milk & honey.

AUBRIELLE NADIR ; water does not resist. water flows. when you plunge your hand into it, all you feel is a caress. but water always goes where it wants to go, & nothing in the end can stop it.

[runwayandbeauty]

[aubriellenadir]

( @sacredsavage )

Miss. Despite any and all insistence and evidence that Gwendolyn Venturi was a creature of immeasurable strength, her Achilles heel smeared a black spot on flawless skin. Spine of steel and talons sharp as razors she may have and retain as her youth faded and her pretty face along with it.Miss. A strong creature, but a proud creature nevertheless, prone to flights of fancy and bending just a little– just enough– when an unexpected compliment struck the soft flesh between her ribs and sank deep enough to matter.

This little ragtag girl had no idea what she’d done by exchanging one pointless honorific for another. But oh, how ma’am clanged terribly against some integral bone that kept her upright and in her correct mind– how she hated to be reminded of the years ticking by and the new face she must be wearing in order for the world to see her so differently. To have this lithe nymph not fawn but falterwas compliment beyond what Gwendolyn would rightly admit.

And this fresh look, too, was familiar; this fresh look, too, was reminiscent of her floundering youngest, her sweet, vulnerable Vienna. Where such blustering would have resulted in dismissal had it come from anyone else– Vienna included, Maia moreso– the Venturi matriarch found herself in a rare moment of weakness, of softness, and permitted her lips to quirk into something almost resembling a smile.

“I don’t gamble unless I’ve more to win than money,” Gwendoyln told her quietly, and held one smooth hand out between them, the closest to a peace offering Aubrielle would receive, and closer still to an apology for so startling the girl. “Get up off the ground and introduce yourself before someone knocks you into the pavement. Have you been shopping?”

Sometimes Aubrielle imagined she had heard every word mankind had created, and some they hadn’t – that was the case of pseudo-socialites, being flattered and flattering like it was a currency. If you weren’t having a conversation, you were practicing having one. But Bri liked words, and that was why it mattered just how one said them. Even if they had been repeated six times in the past hour, everything changed if you said it the right way. Or, if right didn’t exist, the different way.

But most of the time, off the clock and on the streets, Bri was just desperately hoping not to say the wrong thing. In truth, it had been a purposeful moniker -- deliberate in the way all matters of the heart were. It hadn’t been intended to flatter, to peel back years like thinner to paint. It was a gut reaction. The wonder of the woman before her was all gold, the kind of statue she should not have been allowed to touch. She said miss because someone that looked like this was not ma’am.

As with all the defining moments of Aubrielle’s life, that made this an accident.

“Only lives, than?” She tried again in the cleverest answer she could, perpetually trying to deflect from whatever flaws she had already exposed. But there was a hand already between them, and her eyes widened for a blinking-quick moment before she took the smooth palm. “--Of course --” Bri stood as hurriedly as she could without seeming a childish kind of zealous. “Aubrielle.” She didn’t extend Bri yet. That felt like too small a sound. “I was; there are some beautiful things in Bloomingdale’s, but the crowds were getting a bit much, so I had my things put aside.”

“-- Yourself?”

[watchoutforintellect]

The fever trickles and stiffens in my hair. My ribs show. What have I eaten? Lies and smiles.

Sylvia Plath - from The Jailer (via matfogy)

[aubriellenadir]

@maiavxnturi

There were many things which Maia acquired, be it through her wealth or from the trophy room of trinkets collected by those she mercilessly hunted. None of them were animals. She could recall, on more than one occasion, a dog crying in the corner or foolishly growling, the soft-hearts of man’s best friend held no place in her world. There was one dog she’d met, his nature similar to her own, trained and perfected until it was nothing more than a dark beast with evil in it’s eyes.  

It was all Maia could think of, as the small, useless ball of fluff stopped by her feet, her own heeled boots halting in a bid to not trample on the pathetic thing. She smiled, the way she always smiled and lifted her head up.

“Think nothing of it,” Maia responded, tone sweeter than demerara. Her hand did not reach out to pet the wild dog’s fur, instead her murderous fingers remained by her side as she shifted her footing slightly, to alleviate the slight strain caused from the pause on an uneven surface. “They say dogs mimic the behavior of their owner.”

