little pearl

have you been eating rosebuds again? where do your cheeks get their blush?

[bunnydupont]

ivanrahal‌:

He looks at her, and he thinks it’s a miracle in itself that the whole of Verona hasn’t detected the rot that festers within her, an echo of his own well of chaos (though perhaps less cultivated, less foul). That her wickedness has gone so long unnoticed is a testament, he supposes, to her craft: her way of luring seafarers with siren calls of all sorts (smiles spun with sugar, laughter made from the stuff of church bells, sweet nothings sticky with honey, kisses that tasted like springtime). She’s an artist, a contemporary siren, and she enshrouds her prey in her lures so thoroughly that they plunge headlong into the unnavigable current of her charm, desperate to know her, to drown in her, to choke on her. And Ivan is the sea, a wild, tempestuous pit of chaos to match her own depravity, a home to the shipwreck of her work. How unfortunate for Verona that they’ve found each other in the midst of such tempest—a fruitful canvas for their craftwork if ever there was one. A pity indeed—for Verona. 

“A kiss in exchange for jewels?” he asks incredulously, one eyebrow cocked high, the other slanted low. “I’ve had patrons walk through that door”—he jerks his chin at Handkerchief’s small entryway—“offering a lot more for a lot less, carina,” he purrs suggestively, and the way he layers his voice, with the rich timbre of mischief, makes his words sound all the more harrowing. The beginnings of what might be a smile unfurl at the corners of his lips, and he places both of his elbows atop the counter, leaning nearer to her, his cheek propped on his fist—a mirror image to Bunny Dupont in more ways than one. “You must think rather highly of your kisses, belladonna, if you wish to use them as bargaining chips.” Everything with Bunny is a game, a bait and switch of some variation; the key to playing (and winning) is determining what, precisely, she wants (fun, chaos, money, information, attention)—and what, precisely, she’s willing to give to get. 

“I only trade for things I’m in want of,” he drawls, reaching beneath the glass counter to pluck a sapphire ring with a thin silver band from its velvet perch. Eyes trained on her, he dangles the ring from the tip of his pinky finger, holding it up for her purveyance. An offer; a challenge. “What makes you think I’m in want of kisses, ragazzina?” he asks, head canted as he marvels at the way the light catches the gem’s sharp angles, casting pinpricks of deep, vibrant blues dancing across Bunny’s face. “And what, pray tell, makes you think your kisses are of any value at all?” It’s a game, it’s all a game: a sport of rouses, of truths and dares, of drawing lines and toeing them, of finding buttons and pushing them. 

It’s all a game, and she plays well, but he plays dirty.

Carina, belladonna, ragazzina. Like an eloquent game of duck, duck, goose, the last of his pet names sparks something like indignation within her, a matchstick to bring a dilemma she so rarely acknowledged roaring to life. Little girl, he’d crooned, dangling the dainty ring before her like a prize, like a toy. Pretty, baby, darling. (Of course, that was what she wanted, wasn’t it?) She thinks, perhaps, that youth and sapphire rings aren’t so different, green eyes flitting keenly between the glinting jewel and the gaze of the man holding it so tenderly hostage; there is a time and place for each of them, at times shocking in their beauty, their unblemished glow—and there is a time and place for their absence, a shedding of what shines for what thrives.

She feels, in moments like these, that she may be in over her head, a modern-day Alice barreling down the rabbit hole and coming face-to-face—quite literally—with the Cheshire cat, his blue eyes the only thing memorable in a sea of curious, lost things. Yet she pushes on still—quirks a thin eyebrow to match his own and doesn’t dare retreat, lest he pursue her, lest she concede any ground in this odd game they play. Perhaps it is brave; perhaps it is playful. Perhaps she is merely testing the waters or already neck-deep. What is the difference, anyhow? In each of these things she is flirting, something Bunny Du Pont does undeniably well—the only things that change are the objects of her desire and the stakes.

