAHAwant to rp with them: YESSSSSship their character with mine: IN THE SAME WAY I SHIP DONOVAN AND THE COUNTESS AND IMMA LEAVE THAT SHIT AT THAT-- IN OTHER WORDS YEAH FIONA FUCK ME UP WITH UNREQUITED LOVE IM cRY IN G AL READY

what is my;

overall opinion:  I LOVE THIS BLOG AND THIS PORTRAYAL OF FIFI (YEAH IM CALLIN HER THAT JSDLF;KSDJ) AND I JUST wOULD RECOMMEND YOU LOT FOLLOW THIS FIONA OK AY ALSO THEIR INTERACTIONS WITH CORDYS WILL BREAK YOU AHAHAH PeRFECT

Methodical --- that was a good word to use. Yes, methodically¸ John had been studying a Miss Fiona Goode for months now. She was a tricky woman, never staying in one place for more than two weeks. New Orleans seemed to be the center of her activity, but even there she strayed from. It was quite common that she often abandoned her daughter at the drop of a hat; with what he knew of her character, it didn’t come as a surprise. He’d never met her personally, but she was almost always the center of attention at Delphi Trust’s headquarters. He knew her well enough that it was a simple task to trace her to Chicago in search of yet another plastic surgeon.

With no luck, Fiona had returned to her hotel’s bar, as per usual, with a slight glint of anger reflecting in her eyes. Another doctor’s appointment gone wrong, John supposed. He was lurking nearby, a few stools down, absent-mindedly drumming his fingers against the wood of the table. Occasionally, he’d sip on the glass of ginger ale in front of him, but his focus was fixated on the witch. After a few moments, he made the move to cross the distance in between them and take the seat beside her. That grabbed her attention.

A tiny frown was aligning her lips, no doubt due to the absence of a drink in front of her; John’s brows were subtly arched at that, so he offered to alleviate her mood --- rather, make things easier for him.

“—Used to worry you?” There is a dry laugh, lips twitching up just so at one corner. Time for bed, evidently… and maybe the Supreme is just drunk enough to actually fall asleep in under an hour. The room seems to tilt a little when she sits upright, though, and blinking doesn’t clear her vision. “…Maybe,” she agrees in spite of herself, and glances up at her trusted familiar with glossy eyes. “One of these days I’ll just let you carry me.”

He lets the tensing slip past with a nonchalant shrug, too tired to have another drunken fight over whether or not she’s worn him out of his worry. She is a risky witch and a reckless Supreme--and he sympathizes.

Most nights.

She’s sitting at the bar with an elbow up on it and she doesn’t look like total shit but she looks like some shit and that’s mostly enough. There’s a sufficiently stitched cut just below her right eye, a longer one that runs the length of her jagged collarbone. It’s an angry red, the same rough shade that seems slightly swollen, hot around black stitches. The little white shirt nestles close to her frame, and she reaches up to brush a hand through messy, dark hair. Knuckles were bandaged ages ago, but all things considered, for what a mess she is, Alana’s bright diamond blues are vibrant as anything. She’s gorgeous for trashed.

“I know that, I—” Fuck. She expected it to be difficult, because—because rehab isn’t supposed to be easy, because addiction is rough and because if getting sober was easy, rehab wouldn’t exist. But she wasn’t prepared for the guilt. The physical symptoms have finally begun to subside, except there’s this lingering queasiness, something unsettled in the pit of her stomach. It has worsened now, somehow, in just the past ten minutes as she has been trying—trying and failing—to apologize to Alana. That’s a step in her recovery, an important part of this process, and… and Fiona can’t do it without feeling sick and screwing it up. “—I appreciate it, I do, but you… I’m not good for you. I’m not… good for anyone, but especially not for you.” A breath in, breath out, but it doesn’t help the nausea. “I shouldn’t have—told you to come so soon, it’s… I’m not… I wasn’t ready. I’m not ready.”