( * sei incantevole. )

❝ suddenly you’re a CATACLYSM in high-heeled boots ( s t i l l ) being called sweetheart ! ❞

[livs-cooke]

[shadowhunterspocdaily]

Simon and Isabelle being adorable in the rain together.

[ferrisbueller]

[incantevoles-blog]

bricrse.

                       ❝ hey! you should quit that stuff. i’ve heard smoking kills. ❞  a chisel through the ice, a crack! because the silhouette of raven hair is familiar a MISSED familiar a familiar she thought was long disintegrated in the storms. and to think she could have missed her. NUBA isn’t a place she wanders by often ( not to be DISLOYAL to her home’s local bar but – med’s can get you far in the trading world if you’re desperate for that burn. ) but the building is opaque with a veil of NOSTALGIA ; ash & shadow layering it’s quarters —– it reads LOSS, and loss is something briar frequently dodges to avoid the nasty remnants of something missing to attach to her heel & weigh her down. PEOPLE DIE ALL THE TIME, it’s how to world revolves, she’s accepted that ; you give, it takes – over and over and over until you let it spin you into a mess of confliction… . .but NAZLIE?  briar was disappointed to think the world could take down such a woman.   

                          eyes remain on the revenant, footing ( timberlands! ) slowing to a stop a few paces before walking straight into the ghost.  ❝ nice boots, li. ❞ a tilt of her head, a twitch of her lips ; a GREETING.  but there’s an almost PAINFUL pause that follows ; a silence that screams so loud —— ( YOU’VE BEEN GONE AWHILE, WHERE’D YOU GO? ARE YOU STAYING? HOW ARE YOU? I’M GLAD YOU’RE O K A Y. )  —— she takes care ; a rise & fall of her shoulders, palms that shove into the empty pockets of a worn khaki jacket. small gestures, but if you know her well enough you can spell them out: you don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to, but i’m here if you do. ❝ so — when did you get back? ❞    

            IT’S JUST LIKE YOU TO COME AND GO… lucky strike original red on the UC san diego campus, golden nameplate chain with a metallica shirt and a loose bun. nazlie remembers staring up at martín báez with a sheepish grin as the hum of whistle for the choir by the fratellis brushes past his lips with the strong lucky strike scent. it’s just like you to come and go—those plump lips are tugged into a frown, taking the heart of the sheepish girl plummeting with them—don’t you get lonely without me? nazlie remembers drawing the tattooed hand towards her lips before taking a drag of the lucky strike, laughing, smoking kills. again, nazlie laughs—a lucky by her chapped lips. ❛ not any faster than the biters but the luckies go down a hell of a lot SMOOTHER. ❜

            DEAD GIRL WALKING—at least, they can laugh about the ( goddamned ) timberlands. ❛ yeah? i like yours—be careful, some bad dudes with tiny feet are in the market for ‘em since the website’s been down for fuckin’ ever. ❜ a little raise of the brows and a nod — ( THANK YOU. HOW DO I TELL YOU WHAT I SURVIVED WITHOUT CRYING? HAVE YOU BEEN OKAY? I M I S S E D YOU. ) nazlie waves the cigarette mindlessly with pursed lips, ❛ last night… i came in through la quinta inn and spent the ni— ❜ the word lurches dryly and leaves nazlie wondering what MEANINGFUL thing to say, ❛ i got you something? ❜

[incantevoles-blog]

switchblcdes.

When Nadja was small, she cherished any moment of freedom within to oppressive scans of wallpaper that lined the walls of the craftsman her father had bought her mother. The lines of faded rose bouquets ran from the ceiling to the floor like bars of a cell–it would be years, however, before she would draw the comparison, waking up still drunk from the night before, wrists sore from handcuffs. On the rare opportunities that she was given a few hours of PEACE inside the place, she could remember the novelty wearing off with the waning sunlight. EMPTY HOMES AREN’T HOMES AT ALL. Nuba has remained Nadja’s headquarters, even reopened after a bender, but it’s not the same to her. It’s not FUN anymore, she’s the caretaker of a graveyard now–a lighthouse keeper, a LAMPLIGHTER.

The worse part about all that time alone–as a child, as a GHOST–was the strange sounds and sights. At night, every shape looks like a monster, even creak a killer. Nadja’s too stubborn to welcome death, but she’s never been a hardliner for LIFE either. She sleeps in one of the long booths most nights, if she sleeps at all, and so it’s not much to pick up her spiked bat and head for the door. She’s not even truly SHAKEN by the experience until she hears the familiar sound of keys in the lock. There’s no cigarette between lips that don’t smirk. And when the door opens and the bat SLIPS from fingertips like her lanky arms through a trusty leather jacket. The words don’t come like she thought they would in every dream and scenario played on repeat in her head–a favorite song. Instead she lets out the breath she’s been holding. “I thought you were DEAD.” It’s not tender, but Nadja’s never been sweet words, and broken hearts are bad at soft.

