rectoress

[rectoress]

PROMPTS FROM THE HUNGER GAMES *  assorted dialogue from the 2012 film, adjust as necessary

i think it's our tradition.

it's been the way we've been able to heal.

i think it's... something that knits us all together.

you were just dreaming.

they're not going to pick you.

try to go to sleep.

i just gotta go. but i'll be back. i love you.

what are you gonna do with that when you kill it?

i was gonna sell it.

now i have nothing.

what if everyone just stopped watching?

it's as simple as that.

i'm not laughing at you.

we could do it, you know? take off. live in the woods.

we wouldn't make it five miles.

i'm never having kids.

guess the odds aren't exactly in my favor.

you keep it. it's yours.

aww, look at you. you look beautiful.

wish i looked like you.

as long as you have it, nothing bad will happen to you, okay? i promise.

freedom has a cost.

this is how we remember our past. this is how we safeguard our future.

you're stronger than they are. you are.

they just want a good show. that's all they want.

whatever you do, don't let them starve.

you know if you don't want to talk, i understand. but i just don't think there's anything wrong with getting a little bit of help.

so when do we start?

know, in your heart, that there's nothing i can do to save you.

you made me spill my drink.

i think i'll go finish this in my room.

you'll freeze to death first.

can you pass the marmalade?

you really wanna know how to stay alive? you get people to like you.

are there any surprises that we can expect this year?

i'm sorry that this happened to you, and i'm here to help you in any way i can.

you're here to make me look pretty.

i'm gonna do something that they're gonna remember.

don't be afraid.

why don't you go clean yourselves up a little before dinner?

i didn't touch your knife!

i hear you can shoot.

i hope you noticed we have a serious situation.

loosen your corset and have a drink.

i thought they hated me.

don't you know how beautiful you look?

just be yourself. i'll be there the whole time.

i'm prepared, vicious, and i'm ready to go.

do you want to tell us about it?

do i smell like roses to you?

you don't talk to me, and then you say you have a crush on me?

he made you look desirable.

we are not star crossed lovers.

look for water. water's your new best friend.

give me your arm.

we need a signal, in case one of us gets held up.

if you can't scare them, give them something to root for.

everyone likes an underdog.

i'm not gonna leave you.

nobody's gonna find you in here.

we'll just get you some medicine.

i should have gone to you.

i remember the first time i saw you.

[name], you're not gonna risk your life for me. i'm not gonna let you.

now there's no way i'm letting you go.

go on. i'm dead anyway. i always was, right? i didn't know that until now.

it's the only thing i know how to do.

there has been a slight rule change.

one of us has to die.

i'm sorry it didn't go the way they planned.

i couldn't imagine life without him.

they must be very proud of you.

so what happens when we get back?

i don't want to forget.

#writing ;; prompts

[rectoress]

Educational poster with nineteen images of the calyxes of different plant species. 

University of Groningen, Biologisch Centrum

#tissaia de vries ;; re: interests

[rectoress]

an independent and private roleplay for a modern rendition of Tissaia de Vries written by Juniper.

;; the muse please be aware that although my portrayal is based on the character as she appears in the books by Andrzej Sapkowski, it is a modern, imagined rendition that is entirely my own.

;; writing I'm here to write with a very few mutuals / friends whenever I am able to. ;; addendum low / sporadic activity.

#pinned post

[rectoress]

MISCELLANEOUS.           beauty hath strange power.

#juniper ;; promo #💖💘💖💘 #the portrayal 🤌 #the writing 🤌 #the depth 🤌 #actual stella gibson #will never be over it

[rectoress]

MYANNA BURING as TISSAIA DE VRIES

#tissaia de vries ;; portrait

[rectoress]

everstride​:

“Not at all.”    That earns a curl to her lips,  barely hidden as she drags her glass away from her lips,  sight not once wavering from soaking in the other woman.  There was an admiration;  a sense of comfortability and ease in the other woman’s presence that Laura struggled to find with most.  Labelled the life of the party,  always holding centre of attention to tell tales or jokes that are put on for show with pearly whites and jet black hair.  She liked pleasing people,  a rush coursing through her body.  But even she grew tiresome of the never-ending same old,  same old.  Everyone too afraid to teeter beneath the surface;  did she expect any less in her field of work?  They never spoke of the level of loneliness Journalism could bring you to;  a quiet room made out of glass that feels all too insufferable as you watch the world pass you by.  All too focused on the stories they pry from unsuspecting victims to distribute out into the world.    “I hope you have interest in watching me sober.”    There’s no missing the underlayer of flirtation,  letting a pause hang between as she takes a small sip.    “I’ve probably hit my limit for the week,  so this should be my last.”