As Bri more fully took in the countenance of the person that Koda had stopped before -- looking rather than blindly thanking -- it was quite an immediate reaction to feel inadequate. This was mostly habit by now, a feeling instilled and rising in Aubrielle when she looked at beautiful or put-together women. Though her emerging reputation and proficiency in high society had curbed this somewhat, that did nothing to help her now, as she felt frazzled and clunky next to the serene brunette while she recovered from her wild breath. 

“Ah,” Perhaps it was girl-cult paranoia, but something in the sweet-blossomed anecdote of the stranger seemed -- ready to be an insult? Aubrielle swallowed that feeling as she could, standing up with a hold on Koda’s leash and smiling. “If only that were the case, hmm? I should be so lucky to go after what I want with such a decided lack of inhibition.”

[aubriellenadir]

@lucianoventuri

A London native is born with the cold in his bones, blood running several degrees lower than the rest of the world’s population. Whether one resents the chill is irrelevant; after five decades living and thriving under the godforsaken weather of this country, regular downpours and ice-slicked streets are simply to be endured. Gloved hands shoved into the pockets of his coat for good measure, scarf wrapped twice around his throat, the very air before him forms inch-thick clouds of steam with every exhale. The last thing he expects to stumble across on a morning walk while braving the ice is a ball of exuberance and scampering mischief. A small, intelligent creature, it stopped just short of Luciano’s shoes. Crouching at eye-level, Luciano reached out a hand, allowing the puppy to familiarize itself with the new scent before giving it a rewarding scratch beneath the chin.

Presumably, the girl who’d come dashing after it, the cry of a name on her lips, was the harried owner. Luciano greeted her apology with an airy wave of his hand. “He was perfectly well-behaved.” People, he was bothered by. Dogs, and puppies, however, could never be accused of such.

“I can see. The little rascal must’ve gotten impatient.” The hint of a smile could almost be detected as she scooped the dog into her arms. “He’s a husky, right?”

There seemed to be a certain equalizing factor about animals -- they were “man’s best friend,” but more importantly a common factor that proved humanity. It was not so much that one needed to like animals to prove themselves in possession of a heart or soul or anything vague and poetic of that nature, but they provided a link for people. It was the same kind of connection as passing How are yous and Nice weathers and Good morning/afternoon/evenings said to strangers: it was not so much that either speaking party wanted to know the other intimately, but rather they were flashing these courteous sentences like badges -- I am human, and so are you -- before moving on. 

Animals were slightly different - rather than something to agree upon sustained humanity on, they proved one could exist on the same (albeit short, or shallow, or temporary) plain as others simply by hovering over them.

Or, in the least, it made interaction easier.

“Oh, I’m glad.” Aubrielle laughed half-breathlessly, the notes of her chuckle becoming temporary mist hanging in the cold air. “That means he’s doing better than most men upon first meeting.” A joke. Men were no engima or fear for Bri now, but the common denominator of her tail-wagging pup loosened her up even further.

“Yes, it seems he did.” She conceded with an amused sigh, looking up to fully bring her gaze and attention to the man across from her as he guessed at Koda’s breed. “That’s right. I’ve only had him for a couple weeks, but I’m already thoroughly persuaded he’s the best dog around. But I suppose that’s the owner’s prerogative to think so, isn’t it?”

[aubriellenadir]

That was the lovely thing about dogs and the universe: neither had very much consideration for societal convention. It could also be said that this was the regrettable thing about dogs and the universe. For example: in the blinking quick moment after Aubrielle untied Koda’s leash from the bike rack it had been previously knotted to, the leash handle falling from her hands, and before she could pick it back up again, Koda decided to run. Which meant it had been decided for Aubrielle would also be running - or trying to, her ability negated by January’s iciness and the thin prong of her high heels - but with far greater purpose after her puppy’s form, whereas Koda’s destination seemed to be everywhere and nowhere.

Their chase down the sidewalk and Bri’s concerned shouts of Koda’s name ceased when she saw her dog had settled at someone’s feet. 