What does she stand to gain? What is she willing to lose? These are the questions that hang between them, far heavier than an heirloom ring and twice the marvel. Why has she come? She’s got an awful habit of acting on her whims, but the root of it all—the marrow of it—is what really matters. And the answer is that she doesn’t know, not really—that she isn’t sure, that maybe, just maybe, she’s come to Handkerchief and to Ivan Rahal in the hopes that he might humor her and tell her.

And that the ring dangling from his pinky finger has been in the family for decades, and if she’s going to inherit the rest of what her mother keeps in her precious mahogany jewelry box, she’d do well to get it back. But that’s awfully mundane, isn’t it?

“And what fun,” she purrs back, raising a delicate finger to trace the edges of the ring and the outline of his pinky like she might an expertly painted line, “would it be if I told you?” Bunny tips forward a bit to close the gap between them, as if she’s divulging something only he can know—a confession, something taken to bed or to the grave, pink lips curling up devilishly. “Do you deal in secrets, signore?” Her own pinky finds its way through the ring’s opening, and she holds it there, silver suspended between them like a promise. Rings are good for that, you know.

And promises? Well, they’re made to be broken. “I’d make you a deal, solano, but I don’t know if I trust you not to tell.”

[buttonpoetry]

“Peach pits are poisonous. This is not a mistake. Girlhood is growing fruit around cyanide. It will never be yours for the swallowing.”

— Brenna Twohy, from Swallowtail

[bunnydupont]

rafaellacapulet‌:

it’s all peachy

DATE: October 3rd, 2017

TIME: 11:00

LOCATION: Twelfth Night Museum

WITH: @bunnydupont

    There was a certain romance that adorned the pristine walls of the Twelfth Night when fall swept in with its golden brown hues. It made the gardens of roses and jasmine seem softer, somehow – and it certainly didn’t hurt that the cold breezes drove people into the museum’s cafe, into the hallowed halls of Bernini and Titian. She was glad that there were people in her life that could enjoy such things as she did; Orion with his uncontended proclivity for art, Everett with such ample knowledge of his mother’s connections, Ivan whose eyes seemed to exclusively enjoy the scarlet bodings of pain and the violent depictions of Caravaggio, and Juliana who knew beauty in all its visceral forms. Now, added onto that list, was Bernadette – Bunny – whose hands seemed kissed by Apollo – how could they not be, when she was able to mirror the greatest of his apostles. 

    Rafaella’s heels echoed as she greeted Bunny at the door of the museum, holding her at arms length with a shrewd, teasing look before kissing her cheeks. “La mia piccola pesca,” she greeted, tucking a golden lock behind the other woman’s ear. “It seems that Paris treated you far better than Verona treated me in your absence. Did you enjoy yourself? Sit upon a throne of macarons while Frenchmen laid them at your feet?” 

She’s home at last, and the city breathes a wistful sigh of longing—not for her return, but for her next departure. It’s as though her month-long adventure in Paris has been but an extended grace period for Verona to catch its breath, to ready its men, to hide its macarons, and now, a few days into what her father had anticipated would be a blustery, golden October, she’s come back with a fiery sort of misguided vengeance.

What has she missed? What has missed her? She’s as excited to be back as she’ll be bored in a matter of days (she never has had much of an attention span, not even as she’s aged), and it graces her face with a lollied sort of cheerfulness, the curve of her lips the very precipice between sugar-sweet and sickly. La piccola pesca expertly maintains the image of an heiress untouchable until she’s met at the door by none other than her most adored sponsor, the only woman she’d reluctantly admit might be (for the time being) the Twelfth Night queen: Rafaella.

The little blonde blushes a lovely shade of pink under her doting, and innocent passersby might be perplexed if asked to determine whether the color had come from within or if her cheeks had been made a canvas for the ink of the older woman’s lipstick. Such is art, no? “I did, bella, how did you know?” A petite shopping bag full of treats dangles from her fingertips, and she lifts it with a smirk. “I’ll trade you for a recap.” Over lunch—it’s only fitting.

