open post for pic prompts, starters, and texts. f/m or f/f for shipping. see here for more permissions. please link nsfw images. compatible with all seasons of wynonna earp.
( It's been months since she's been in Purgatory. Being confined to the Ghost River Triangle didn't really leave many places to run, but at least she could be a little way out, keep a low profile. Working shitty jobs in shitty bars was exactly what she was used to. It just felt—
it didn't feel like enough, anymore. Keeping alive when she'd had friends and people who counted on her, who had been ready to turn on her the second they found out the truth despite all those things she'd done for them. I'll shoot you last, those were the words that would creep into her head when she was trying to sleep, and then the sight of Wynonna and Waverly begging and crying. She'd screwed up in literally every sense. Hadn't managed to steal the child, and had destroyed her relationships with the only people who had really mattered in a long, long time. Now it back to running and surviving, same way she had been for over a hundred years.
The bar is almost closed, last orders up, and she's wiping down the counters. There's barely anyone left in here, now, and she's making herself at least wait until the last couple of old guys are out of here before she cracks into the bourbon. )
[ There aren't a lot of places to run when you're a revenant — at least, not within the Ghost River Triangle, when trying to step outside the boundaries of the cursed land mean you're in for a whole world of pain and longing for the mercy of a bullet from an equally cursed gun, a quick death and a return to Hell all in the same breath. Wynonna hasn't given much thought to the one who tried to steal her baby from her arms since it happened, because she's been too busy trying not to think about Alice, period, drowning herself in whiskey and beer and more whiskey and taking down rev-heads in the interim, whittling down that number as summer turns into fall turns into winter.
But when she hears talk of one who sounds pretty freaking familiar working in a bar a few towns over, she doesn't tell anyone else where she's going, just hops on her bike and goes to see for herself, pulling into the parking lot right around last call. And there she waits, leaning against the Screamin' Eagle, arms lightly folded across her chest and breath somewhat visible in the air as the last of the bar's patrons come stumbling out into the night. Meanwhile, she's painfully sober when she slips in behind them while the front door's still open, stepping into the shadows as it shuts with a heavy thud.
She recognizes everything — the tanned skin, the slender arc of shoulders, that damn ponytail even, and there's a bullet in Peacemaker practically burning a hole through her hip but she keeps her movements quiet, measured, right up until she steps under the beam of the nearest lamp. ]
I know what you're thinking. Of all the bars in this godforsaken place, she walks into mine.
She was reaching up for a bottle of bourbon and just about to get her keys when she hears that damn voice, the familiar dip and sway of it. There’s a particular quality to Wynonna Earp’s voice that was hard to put a name on. “Rough” didn’t feel right, but there’s some kinda texture. Probably her life would be easier if she hadn’t spent so much time thinking about Wynonna’s damn voice.
The bottle hits the counter with a thud, and she nods, shaking her head, as she slowly exhales. )
Yeah, well. Fate and I haven’t ever been on good terms.
( Only now does she look to Wynonna. ) You gonna let me have a last drink before you shoot me?
[ It's not a lie when she says it, because the truth of it is that Wynonna hasn't really thought through what she'd do if she walked into this place and saw all those rumors confirmed in front of her, saw the one revenant who'd practically been at arm's length this entire time without her knowing it. Saw the woman who tried to take her baby from her while she was still lying there hurting ten ways to Sunday and all of them from her damn cooch.
But she's also not about to give Rosita the impression that this is purely a social call, either, and after a beat she takes a few more steps forward to approach the bar, keeping her hands visible and away from the holster at her hip before she can rest them on top of that lacquered, weathered wood. ]
Why don't you make mine a double. [ The words don't leave her as a question, not the way she says them. ]
( She hates how much that still stings. That who she was didn’t matter at all, only what she was. With a brittle smile, Rosita slowly turns to reach for a second glass, setting it down in the worn bar before her gaze settles on Wynonna. )
Why else would you be here?
( Jeremy’s a great chemist. Maybe not as good as her, but able, and well-verses in whatever Dolls’ situation is. She shakes her head very slightly, and pours Wynonna that double, mirroring it with one of her own. )
Don't see any reason to stray from that plan, either.
[ And maybe she'd meant part of it to sound as cruel as she'd intended it, but there's another part of her — much, much deeper down — that wants to stay her own hand because of what she knows will be in store for Rosita once she pulls that trigger, another lifetime in hell before the next heir comes along.
And, in spite of everything, she's gonna stop just shy of sealing that fate for her.
She chuckles, but the sound is a little empty, a little hollow, and she plucks the glass between her fingers and tilts it slightly until the dark liquid within catches the light. ]
Still asking myself that question, honestly. [ How many times had she thought about what she'd say if their paths ever crossed again? But all those appropriately badass and vaguely threatening lines fly out of her head when she's confronted with the reality of it now, and instead, she moves to take a sizable swig of her drink, setting the glass down on the bartop with a solid thunk. ]
Working on a methadone adaptation. Trying to make it so it has a more stabilising long-term effect. The regular stuff doesn't always work so well with non-human physiology, so.
( She shrugs. Wynonna probably won't believe her, and if she does, why would she care? Rosita shakes her head, and has a sip of the bourbon. Shit, if there's every chance she could die tonight, may as well enjoy the good stuff?