A quirk of her brow,  almost squinting as she listens to the other.    “Are you trying to prescribe me?  Because I think I know where the limit stands.”    There’s no sigh,  no roll to her eyes,  just something much too expressionless.    “I think you’re mistaking me with somebody else.  I’ve already been dragged from that closet against my will,  twice.  I could have easily let it turn me into someone unrecognisable.  Not a lot of people come back from that or even get as far as I did.  If anything,  I took their power with me.”    Does she believe it?  At first she hadn’t,  the world seemingly too much,  and not just in Television,  but Journalism.  She’d found her place,  what motivated her and made life worth moving.  Until it was ripped out from under her,  raw and exposed she stood facing the world.  A wound that hung deeper than necessary,  a betrayal she’s worked to overcome;  despite the lingering ache every now and again.  You expect it so willingly, Laura.  Her therapist had said.  Always anticipating the ball dropping,  holding the door wide open rather than shutting it behind herself.  Did it ease the heartache inside?  Make it bearable if she believed to have seen it coming?  But she also couldn’t afford to continuously put her heart out on the line,  not after all she’d been through,  not with how frail and inconsistent it could be.    “Do you have anything to hide?  Do you fit into those who resort to unspeakable things,  or do you let the world put you under a microscope?”

"I have every interest in watching you sober." For reasons already stated. There might be others that Tissaia will not express out loud mostly because she has never entertained that kind of blunt, obnoxious and, yes let's say it, crass proclivities but also, partly, because she hasn't quite reached a conclusion where Laura is concerned. Though that particular brand of decision is best left to the governance of less rational factors, Tissaia is troubled somehow, aware on some, she'd be inclined to admit, subconscious level that she ought to proceed with caution, take the full measure of the woman, collect enough data to gauge and weigh and dissect every single shred of it in order to settle the entire matter in a manner that cannot be anything but entirely satisfactory and foolproof. A smile cuts across her mouth. "I know who you are and what happened to you." Head tilting, Tissaia hums almost imperceptibly then shifts to pick up her glass and lose herself in a brief contemplation of its contents. "It certainly did take courage to put yourself back in the lion's den." She looks up, eyes sharp in their scrutiny of every line etched around Laura's. "Is that why you did it? To keep the power you'd taken from them? To make a point?" The world of television, of her kind of journalism, is vast enough and Laura could have worked anywhere and with anyone. Tissaia samples her vodka, puts the glass down, taps the tip of her index finger against the rim. "Now I wonder whether it was courage or perhaps -" The look she casts Laura now embraces her fully in long and slow strokes of her eyes along the length of her arms, hands, torso, face again. "Revenge. Or retribution. I wouldn't blame you."

And though that isn't entirely true, Tissaia being staunchly entrenched in beliefs of justice and neutrality in all matters however personal those might be, she finds it strangely enjoyable, almost comfortable, to humour her - if there is such a thing to entertain. Laura doesn't strike her as either petty or unethical but she is a journalist, and a publicly humiliated one at that. "Who's asking?" The smile touching half of her mouth reaches her eyes with a healthy dose of scepticism. "Neither," Tissaia says before she takes another sip and puts the glass down to occupy her hands with a meticulous and efficient adjusting of her cuffs. "I don't resort to anything unspeakable nor do I believe placing me under a microscope would wield any unsavoury results." Not herself per se, no, Tissaia de Vries is cautious and perceptive enough to maintain an impeccable front. Her methods, on the other hand, and the way patients are handled and treated at her clinic might be deemed borderline by the current school of medicine and psychiatry. Attempts were made to oust the board and to remove her along with those now considered obsolete - although that isn't that never was the exact term they bandied, words being all it took nowadays to sully one's reputation and bring about the utter ruin of one's career and achievements. "I'm a psychiatrist," she eventually adds, her fingers now busy around her neck. "I specialise in the care of girls and young women stuck in the foster care system."

#everstride #persistence. perfection. patience. power. prioritise your passion. it keeps you sane ;; modern verse

[rectoress]

MyAnna Buring as Tissaia THE WITCHER (2019– )

#tissaia de vries ;; portrait #the messy hair is so out of character #i'm getting HIVES

[rectoress]

tissaia show vs books

insp.

#tissaia de vries ;; portrait #tissaia de vries ;; about #BLESS YOU OP 😭😭😭

[rectoress]

Ok so I recently got a Twitter account mostly for the witcher related content (@childofchaosNic) and I just need to vent about something real quick:

Lauren's tweets about S2 make me feel so frustrated.

