tender like a bruise. @scville - Tumblr Blog

depentent muse vita saville-ricci, as sowed by kay for montmererp. est, she/her pronouns, twenty1+.

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muted, wet, dark haired. ╱ @scville

the rain has slicked everything, even the innards of the house: without even the touch of rain itself, montmere has grown damp, allowing everything within it to slide at a hastened pace ⸺ furniture, people, opportunities. the staff scurry with renewed vigour, wary of their employers irrigated temperaments, setting footsteps and tasks in intricate, sprightly motion, and even the upstairs occupants seem to move quicker than their normal, languorous pace: discomfort, it seems, is a rational plague. it effects all equally.

fei, perhaps, is alone in her listlessness. indifferent to the cloying wet of her dress and familiar the the practice of endurance, she strays absently to the vanity as she waits for yanyu to return. it's in that cool silver reflection that she catches a presence, slim and pale, fixed with a cloud of hair dark as the place where a dream emerges from.

"miss saville," her eyes, hard found in the dim lighting of the room. fei searches for them regardless, her fingers pressing into the flesh of an earlobe, releasing the backing of a pearl earring by memory. "would you enter, please?"

scville

victoria weren't meant to be there, in the doorway like a long black shadow ⸺ or perhaps like death if it had risen as a woman only half-sopped and still smelling like the dripping lilacs she had been perched beneath earlier that evening. maybe vita had only felt like death, or like a flower that had gotten tired of weeping and decided to dry up still in it's watered vase. she'll tell herself that it were the weather, how could she feel so insipid in this big, warm house? the ripple of fei's voice in all that stillness excites like a wild tonic, does much to remind vita that she were in fact still where she should not have been. that nonetheless, she had stayed. she had to follow the sound by ear alone before lifting her gaze, moving forth with so little as a fluttering thought mouth is finally primed for speaking. "you'll have to forgive me," there's no mention as to what for ⸺ for staring, for the unfortunate weather, or perhaps for wanting so very badly to be near fei. vita crossed the room languidly, halting just before the vanity bench. "would you allow me to assist you?"

eighthwondcr

it's a very female bunch of words she offers, a bouquet of no particular meaning that reeks of womanhood ⸺ you'll have to forgive me. for what? vita hasn't said, but it doesn't particularly matter. fei has learned that they're always meant to be sorry as women: for something they've done or something they haven't, for lingering, for leaving, for wanting. she watches vita through the mirror as she approaches, a hard slip of a thing, sylphish but with defined edges.

"if you have a moment. my maid has gone downstairs to aid the household staff, leaving me alone in this watery grave of a dress." one pearl earring clatters against the desk. her fingers return for its matching set until it too lays on the dark oak of the vanity. "its removal is a task i would charge my husband with if it weren't for the delicacy of the buttons."

scville

this woman was a terribly casual paramour, once teased that a wedding band could only make her romantic if it had been on the hand of another. makes it a habit of slinking into all those quiet, untouched places ⸺ always happening upon where vita was most unwanted. she'd like to know things tenderly still, but living such as this has only proved that if victoria were to take anything in this life: it would not be done without maiming something first. she'd played coy with the want for so long that it had become something else entirely. it became something that she could no longer bare to look at, so allow her to divert her sights. from the argent vanity reflection, to the rain-striken windows in all their vastness and back again. fingers move deftly, quietly abiding the invitation with only a placid closed-mouth smile to show for it. "if i might speak freely ... you wear it well, m'lady." fei is as if she were the very portrait of ophelia come to life and twice as decadent. looking as if she hadn't allowed herself to drown at all, still baring the romantic trappings. in all of its intricacy, the dress was surely a sight, even still rippling in the small draft as if it were never steeped in english rain. oppositely, vita had been dressed plainly: a lady's maid missing her apron with an intricately mended bodice. she's near enough to feel the damp warmth of fei's skin when motioning to undo the steel clasp at her nape. "is there a dressing gown i can prepare for you?"

#𝐯. 𝐬𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞-𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐜𝐢⠀ ⠀ 〳 ⠀ ⠀threads #ft. fei #lets not talk about how much this got away from me ...#vi has a thing for married people confirmed!

eighthwondcr

muted, wet, dark haired. ╱ @scville

the rain has slicked everything, even the innards of the house: without even the touch of rain itself, montmere has grown damp, allowing everything within it to slide at a hastened pace ⸺ furniture, people, opportunities. the staff scurry with renewed vigour, wary of their employers irrigated temperaments, setting footsteps and tasks in intricate, sprightly motion, and even the upstairs occupants seem to move quicker than their normal, languorous pace: discomfort, it seems, is a rational plague. it effects all equally.

fei, perhaps, is alone in her listlessness. indifferent to the cloying wet of her dress and familiar the the practice of endurance, she strays absently to the vanity as she waits for yanyu to return. it's in that cool silver reflection that she catches a presence, slim and pale, fixed with a cloud of hair dark as the place where a dream emerges from.

