YOU SPEAK LIKE A HEROINE,

LET'S SEE IF YOU CAN SUFFER LIKE ONE *.☽ mai's 1x1 sideblog. not much writing goes on here.

[lysitheawrites]

E. ROSIER / @wartcrn​

❝  ── sic gorgiamus allos subjectatos nunc. ❞

His knife, at her brother’s throat.

Evan’s knife, at her brother’s throat — and she can already see the blade’s edge, can already feel its whisper across delicate flesh until excess red blooms across his chest — the color of roses; the color of rage; the color of the string of rubies he had fastened upon her neck weeks ago under the steadfast gazes of their parents.

Esmeray realizes that she should say something — anything. That she should stop him; that she should fight him, should attack with the same tender brutality in which he wields the knife; as if she was born to use her wand as a weapon. Because wasn’t she?

Her brother whimpers and Esmeray remembers their shared childhood: silent dinners and scraped knees; feet swollen and blistered under the weight of the Selwyn family name. And a hunger that grew with each passing day; that could only be cleaved with victory yet would bloom again like the heads of a hydra, ever-persistent.

Nonetheless, it was a childhood that they shared: this arena they had been forced into when their bones had not yet solidified; where mercy had no place — not even for little girls with eyes too bright and hands that couldn’t stop shaking. Nonetheless, it was the closest thing she had ever known to love.

But there are things older and murkier than love, and Esmeray stills as her eyes meet Evan’s, their gazes catching, and she isn’t able to look away, even as her brother’s hisses echo within the somber alley.

When she speaks, it a mere two syllables, framed between a plea and a  dare. “Evan.” A single name, his, soft and intentional. Perhaps a reminder to herself, of who is holding the knife — an absolution of the malignity that resides within her and too closely mirrors his own.

[lysitheawrites]

𝐁𝐄𝐋𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐗 & 𝐑𝐎𝐃𝐎𝐋𝐏𝐇𝐔𝐒

❝ —tell me, what names have been whispered at your altar? what language would you like me to use when i whisper yours? ❞

The estate is cold.

She had been here before, during childhood. Back when the ripe summer peaches were sweet upon her tongue and the only sort of burning she knew was sun upon skin; when bloody knees still hurt and light scattered freckles on the highs of her skin. 

She would make him count them back then, soft pads of his fingers grazing along dimpled pink cheeks as he traced her freckles like constellations, keeping count under his breath, his own features pulled together in aggrieved concentration. Even in childhood, Rodolphus had been placid, and she leaned into it as much as she recoiled from it; his touch always the anchor that cut as it steadied, slicing reality into her daydreams. 

Still, in those quiet summer days, Bellatrix kept still, listening to his rhythmic murmurs like a lullaby that echoed within her heartbeats. 

But it’s winter now and they’ve grown just as surely as the alder trees from saplings planted along the river, and there are moments when she can feel the yearning of her limbs to reach towards the last vestiges of light already faded. There are no children running around, scraping their knees. There are no peaches and no more freckles to trace, lullabies long forgotten; pulse now braided into something tidal. 

From those long summer days, only Rodolphus remains, and she finds him a little after midnight, head bent over ledgers in the study. The engagement ring glitters upon her finger and Bellatrix wordlessly moves to his side in the same way the seas pull towards the moon each night — he is just as cold; they are just as inevitable. She settles on top of the desk, her legs dangling off the edge. 

“Rod.” Her voice is quiet but clear against the night, so pure and unadulterated in the candlelight that she can almost hear the blood in it. Bella reaches for his hand, a finger tracing over the veins that run along the back, her touch soft, though there’s a certain sharpness in her eyes as she studies him — like a knife so sharp that it takes the blood a moment to remember how to bleed. He’s cold, but he’s still somehow the warmest thing in this house.

“Do you love me?”

[lysitheawrites]

delphine dupont.

Del had never really been the type to get queasy over blood. She hung around men and women who managed to get themselves beat up on the regular that she was soon desensitized to it enough that all it pulled from her was a wrinkle of her nose and a pursed lip of disapproval. Honestly, was it so hard to keep oneself in one piece? She then noted the nerves that seemed to roll off of him in waves, the glance he spared over her shoulder and the sudden compulsion to… help. 

God, she could practically hear her friends back in Louisiana now. It will be the death of you, Del. She felt her mouth open, then close, then open again like a fish, not knowing what else to say. She was ready to ask him a series of questions (as if him bleeding in front of her wasn’t something too time sensitive), only to freeze at the sound of hurried footsteps up the cheap metal stairs of the motel. She let out a panicked little squeak before grabbing at his wrist and without another word, pulled him inside and shutting the door as quietly and as quickly as she could, closing all the locks before pressing her back against the wood. heart hammering against her chest. 

“Are you going to murder me?” She whispered, only to turn her head slightly as she heard men run past her room. blood thrumming through her ears. 

.

For a small thing, she had a hell of a grasp, and Nikolai allowed the stranger to pull him inside with a quiet grunt of pain. 

As the door closed behind them and relative safety was guaranteed, whatever bravado he’d held seemed to leave him in time with the sound of footsteps growing fainter. He slumped slightly against the wall, hand going back to apply pressure on the wound, though he couldn’t help the breathy chuckle that escaped his lips at her question. 

“You’re in luck,” Nikolai drawled. “I only murder on weekdays. And it’s a Sunday.” A pause in which he studied her, wondering when the blonde was going to start screaming. Or worse — start crying. Shock was a funny thing, and it was about time that any normal person would realize the situation they were in. Still, he continued, features mildly amused. “Even murderers need breaks, you know.” He flashed her a grin, though it ended in a slight grimace as pain ebbed from his torso, dark spots starting to fill his field of vision. A shame when the sight in front of him was quite picturesque.

