Slow Dancing In The Dark

Pandora Phan Montague - Stable. Captain - Stable Health - Stable.

[phanpandora]

gertrudezhang‌:

WHERE: THE LIBRARY OF VERONA WHEN: MARCH 21ST 2019 WHO: @phanpandora

She is fine. The two dark-coloured crescent moons beneath her gaze had been concealed with a healthy amount of make-up, and would remain so until healed. All that was left to consider were those underneath her command who had suffered after what had happened at Hotel Emelia, having been working her way through her list of soldati - knowing them well enough to tailor her approach to each person. Pandora, someone who had needed little interaction from her to date, a strong woman who was appreciated for a number of reasons but, in particular, for her ability to do the job at hand with little question. Genevieve had taken particular interest in her following the announcement of her engagement to Roman Montague.

The battlefield did not facilitate communication, operating with a one way system, a waterfall, that started from the top and trickled down throughout the forces. As a captain, there were not many people that Genevieve had to be concerned about beyond her own soldiers. “I presume your nuptials have been postponed in light of recent events,” she ponders out loud, wondering whether the decision would have come from Roman or Damiano, her calm demeanour allowing the opportunity for correction if necessary. “It’s been rather grim lately, hasn’t it?” she whispers, quiet. It takes a moment before she can meet the gaze of the other, offering a small smile - the expression, too, a soldier that takes its post on her features without question. “It would be nice for people to have something to look forward to.”

Genevieve was everything Pandora strived to be; strong, independent, powerful. They were all things that laid just outside of her reach but looking at Genevieve made Pandora think that maybe one day she would hold them in her hands as well. She watched from the sidelines as the older woman made waves within the Montague family - and it was stunning. How one person could command such presence was similar to watching a pianist perform a concerto. To Pandora, it was simply beautiful to see. She was willing to do what it took to get what she deserved. 

And Pandora would happily be her student if it meant Genevieve would teach her everything. 

Despite covering the stitches with her hair, it was obvious she had yet to heal. Half of her face was bruised and despite the obscene amount of concealer she applied, it still peaked through. For now, she would have to pretend it wasn’t even there. “What you do suggest, signora?” Pandora wasn’t sure what Genevieve had in mind- in fact, the only things that were coming to mind included hiding away in her office and planning some sort of attack. 

[phanpandora]

cuorepietoso‌:

Saturday 16 March 2019 Hotel Emelia  0415 / 4:15am closed for @phanpandora

     His head is starting to hurt, sharp pain behind his eyes, from squinting in the low light of the hotel. That’s what he’s telling himself, anyway. His leg is best not thought about quite yet– he knows every hobbled step he takes is costing him hours, days of recovery time in the long run, and he can feel the way his hastily wrapped bandages are starting to squelch with blood, starting to make his toes go numb. Battista has been running triage and assisting with the more serious injuries for almost a half hour, barking out orders and requests for supplies, being a general nightmare as he assisted with the clean-up of the events of the night. 

          They’d lost people tonight. They’d mysteriously lost Rafaella Capulet, despite their victory. He tried not to let either of those facts cause his anxiety to well. 

     It seemed like the injuries had dried up for the most part, anyone still limping around that he or his helpers hadn’t seen to could probably survive on their own. He’s washing his hands one more time, thinking about taking a peek under the bandage on his own leg, when he spots a dark head of hair stalking past him, face and shirt painted red with her own blood. She looks kind of like she just walked off a horror movie set, and from here he can’t tell how deep it is or how serious, but the fact that she’s up and about is a good sign. 

     Battista thinks about not saying anything– after all, why is it his business, if Pandora Phan decides she wants a gnarly scar, an infection near her brain, to bleed all over the expensive marble floors and her already ruined shirt? But he dries his hands and checks the suture kit, sees he still has plenty of supplies, and sighs. No harm in trying, he supposes. “Phan,” he barks out, “Don’t make me chase you down like a dog. Get over here.” Is the threat empty because of the status of his leg, or is it all the more terrifying?

Pandora was angrier about her bloodstained shirt than the wound itself. She knew wearing it was a mistake, but she was nothing if not someone who prized fashion over function. They were supposed to wear something nice for the beginning of the night and if she didn’t follow that, she was positive that everyone there would see right through her charade. It was as simple as that, really. 