“Oh, thank you so much -” Bri heaved the greeting upwards as she bent down to grab Koda’s leash, her breath full of holes as she recovered from her brisk run. “And I am so, so sorry if he bothered you.” Aubrielle looked up with a smile at the transient hero of the day as she jostled Koda’s fur, pressing him to her side momentarily. Her attention went back to Koda. “This boys just a little bit mischievous.”

[aubriellenadir]

( @king-windsor )

She would only cheat death. There was something especially charming about that response, amplified by the fact that he knew what she was, what she did, and cheating — or assisting in it, anyway — was one word that came to mind for it. That winking charm had to be part of her draw, the reason she had asked for, not only payment in the first place, but such a high price. It was like a stranglehold on his concentration.

Bree. He almost exhaled it aloud in relief, he had known her name all along. That was what she had told him, wasn’t it? Bree? When he had wondered if there was more to it, she had played coy — there wasn’t much to his name either, Windsor was tacked on to represent their dynasty but it was hardly a surname, not like anyone else’s. Andrew Charles Alexander Louis had been the name on his birth announcement, such a ridiculous and long — there it was again, he was losing his focus. Damn cold corridor, damn Adelaide, damn blondes.

“I have to agree, I’ll keep that in mind when they inevitably ask me the same question you did.”

“A cheat and a thief -- you’re proving to be a thoroughly dangerous man.” Bri shifted her weight, crossing one ankle over the other, but only for the matter of simple repositioning rather than discomfort. That was a habit she had not quite shed - checking herself, rearranging her body to provide an angle that might make her look better, thinner, more appealing. That was the curse of the modern woman: self modulation. “Should I be holding anything else closer to my chest while I’m around you, Andrew?”

Will you, would you, could you steal my heart?

[micah-gladwell]

It was nearly two weeks into the new year, and the chaos of the holiday season still lingered throughout the city’s chilly air. These days, most individuals either took steps or were taking them in an effort to return to whatever routines had been swept aside in light of the celebrations that had long since concluded. Micah was certainly no stranger to this seasonal shift, having had his own fair share of stress while adjusting alongside the liturgical calendar. Nonetheless, a deep sense of gratitude was still embodied within his ambiguous outlook for the future.

A gust of warmth gently greeted him as he pushed open the door to a quiet cafe settled at one street corner. He wasted no time in making his way to the very back where the cashier stood. After placing a quick and simple request, he stepped to the side in order to allow the individual behind him to take a turn at ordering. Although the young priest remained quiet, he used the peripheral of his view to maintain some level of awareness of the patron now beside him. As the black and white clock on the other side of the room ticked away, he was suddenly met with the growth of some inclination to act spontaneously. There’s no improper time to offer a good deed, he assured himself, as he inched closer to the customer.

“Pardon me,” Micah began in a soft tone, sincerity reflecting brightly in his eyes, “I don’t mean to impose, and please forgive the forwardness of this. Would you mind if I paid for your order?”

[aubriellenadir]

The winter weather was turning her red, red, red all over -- the brief walk down London’s streets from Julian’s office to the corner cafe was brief, but addled with brisk, shorts gusts of January winds, like air being let out of a just-opened champagne bottle. Aubrielle’s cheeks glowed pink-red as she stepped inside the familiar establishment, as were the tips of her ears and the unprotected stretch of wrist left exposed between glove’s end and coat’s beginning. The pinching nature of her shoes likely had her soles mottled red, too. Whoever said winter was a time for cool blues and whites was wrong.

Waiting in line, Bri exchanged the silent greeting of a smile with the barista behind the counter -- a familiar girl who she’d come to know as Sara. While months ago this same wait in line would have been dominated with mental repetition of Julian’s order - so as not to forget it - now, Aubrielle didn’t so much as rehearse it once in her heard, instead lilting her gaze around the room to gaze warmly over the 2016 stock and decorations. This routine was familiar now. It was easy. Comfortable. No surprises.

-- Until there was. The soft hook of a voice turned her attention to the left, where a blue-eyed pleasant-faced man was looking at her with the kind of open sweetness that Bri never saw from her clients. Both in tone and gesture, he looked to be so honest that it didn’t even seem to be a flirtatious gesture -- unusual, but so welcome.