“Ah, you wouldn’t happen to, um, know how to sew?” Nikolai started peeling off his jacket as he spoke, gritting his teeth as his body protested the movements. 

[lysitheawrites]

There was a partial shift in adjustment on the seat – his seat – swiveling gently from side to side, keeping herself very comfortably planted still. After all it didn’t seem as though there’d been any objection to the fact, not that it would’ve exactly mattered. As far as any outwardly appearance goes at least. One that, for a beat she allowed her own eyes to inspect with a subtle, or maybe not so much, consideration for the first time in quite a while, head canting towards the right.

That is until, she spotted movements in stride coming closer, snapping her vision back upwards to meet his gaze for a mere instance as it shifted over to the bouquet, now being held out for her to take. The gesture, coupled with his words caused the wicked curvature of her lips to falter slightly. Opening a slivered crack in her resolve she’d been otherwise able to cling to with a white-knuckled grip born from the spitefulness that brought her here in the first place. Except she hadn’t expected to be met with the haunting déjà vu of a moment that could be recounted many times, formerly bringing about feelings of adoration. Now leaving her warily unsettled, more so by the sudden thump in her chest, she vied heavily to ignore.

Willing a self-assured smile back to her features, Esme took the flowers, clearly knowing well they couldn’t have been for her to begin with, airy chuckle billows out both humorous and not. ❝ Still ever the charmer – teşekkür ederim hayatım. ❞ The nickname rolled off her tongue with a sharp lilt among softly spoken Turkish. Whether she would actually bother to keep the truthfully stunning arrangement, or perhaps toss them upon her exit, was yet to be determined.

A brief pause as she sat back in the chair, laying the bouquet across her lap lightly. ❝ I would ask how you’ve been, but — ❞ Would she even grant him the courtesy ? Even when behind shields of fire and ice was a budding curiosity. ❝ It seems I already have my answer. ❞ Motioning to the office around them then. ❝ Chief operating officer of Blackwood Industries, vay, vay, vay… congratulations are in order. ❞ Though she wouldn’t explicitly give them herself. ❝ Suppose I can see why you didn’t stick around for long after your previous position. ❞

He couldn’t quite help it — as he watched her take the flowers with the sort of ease and shamelessness that befitted a queen accepting what was rightfully hers, the corners of Saint’s lips twitched, smile threatening to widen even further. And while it wasn’t usually something he held back, this particular smile was tinged with the sort of fondness that he had never really been able to afford. Lest of all in the presence of the woman he’d left him in the dust without much of an explanation. Their time together had erased all former misconceptions about Esmeray Koç — she was a snake in sheep’s clothing.

But that had brought about feelings of adoration rather than caution. 

Saint was unbothered by her words, following her motions at their surroundings. If he had heard the bitterness hidden underneath, he gave no such indication. 

“Congratulations are overrated, güzelim.” Saint shrugged, leaning back against the front of his desk. “Though I have my own misgivings about this place.” His gaze met hers, steady and unrelenting, and he lowered his voice, as if making a confession instead of speaking about employment history. And maybe he was. “My old position — there are things I can’t help but miss about it.” 

[sugarlakesfm]

@lysitheawrites​ who: del & nikolai where: some motel in a small town 

A week. Two at the most. That was how long she’d be staying for. Then, she’d pack up her bags and move on to the next place. Where that would be? She had no clue. Wherever the road may take her it seems… In all honesty, the spontaneity of it all still excited her. It was a melancholy thrum in her veins that had her longing for home, but at the same time pushing her to keep moving. 

She let out sigh as she moved to turn in for the night, only to freeze at the sound of a knock on her door. She didn’t really know many people in this town. Who would be visiting her at this time? She slowly padded to the door, bare feet silent against the cheap carpet of her room before finally peering through the peep hole, only to gasp at the sight of a man, unfamiliar and injured waiting for her to answer. 

And Del knew that this wasn’t the most ideal situation to be in. She knew that in theory, she shouldn’t let in injured men she didn’t know into her motel room when she was by herself, pretty much unarmed and vulnerable… But her sense of self preservation always seemed to be overshadowed by her naivete, foolishness and bleeding heart. So without a second thought, she ripped open the door and ran a hand through her hair. 

“Devil’s tits! You look like you got mauled by a bear! Are you alright?” 

[lysitheawrites]

He wasn’t going to die.

And perhaps that was arrogant of him, maybe even laughable — when the rival gang was practically nipping at his heels and his jacket became increasingly saturated with dark blood. But if anything, as Nikolai applied pressure to the wound, his steps staggered but silent against the concrete of the motel’s open hallways, the warmth was almost welcomed. He’d never quite taken to the northeast’s brutal winters, even after all these years, and faintly, he wondered if a trip to Hawaii was warranted. Especially after this shit show. 

At the sound of the elevator ding, he murmured a small prayer to a God he had never quite believed in and leaned against the doorframe of the nearest room, his fists rapping against the door with the kind of casualness that a man in his position couldn’t afford. 

And for a moment he wondered if God really had answered, for the woman who opened the door looked like a damned angel. 

“Ah,” a corner of his mouth twitched upwards as she spoke, concern so obviously laced in the lilt of her voice, though he tensed at the sound of footsteps nearing. Soon they would round the corner, and not even a higher power would be able to intervene. “Room service?” He glanced meaningfully at the space behind her, a silent plea for invitation. Judging by her small frame, it would be all too easy to push past her, but even hunted and on the verge of death, Nikolai Clairmont was nothing but a gentleman.