As she stalks through the hotel, anger seeps deeper into her bones. Blood was pooling in her eye and blocking her vision every time she tries to look towards her right side. A headache was beginning to form on the right side of her face with each step. And the scent of blood in the air was making her lightheaded. The night might not have worked out how they originally wanted it to, but the amount of blood that was shed was even too much for her to deal with. She was a soldier, yes, but even Pandora had limits at times. 

A voice barks out her name, reminding Pandora that she isn’t the only one in the building. The look she throws in Battista's direction is enough to kill him if she wanted. How fun it would be to watch him chase after her, limping behind her as she turned each corner within the hotel. Would he be able to keep up with her or would simply give up altogether? The thrill was enough to make her start in the opposite direction of him. “Is that a promise, Battista?” Regardless of her words, she makes her way over to him, peeling the blood-soaked hair from her brow. “Tell me, will I need to wear stitches on my wedding day?”

[phanpandora]

WHERE: The Sabello home  WHEN: March 20th, 2019 TIME: 7:18 pm WHO: @tomassabello​

Pandora took the job because she had to. Saving Juliana was something that didn’t go unnoticed and that meant any sympathy had to be stamped out. Tomas had to pay for his sin and she refused to let anyone else be the form of retribution. The friendship that had formed over time between them was something that she held dear - not that she would voice that aloud. The last thing she wanted was to hear Tomas boast about how he managed to break down all of her walls and get her to laugh at his ridiculous jokes. 

But, as she walks through the streets, covered in darkness, she wonders if she’ll ever hear another one of his jokes again. 

A handful of soldiers are by her side, waiting for whatever task she throws at them. There’s a voice in the back of her head that screams she should’ve come alone. But, Damiano refused, not that she was surprised at that. She knocks gently on the door, pausing for a moment before speaking. “Tomas? It’s me, Pandora.” Please forgive me for what I’m about to do. 

[phanpandora]

Diverona Characters as Drag Race Quotes 

@matthiaswarren

[phanpandora]

rafaellacapulet‌:

    It hadn’t been too long since she was captured – a little more than a week by her estimations. And it had been far less than 24 hours since Matthias had branded her, whipped her, and made a wholly new creature out of her. In a desperate attempt to seek refuge from the horror of her present reality, she had let herself withdraw into the darkness of unconscious and allowed herself to dream of gentle fingers running through her curly hair, a wicked, salacious grin pressing into her skin, and the warmth of laughter filling her stomach until it was almost painful to hold in. Then the pain began to seep in. The burning and boiling of her skin, the open fissures that still wept with blood, and the bone-deep ache of something that was assuredly broken. 

    Rafaella…

    The voice called to her, dragging her out of blissful unconsciousness that allowed for some, minimalistic form of respite. It reminded her of sweeter days when her insatiable quest for knowledge was tampered somewhat by drawling professors and a multiplicity of books. It reminded her of a woman with a smile that could bring Eros himself to his knees, whose witty mind and silky dark hair had Rafaella enthralled and captivated. Just as Pygmalion had found his muse, she had found hers – and she had been so loathed to let it go, to relinquish it when the time had come. But relinquish it she did – and she was better off for it. 

    “Pandora.”

    A name that had once been sacred now felt vile on her tongue – and how could it not when she had tied herself, so publicly, to a man who was weak-willed and as bloodied and gutless as his father. Her eyes, swollen and red, lift to gaze upon a figure so cursedly pristine it makes her heart and head ache. Had she not aged a day since they first met? Yet here Rafaella was, far more war-torn than she had been at the age of 18. If it didn’t hurt to breathe, then she would have laughed. But all she could muster was a glance, at Pandora’s face, then her finger, then at the bloodstains that marked the dirty gray floor. “I don’t care for company in this state.”

It takes all of Pandora’s might not to run at the sight of Rafaella in front of her. She had heard the whispers of the others, bragging about all they had done to the woman. But nothing had prepared her for the reality. The logic within her mind screamed that she should leave, to pretend that she had never been there in the first place and this was all some sort of fever dream for each of them. But her feet refuse to move, frozen just mere feet from the woman that haunts her spring days. This was the woman who broke her heart and yet, she could not help but seek her out in the darkness. 