“Oh -” Bri started, looking back at the food already placed on counter in front of her. Sara caught her eye, the barista’s eyebrows raised and lips opening in a very obvious mouthing of He’s cute. Aubrielle laughed and tucked hair behind her ear. 

“That’s so kind of you, but this isn’t just my order. It’s mine and my boss’s. I’d feel rather bad having you pay for both of them.”

[gigihadiid]

[aubriellenadir]

@marcelloventuri

He’d never taken well to being told what to do. The only entities who dared attempt to command him were the demons that ruled within, the impulses whose brute force could maneuver stubborn bones and barge through thick skin. Passions and the barrel of a gun were but his only drivers, a line of red tape or assemblage of bodies hardly enough to cage the bull of a man. The crowd that had gathered in the hallway, likely gawking like well-trained idiots at the fucking brush strokes on some overpriced painting that hung in the corridor, didn’t quell the quickened pace with which he strode. If anything, the group of tangled limbs only fuelled his steps. Prepared to shove and elbow his way through tangled arms and legs and a sea of glittering dresses, a light touch against his arm was hardly enough to bring his body to a halt, nor was the singsong voice that accompanied it. They’ve asked us to wait — us, as if she and him were somehow an entity together, as if he couldn’t have snapped those pretty little fingers for attempting to sway him.

Who the fuck did she think she was?

A smug grimace prepared itself for her before his head had turned her way. She was beautiful;Marcello had never been the kind to appreciate beauty in its simplest sense. No, beauty was but a clean slate, an invitation to paint that pure, sterile body with black and blue and red. Beauty was meant to be bruised and bloodied and broken, and the pretty little thing that had caught his eye was a blank slate, a canvas that only needed someone with vision to create a masterpiece. Marcello Venturi had vision seeping from every pore.

“I’m not worried about her,” he shrugged, taking a look down at his watch. For a brief moment he mentally thanked Vienna — a first — for her incessant obsession with that cartoon’s help in understanding the reference. “She’d’a turned back into a pumpkin half an hour ago. You, though —you’re still here, and you’re sure as shit no ugly stepsister.”

It wouldn’t have been unexpected to have her hand pass through the arm Aubrielle had reached for -- the occupants of the room were wispy, somewhere between a silhouette of smoke and a cloud of gasoline. They were all innuendo instead of promise, and even their corporeal forms matched that sideways slightness, with nearly every body within the walls lithe and muscled. Slim. But this man, the one she had stopped with no intention but common courtesy -- he was suddenly, and all at once, very real. 

Perhaps she should have known from the moment her hand wound around his arm, with its thick muscular build obvious even through his suit jacket, but it wasn’t until he spoke that the weight of him clamped around her. She almost winced, the sudden answer all the louder after a night of conversations in half-whispers. His teeth seemed to leave imprints in the syllables, marking them as his own. She almost winced, but she didn’t. Aubrielle was better than that.

“No -- I’ve got them locked up in my attic.” Bri answered in stride, keeping her tone mild and withdrawn, walking the paper’s-edge line between jadedly amused and disinterest. She wasn’t cold, hadn’t aged, wasn’t rough enough to match the stranger’s relative... vulgarity. But naivete wouldn’t do. “You lock any girls in your basement this evening?”

[petticoat]

What is innocence, after all, if not the promise of future corruptibility?

Ira Wells, “Forgetting Lolita” (via slayingbelles)

[aubriellenadir]

POMEGRANATE REDUX. ❍ AUBRIELLE + WESLEY.

[aubriellenadir]

@wesleyxiao

Events such as these aren’t usually Wesley’s cup of tea, so to speak. He hasn’t ever attended a winter ball, or whatever pretentious name the little princess has given it. He doesn’t like to stand idly by and sip on beverages that no doubt cost the approximate amount of his entire suit. He certainly doesn’t like to make chit chat, mindless, boring, dull, navigating his way through a sea ofmasks, masks, masks, everyone smiling and polite and charming and utterly, utterly fake.

And so he doesn’t. He stands close to the side of the room, arms folded across his chest, face carefully neutral, glancing around for Yeung or Benavides. They are the only reason he’s here tonight, although truthfully he’s already made up his mind about who should inherit Silver’s seat. Yeung is the obvious choice to fill the vacancy, but he’s here anyway, along with probably the entire Coalition.