She keeps speaking of events and motivations for them that exist and make sense in her head/on paper but not in the actual series. It's like she has all these thoughts and "headcanons" on the witcher universe and acts like everyone else is supposed to know them and understand them even if she doesn't actually show them through the characters and plots.

It seems like she has an idea of how the story is supposed to be like, a story that is entirely different from the books but that also depends heavily on the knowledge from the books in order to work because the show itself just fails to portray her idea/vision.

Most of the storylines from s2 are built on assumptions and preconditions that are in her head only, assumptions that she later explains instead of actually writing good plots and developing characters properly.

A story or content should not need to be explained extensively off screen by the creators, ever, it should be clear to the viewers from the material itself.

Some examples are obviously Eskel, the whole mess that was the Aretuza plot and the incoherent and poor characterisation that a lot of female characters suffered, Tissaia and Yennefer above all else, as opposed to the extraordinary job they did with them in season one.

Sorry for the rant, I just can't believe this, honestly...

#juniper ;; ooc #i've been calling it the Lauren show for a reason #it's confirmed now #jesus #it's bad #it's so bad #it's bad stories told badly by a bad story teller #and the worst things about it are that it's been renewed for 7 seasons i think? #and that you get told to shut up when you complain about it because hey just consume that Netflix Good Shit without thinking or questioning

[rectoress]

vorcotec​:

        A lock of hair has come free from Tissaia’s bun, hanging against her cheek. Jane thinks she must want her very badly, to be able to stand there putting Jane’s collar and sloppy lapels back to rights, but have such a piece of her own puzzle out of place; she thinks she must want her very badly to have allowed it to slip out at all. She reaches out and takes that piece of soft, lovely hair, brushing it between her fingers, thinking about freeing it all, what it would feel like tickling her skin with Tissaia pressed against her, brushing against her in sleek intimacy.

        “Yes,” she says. “I did. I’m going to do it again.” She moves back in. Stooping to kiss Tissaia, she takes her waist, their lips sliding together, a low noise of satisfaction humming into the contact. So perfect, back in the iridescent sensation of touching her, her warmth and her smell–why would Tissaia back away, open up the space between them for the air-conditioned chill to leak in, when they could have this? There’s no one else here. The only people to see them are the fish, darting in silent, colorful ribbons of motions through their dark tanks.

         She drops a hand lower to grip her rear. Her tongue strokes delicately into Tissaia’s mouth. There’s tingling heat everywhere she feels Tissaia, like the feeling a match must have right before it catches. When she can get a breath, she murmurs to her, “I want to do this all the time.” She kisses the corner of Tissaia’s lips, then the fine angle of her jaw, then her mouth again. “I’m lost in you,” she murmurs, vague, dreamy. “You feel so good. You don’t know, either. How much I want you. I think of you so much, when we’re not together.”

It has escaped her notice, that rogue lock of hair Jane sees fit to play with instead of slipping it back into place, but Tissaia, quite remarkably, fails to take umbrage or even to stop this unsettling display of affection that speaks to an intimacy reaching far beyond that of carnal impetus. One they still seem eager to respond to in tandem with words and touches growing rather bolder for their surroundings. Tissaia is aware of it but the urgency born from and fed by the lewd devotions she is being subjected to dissolves it all, as though the entire place, the light streaming through bulbs and water, the fish swimming and drifting, the occasional visitors strolling and glancing, more than likely, in their direction have lost both relevance and reality. It is encroaching. That’s what it’s doing. Encroaching upon her thoughts and her reactions, and prying her grasp from the situation, its defined boundaries and its coherent ramifications. Jane’s warm words against her skin already covered with a thin sheen of saliva. Hers? Theirs? Tissaia shivers. 

Her fingers find Jane’s upper arms. “Jane.” Holding tight, gripping, squeezing, she is desperate, almost visibly so, for an opportunity to recover some semblance of cogency. Her thoughts, always so precise and defined, always so efficiently and perfectly arranged in clear rows and strict angles, always working in the most effective and rational ways are disturbed. As though each stroke of Jane’s tongue and every murmured syllable is a hand sweeping them off the shelves to watch tumble and fall until they are strewn about the great palace of her mind. 