Memories of when she spent her days with Rafaella start flooding her mind. Hours she spent memorizing the contours of her face, the feeling of her nails trailing her skin, and the secrets whispered between their lips. Pandora finds herself lost in their days at university when neither had to worry about being a part of warring families in such a small city. How she wishes to go back to those days. And how she wishes the band on his finger didn’t feel as if it was suffocating her as she stood there. She doesn’t dare spare a thought on the ache within her heart when she catches Rafaella look at it herself. 

She flinches at the cold Rafaella throws at her like a slap to the face. It was naive to believe a warm welcome would happen, not when the band around her finger separates the two of them from their shared history. Her eyes soften at the bruised woman in front and she can’t help but wonder what exactly Matthias put her through. A flash of angry for her friend flashes through her, but she wills her expression to harden. “I don’t care about what you want,” her voice doesn’t waver and she silently thanks God for not allowing her emotions to slip through. “Are you able to sit up or do I need to crawl onto the floor?”

[netflixsense8gifs]

[phanpandora]

WHERE: Henry’s hospital room WHEN: March 19th, 2019 WHO: @henryzhxng

The idea of hospitals always set Pandora on edge. Maybe it was the disinfectant that burned in her nose or the thought that death lurked into rooms when you least expected. If given the option, she would rather have Battista take care of any wounds than have to sit in an emergency room. She remembers times from her youth - a broken collar bone, dislocated fingers - that have stained her psyche and anything related to the place she currently finds herself in. Had it not been for the guilt nagging at her over the last few months, she would have been anywhere else in Verona.

The elevator ding snaps her out of Pandora out of her memories. Shuffling between white coats and other visitors, she finds herself being moved by those around her. Another lamb that’s herded from one place to another. She asks a nurse where Henry’s room is and makes her down the hall, but not without a warning that goes ignored by the woman. 

She lingers just outside of the doorway, looking between the patients in the hall and the cups in her hands. The door was open just enough for Pandora to slip her way through, that was if she took the step forward. Laughter trickles from the room behind, pushing her through whatever daze she was in and into the room. “The nurse said you weren’t allowed caffeine,” she pauses to place one of the cups on the nearest table to Henry. A peace offering in the form of something easily discarded. “But when have I ever listened to the rules?” 

[phanpandora]

ofrosso‌:

date: march 16th location: undisclosed basement availability: @phanpandora

The bullet had ricocheted against the wall, clattering to the concrete floor pitifully, but Marcelo could feel, still, where it lie embedded in their heart. Even as the finger that pressed the trigger  fell limp at the Capulet’s side, the echo of what-if whispered cruelly against the shell of their ear. What if the bullet had fired an inch to the left, or even to the right? What if Halcyon’s shot had narrowly missed Pandora only to bite into Roman’s flesh hidden among the shadows? In war, there was no favoritism — even if Marcelo suffered with it. Any one of them could be taken at any moment, but they still couldn’t bear the thought of Roman, or his inevitable bride, as two such fatalities. Not so long as they were there to stop them being lowered into the dirt.

But proof of the life they’d kill for cascades red down Pandora’s hairline, strikingly dark against the porcelain of her otherwise unblemished skin. They should have stopped it. With a breath, Marcelo approaches her, bloodied palm outstretching to give her shoulder a gentle shake of reassurance. “It was worth it just to see Roman holding la piccola principessa up by her hair, no?” They snort, casting hazel hues to the graze etched into her temple. “Patetico,” Marcelo tsks, raising their fingers to her cheek to wipe at what blood that pools there, “hardly a scratch on you. As if they’ve never had a day of target practice in their miserable lives.” Grazie Dio. 

The first sound she hears leave her mouth is laughter. Perhaps Pandora has officially lost her mind thanks to the wound on her temple. A concussion from such a small graze? It’s impossible, surely, but it would explain the cracked sounds coming from her. She can feel the eyes of the others on her as she stands there, bloody and lacking any form of sanity. Maybe this was what convinced others that she was nothing more than just a cold machine. It wouldn’t come as a surprise to her in the least. 

An escape from her mental break comes from Marcelo. They’re a welcome breath even when the air smells of blood and war. “Si, mio amico,” she flinches at their touch, letting out a hiss without meaning to. How Marcelo manages to be so soft within this space while they’re surrounded by so much carnage is a wonder to her. “And to think they could get rid me of me so easily with such sloppy work.” She should thank them for saving her, but the words die on her tongue before they even have a chance. Even so, she hopes that one day they might realize how grateful she is for them - regardless of whether or not the words leave her mouth. 