[bunnydupont]

ivanrahal‌:

date: february 19th, 2019 time: noon location: handkerchief, ivan’s pawn shop open to: all

The aftermath of war was always so boring.

People, in the wake of war, seem to always need time to recoup, to lick their wounds and nurse their egos, to rally their forces and count their dead. And the fallout of the festa dell’amore proved no different. In the hours following the messy checkmate to a week-long chess match played poorly by the Montagues and well by the Capulets, the whole of Verona had gone silent, a city hung in unilateral suspension, waiting with bated breath to see which serpent, gold-scaled or silver-tongued, would strike next. By the time dawn peeked through the clouds, kissing the sky with sweeping brushstrokes of pinks, yellows, and oranges, the city had been struck wholly by a plague of inertia: shops on either side of the Castelvecchio remained closed, the local markets lacked their usual bustle, the Cathedral’s bells rang silent, and it seemed that even the blackbirds and nightingales had retreated, for the ballads of birds were yet unsung.

Boring—dreadfully, desperately boring.

There was no one for Ivan to play with today, no games to be waged, and so he’d retired to Handkerchief, where he’d spent the better part of the afternoon sorting through a mass of papers Odin had delivered before sunrise—lists and files divulging a wealth of information about the stolen Montague clientele. He’d studied the information industriously, feverishly, absorbing each detail with great care, noting the clients’ likes and dislikes, wants and possessions, virtues and vices; making mental notes of any information that could be used to extort them, to wean them, to poison them.

His work was interrupted by the soft jingle of the pawn shop’s front door opening, and in one sweeping gesture, he gathered the papers laid out before him and locked them in the safe he kept behind the counter. “We’re closed,” he drawled, keeping his back to the door, not bothering to turn to greet the shop’s visitor. Perhaps it was a husband, seeking a belated Valentine’s gift for his wife. Perhaps it was a wife, seeking information about her husband’s infidelity. Perhaps it was a Capulet client, seeking a fix of sangue di fata to cure those terrible woes imparted by the festa dell’amore. It was no matter, for Handkerchief was indeed closed, as were most locales under Capulet rule, each of them in silent mourning over the capture of Rafaella—their lionheart, their commander, robbed in the dead of night and stolen away to the wrong side of the bridge. “Unless, of course,” Ivan purred, the low, rich timbre of his voice all at once silklike and snakelike, a nightmare dressed up in the wares of dreams, “you’ve got something worthwhile to offer up that might persuade me otherwise.” 

Bunny Dupont was not made for war. She was not built for the bracings of bombs, for the spilling of blood, for the burning of funeral pyres; just as a general would not dare arm his men with swords of porcelain, so then were her superiors wise to leave her well out of the way of the fighting, tucked away where she’d be safe, immaculate, and—perhaps most importantly—not fraternizing with the enemy. She’d supposed they’d intended to punish her by leaving her out of the thick of things, that they’d meant to send the message that only their most loyal soldiers could shoulder both the honor and the burden of the miserable, barbaric business they’d been made to carry out, but her exclusion had dealt only a very different sort of sting: not one of wounded pride, but of jealousy.

Make no mistake—Bunny Dupont was not made for war, all sugar-spun curls and pearly-white smiles, but she did so love a good show, and in the absence of one to watch, she would very happily put on one of her own.

In fair Verona, where we lay our scene, just inside the four walls of… Handkerchief? She’s loathed the name since she first learned it, childishly imagining the pawn shop as a glorified tissue box to which peasants sold their wares. To make matters worse, the name fit its sole proprietor about as well as a glass of red wine poured into a champagne flute—which is to say, unnaturally, if at all, and with a bit of what looked uncannily like blood lingering around the edges. Ivan Rahal is, in her mind’s eye, darkness in the cruel and unusual shape of a man; the smart girl her parents had raised had gathered as much.