“What do you think about?” Talking helps. Tissaia latches on the sound of her voice to hoist herself back to a predicament in dire need of steering in the direction she chooses. Down to Jane’s elbows, her fingers slide, quick and practical in their guiding further up the end of the small corridor and behind half an ugly pillar, all concrete and cold, which barely conceals them. She glances up at Jane before her eyes slant downward to follow the slow and meticulous work of her fingers on Jane’s coat. “Tell me.” Between her legs, Tissaia’s knee finds a small opening it nudges with the same single-mindedness imbued in the delicate dedication granted to the exploration of Jane’s covered chest. The tip of her index finger follows the soft curve under her right breast. It creases the fabric of her shirt according to the path her caresses take. “I think about this,” she says quietly. She cups the entire breast. Gently. She feels its warmth, its weight in the palm of her hand. “I think about taking off your clothes. About what your skin will taste like.” Leaning in, closing what small gap remains between them, she lowers her mouth to kiss her through her clothes, to bury her nose, her face right there and torment her own senses. “I think about you too much, Jane Andrews.”

#vorcotec #persistence. perfection. patience. power. prioritise your passion. it keeps you sane ;; modern verse

[rectoress]

Tissaia in this scene though… 

#tissaia de vries ;; portrait

[rectoress]

everstride​:

The relaxation stretches from her face and down through the rest of her body as she sinks back into the cushion of her seat.  A content buzz coursing through veins,  a pleasant glow of warmth.    “I believe…”    A need to think,  slowly unravel the mind with the correct execution of her words.    “Everything is a little bit like medicine,  in a way.  Here and there.  It all contributes to who we are.  Think of it as another pill.”    A pause,  lips twitching.    “One that just so happens to be more verbal than consumption.”    A grin,  a shine in her eyes while leaning her head back to watch the woman,  easily taking note of the way Tissaia’s lips pull up at her words,  sight unavoidable,  only seeming to fuel Laura more and more.  Tongue dips out,  slowly rolling over her lower lip before retreating back inside.    “You should.”    A shame to waste,  to not have her fun—cake and all.  Her eyes follow as Tissaia parts,  heading from the table to the bar.  Forest green run from head to heel;  slowly taking in the outline of her frame.  Teeth pull her lower lip into her mouth as she turns away,  dipping fingers into her purse to glance at her phone,  taking note of new emails,  missed calls.  Nothing important;  at least,  nothing that couldn’t wait.  It’s discarded before Tissaia returns,  Laura’s ears perking up at the voice,  the woman’s presence.  Brows lift,  head cocking to the side as she listens,  waits.  Slowly biting back the smirk threatening to spill as she rolls her eyes,  lets something lighthearted spill between parted lips.  Clear my judgement.  Oh,  the tease.    “Is yours also a double?”    A squint,  reaching out for her glass as she takes a small sip,  a quiet hum falling.    “You must be new to Journalism.”    The smirk appears then as she lets the bottom of her glass collide with the table top.    “Nobody’s exempt from the truth being used against them.”    A mere shrug as she comes to twist her body,  leaning on her side to face the other a little more.    “I’m saying it’s not easy to hurt someone when all their truth is revealed.  It doesn’t make an easy target.  Somebody with nothing to hide is a lot more dangerous than somebody with everything to hide.”

"Would you mind if it wasn't?" Is it a hint? A desire for some semblance of equal footing? A concern that Tissaia might hold herself much above her own station or, perhaps more deviously, that she might want to lay claim to something, to make a statement? "It's a double," Tissaia says. "I've no interest in watching you get drunk while I remain sober. In fact, I've no interest in getting either of us intoxicated." It's tasteless. What does it serve, to mollify another woman's mind, to tamper with her abilities? Just the right amount, the perfect measure, contributes to shedding reserve and to steer conversations and disencumber one's disposition. "Chemistry. Again." The sly curve of her lips disappears behind the rim of her glass when she takes a rather long simp. "I'm trying to guess what your dosage is, you see. Where the limit stands." Ever so slightly, her eyes narrow and scan what they can make of her, sitting there in this particular moment, in these exact circumstances, because the fleeting nature of it renders her all the more enticing. "You're right," Tissaia concedes with a nod. "But is this it? Has all of your truth been exposed?" She can't possibly reduce herself to that one aspect of her, however inherent or transcendental if she were to give in to pathos - something Tissaia detests and will not voice aloud, even to better needle her. "There's more to you than being a lesbian, Laura. Don't do this. Don't hand them that power. Don't let them drag you out of the closet to put you in a box." The humiliation, the hurt, the betrayal, none of them compares to the pain that resides in vulnerability, in being stripped, flayed bare. In being exposed. Tissaia understands that. It is nestled deep within her, that fear of not just losing control but having it ripped from her. “Someone with something to hide is much more dangerous. To protect ourselves, we can all resort to doing unspeakable things. Don’t think your ordeal has made you stronger than you already were.”