[phanpandora]

ofcastora‌:

date: march 15 time: evening location: hall of heaven || hotel emelia status: closed for @phanpandora​

It has been, as almost all of these occasions were for Castora, unpleasant events. Nursing her wounds from her fight with Katarina, the Montague hopes to find some sort of quiet in order to get a moment to catch her breathe – a moment her ribs would really appreciate – but the space is opulent and teeming with guests, and getting a flute of champagne and a shot of espresso (separately, of course – she is, decidedly, not a heathen), Castora manages to spot a familiar face in a reclusive spot. 

She grabs an extra champagne flute and makes a beeling to said familiar face, although describing Pandora as simply familiar would be an understatement. Pandora Phan is one of the few people Castora feels she confident in saying she knows; together they were birds of prey, and birds of a feather. She passes the champagne flute to her friend, to her mentor, to her fellow captain – what a thought, Castora thinks giddily – with a rare smile. 

“Please tell me you’re having a better night than I am.”

There were too many passing faces for Pandora to memorize, never letting her mind settle on any given stranger for more than a moment. Mingling with any of these attendees of this function was boring at best to her. If it was up to her, she would have left an hour ago to sit in a bubble bath. But, unfortunately, she had to keep up appearances just like the rest of them. An escape was granted when Castora’s voice floated into her ear.

“Come va?” She smiles as she takes a sip from the flute. “I’m afraid I missed your battle. How was it?”

It was rare for Pandora to like someone - and even rarer for her to actually be fond of them. Castora was one of the few that fell into both of those categories. She watched her grow not only as a captain but as a friend. It was like watching a flower bloom after growing it from the seed; well worth it the time and effort put in to see something beautiful. If anyone asked, Pandora would say she was couldn’t be more proud of her. 

[phanpandora]

paoladamasco‌:

A seed plants and blossoms, its petals summoned by a woman’s smile. Every encounter with a Montague smells like roses and chimes like chapel bells — and yet, Paola can’t bring herself to lean in. There is a gentle force holding her back as the Montagues woo her with missions and mentors. Perhaps it’s Gabriele, or the weight of her own guilt; she isn’t sure exactly, but she knows this: no Montague has ever been unkind to her, save for the one she betrayed, but no Capulet has shown her cruelty, either.

Still, this is the one she chose. The family forged by blood spilled and not inherited, inseparable as if they were all links on a metal chain. How she envies it. How she longs for it.

How she fears it, too.

But Pandora invites her to forget, to unfasten the rope that holds her burdens on her back and let them fall. True to her name, Pandora is the key to unlocking the box that will not dare reveal itself to Paola until she accepts all its contents: the things she knows and all the terrors she has yet to understand.

She can’t help but return Pandora’s smile. There is some fascination in terror; there is some comfort in mystery. “Pandora, right?” She steps in and lingers a few steps into the office, unsure of her next steps. Stalling just a bit, Paola continues, “I’m told that there are code names for everyone. I can only imagine what yours is, if your given name is already so interesting.”

“Please, sit.” Pandora shuts the door behind them, sliding by Paola to point at the seat in front of her desk. “Did you want anything to drink?

There’s a split second before she faces Paolo again that allows her to slip into the mask she wears for these types of matters. She lets the smile twist into something kinder, something that tells the world she’s to be trusted - even if she’s not. Convincing others to believe the words that fall from her mouth is what she’s good it; it’s what she was hired to do at times. 

Paola is just another she needs to convince, so she’ll coat each syllable with honey and let them stick to her mind. 

She can’t help it when the smile on her face grows even more. Portia was the only fitting name for her. Another name of a woman whose destiny was not her own, another woman who was to be given away. There had been no other name that fit Pandora - regardless of how ridiculous she thought the concept was. “It’s Portia. Do you know the story?” It was rare for Pandora to speak about her own code name so she relished in this moment with Paola. 