Looking to Wynonna, it's almost a dare. Daring her to question her, to impose whatever assumption Wynonna has about all of them who aren't human or who are unlucky enough to be linked to the curse. Or maybe she isn't daring her, so much as desperately hoping that she'll be a dick so Rosita can gladly embrace reminder for why she's had to go off alone. )
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( It's been months since she's been in Purgatory. Being confined to the Ghost River Triangle didn't really leave many places to run, but at least she could be a little way out, keep a low profile. Working shitty jobs in shitty bars was exactly what she was used to. It just felt—
it didn't feel like enough, anymore. Keeping alive when she'd had friends and people who counted on her, who had been ready to turn on her the second they found out the truth despite all those things she'd done for them. I'll shoot you last, those were the words that would creep into her head when she was trying to sleep, and then the sight of Wynonna and Waverly begging and crying.
She'd screwed up in literally every sense. Hadn't managed to steal the child, and had destroyed her relationships with the only people who had really mattered in a long, long time. Now it back to running and surviving, same way she had been for over a hundred years.
The bar is almost closed, last orders up, and she's wiping down the counters. There's barely anyone left in here, now, and she's making herself at least wait until the last couple of old guys are out of here before she cracks into the bourbon. )
no subject
But when she hears talk of one who sounds pretty freaking familiar working in a bar a few towns over, she doesn't tell anyone else where she's going, just hops on her bike and goes to see for herself, pulling into the parking lot right around last call. And there she waits, leaning against the Screamin' Eagle, arms lightly folded across her chest and breath somewhat visible in the air as the last of the bar's patrons come stumbling out into the night. Meanwhile, she's painfully sober when she slips in behind them while the front door's still open, stepping into the shadows as it shuts with a heavy thud.
She recognizes everything — the tanned skin, the slender arc of shoulders, that damn ponytail even, and there's a bullet in Peacemaker practically burning a hole through her hip but she keeps her movements quiet, measured, right up until she steps under the beam of the nearest lamp. ]
I know what you're thinking. Of all the bars in this godforsaken place, she walks into mine.
no subject
She was reaching up for a bottle of bourbon and just about to get her keys when she hears that damn voice, the familiar dip and sway of it. There’s a particular quality to Wynonna Earp’s voice that was hard to put a name on. “Rough” didn’t feel right, but there’s some kinda texture. Probably her life would be easier if she hadn’t spent so much time thinking about Wynonna’s damn voice.
The bottle hits the counter with a thud, and she nods, shaking her head, as she slowly exhales. )
Yeah, well. Fate and I haven’t ever been on good terms.
( Only now does she look to Wynonna. ) You gonna let me have a last drink before you shoot me?
no subject
[ It's not a lie when she says it, because the truth of it is that Wynonna hasn't really thought through what she'd do if she walked into this place and saw all those rumors confirmed in front of her, saw the one revenant who'd practically been at arm's length this entire time without her knowing it. Saw the woman who tried to take her baby from her while she was still lying there hurting ten ways to Sunday and all of them from her damn cooch.
But she's also not about to give Rosita the impression that this is purely a social call, either, and after a beat she takes a few more steps forward to approach the bar, keeping her hands visible and away from the holster at her hip before she can rest them on top of that lacquered, weathered wood. ]
Why don't you make mine a double. [ The words don't leave her as a question, not the way she says them. ]
no subject
( She hates how much that still stings. That who she was didn’t matter at all, only what she was. With a brittle smile, Rosita slowly turns to reach for a second glass, setting it down in the worn bar before her gaze settles on Wynonna. )
Why else would you be here?
( Jeremy’s a great chemist. Maybe not as good as her, but able, and well-verses in whatever Dolls’ situation is. She shakes her head very slightly, and pours Wynonna that double, mirroring it with one of her own. )
no subject
[ And maybe she'd meant part of it to sound as cruel as she'd intended it, but there's another part of her — much, much deeper down — that wants to stay her own hand because of what she knows will be in store for Rosita once she pulls that trigger, another lifetime in hell before the next heir comes along.
And, in spite of everything, she's gonna stop just shy of sealing that fate for her.
She chuckles, but the sound is a little empty, a little hollow, and she plucks the glass between her fingers and tilts it slightly until the dark liquid within catches the light. ]
Still asking myself that question, honestly. [ How many times had she thought about what she'd say if their paths ever crossed again? But all those appropriately badass and vaguely threatening lines fly out of her head when she's confronted with the reality of it now, and instead, she moves to take a sizable swig of her drink, setting the glass down on the bartop with a solid thunk. ]
You cooking up shit for anyone else these days?
no subject
( She shrugs. Wynonna probably won't believe her, and if she does, why would she care?
Rosita shakes her head, and has a sip of the bourbon. Shit, if there's every chance she could die tonight, may as well enjoy the good stuff?
Looking to Wynonna, it's almost a dare. Daring her to question her, to impose whatever assumption Wynonna has about all of them who aren't human or who are unlucky enough to be linked to the curse. Or maybe she isn't daring her, so much as desperately hoping that she'll be a dick so Rosita can gladly embrace reminder for why she's had to go off alone. )