The wise girl they’d hoped she’d become might’ve left him well enough alone out of a hallowed sort of respect for what was not meant for dolls like her; the foolish girl that had grown in her place leans against the counter now, up on tip-toe, chin propped up on a delicate palm. “I’ll give you a kiss for my grandmother’s birthstone ring,” she offers cheekily, emboldened by the Hershey’s kiss waiting at the ready in the inner pocket of her purse—a back-up plan, just in case he took the bait and she lost her nerve. Her green eyes glitter mischievously when she adds, “Two if you can find my sister’s diamond necklace, but I know you’re no magician.” The little thief gives nothing and everything away, a balancing act of delightful proportions.

[bunnydupont]

date: february 15th time: 11:30 a.m. location: phoenix & the turtle availability: @reginadalys

It’s not that she doesn't think Regina Daly’s got anything better to do on a morning like this—the day after Valentine’s Day, where she might, perhaps, be waking in the arms of a lover, or be counting gifts from her admirers, or flaying a man half to death (all pastimes she assumed the older girl might partake in, despite her off-putting demeanor); Bunny knows that there are far more interesting things to attend to at a time like this.

It’s not that she doesn’t understand that; it’s that she doesn’t care.

That’s the reason she’s asked the captain to meet her here for coffee: not out of a particularly strong desire to socialize, or an urge to defend herself, or even for a hunger for one of the Phoenix’s pastries (although she’s having one anyway, as is customary), but out of necessity. This is business. 

She hums a tune while she waits, painted fingernails drumming softly on the rim of her coffee cup and eyes cast down at a magazine she’d plucked from the counter on her way in. So focused on the headline—Lillian Wen In Not-So-Winter White?—is she that she hardly notices her fellow Capulet’s presence until the seat across from her is already occupied. After a moment of what might look like reflection, she lifts her gaze and offers a polite smile. “Oh, thank you for meeting me.”

[bunnydupont]

date: february 26th time: 2 p.m. location: the dark lady status: closed to @czarnichego

She shouldn't be here. The thought follows her every move—clings to the spiral of her bouncing curls, glitters in the gleam of her green doe eyes, and dances through the minds of all who make a note of her presence: half-warning, half-denial. Beautiful daughters of influential men, much less those who looked scarcely old enough to enter such velvety crude establishments, did not—should not—frequent places such as these. She looks characteristically out of place in her winter-white dress, lips painted pale pink—an oasis of what might have looked like purity to the untrained eye in a desert of sinful desolation, and it’s intentional, as all attention-grabbing behaviors of girls (women?) like her tend to be.

She shouldn’t be here. She doesn’t even like to gamble, and though such an aversion fits the narrative of a savvy banker’s daughter, it’s got nothing to do with her upbringing and everything to do with one simple fact: Bunny doesn’t like to lose. 

She shouldn’t be here, yet she is, because—well, she shouldn’t be, and if that’s not reason enough, then the pink martini perched before her, sweet and strong and not served as well or as early anywhere else, should suffice. It’s too late for brunch and too early for dinner, Cyrus and Juliana and even Maeve are otherwise occupied, and she’s terribly, hopelessly, irreparably bored. 

“I hope you’re not in a hurry,” She murmurs to the newcomer at her left, compelled by the clink of a coin on the mahogany bar. Impatience bleeds into the tone of her voice, bitter. “They’re awfully slow today.”

[archiveddvrpg]

In fair Verona, our tale begins with BERNADETTE “BUNNY” DU PONT, who is TWENTY-ONE years old. She is often called BIANCA by the CAPULETS and works as their SOLDIER. She uses SHE/HER pronouns. 