It’s just as he’s scanning the room for a third time that he spots her, clutching onto her companion’s arm like she needs reassurance that he’s still there in order to stand up. They’re surrounded by people, talking, laughing, admiring. She looks at home here, with these people, but she’s acting. He knows this because that’s not his Bri, the one who gives everything she is and bares herself to him; here, she is someone else, someone who adapts to suit what others want from her. This must be what she’d meant that first night, when she’d asked who he wanted her to be.

He doesn’t even realise he’s been clenching his jaw until it starts to ache.

His attention is now fully focused on her, expression once again neutral, and so it’s apparent the second she notices him. They lock eyes for perhaps a split second, if that, but it’s enough. The Bri she’s pretending to be is fading even as she glances nonchalantly around the room before excusing herself to walk across the room towards him. She doesn’t stop, or even slow down as she passes within arm’s reach, but just that quick, smoldering glance is almost enough to have him trailing behind her.

He waits, though.

A few more minutes, another glance around the room, and then he’s moving. Slowly, unrushed, unhurried, like he’s just looking for a new place to stand and observe what’s going on.

The door clicks shut behind him and finally, finally he approaches her, drinking in the sight of her in the half light. He moves until he is beside her but doesn’t touch; not yet. Instead, he rests his forearms against the railing and speaks.

“I didn’t know you were going to be here.”

With the entrance shut behind her, there’s very little noise outside on the balcony, save for the distant and sweet hum of orchestral music leaking under the doors like wafting smoke. Bri twirled the stem of her glass in her fingers and tried to concentrate on that, listened to the melody and hoped she would hear a refrain she remembered and could hum along to, but nothing caught. It’s too far away, she tried to reason. She looked to the sky instead, tried to pick out stars. She loved stars, but there were never any in London, where the smog choked them out. Here was no exception. It’s the pollution, she told herself when that distraction didn’t work, but the fact remained that in those few minutes of solitude, Bri couldn’t think about anything else wholly because her mind was pestered by thoughts of John.

She shook her head and creased her brow, looking down into her drink and inwardly berating herself for being so -- helpless. But things were so different around him. Kissing him felt like kissing someone for real; like they both wanted it, and the cash on the table could be forgotten. Despite herself, Bri found herself thinking -- Would he kiss her? He shouldn’t, because she was here without someone else and they were still a client-service she relationship, but oh, maybe he would. She wondered (she hoped) if he would kiss her, if he might put his hand at the part of her spine where the dress was thing enough that she might feel the warmth of his palm through the material. And if he might turn her around, pressing her into the cool banister so that all she could see or feel would be him; and then she might giggle and pull him into the shadows where they couldn’t be seen, where they could laugh at the pretension and talk about nothing with his hands on her hips and hers on his chest --

Oh. Bri looked back as she heard the door go and was grateful for the cool night air that would explain away any pinkness in her cheeks. She watched John arrive next to her and chastised herself for the small pit of disappointment that lurched in her stomach when he didn’t touch her.

“Technically, I’m not,” She answered, looking down at her drink once more with a smile than back at John, whose profile she fills in from memory where the light is not illuminating him. If you’d asked, I would’ve told you, she thinks, and not out of malice. “I’m just a little one with a plus next to it on the guest list. I came with someone.” There’s some measure of self-deprecating humor between the syllables, but it’s honest. “You probably really got invited, didn’t you?” Really, as in people that aren’t I know your name and care for it. She’s not sure what she’s allowed to ask, but she wants to know more, and it seems a fair assumption; with the thick stacks of cash he leaves for her, and the secrecy with which he moved -- of course he had some title that saw him invited to a ball hosted by the Royal Princess.

[aubriellenadir]

@vengefulvaughn

Vaughn felt like a King among peasants at the ball, his burning gaze taking in sight of all the other guests. He’d come to hate these events as they always left him rubbing elbows with the riff raff and other undesirables. Most of the lot would end up giggling in a drunken stupor, tripping over themselves on the way out of the building, and, if Vaughn was lucky, crashing their cars and dying a fire-y death. But until that happened, the man was going to have to make an appearance and socialize as best he could.

