𝑊𝐸 𝐸𝑋𝐼𝑆𝑇 𝐴𝑆 𝐻𝑈𝑀𝐴𝑁𝑆, 𝑊𝐻𝑂 𝐴𝑅𝐸 𝐻𝐴𝑈𝑁𝑇𝐸𝐷 𝐻𝑂𝑈𝑆𝐸𝑆.
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@nvghtingale
𝑊𝐸 𝐸𝑋𝐼𝑆𝑇 𝐴𝑆 𝐻𝑈𝑀𝐴𝑁𝑆, 𝑊𝐻𝑂 𝐴𝑅𝐸 𝐻𝐴𝑈𝑁𝑇𝐸𝐷 𝐻𝑂𝑈𝑆𝐸𝑆.
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@ohbluejay !
# 𝒎𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒂𝒓𝒅
𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐄𝐋𝐅 𝐓𝐎 𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐒 𝐈𝐒 𝐀𝐒 𝐌𝐔𝐂𝐇 𝐀 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐎𝐅 𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐋'𝐒 𝐉𝐎𝐁 𝐀𝐒 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐃𝐒. People won’t come back if they don’t feel respected, indulged. It’s easy – a soft laugh, bat of the eyelashes, accidental stroke of the hand – and they become more malleable to her than chance itself. It’s all a game – if she gets people back to her table, they’ll spend more money, and they’ll feel more generous towards her when doling our their tips. It isn’t always easy to tell who will become a big spender, and so she treats each customer as though they have millions to lose, until proven otherwise.
Hit me, the woman says, and Rachel chuckles. She’s not blind to flirtation – but she likes the attention nonetheless. At least the attention is coming from an attractive young woman, rather than some of the awful old men who try to test their luck at her table. She draws out the movement – retrieving the next card from the deck and laying it out beside the others. Eight of diamonds. A good card, but not the best one. “Twenty.” She says. There are only two options here – hope that the house doesn’t land on twenty-one exactly, or try one’s luck at drawing an ace.
She blinks slowly, once, twice. Fingers trace back across the table, and she regards the woman for a moment, eyes slowly making their way down and back up again. “Tricky situation. I know what I would do.” She says, “Hit or stand?”
𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐄𝐆𝐈𝐍𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐈𝐒 𝐀 𝐌𝐀𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑 of skill, even though isabele will call it luck ─ to the untrained eye, it could only be the latter. the way people will fold to her charm, setting their chin upon the hand that beckons forth and blaming it on just the right amount of charm. it could only be fortune that draws so many in until they can catch the intoxicating scent of her perfume, breathe it in and out until it replaces the oxygen in their lungs with something dizzying and all - consuming ─ much like her presence itself, overwhelming the senses. she will call it luck, shrug it off with a laugh pure as birdsong on a spring morning ─ when in truth, there is nothing but calculation.
𝐈𝐓 𝐋𝐈𝐕𝐄𝐒 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐘 her smile broadens at the sound of the woman’s laughter, as if isabele were the one being consumed ─ placed between her teeth like offering and waiting for a bite to be taken on her bottom lip. she doesn’t spare more than a glance at her own card. ❛ what a tricky position ─ there are so many others i would rather be in, ❜ isabele sighs, innuendo easily woven into her words. ❛ hit. i’m feeling lucky tonight. ❜
𝐀 𝐑𝐀𝐈𝐒𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐀𝐍 𝐄𝐘𝐄𝐁𝐑𝐎𝐖 in intrigue ─ further leaning in, isabele looks around at those on other tables. none are paying attention. it is the perfect moment to turn from butterfly to viper and strike. once the other woman’s blinks cease, isabele catches her eye and smirks.
𝐈𝐓 𝐁𝐄𝐆𝐈𝐍𝐒 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐀 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐌 glow as green shifts into something entirely otherworldly ─ divine. captivating and enchanting, molten gold swirling and impossibly dark shadows dancing in pupils. oscillating between gold and honey, shades mixing together and blending in choreographed movement, a dance of ichor, taken from olympus and gifted to the muse of song and desire.
𝐈𝐒𝐀𝐁𝐄𝐋𝐄'𝐒 𝐕𝐎𝐈𝐂𝐄 𝐈𝐒 𝐁𝐄𝐓𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐍 𝐏𝐔𝐑𝐑 and whisper when she speaks. ❛ you do know what you would have done in my stead, don’t you ? i have a creeping feeling that there is much that you know ─ i promise that i will keep your secrets, darling, if you will only be truthful to me. won’t you be a good girl and answer my questions ? ❜
𝐀 𝐒𝐌𝐈𝐑𝐊. 𝐈𝐒𝐀𝐁𝐄𝐋𝐄 𝐁𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐅𝐋𝐘 𝐀𝐖𝐀𝐈𝐓𝐒 any readable sign of confirmation ─ she does not break eye contact, not risking a moment of reprieve from her graceful attack. ❛ there is a man that often comes to your table. he wears a three - piece suit ─ greying hair, a moustache, and a faint accent. you will tell me all that you know ─ what days and at what hour does he usually come ? what is his name ? ❜
A Lover’s Discourse: Fragments, Roland Barthes
WHERE THE CRAWDADS SING 2022, dir. Olivia Newman
Meditation On The Threshold: A Bilingual Anthology Of Poetry, ‘Dido’s Lament’ by Rosario Castellanos
𝐊𝐈𝐋𝐋 𝐌𝐄 .