She wants the world on a silver platter, wants it wrapped around her finger like the prettiest of diamond rings. She was raised to believe she’ll have it, too, a little pearl of a girl who could play her parents’ HEARTSTRINGS like a harp but never quite learned the meaning of the word no. Born to a successful banker and his beautiful wife, she was everything her parents wanted her to be and more: apple-sweet like her mother, intelligent like her father, and pretty, above all else. She was perfect in their eyes, a darling doll of a daughter they could pose and dress to their liking, and they doted on her relentlessly. Bastian and Eleanor Du Pont CULTIVATED in their daughter a taste for the finer things in life, a hunger for delectable desserts and dreamy dresses that would one day prove ravenous. They planted within her the seeds of luxurious ambition in the hopes that their beautiful little flower might bloom, and bloom she did. Bernadette Du Pont, who came to be called Bunny for the bumbling way in which she pronounced her own name, grew to possess a wild sort of elegance, a BRAZEN sort of poise that best befits spoiled brats. She was Verona’s SWEETHEART—soft, gentle, all sugar-spun locks and eyes a brilliant shade of greed, and she would bring her family a gilded sort of glory for it.

Where her sister was sensible, responsible, slated to one day take over the family company and carry on the Du Pont legacy like any good daughter should, Bunny seemed to have been born for the sole purpose of being ADORED, and no one had ever done it quite so well. She collected hearts like trinkets, put them on a shelf for all the world to see—look, but don’t touch, for of the many skills she’d been dutifully instructed in (French, ballet, art, all things a cultured lady ought to know), she’d never been taught how to SHARE, and like most children given the choice, she didn’t care to learn. It’s often been said that men cower before that which they call beautiful, and the same could be said for her, so afraid were they to let such a pretty little thing go without. She perfected the art of getting what she wanted, of honeyed persuasion and batted lashes, a talent that served her well in nearly all of her endeavors—both work and play. Little Bunny Du Pont graduated at the top of her secondary school class with the help of a soft-spoken boy too INTELLIGENT to know any better, but—which was more—she did so draped in chiffon and pearls, the taste of strawberries and cream and self-satisfaction on her pink lips.

But the ruin of sweetness is rot, and her dazzling smile hid sharp teeth, as beautiful things tend to do. She’d been taught all her life that appearances were paramount and to be perfect was to be loved, and somewhere between layers of SILK and hours of etiquette lessons, the Du Pont darling learned how to deceive. Deception had always been so easy for her, making farces and forgeries that no one would think to bat an eye at. She started small, little replicas here and there, before delving into the wonders and intricacies of such a career calling – which only served to make her that much adored and valued within the ranks of the rotten underworld. Her parents knew not, though, for she was still their little angel, the CROWN jewel that would one day grace the arm of a man from a family every bit as powerful as hers, but her halo was that of rehearsed innocence, of the elegance that comes with keeping one’s own secrets and the thrill of allowing them to see the light. Kissing is only fun when it’s tongue in cheek, after all, and aren’t all vices the same? She indulged in them all—courted her peers and her father’s colleagues by day and each of the seven deadly sins by night—and her doting parents were none the wiser, blinded as they were by her airy laugh and coy smile. She was their muse, their golden child, but even gold can tarnish, and saccharine girls can turn SOUR. Thus, tempted by greed and the rush that came with doing what she knew she shouldn’t, she easily fell into step with the mob her father served and never looked back. 

A war is no place for girls like her, precious princesses raised on silver spoons, but there’s a WICKEDNESS about her, a sort of hunger that no amount of sweet things could satisfy, and while it won’t make her bulletproof, it’s made her bold. She wants adoration, her name whispered in hushed tones, and little by little—laugh by laugh and trick by trick—she’ll get it. She wants the world even if the blood feud in Verona splits into two, and she’ll have that, too, for the outcome of the war is of little consequence to a child who’s only ever known loyalty to HERSELF. Imagine then, her righteous anger and bitterness when a little whelp of a Montague snatched such tantamount adoration within her mob away with nothing more than an outstretched hand. She had done nothing, had turned away with a sneer, a little glimmer of rot within her gleaming for a few shining seconds – but that is not what the rest of the world saw, no. They saw a little Capulet girl being aided by a little Montague boy. The world had granted her so much and razed it in a matter of seconds. Little do the gods of Verona know that they will meet their ruin at her hands, for she is hungering for retribution. People scoff at entitled children—roll their eyes at the hellish tantrums they throw, but they often forget the ease with which they get the object of their heart’s desire. Hail your kings, but watch the brats CONQUER.