Since his divorce from Olivia, it had become all about appearances. Vaughn was not a jaded man, but one who’d accepted that he and his wife simply did not belong together, and now he was putting things back together. It was a stupid, pathetic image but it was one he vowed he would uphold. The last thing he was willing to do was give Olivia the satisfaction of knowing how miserable he currently was. How disgusted with himself he felt, how downright infuriated over the whole dammed situation. No. The bitch would not get to smile atop the dick of her lover and enjoy the misery she’d put her ex-husband through. If he had his way - no, that wasn’t right. When he had this way, he would ensure she saw just how terrible of a mistake she’d made. Because Vaughn was not a man to be fucked over, Vaughn was not a man to-

His thought were interrupted by the hand at his elbow, which he quickly jerked from the grasp of whoever dared to touch him. Facing the person, he held his tongue from sharp words at the realization of who he’d stumbled upon. A smile graced his lips and he took in the broken shards of glass before them. “Aubrielle,” he greeted, chuckling. “Don’t tell me you’re the cause of this mess.” He gestured to the scene before them, flashing her a charming smile.

The blur of a person had moved hard and fast and without the intent to stop, the way people of influence are ought to do (coincidentally, on her own time, Bri walked slowly and carefully and with the prerogative of stepping aside at any point and time), and though she had come to work repeatedly with the kinds of people that dotted this event, Aubrielle had set aside notions of recognizing anyone tonight. This was, however, moreso out of devotion to her character than a kind of ignorance -- she wasn’t just Aubrielle Nadir tonight, she was the sliver of herself, the mask, the decorative folding fan that her date demanded (asked, in a softer light) of her. And because that thin film of a girl was entirely individual to the man she played for, her persona -- her -- could not know anyone else. She had only been born a few hours ago, after all.

But that did not mean Bri hadn’t prepared for a collision with someone who recognized her -- still, as is the case with serendipity (or bad luck) it often comes as a surprise. When Vaughn turned, she triggered her smile.

“Oh, no, not me. A waiter tripped and dropped his tray. -- I’m not so careless with my champagne.” She teased, stepping forward to glance her hand on Vaughn’s arm and kiss his cheeks in greeting. “You look handsome, Vaughn.”

[m-a-g-n-e-t-i-c-e-y-e-s]

[seer-cressida]

Nothing amused Bethany more than people. She spent a majority of her life focused on them - what they wore, who they spent time with, what they accomplished. Sometimes she felt more like a psychologist or anthropologist than a journalist, and the idea wasn’t entirely off-putting. Tonight she was overwhelmed by the spectacle of human interaction. Everyone was wearing the latest and the best. Everyone was mingling with the rich and powerful. Everyone was looking for their slice of quid pro quo. Even Bethany, who had not arrived empty-handed or empty-headed. There were clear ends that needed to be met, but there was such curiosity in her that needed to be satisfied first. 

Bringing the flute of champagne to her lips, Bethany could feel the buzz of anticipation in her fingertips, warm with possibility. Things struck her as so much more interesting in these small spaces - the fact that she wore the same designer as Princess Adelaide (though not even Beth could dream of having one custom-designed), the present lack of Bishop and Elizabeth Tate campaigning endlessly (a blessing, truly), and the appearance of another beside her. 

Beth raised a gentle brow, smirk full of something warm and private. “Would you believe me if I said that you were just the person I was hoping to see?”

[aubriellenadir]

She had learned, she had trialed and been tribute. It had taken twenty-some years, but Aubrielle had come to understand people. Men, specifically, but the skill could be applied to women too, if she turned her head and squinted just right. Years of unwilling study of the human form had commenced from the time she had barely been able to spell her name, let alone know its meaning (which, in truth, she did not quite have this knowledge even now). The teasing had made her quick-minded; the bullying had made her adaptable. She had learned how to avoid threat by detecting it in the small hints of a person’s body -- and things were not so different now, though she had built a heart less squeamish than the one her childhood self had possessed. But her instincts of self-preservation remained --

                                            and Bethany Tate meant nothing good.

“I would,” Aubrielle intoned placidly, taking a gentle sip from her glass of rosé. Perhaps Aubrielle would have found the journalist beautiful, or even charming, had she not seen the red-edged lines of the woman. The champagne bubbles of the woman’s smile and tone meant nothing to Aubrielle when she herself poured several different varieties of the same thing out of her own mouth. “If I was someone else entirely. As it is, I’m wholly, completely myself.”