           THERE IS A CITY UNDER TIRED BONES TRYING TO CRAWL OUT OF NAZLIE, like it is unhappy living underneath her skin. the dwellers stick out their tongues as they look to the skies for a taste of rain and close their eyes before the wetness hits, but nazlie is A DROUGHT.  biology says humans are little more than seventy percent water, but the ATOMS IN NAZLIE are flowing—leaving to find home.  today, IT WILL R A I N.  the breath of relief rolls over like an early morning fog on an EMPTY beach; a small smile curls around the lucky strike hanging from cracked lips—SMALL… dull, shy of the eyes. the truth is… nazlie hides pieces of herself in anyone that makes life worthwhile. the best of nazlie? it is with nadja; a woman that is a MOB HIT on the hardest callouses nazlie wears proudly, settling in the dips of the ribcage like a lion overlooking its KINGDOM. sure, nazlie is home… but what if home is e m p t y?

          ❛ UM— ❜

           the lucky strike falls. it’s ALMOST childlike—the way nazlie looks at nadja, soft and scared eyes peering from behind long lashes with trembling lips. DOLL, YOU LOOK SO SMALL… the silence is heavy, eyes darting with the threat of tears. ❛ i thought you would be LONG GONE… ❜ too guilty, too scared to make eye contact…  nazlie stomps on the lucky strike before a strained throat clear,  ❛ i’m glad you’re not gone because the idea of coming home to you is the only thing that stopped me from giving up. ❜ beaten and bruised soft, nazlie is scared every moment could be the last—IT HAS TO MEAN SOMETHING.

[nasa-official]

how hot sun

Almost as hot as me

[alonesomes]

I burned so long and so quiet, you must have wondered if I loved you back. I did, I did, I do.

Annelyse Gelman, Everyone I Love is a Stranger to Someone.

( @traderjavi. )

[incantevoles-blog]

exdcus.

the smell of nicotine was an odd sensation that nixon should have been repulsed by, like most people were. yet he stood there inhaling the second hand smoke as if it was a memory he yearned to RELIVE again. his father was a smoker, a HEAVY one. so much that the smell of nicotine was permanently soaked into everything that belonged in the hale household. he remembered coming home from school and following the trail of smoke into his father’s office where he sat for hours “playing lawyer” with his brother. it wasn’t PERFECT but the memory was so pure and wholesome it was better than where he stood today. he followed the smoke like moths to a flame only to be greeted with a face that he assumed LONGED for a place to belong  —- careful  child, assumptions can get you killed. ❝ no food, barely any water but there’s still cigarettes. funny how that works. ❞ he exhaled these words as a gust of cheyenne wind kissed his cheeks.  ❝ you look lost. ❞ he added with uncertainty. ❝ i don’t mean to pry, it just can be dangerous here alone at night. ❞ 

            NEVER MUCH FOR POETRY---well, at least, not the woe is me and sad girl poetry about how young girls pick up smoking because of an ( emptiness ) someone’s dusty ain’t shit son left in the wake of a terrible break-up. nazlie likes rumi, khalil gibran, al mutanabbi---BEAUTIFUL POETRY FROM FARAWAY LANDS, hard to get your hands on in the midst of, y’know, the apocalypse. the smoking is not to replace anything or anyone, but the small remnant of who NAZLIE EL HELANI used to be. it was to hold on, to remember. ❛ are you surprised? habits are harder to kill than people. ❜ GOOD ONE---real nice; ONE friend in the whole damn city and nothing good or warm to say. nazlie isn’t real good at keeping friends---not after the sudden and almost SPOT ON imitation of fuckin’ amazing amy. ❛ i am lost--- ❜ the shrug seems impassive as nazlie draws the cigarette in for a slow inhale, ❛ i am staring at my home with the keys in my pocket... but i don’t know where to go. where do i go from here, BOY WONDER? ❜ 

[incantevoles-blog]

contractcdkiller:

       “walkers can’t use LOCKS, babe,” he comments back dryly — though there’s a smirk on his face as he flicks the safety back ON and slips the gun in the back of his pants as he looks down the flight of stairs at the woman “and i can kick the ass of anyone who comes in here uninvited,” he gives her a pointed look.

            he gives her another look; at her words.  of course he knows it’s not exactly smart or the time, but he can’t resist.    nazlie has an intoxicating effect.    he strides down the stairs - barefoot, bare chested with a gun in the back of his pants, and moves past her to the door, locking it and deadbolting it.    “don’t have a vore kink, naz,” he comments over his shoulder - matter of factly before he turns back to face her, “eating out, yeah - not so much the eating people thing.”   but he does take a few steps out into the loungeroom where she stands; large, STRONG hand coming up to grab at her throat, squeezing with enough force to cut of her air flow; “but you know how i feel about choking,” he gives her a long, dark stare - the sound of the siren draining away for a few more beats - and then he backs her against the nearest hard surface  ( A WALL )  and he grins; hand still at her throat.     and kisses her with the same darkness in his eyes.