#everstride #persistence. perfection. patience. power. prioritise your passion. it keeps you sane ;; modern verse

[rectoress]

@vorcotec said: The window is flung wide onto a winter morning, with the hard, colorless sun slanting its light in, but Jane looks at Tissaia and feels warm. She wants to tell her how it is to be near her--the way she chases off the cold air, how the passing scent of her, faint, clean, a little floral, and sometimes with that sly, brown-crackling whiff of pipe smoke, makes Jane feel silly, and how beautiful she is with her hair down--but the words won't pass her lips; her hand transmutes them, catch at a dark curl gently as Tissaia turns from the opened shutters to her, tracing down its length, then cup her jaw, follow its curvature to her chin, and hold her still for a kiss. "Hm," she says, and leans down further still to press her face into the warm curve of Tissaia's neck, and loop her arms tight around the other woman, fitting their bodies snugly together. "I'm happy," she whispers to her, and kisses just under her ear, just over her heartbeat.

There is an ease about Jane, an ease the likes of which Tissaia has never seen so naturally infused in those born without magic. It disarms her entirely. No matter what Jane is doing, her mind seems to be wholly consumed and her stance follows suit, driven by what holds such a strong, fascinating sway on her that it forgoes anything else. And kissing her, letting her claim a kiss with such simplicity and such familiarity undoes something. As though the feel of her, the mere proximity of the heat of her skin, the taste of her lips still warm and soft and swollen with sleep, the delicate heaven of her embrace are tugging at a thread inside her thoughts. What will come of it? What will unravel? What are you doing to me, Jane Andrews? She doesn’t have an inkling, does she? Can’t even begin to suspect. And Tissaia wonders whether it might surprise her, whether it might deter or even disappoint her? What is it that she expects to find? What is she seeking? 

In those frail hours not yet heavy with the day's toll but light and young and hopeful still, Tissaia instantly detaches herself from a much needed solitude to drift and float on what Jane bestows. It is so mundane, so incomprehensibly uncomplicated. How Jane's mouth there, on the steady pulse in her neck, stoppers the strong, fluid stream flowing through her mind.

Her lips part, stretch into a quiet smile. "It suits you." She pushes a hand through Jane's hair. The temptation, again, to reach for what lingers inside that head of hers and pluck at the delicate tendrils of conjectures, questions, doubts, beliefs, concerns and weave them through her mind's eye. Would she find happiness there, in the intricate pattern? The tip of her fingers are dancing over Jane's nape, down the delicate path of her spine and over the slender slopes of her sides and hips. "What does it look like to you?" she asks, opening her eyes and angling her head to look at Jane. Gingerly taking hold of her jaw, Tissaia loses herself in the contemplation of her face. "Close your eyes." Her hand passes over them. "Tell me," she whispers against her mouth. "What colours? What shapes? Tell me about happiness, Jane Andrews."

#vorcotec #writing ;; answer #organising chaos ;; verse first

[rectoress]

LADIES MEME: [7/8] supernaturals > tissaia de vries

#tissaia de vries ;; portrait #💓🔥💓🔥

[rectoress]

“Ah.” The witcheress is submitted to a gauging look with a few steps between them out of courtesy, out of the lingering discomfort that still seeps in the first few moments of every encounter and, well, out of a desire to remain dry and unsoiled by what mud and other dirt is caking her clothes. “Nonsense, Zelda. You are always welcome here.” Her expression softens with a smile more perceptible than it might have been a few months ago. Tissaia beckons to her with a gracious flourish before setting off, her sharp, clipped steps leading her further inside the house where warmth and comfort will grant Zelda what this stiff exchange encumbered with what has been said and done - not said and not done - cannot.

The fire is low in the hearth. Revived with a flutter of her fingers, it spreads heat rapidly and Tissaia pulls up a chair for Zelda beside it. “Same horse,” she observes when, without a word of warning, she pulls the dripping cloak from her shoulders to drape it over the back of another chair. “How are you able to make a living lately?” Though fear still finds residence in people’s minds, twisting, warping, deceiving what ought to be common sense or even pure and rational logic, its recipients are going through a nonetheless remarkable shift. Monsters have changed. “Why don’t you head north?” She comes to stand before her, tugs on the cuffs of her sleeves. "For a little while, at least. Would you consider it?"

@suresaint​  /  ctnd.

#suresaint #the remains of the day ;; verse second

[rectoress]

No idea when I'll fancy wasting the limited free time I have to watch season 2 because Tissaia has been butchered. I don't recognise her. Change storylines all you want but don't alter Tissaia's personality, values, beliefs and last but certainly not least: her sexual orientation.

#juniper ;; ooc #i am so so so angry

[rectoress]

Tissaia and Moiraine are basically the same person in different universes.

#i am thinking about her 🙃