[aubriellenadir]

When she was a child, Aubrielle had at times wondered if it got lonely on the other side of the mirror, and attempted to soothe her reflection with attempts to coax it into conversation. Or eating. Or invitations to play. Some eighteen years later, she had yet to contemplate that she was the one on the wrong side of the mirror. The reflection has only four edges to prick her finger on, but here, in the ice-diamond world she had walked into, all things were shining and sharp and ready to draw her blood. (Beautiful things are also terrible too, girl. They are the space between god and the devil). It was so easy to forget that a fistful of diamond rings cut a man as easily as brass knuckles, and within the room Aubrielle had just entered, everyone was well armed. The party-goers with names inked onto the guestlist were like opulent icicles, freezing and sparkling stalactites that were simultaneously cold to the touch -- and even some capable of drawing blood, should they choose to break off from their resting places and puncture someone walking beneath them.

But Bri had no knowledge of this; she had the secrets men forgot to remember to lock up under her tongue, the slithering, sweet truths that amounted to a greater, marbled one -- but she didn’t know how close she was to danger. Not yet. All she understood was the immediate threat at her feet.

“Oh -- Just a moment.” Aubrielle extended a hand to catch on the elbow of the person moving to overtake her stagnant position in the hallway. Even here, in warning, she remembered to slow her voice and gloss it, rolling lacquer. She had relinquished her girlishness when she stepped into her gown and onto these premises, as with all nights with similar formula. “They’ve asked us to wait.” They, the staff that had darted away only a moment ego. In explanation, she tilted her eyes to the floor, where glass - or perhaps they were sharp shards of diamonds, for the way they glittered in the light - had been left shattered, decorating the hallway. Her gaze lifted upwards again, the edges of her lips rising with it. “Cinderella’s been by.”

[aubriellenadir]

POMEGRANATE REDUX. ❍ AUBRIELLE + WESLEY.

In this room, Bri is not herself -- not even for a moment, when she checks in on the guestlist. She’s a symbol followed by a number. No name. Plus one. It could mean she is less, but she takes it as the opportunity to be more: anything but herself. Everyone they want her to be. And it isn’t hard. Her date is young and attractive and paying for each hour she stands with her hand looped around his arm; double for the time she will spend on her back, her thighs around his hips. She speaks with a rumble and a raised brow and the slight, amused apathy of golden girls, and they love her. The jutting spots of her body -- her elbows, hips, shoulders -- are warm from the hands that brush at her as she walks by, asking her to stop for them. Aubrielle leans tighter into her date instead, promising with her body: my spine is stronger when I lean on yours. I am loyal to you (for this hour, this day -- don’t think about the end of it all, darling).

It’s hard to call it loyalty when it’s being paid for, but Bri does anyway, and she believes in it. She carries those promises around in her palm and hanging from her collarbone, meaning every ephemeral oath. She swears on every temporary-tattoo kiss on his jaw -- - until she sees him, and then everything is a lie. His profile cuts so sharply from the other side of the room that even with dozens of people between them, it still stings. He’s so handsome, she thinks, and Bri feels suddenly girlish as she pretends to glance idly about the room so her date won’t notice her attention has been all at once stolen. 

“Excuse me for a moment -- - I’ve just seen a friend, and I think I’ll go say hello.” She says it abruptly but carefully, pitching sweetness into silence when momentarily snagged eye contact was no longer enough. Butterflies were spawning in her stomach and they all lurched in John’s direction, rising and falling and pirouetting as she took the distance between them then surpassed it. She looked at him just briefly, but in the casual turn of her neck and the rolling browse of her gaze there was an invitation. Come with me. (Persephone bites the pomegranate. Eurydice calls out. She makes her decision). 

It was cold on the balcony she slipped onto, a marble terrace otherwise deserted by partygoers aside from the stray corpse of a cigarette that proved previous occupancy. The moon was the only company here, its light shining down to illuminate Aubrielle’s glass of rosé and cast her shadow. If she was cold, she didn’t yet feel it.