[phanpandora]

WHERE: UNDISCLOSED BASEMENT WHEN: FEBRUARY 26TH 2019 WHO: @rafaellacapulet

The sound of heels echoing against stone steps was enough to give Pandora and her mission away, not that she cared. She had always flocked towards Rafaella, finding her when desire set in and staying to bask in her presence. But now? Now, she searched for the woman for a completely different reason. When she heard who was being held in that basement something twisted in her chest. A locked box that was hidden away for years stirred awake within her. 

There’s a flower on her desk by the time she arrives to her class. Pandora stares at it for a moment, wondering why it was left there; she wonders who left it. Could it have been a coincidence and she’s just thinking too much into it? She looks around the classroom in an attempt to find the culprit, but there’s no such luck. Instead of putting it in her bag, she brushes it to the side and lets it fall to the ground. 

“Rafaella,” her name burns holy on the tip on her tongue and through gritted teeth. The bag at her side weighs heavy with bandages and peroxide and ointment- all things that she shouldn’t have brought with her. But, that didn’t stop her from shoving them into her bag in the first place. It was stupid of her to help Rafaella, if anyone found out about this she was sure she’d be shot on the spot. “You’re a God damn idiot.”

[roslin]

#her literal job is to give advice

[weltenwellen]

Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet

[phanpandora]

ivanrahal‌:

date: march 15th, 2019 time: 7:00 p.m. location: stolen eden, hotel emelia closed to: @phanpandora​

Ivan’s tools of manipulation are varied, to be sure, and while sex and not-so-idle conversation are among his preferred methods of persuasion, alcohol yet remains his favorite artifice. He learned young how to ply tongues with drink, and his father, grossly susceptible to brandy, schooled Ivan in the delicate art of addiction—of nourishing it, of exploiting it, of commandeering it. As a boy, he watched with wide, curious eyes as his father knelt beside him and whispered all of his terrible, terrible secrets into his son’s ear, the cloying rot of Courvoisier wafting from Samir Rahal’s mouth into Ivan’s. As a man, he watched with wide, curious eyes as they lowered his father’s body into a grave of Ivan’s own making, a death harkened by secrets spilled: an untraceable poison imbued with his father’s innermost pains and pleasures, wheedled by Ivan’s hateful tongue into something sharp, something lethal.

And as he watches Pandora nurse a glass of some dark-colored liquid from across the cavernous space of Stolen Eden, he wonders if she, more machine than woman, is immune to that poison. He wonders if she, like his father, is prone to loose lips under the influence, and he wonders how hard he’ll have to work to exorcise her dirty little secrets. He wonders if Pandora Phan, whip-smart, judicious, I’m-better-than-you-because-I-know-more-than-you Pandora Phan, knows how to drink—how to properly drink.

He resolves to find out.

His gaze latches onto the silhouette of her with an eerie stillness—a predator clocking his hunt’s every movement—and he draws nearer to her in slow, slinking steps. When he reaches her, she wobbles, her balance thwarted by whatever’s in her goblet. It’s quick and inconspicuous, a barely-there split second of vulnerability—but it’s enough for Ivan to sink his teeth into. He tuts his tongue with a thrumming tsk, tsk, tsk and moves in front of her, a cruel, crooked grin hiking one corner of his mouth. “Careful, Phan,” he warns, his voice a low, heady purr. “You’re keeping the company of enemies tonight. I would think surely you, in all of your infinite wisdom,” he sneers, nose upturned, “would want to keep all of your faculties intact.” You might yet need them. “In all of your many years of schooling, did you never learn how to hold your liquor?”

There were very few reasons for Pandora to drink in excess. Memories of the times she spent in clubs flood her mind, reminding her of dark corners and strobe lights and chaste kisses. Liquor clouded judgments and let secrets fall in slurred whispers from loose lips. It was a fool's version of courage, convincing them that they had the strength or the beauty or any number of qualities to take what they thought was theirs. But, God did she clutch onto an old fashioned as soon as she could. If she was going to mingle with Capulets, she needed something to help her. There was a reason alcohol was a tried and true social lubricant for the masses.

She floated between rooms, making an appearance when called and exiting whenever annoyance set in for any variety of reasons. The glass in her hand seemed incapable of emptying was the sole reason she found herself able to stick around for anything longer for a few minutes at a time. And as the night went on, she realized how much longer she was participating in this conversation compared to the others. 