KATARINA DU PONT: Sister. The Du Pont girls have been known since infancy for their looks—ivory skin, golden locks, eyes like sparkling emeralds. It’s been said that their father’s wealth and their mother’s blood flows through their veins, a combination as enticing as it is deadly, but Bunny knows the truth—that Katarina’s eyes are green not from prosperity, but fromenvy—and she revels in it. She’s stolen any and all attention afforded to her older sister since the day she was born, and few things bring her more pleasure than the knowledge that she is—and probably always will be—the favorite daughter, a notion she’s loath to let Katarina forget. Bunny mocks the older girl for her rigidity, and Kat ridicules her for her immaturity, but Bunny has played her part exceptionally well; no one would ever believe the woman who cried bitch.    

CYRUS SLOANE: Intrigue. He’s the spitting image of the type of boy her father wouldn’t approve of, shunned by his family but arrogant enough to remain in their midst, and she likes him all the more for it. His attention is hard to come by and harder to keep, and she likes that, too—let it be known that she rarely turns down the occasional worthwhile challenge. She’s found she rather enjoys his company, and she seeks him out whenever she’s in the mood to cause a bit of trouble—often. It’s not often she finds someone who can keep up with her mischief and match her taunts with some of their own, after all. They’re a match made in hell, a cast-out boy-king determined to reclaim his throne and a spoiled princess who knows only how to take, and peace should rue the day they laid eyes on each other—if it doesn’t already. The West might have survived Bonnie and Clyde, but Verona won’t survive them.

JULIANA CAPULET & MAEVE PETRE: Faux friends. “You are the company you keep.” Such was her father’s reasoning for nudging his youngest into a friendship with his colleagues’ daughters, a contract not nearly as eternal as marriage but equally as binding. It was only fitting that the children of three of the most powerful men on the east side of the Castelvecchio should be inseparable, and for the first decades of their lives, they were. Tea parties, braids fastened with little pink ribbons, frosting-filled sleepovers—they had it all, the triumvirate of daddy’s little princesses, but as they’ve aged, Bunnyfound the two girls leave a taste in her mouth that’s far too sweet, even for her. Between Maeve’s goodness and the way the Capulets seem to dote on Juliana for no reason other than her last name, she can hardly stand to be around them for a few hours, but luckily, a few hours are all that’s really required of her to maintain her pristine image. Who said nice girls couldn’t have fun?

BORIS KOVROV: Disturber. Bunny has carefully cultivated the lessons she has learned from watching people. She has learned – through quite meticulous means – how to make her position in the mob all the more advantageous. However, the one man who has managed to keep his true desires well hidden is Boris – who she has seen time and time again. Yet, she has never gotten any closer to hearing the whispers that turn about in his head. He is as guarde as the pearly gates of heaven, letting few enter and none leave. But Lucifer made it through, and so shall she. For a man who holds all the secrets is dangerous indeed, but the man who gives none away? Well, he might be something to fear greater than the judgement of the Lord himself.

Bernadette is portrayed by ELLE FANNING and was written by BREE. She is currently TAKEN by BREE.

[glamoroussource]

We take art, and I love all that. But I also like science for some reason. I just like finding out why things happen.

[fanningmaryelle]

Elle Fanning Covers Kiss by Prince for W Magazine

[icapturetheperiodpieces]

Russian Ark (2002)

[warmthestcord]

Every boy is a snake, is a lily Every pearl is a lynx, is a girl Sweet like harmony, made into flesh

Björk, Oceanía (via warmthestcord)