𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚝 '𝚗 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚕. @casarosa - Tumblr Blog

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can y’all PLEASE follow my preacher oc he is objectively less interesting than milagros but i AM going buckwild over him in my peabrain. @rvrnd thank you.

#let him hesitantly and tenderly place his hand on your shoulder.#tbd

evanmocked

zión moreno for numéro netherlands

#* aesthetic.

assortedmutts:

Milagros is not let in through the front door. Of course not - the front door is reserved for family, friends and paying customers - not thieving scum. Besides, the boss-man can’t afford for her mug to be caught on any street or local business cameras - not when she’s being dragged in against her will by two of his associates and regular costumers of Shapiro’s Kosher Delicatessen.

No, she is let in through the back door, where she belongs, into the dimly-lit corridor behind the deli. There, her captors stall a short moment by a door marked OFFICE, where one peeks his head through the door and inquires with the small man sat behind the desk in a foreign language.

The man behind the desk: lean, dark-haired and wildly unremarkable save for the thick, black-rimmed glasses perched atop his nose, gives the question brief consideration as he surveys the struggling young woman with evident indifference. Sighing with despair as he leans back in his worn leather chair, he juts his chin towards the corridor. “Take her to the locker.”

call her crazy, or perhaps just exhausted, but milagros sees little need for the heavy-handed tactics. the unnamed goons twisting her arms had picked her up during the wee hours of the night, when she’d been clad in nothing but cheetah-print biker shorts, a black bralette, and a pair of bunny slippers. she’d made little effort to resist their dramatic overtures - in fact, she recalls muttering only three words as she dropped the spatula she’d been using to make fried eggs : ❛ well, fuck me. ❜

she therefore finds it in herself to laugh - a hoarse, panicked sound, more of a scoff, really - when the strange man behind the desk in this odd little building sentences her to her holding cell. ❛ the locker ? is that how you make your money here ? nice old lady comes in ; you sell her a hand ‘n a foot sandwich ? ❜ the goon on her right twists her arm harder. she grits her teeth, shoots him a look, but makes not a sound of complaint. as they begin to drag her away, she cranes her neck backward toward who she now assumes to be the head honcho, hoping to make a more convincing appeal.

❛ i work two jobs, asshole. and i earn good, too. there’s gonna be people looking for me. so if i were you, i’d at least tell me what the fuck this is about. ❜ a few kicks that go nowhere except for the corridor’s musty air. even if they had landed on skin, she doubts the bunny slippers would have made much impact.

#i want to thank milagros for being so comically small #assortedmutts

@nightsounds

❛ no, no, no. you got the wrong guy. ❜ milagros repositions herself on the nightclub couch so that her back is to christopher. without the thumping music pulsing in the background, they would both hear the hideous squeak of her pleather mini-skirt against the pleather upholstery. for the second time that night, she lifts up her hair to show him her tattoo of the archangel michael wielding his flaming sword, located at the base of her neck. ❛ michael is the warrior. christopher is the patron saint of travelers. truckers, bikers — you know, anybody that goes fuckin’ places. ❜

her sleek curtain of raven hair falls over the inked illustration once more. this time she gets up to reposition herself, briefly hiking her skirt down before she sits to face christopher again. she has a smile on her face and a crinkle in her nose ; motioning between herself and the stranger she’s struck up conversation with, she observes, ❛ it’s ironic, isn’t it ? here we are at a nightclub and all we can talk about is religion. ❜ well. in a way, they were talking about him, but milagros is attempting to bring some levity to an inherently dry subject. ❛ do you dance, or is that suit just for show ? ❜

#this thread is battle of the jersey accents #nightsounds

roslindales

DIALOGUE PROMPTS FROM HBO’S THE SOPRANOS - SEASON 1. feel free to change pronouns & tenses as needed!

it’s good to be in something from the ground floor.

do you want some of last night’s ___?

don’t tell me how to live my life.

i’m just worried about you, that’s all.

i told you, i already ate lunch.

i don’t drive when they’re predicting rain.

what a bedside manner. very fucking encouraging.

enough of this shit. what’s wrong with you?

you shouldn’t be here alone.

you’re supposed to take care of your mother.

there are some people who are not ideal candidates for parenthood.

i’m not dead yet, unfortunately for some.

oh, poor you.

you’re verging on sacrilege.

you don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.

why do you always overexaggerate?

do you feel like frankenstein? a thing, lacking humanity, lacking human feelings?

it’s like i’m king midas in reverse, everything i touch turns to shit.

how much complaining can you do?

what’s killing me is that this is a self-inflicted wound.

we’re in a situation where everybody involved knows the stakes.

you’re not just in my life, you are my life.

it’s in the blood. it’s hereditary.

i wipe my ass with your feelings.

it’s like the fucking regularness of life is too fucking hard for me or something.

look at you. i bet you’re sleeping all the time.

don’t fucking lie to me.

i don’t die that fucking easy.

the hustle never ends.

i’m gonna live a nice, long, happy life, which is more than i can say for you.

#* memes.