── from @gcdhoods .
tw ── death, spiders.
she’s always preferred sunrise to sunset, surprisingly. for one so passionate and grandiose, isabele delights herself in watching the sun paint strokes of muted yellows and pinks. where sunset’s colours speak of opulence and magnificence, sunrise is softness and tenderness and it holds her gently in its arms and rocks her back and forth, letting everything else melt away as she closes her eyes and lets the pinks and violets peek in from behind her eyelids.
she tilts her head back to look them in the eye. smiles. ❛ i think i like sunrise so much because it reminds me of you. ❜
pasi smiles back at her and presses a kiss to her forehead. they’re blushing ── she can feel the warmth of their face, can see the way their cheeks flush red. she’d be able to tell from an opposite corner of the world with her eyes shut.
❛ my isa, you’ve always had a way with words. ❜
they’ve stolen this moment from the hands of the faceless, the first thieves ── they’ve stolen their freedom and their future. they have erased any possibility of a life where she forgives pasi for exposing the depths of her heart to the whole world and they, in turn, forgive her for leaving ── she’d sit beside them at the piano at night, yawning but still fighting to stay awake in the name of keeping them company ( she’d fall asleep with her head on their shoulder a little after and they’d have to carry her to bed ). they’d follow her lead when getting dressed to match their outfit to hers. it’s been ripped from their grasp, turned into nothing but a faraway dream.
the two of them don’t get to make it out of this alive.
𝐃𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐊 𝐌𝐄 .
── from @pandoralxrk .
lark is, unsurprisingly, easy to avoid. she has managed to trick the world into deeming her a goddess, one who floats among mortals and imparts blessings by pressing fingertips to foreheads or ── for the lucky ones ── lips to cheeks. in a too - small ballroom, their elbows bump into each other. the gowns they’re wearing are eerily similar, is the first thing isabele notices. something pandora must have also realised, from the minuscule signs of tension within her. what is pandora holding back ? does she wish to hold onto a seam and rip it apart ? to step on the train and make isabele fall over, embarrassing herself before everyone ?
❛ isabele de azevedo ── what a pleasure. ❜
isabele blinks in stunned silence for only a second before she, too, paints on a smile.
❛ pandora ambrosi. the pleasure is all mine. tell me, would you like a drink ? ❜
❛ that would be lovely. ❜
𝐊𝐈𝐋𝐋 𝐌𝐄 .
── from @thecaladrius .
tw ── violence, death, grief.
here is a thing few understand about isabele: in the face of death, her grief is as boundless as her thirst for vengeance. they both warp her face into a monster’s, as siren turns into gorgon ── something that cannot be looked directly in the eye. look into hers and find unbreakable ice, frozen - over flame, a heat not tamed but engulfed entirely by coldness. it is easier to let fingertips skim the fire than it is to lose them to the cold. it is a fate less cruel, to face an angry isabele than to see her thirst for vengeance ── and seek it out, to even the scales by her own hand.
caladrius is the first person on her list.
𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐄
you are given a sealed letter the morning before her funeral. it has your name on it written in elegant scrawl, her perfume’s scent, and the mark of a kiss in her red lipstick. it’s the same way that you received her love letters once.
𝐀 𝐋𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐈𝐍 𝐂𝐀𝐒𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐌𝐘 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐄'𝐒 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐇
𝒕o my beloved pasi,
𝒓emember when we found ourselves at the opera house for the last time ? you said help was on the way when you heard the sirens, and i said help was already there, because you were holding me. the injury meant so little to me when i remembered what it felt like to be home. my heart yearned to be by yours before we ever met ── and you felt it too, that moment of recognition when we found each other and looked at each other, really looked at each other, for the first time. when you held me as i was hurt, i swear i felt it again. the feeling of two souls finding each other and linking hands.