              TEETH BITE INTO A PLUMP LIP, ❛ i didn’t take you for the ass-kicking type---seems a little MESSY and impulsive, don’t you think? ❜ a mischievous and playful smirk falters as nazlie licks the very same lip at the sight of kit; long ( and surprisingly well groomed ) fingernails brush against the cool blade of a hunting knife before a small chuckle follows and she tucks it away safely, ❛ but i like messy. impulsive, too. ❜

            FIRE MEET GASOLINE: nazlie is a rogue sun that spits stars, kit is brave enough to love the taste of copper and salt---to risk BURNING under the nazlie. KUAFU AND THE SUN---kit chases nazlie, but the story ends differently: kit captures nazlie, always against a wall. kit is no myth---SURE, he looks like the statue of a grecian god... but the strong hand tight around her neck is a pull into reality: kit is real, and kit is not afraid of nazlie. OH, NO, kit is not afraid of the edges that scratch---not afraid of the bloodied hands, the shrapnel of a heart, the one foot out of the door. kit presses them all right AGAINST THE WALL; he holds and keeps them together with a hand at the throat. ❛ mm... ❜ the long nails traipse across any bit of warm, bare skin nazlie can blindly reach for before burrowing deeply into the small of his back---a sharp GASP, biting at kit’s lips without trying to pry him away despite the increasing pressure. instead, nazlie pushes him further into herself. 

[daily-b99]

[traderjavi-blog]

( @incantevoles ) 

[just-shower-thoughts]

maybe aliens don’t talk to us because we’re creepy. i mean we send them weird mix tapes and we keep trying to find out where they live

[incantevoles-blog]

                                                                          ( @switchblcdes.

              TIME TO GO HOME... between an awkward home invasion and the screeching wails, there is no running from the infamous bar. all nazlie wants is a GODDAMN drink and a blanket to burrow underneath; the cold and the noise is grating. sure---a WELCOME HOME party is farfetched and unfair, but with how annoying the sirens are?  nazlie is HOPING nadja will be sympathetic, if nadja is there at all.                                                                                                            ( PLEASE---please, god, let nadja be there... )

             a cigarette dangles between bruised lips as nazlie rifles through old leather bag---WHERE ARE THE FUCKING KEYS? there are two sets of keys to nuba and all its assorted rooms; nazlie and nadja have individual keys to the bar as roommates, as people that live together. MAYBE, losing the keys is a sign that nuba is not a home anymore. MAYBE, losing the keys is a sign that nazlie lost nadja months ago. the grooves and ridges of a key dig into a clammy finger---THANK GOD. the keys jingle as nazlie opens the doors to nuba.

[dvoyd]

help me remember: not everything in life is a battle. i don’t need to carry a knife everywhere i go. help me learn: how to shed my armor without shedding tears. how to open up my arms without raising my fists. help me understand: i can be vulnerable, and still be strong. i can be made of steel, and still be soft. help me realize: if life is a battle, i don’t have to fight it alone.

even in war, i am not without allies | m.a.w.

[incantevoles-blog]

contractcdkiller:

             “even when things are going crazy - i still don’t really like it when people come BARGING into my house,” he could hear someone closing the door behind them and shoving something in front of it.     the siren was LOUD, but his hearing was better.

             “friend or foe - because i’ll shoot you and feed you to the walkers if you don’t fuck off!”  he called down stairs as he moved, gun raised and safety OFF.

               ❛ GOOD TO KNOW,  ❜ an acerbic and calm response to the threats of death; nazlie is unflinching as vacant eyes survey the ( house ) home that she is ( unwelcome ) seeking refuge in. fingers tap lightly against the trusted hunting knife before she hums,  ❛ try locking the door next time, CHAMP --- it’s a decent home invasion prevention method.  ❜

              the siren PALES as nazlie is drawn towards the voice trailing down the stairs; it is much more enticing,  exciting. you’d think nazlie would have played with e n o u g h danger over a lurching four months, but it seems that SOME THINGS DON’T CHANGE. ❛ i would PREFER it if you choked me before enjoying your vore kink, but i’ll take anything.  ❜

[varietyofwords]

[contractcdkiller]

         (   @incantevoles​   )

[madzieloss]

— AND THEY SAID APHRODITE WAS SOFT

[incantevoles-blog]

autumnmoons:

physically im here but mentally im always in a cave home off the coast of greece eating pomegranates and drinking fresh juice but it’s whatever