@organisedcrime

another lustful night has given way to morning at solid gold gentlemen's club. when milagros leaves the locker room, she is clad in a band tee and biker shorts, her blown-out hair and smoky makeup the only evidence that she once twirled upon the stage. the floor is empty save for a few of the big-wigs speaking furtively with a couple of unknowns in suits. exhausted after her shift, she tries not to pay it mind, but cannot help but notice that the unfamiliar men bear a resemblance to the wiseguys that occasionally drive through her brooklyn neighborhood.

it’s when she steps outside that she is confronted with a sudden dose of panic. for there, speaking on her cellphone under the glow of neon lights, is a middle-aged woman with the self-assured look of a born business woman. milagros’ eyes search her face through the darkness in an attempt to discern whether she’s seen her here before : in the back office, perhaps, or in the parking lot next to the boss’s car. but nothing sparks her recollection.

❛ are we getting bought out ? ❜ her voice is harsh with worry. her head swims with thoughts of job applications, night shifts at mo’s, payments past due. snapping herself out of it with a dismissive wave of her hand : ❛ you know what — forget about it. i don’t need this shit tonight. ❜ the same hand swoops into her purse, where she begins to rummage for her car keys.

#maybe vi is actually interested in solid gold's #maybe the family just collects payments from there #who knows! up to you!#organisedcrime

didarida

#* aesthetic.

casarosa

i have six followers. do you want starters.

#tbd

@gutwrenched

the food industry is a day-to-day gamble. milagros never knows what the customers will look like when she clocks in for a shift at mo’s ; never knows how many of them will break her balls just because someone else made them feel powerless somewhere in the slog of their own routine. unfortunately, this turns out to be one of the harder evenings, and by the end of it she’s on edge. enough so that she offers another waitress — jack is her name — a ride home, more for her own sanity than her coworker’s.

rain is coming down in sheets by the time milagros tears out of the parking lot with jack in tow. bob seger is blasting from the car’s cheap stereo system, and from the way they’re jiggling, you’d guess the dice hanging from the mirror were dancing to the music. for a moment that’s the extent of the activity in the vehicle : milagros is silent, one hand gripping the wheel and the other providing an acrylic nail for her to nibble on. eventually, though, she makes an effort to break through the tension that’s spilled over from her shift.

❛ you ever been to florida ? they got sunshine year round. not like this dump. ❜

#gutwrenched #jack voice: i literally could have walked

@desolades

❛ i’m sorry. i shouldn’t stare. ❜ the moment tomás catches her in the act, milagros steers her gaze away from the scarring she’d noticed on his right hand. her voice is softer than usual ; the small smile on her face veers into shyness. ❛ people tell me i got no manners. i guess they’re right. ❜ it’s a slight exaggeration - she ought to be referring to her brother in the singular form. for her purposes, though, it will do.

and yet she cannot help herself, furthering the conversation before her conscience intervenes again. ❛ you get it on the job ? ❜ she gestures up and down the length of his form with her manicured index finger, clearly referencing his uniform jacket. ❛ you know, the only reason i got the balls to ask is ‘cause my pops … he was something of an outdoorsman himself. ❜ is. is. she reminds herself that he is still a present reality. then, with a shrug, ❛ don’t gotta answer. i mean, who am i, right ? ❜

#hi val :o)#i left the setting vague bc of the different locations!#desolades

@transforms

the most obvious perk of working at mo’s is the complimentary food. it keeps milagros coming back more than the flexible scheduling, perhaps even more than the paychecks, which are hefty enough once she factors in dinner-rush tips. tonight, at the park a few blocks from the diner, she chows on a corned beef on rye. occasionally, she also picks at the fries bonnie still has in her styrofoam takeout box. it’s a bold move, considering the two have only partaken in this post-shift ritual a few times, but milagros is nothing if not bold.

❛ did i tell you about sheila the other day ? ❜ she starts, realizing they’ve encountered a lull in the conversation. ❛ listen to this : all the ladies are together in the back, talking about something ... i don’t know. sexual. and mo’s sittin’ there, readin’ his paper. anyway, sheila shimmies over and flashes him: just cleavage, the top of the tits, just under the collar. ❜ she’s laughing now, looking at bonnie like she should be laughing too, wiping the crumbs off of her lip. ❛ what does mo do ? he shakes his head and sticks his nose back in the paper. i swear, he’d marry the post if he could. he probably hasn’t fucked since 1985. ❜

#transforms #two waitresses in the park about what will they gossip...

mirandabarnes

Long Island, May 2017

#* aesthetic.

@badactors

❛ i hope you like breakfast food. all i got are leftovers. ❜ milagros pulls a paper plate of scrambled eggs and hashbrowns from the microwave, then crosses her cramped kitchen to slide the meal across the table to her guest. elián had dropped him off late in the evening and with little explanation. milagros believes his exact words were, you ain’t gotta fuck ‘em, for chrissakes. just give the man a pillow to lay his head on. and don’t look at me with those crazy eyes !

but now that her brother is long gone, resting in the home he shares with his fiancé and young child, milagros gets to train her gaze on ari, instead. she quells what little appetite she has with a cigarette. a fresh plume of smoke from the newly lit newport curls into the air as she narrows her eyes in suspicion. ❛ so — how long do you expect my brother to keep your shit in his house ? you lifted firearms, right ? no small thing. he’s got a little girl living there. ❜

#hope this is okay :o)#badactors