It’s only when Ivan’s voice filters through the rest of the noise does Pandora start paying attention to her surroundings. His backhanded compliment is enough to roll her eyes, but she has enough sense left to stop herself. There’s something in his expression that tells her to wait, to figure out which part of that mask has a crack she can exploit. Her eyes flick from his eyes to his neck and she’s filled with curiosity. Oh, how glorious it would be to wrap her nails around his throat and rip it out right then and there. To be able to hold his head, bloody and, in the air like a gladiator would be the perfect finale to their neverending game. “Quite the opposite, Rahal.” The corners of her mouth turn upwards, a razor’s edge smile replacing the flat line that was on it moments before. “I thought you of all people would know better than to insult me like that.” 

[lifeinpoetry]

Sisterhood is brightest when bloody

Aurora Linnea, from “IN THE ROOM OF THE VICTIM,” This Mutilated Woman’s Head (via persephonewrites)

[itberice]

You saved me. I won’t ever forget that.

[phanpandora]

ronanivarsson‌:

when: march 11, 2019

time: almost midnight

where: the library

with: @phanpandora

Ronan has no real reason to be in the library this late at night–there is no one here, apart from Rosaline somewhere within the bowels of the place, and there is no more work to be done until the morning breaks. He has no reason not to go home, and yet, he finds the idea of being in his penthouse by himself less appealing than being here. In his home all he can see are the reminders–a photo that has gone without being touched for so long there are still fingerprints visible in the dust, the space on his bed that seems to always remain cold, that never allows him to find sleep when he rolls over at night, clothes in the closet that have long since lost the scent of the person who wore them once. The library is large, large enough that he can console himself with the idea that nothing could touch him, if he did not want it to. Even if there is memory here, traces of people–Ronan does not have to see it, to feel it. 

He takes a sip from a mug of tea that has long since gone cold, when he hears footsteps moving towards the space he’s carved out for himself. He takes a sip from a mug of tea that has long since gone cold, and focuses on the chess board that is in front of him, in hopes that all of it will convey how very little he wishes to engage in a conversation at this particular moment in time. He moves the black bishop and takes out a pawn with ease, but the feeling of victory is short lived when the sound of footsteps turns into a person–a person that does not wait for approval before she sits down across from him. 

He exhales with a huff of breath and does not resist the urge to rub his fingers over the bridge of his nose. He really should hate Pandora Phan more than he actually does–she’s intelligent beyond her years, and the only person in Verona outside of Ivan Rahal that he actually thinks could actually out-maneuver him–and somehow she has managed to become the closest thing he has to an actual friend. He understands that she will do anything to stay in a position of power, and she understands that he will do the same–an understanding that is the closest thing to honesty he’s had in a very long time. 

“Burning the midnight oil, I see.” He drawls as he turns his attention back to the chess board, his fingers tapping against the head of his king. “Do you play?” 

Sleep was beginning to get harder to come by as the days went on. Too many things were happening with too many moving parts. The chances that something would go wrong were far too high for Pandora’s liking. Nothing truly went off without a hitch and not being in control of them left her feeling wary. It made paranoia itch in the back of her mind, 

It wasn’t rare to find others in the library at the late hour, but it was rare to find them sitting alone and playing chess. The body caught Pandora’s eyes as she walked through the stacks, a surprising sight to say the least. She eyed them from behind the books, trying to make out who was sitting by themselves. There was something in the way they held themselves that was familiar to her - the hunch of their shoulders, the slow, deliberate movements, she just couldn’t put her finger on it just yet. She exhaled a sigh, realizing that in order to calm her curiosity she would need to get closer. Pandora tried to sneak closer, making every attempt to quiet her steps. But, it didn’t mean much when a face finally came into view and she pulled the chair out to sit in.

Her eyes trace over the board, gears coming to life as she tried to learn which moves happened when. “Black in four,” she replies before flicking her eyes back to the board between them. “If you can figure out how.”  Ronan was always an interesting study to Pandora, an added part of the game that caught her attention when introduced. The unspoken level of understanding between them was something that was rare among their coworkers. Ronan was on the same level as her, someone that understood that certain things had to be done in order to maintain a balance in Verona. They were each a funhouse mirror version of the other.

“I’d like to play the winner,” a smile graces her face as she replies. It’s the closest he’ll get to a joke from her. Regardless of whether or not Ronan won against himself, Pandora was already making a plan of attack on the board.