"miss saville," her eyes, hard found in the dim lighting of the room. fei searches for them regardless, her fingers pressing into the flesh of an earlobe, releasing the backing of a pearl earring by memory. "would you enter, please?"

scville

victoria weren't meant to be there, in the doorway like a long black shadow ⸺ or perhaps like death if it had risen as a woman only half-sopped and still smelling like the dripping lilacs she had been perched beneath earlier that evening. maybe vita had only felt like death, or like a flower that had gotten tired of weeping and decided to dry up still in it's watered vase. she'll tell herself that it were the weather, how could she feel so insipid in this big, warm house? the ripple of fei's voice in all that stillness excites like a wild tonic, does much to remind vita that she were in fact still where she should not have been. that nonetheless, she had stayed. she had to follow the sound by ear alone before lifting her gaze, moving forth with so little as a fluttering thought mouth is finally primed for speaking. "you'll have to forgive me," there's no mention as to what for ⸺ for staring, for the unfortunate weather, or perhaps for wanting so very badly to be near fei. vita crossed the room languidly, halting just before the vanity bench. "would you allow me to assist you?"

#𝐯. 𝐬𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞-𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐜𝐢⠀ ⠀ 〳 ⠀ ⠀threads #ft. fei

lctos

WHERE: Downstairs, the kitchen, late evening WHEN: Monday, 7 July 1923 WITH: @scville

Phoebe is rushing, hoping to sneak in and out of the kitchen with a glass of water as quickly as possible - but surely, she cannot do anything on plan. That is the nature of this big, full house that never seems to stop moving. She sighs, all drama of the afternoon had gotten to her - and she was more than exhausted.

That's why the other figure in the darkened kitchen is unwelcome, and she sighs a bit dramatically, resigning that she will not be able to retrieve her glass of water and return upstairs, to her shared quarters with the children, without incident.

"Good evening," she says - she recognizes the ladies' maid in the dark, trying to avoid making eye contact. The other staff still leave her just a bit skittish, even though she's not that worried about it any longer, "What brings you down here, this late?"

scville

the life and times of a modern woman: mind still turning when even the house itself had slept. vita had spent her life confined everywhere else but within herself, shifted from one corner of the world to the next only to still find herself slightly eskew of slotting into place. "and unto you," it's decidedly meek, sat at the very edge of the always populated dining table — features only lit by the lowlight of a flickering candle. vita's life is one not entirely split clean in half, the fragments intermingle in moments such as this one — in the subtle disquiet when there is only one witness, where she finds herself. "—my curiosity had bested me." it's the plain of saying she'd gone where she shouldn't have, and had much preferred to take a moment of repose in the stale light of the kitchen rather than her own shared bedroom. "i thought-" it's like a sliver of honey in the shadows, something roguish pricking in the upturn of her smile. "well, i don't know what i thought but i heard something and just ... stayed."

#𝐯. 𝐬𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞-𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐜𝐢⠀ ⠀ 〳 ⠀ ⠀threads #ft. phoebe

abendgebet-deactivated20231117

Paul von Borax

#𝐯. 𝐬𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞-𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐜𝐢⠀ ⠀ 〳 ⠀ isms

a gentle afternoon in the town of yorkshire, with @evansrosie

the great montmere house has stood as it always had, one of the last great manors still standing amidst their most cherished shoulder of english countryside. a great, good place that was truly only as good as those who kept it made it. as vita had considered it, that house was a living, breathing thing that was only as tempered as those who were to tend it. in saying such, this outing was to be added to the list of things that kept the manor & those who inhabited as trim as it could have been for the impending summer hol. at moments such as this, in the brief disquiet that swelled around the two women as they tramped about the fabric shop, had vita bothered to consider a singular thing. what would have become of her if not dealt the cards she held now? if she had never left the french courts --- if she had never been found out for her dscrepencies that would soon be cause for much scandal. if the lady of the house were no snob & sent vita out to fetch fabrics so that a gown could be fashioned for the soonest upcoming event of the season. it was once said that the best company was none at all, but rosie didn't particularly feel as such --- not when they could pretend to be others. here, in a nook betwen fabric bolts & a long framed mirror, victoria is someone else. "t'isn't too lush is it?" stretch of mossy fabric is held against frame, she's missing her skirts this day, looking something much more akin to anything but a lady. head cants, sights catching her own from the mirror reflection. "i can't imagine the lady should like to wear something too fashionable."