𝒖nderneath my bold flirtations, you always saw me for who i was: a woman trying to be good, to be kind, to be tender. i told you what i thought love was like once and looking back, i realised something. when i thought about it, i imagined love to be caring so deeply about somebody else that you would give them the world. not because of their talents, their beauty or their gifts ── no, caring about another’s very soul, and just wanting to make them the happiest they could be. do you see now, the poetic beauty of it all ? i had described you without even knowing. you care so deeply about people, you love wholeheartedly, and you give them the world. sometimes excessively, my dear, please remember to take care of yourself. i loved you then, and now that you have found this letter, you can be certain that i will love you for eternity. i told you i’d always care, didn’t i ?
𝒔weet pasi, you always brought out the very best in me. you taught me how to be tender by showing me the gentleness of your heart, inspiring me to do the same with mine. like a newborn animal trying to stand for the first time, i always struggled to be good ── a mess of greys within me instead of the pure white of an unblemished heart. but you looked upon what i thought was a cacophony and arranged the most beautiful symphony out of it.
𝒕here is no greater regret within my heart than leaving you. it was the biggest mistake i ever made. i’m so sorry for the pain i caused you. i wish we could have had more time together, more happiness, more smiles and more of your beautiful laughter.
𝒏ostalgia can get the best of us sometimes, sorrowful trick of the mind, yet all my memories of you are rose - colored. they always will be, for i cannot separate my thoughts of you from how much i love you. when you think of me in the future, i hope you can feel an inkling of that love. i hope it makes you smile.
𝒐h, my love, i know it will be hard at first. it would have been hard for me if it had been you. mourning a loved one is never easy, we both know that to be true ── we both met grief when we were too young. but please remember that i was not the only one who loved you. there are many out there who do, whose shoulders you can rest your head on. let them hold you. let them wipe your tears away. please, please don’t try to go through it alone.
𝒃ecause you are a gift, not a burden, my love. you were the greatest gift i could have ever been given.
𝒐ne final love letter is all i can offer now. and all my love within it.
𝒅on’t forget to listen for me in that beautiful head of yours, my love. i will be singing.
─ 𝒚our isa
── for : @gcdhoods
prompt: GET ME — a drabble about one character saving another. from @nvghtingale, ft. @gcdhoods. trigger warnings for drug cartels, not-that-graphic violence, and not-so-implied death.
“Javi,” Pasi croaks. “Javi, please, please.”
Keep reading
𝐔𝐒𝐄 𝐌𝐄 .
── from @cathartidie .
𝐁𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐊 𝐌𝐄 .
── from @infelicits .
there is a nightingale sitting at the edge of a stage, with her legs swinging in front of an empty opera house. this is her second - to - last night before the mission properly kicks off. the last will be spent with her team, most likely, fine - tuning details of a plan to be executed perfectly. any minor slip - up could mean death for them all. but this, the second - to - last night, is meant to be her own.
a drabble about one character killing another for @gcdhoods @nvghtingale
Keep reading
𝐈𝐍𝐕𝐈𝐓𝐄 𝐌𝐄 .
── from @kasimirfrei .
they’ve been friends for too little time. it’s a tender thing, what they hold in their hands ── baby bird sculpture carved out of crystal, balanced on four palms and comforted by exchanged whispers of reassurance. that it won’t slip from their hands, that it will not fall, that this will be something long - lasting and that one day they’ll look back at this together and laugh at how young and silly they were. dancing around each other, coming together so slowly.
when it was always as easy as isabele asking kasimir out on a date.
𝐇𝐀𝐔𝐍𝐓 𝐌𝐄 .
── from @peregrinefalcvn .
nobody tells you about the loneliness that comes with a haunting. she cannot linger in pasi’s mind all day, feeling that they must not be able to stand the sound of her voice after she’s parted ── so instead, isabele has been lingering at the side of everyone in the murder. do they miss her ?
𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐄
you have not heard from her ever since you aided her when she was wounded. you recall the way she looked at you ─ with a crackle of electricity behind her eyes, as though there had been sudden realisation somewhere within the back of her mind. a newfound hunger. for what, you are not certain ─ you have yet to familiarise yourself with her expressions, with the inflections of her words and the meaning behind every smile. there’s one in particular she’s started to wear around you. more of a smirk. you haven’t seen her look at others this way ─ and perhaps you’ve spent a little too long thinking about the curve of her lips, wondering what they intend to say when they do not form words. perhaps she’s noticed. because she makes it easier for you.
you run into her near your headquarters, and you suspect the worse ─ that she’s come for reconnaissance and has been caught in the act. your conversation is brief. she looks up at you, eyes framed by fluttering lashes, and slides a folded piece of paper into your pocket telling you to keep it as a little secret between the two of you. tell no one. this is between you and me.
she leaves you with that. when she’s gone, you unfold it and a hotel card falls into your hand.
𝐀 𝐒𝐄𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐓 𝐋𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑
eres,
you once told me how you felt about me, and said there was a want.
prove it. you know where to find me.
─ isabele
── for : @dcves