-Roger Haus

Most of what she knew, she'd learned from the wild. Nature had nurtured, tutored, and protected her when no one else would.

Delia Owens, Where the Crawdads Sing (pg. 363)

their  spine  feels  winnie  before  her  eyes  could  even  register  the  figure  in  their  periphery.  faye  does  not  know  what  it  is  ━━  what  makes  her  look  right  in  the  direction  that  winnie  is  coming  from  but,  truth  is,  hazel  eyes  meet  the  other  before  faye  could  even  think  about  ignoring  them.  mirth  and  mischief  (  a  pair  so  very  familiar  with  all  of  tink's  life  )  take  over  faye's  expression  in  equal  measure,  metal  can  meeting  their  lips  for  a  small  sip  once  more.  "oh,  please,  tell  me  how  you  really  feel."  a  tease,  a  jest  ━━  something  that  had  been  so  familiar  between  them  back  home.

faye  leans  back,  one  hand  holding  them  up  and  another  holding  the  beer  can.  index  finger  taps  rhythmically  as  their  eyes  taken  in  winnie  once  again  ━━  from  the  top  of  their  head  to  their  toes  and  the  smile  on  her  lips  does  not  falter  (  whether  it's  a  warm  smile,  a  playful  one  or  something  else  ━━  something  akin  to  a  predator  towards  their  prey  ).  "and  what  is  your  drink  of  choice,  winnie?" now, a smirk. mischief clear in her eyes as she speaks next.  "i'm  a  bartender,  i  can  whip  you  something  up  if  you  want  to  break  into  the  trip  trap."

while staying indoors could be seen as the logical option considering the news, winnie was beyond antsy. being cooped up indoors had always felt some sort of suffocating ever since she could remember. a quick walk wouldn't hurt them right ? why would a murderer care for her anyway. and the idea that the fable herself were guilty was laughable. the only person she killed was still alive and well. so she trudged along to an undetermined location, letting her mind wander to whatever escapist fantasy settled the nerves in her body. that was, until they spotted her. reality snapping sharply back into focus.

why winnie's feet took her in the direction of the other blonde she'd never know. maybe it was an old habit, instinct, or their arguable penchant for punishment. whatever the case may be, now they found themself standing with arms crossed firmly, right in front of faye. " anyone who would accuse you of such a thing would be out of their mind. " words leaving a little more charged that originally intended. something that happened on occasion whilst in the other's company. " plus, not my drink of choice anyway. "

♡ HAVANA ROSE LIU elle's hollywood rising

𝙏𝘼𝙂 𝘿𝙍𝙊𝙋.

𝗥𝗢𝗪𝗘𝗡𝗔 𝗪𝗢𝗢𝗗𝗦 ⸻ visual

𝗥𝗢𝗪𝗘𝗡𝗔 𝗪𝗢𝗢𝗗𝗦 ⸻ study

𝗥𝗢𝗪𝗘𝗡𝗔 𝗪𝗢𝗢𝗗𝗦 ⸻ wanted dynamic

𝗥𝗢𝗪𝗘𝗡𝗔 𝗪𝗢𝗢𝗗𝗦 ⸻ starter

𝗥𝗢𝗪𝗘𝗡𝗔 𝗪𝗢𝗢𝗗𝗦 ⸻ task

𝗥𝗢𝗪𝗘𝗡𝗔 𝗪𝗢𝗢𝗗𝗦 ⸻ intro

𝗥𝗢𝗪𝗘𝗡𝗔 𝗪𝗢𝗢𝗗𝗦 ⸻ thread

♡ jessica alexander via instagram ( jessalxander )

impatient  bartender  leaves  their  place  of  work  before  they  are  roped  into  doing  the  final  steps  of  closing  up,  night  plans  already  sent  down  the  drain.  faye  would  be  lying  if  they  said  they  are  looking  forward  to  this  empty  headed  meeting  of  all  of  fabletown  ━━  a  gala  to  make  them  all  forget  that  their  little  safe  haven  might  not  be  as  safe  after  all.  if  nothing  else,  tink  is  looking  forward  to  whatever  drama  other  fables  might  cook  up  (  and  it  might  make  up  for  the  lack  of  good  entertainment  ).

familiar  figure  catches  the  fairy's  eyes  and,  for  half  a  beat,  faye  considers  merely  walking  past  and  ignoring  the  other's  existence.  and  then,  he  speaks.  "the  celebration  hasn't  even  started  and  you're  already  speaking  like  you're  on  your  third  glass  of  wine,  debbie  downer."  as  if  faye  has  any  qualms  with  the  thoughts  lancelot  is  sharing  ━━  it's  not  like  he's  the  only  one.

"if  any  mundanes  came  tomorrow,  i  think  we'd  be  alright.  i'm  not  above  kicking  someone  in  the  crotch.  and  i  found  a  cute  butterfly  knife  i'm  just  dying  to  use."  morality  is  far  too  expensive  these  days.  if  mundanes  came  looking  for  a  fight,  who  could  blame  the  fables  for  rising  to  the  occasion?  "what  would  you  do?"

mise  en  scenè  ⸺  the  crooked  mile,  at  the  juncture  between  the  open  arms  hotel  and  the  lucky  pawn,  an  hour  before  sunset.

in  a  few  hours,  fables  from  each  parcel  of  their  sequestered  town  will  march  their  inexorable  way  to  the  woodland  in  the  opaque  night,  beneath  the  cool  balm  of  stars.  the  sun  will  slope  beneath  the  horizon—the  world  aflame,  then  put  out  as  if  drowned—and  the  shoulders  of  the  sky  will  falter,  will  capitulate  to  the  black  sails  of  darkness.  the  day’s  light,  extinguished  in  but  a  short  breath,  a  short-lived  exhalation  of  time.

natural  occurrences  still  startle  lancelot,  but  he  supposes  it  is  to  be  expected,  even  excused:  after  all,  he  was  only  recently  roused  from  an  interminable  stupor.  hanging  from  a  tree  for  the  better  part  of  four  centuries  will  do  that  to  you,  king  cole  had  said.  the  symbol  of  death  marks  him  still;  no  signet  of  valiance  or  virtue  or  the  life  he  paraded  and  prided  himself  in  when  camelot  still  stood  tall  and  unfallen.  no  fate  could  be  so  final  and  so  essentially  pathetic.  nothing,  not  even  the  glory  of  a  name,  could  absolutely  survive  death.

this  world,  this  mundane  world,  had  prevailed  and  thrived  long  before  the  fables  arrived.  it  will  continue  to  do  so  long  after  they  are  gone.  one  way  or  another,  he  thinks.  how  long  before  their  magic  is  depleted?  before  the  cardinal  bond  between  birthplace  and  creation  is  severed  completely?  until  no  one  who  has  entered  the  heart  of  their  collective  tale  can  remember  it,  can  pass  it  on?

for  now,  he  waits,  a  sombre  sentry  hemmed  in  between  the  open  arms  and  the  lucky  pawn.  the  fleet  of  footsteps  draws  neither  his  eye  nor  his  ear,  but  he  inclines  his  head  nonetheless.  “for  how  long  do  you  think  we’ll  remain  hidden?  another  decade?  another  century?  tomorrow,  perhaps,  we’ll  wake  to  the  mundane  authority  storming  our  homes.”

BOB'S BURGERS 3.18 — It Snakes a Village

MADELYN CLINE for tommy hilfiger . ( ♡︎ )

Morgiana (1972)