despœi tugiù

je me souviens de ces jours d'été, sirotant du thé dans de petits cafés, marchant au bord de l'eau, partageant un amour que nous ne pouvions cacher. oh, les secrets que nous connaissons quand il y a un clair de lune sur monaco. oh, la pluie de l'après-midi emporte toute ma peine, des gens et des lieux que je ne peux me rappeler. oh, les nuits infinies sous les étoiles et les lumières de la ville, et un amour que j'ai appris à connaître dans un petit endroit appelé monaco. est. 2020

[suntusita]

directory

01. about 02. rules 03. biography 04. starter call 05. special guests

[academic-vampire]

𝔠𝔞𝔩𝔪 𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔬𝔰

(Thank you @justatypicalwizard for the caption!)

[suntusita]

im back but at what cost??????????/

[midnightinshadow]

[suntusita]

soooooo, anyone still active around these parts?

[suntusita]

[ insert context clues here ] -- picrew

[suntusita]

so mer's name is influenced by a poem called 'mireio' and there is a little section that just reminds me of her:

shy, yet a joyous little sprite she was; and, finding all her sweetness in a glass, you would have drained it at a single breath.

[suntusita]

doubt thou, the stars are fire / doubt, that the sun doth move doubt truth to be a liar / but never doubt i love

Mirèlha sighed heavily. For many reasons, but mostly because this ended up being more complicated than she ever expected it to be. " It can't be that serious, " she muttered to herself, the lie falling flat like this branch. Her legs were stacked on the tree branch as she rested, warm brown eyes observing the way the leaves swayed with the wind, a grace that she found difficult to mimic.

With her back against the trunk of the oak tree, she held in her hands a book. However, she was not reading it. Instead, she skimmed at old letters and photographs tucked between the rippled pages of the book—the paper left soft and feathered at it's edges from her neglect. Each word she read, each photo she scanned, left her ribs rattled. These days, her feelings have moved out of her heart and into her limbs, leaving her pacing in her room for hours; back and forth, back and forth. Her mind racing.

How do you explain to someone that your heart aches for a love that does not exist? To mourn over a person, who, may never acknowledge the heart that she wears dangerously on her sleeve.

She was left feverish, a localized fire burning beneath her skin, that made her want to claw her chest, to dig her nails in and drag out the star-filled explosion that wanted to escape behind her breastbone. Then she remembered those starry eyes—a poetic dream that she wishes to spill into the air, yet the mere thought of it left her tongued-tied and heavy. Curses rummaged in her mind as she slammed her book shut and raised it to drum her forehead. Thump. Thump. Thump. She tried to beat the thoughts back to its bone, hoping the physical sting will drown out the sounds insider of her.

"Mirèlha!"

The name—her name—acted like a physical blow to her perilous balance. Her heart gave a startled thud against her ribs, and the branch that felt like a fortress seconds ago was suddenly slick and unreliable.

The book slipped. Her heels lost their hold on the bark; with a panic grasp, Mirèlha tumbled from the limb. Her world suddenly blurred of spinning green and flashes of gold as the air was (literally) knocked out of her. She hit the grass with a dull thud, the letters and photographs scattering around her - much like the fallen leaves. She lay there, stunned, that "starry explosion" that once rested in her chest, was now replaced by the shock of the earth.

As she stared up through the canopy, her body finally stopped its frantic reaching as she laid paralyzed, by her clumsy act of getting caught.

[dailyflicks]

LOVE IN THE AFTERNOON 1957 — dir. Billy Wilder

[suntusita]

" Oh no, oh no! " The smoke alarm resonated throughout her apartment, Mer was quick on her feet to pull out a tray of croissants with bare hands - a stupid mistake and realization that caused her to yelp and drop the tray on the ground amidst the smoke that fogged her kitchen.

" My croissants... "

[coltii-romanesti]

He could feel the cold nipping his ears and cheeks now, but not unbearably so. He wouldn't call it freezing just yet. "We won't freeze. Just... Hopefully the wax won't all melt away before it starts to warm up a little in here. If need be..." Vlad sighed. He hated the thought, but he doubted Mer would volunteer, not to mention the legality of it where they were. "Do you happen to have an ax? If not, we can make do, but if we want something substantial to burn... who am I kidding, it's probably not legal to just randomly cut branches off a random tree here."

As she spoke of her little fire friends, Vlad couldn't help but progressively furrow his brows. "Aren't they just... lizards? I don't think they breathe fire. But spirits and sprites, on the other hand, they can start fires. I don't think we need to worry about those, though." He paused for her to retrieve the blankets, and when she came back he started unfolding them, ready to wrap one in a blanket burrito.

"The blankets should do. I'm not terribly bothered yet, so you can have the first pick. I'm used to hoofing it in chill like this." Not that it was by choice. For a little under a century, relatively recently, he dealt with such discomfort. In part, because he didn't want to hog his privileges when his people were suffering, but also because the commies were hard pressed to make his life miserable. Vlad folded his hands under his arms. "I'll bundle up when it starts to bother me."

[suntusita]

Mer settled on the floor, the blankets bunched in her lap like a little nest. She watched with him with the tilt of her head, her expression shifting from amusement to curiosity.

"An ax?" She let out a huff that led to a laugh. "Vlad, if you start hacking away at my flora...I think I'd start crying!" While forgetting to mention the hefty fine she would have to pay for the action. "We'll just to stick to the wool and wax for now."

She paused, her eyes twinkling as she heard him debunk her fire friends. "Just lizards?!" She repeated, her voice feigning a gasp. "What happened to you? You have no romance in your soul! To me, they're tiny, damp, and have powerful ember. But fine, fine, no fire-breathing lizards tonight. We'll just have to make do with your 'spirits' if things get truly desperate."

She reached out, snagging the thickest and plain wool quilt from the pile and began wrapping it around her shoulders, already trapped with the heat of her breath. "Don't think your tough-guy act impresses me when you turn into an icicle." There was weight behind his words, she didn't want to push, but she will keep true to her words.

"Sit, sit, sit," she said as she tucked the edges of the blanket around her chin, appearing very much like a cozy, but stubborn owl. "Unless you're too dignified to sit next to a whimsical romantic who talks to lizards."

Ah, bickering just like the old days.

[apres-moi-ledeluge]

Speaking into a microphone to an audience one couldn't see and who wouldn't react until days or weeks after was hard, so he always cut his guests slack.

"and we will be discussing.... Oh, the history of Monaco, answering questions sent in, such things," he half told her, half told the audience. "As always, you can watch me live if you are a patreon subscriber, or next month on YouTube if you want to wait. But do tell me, Ms. Richaud. What is your favorite meal?"

[suntusita]

Mirèlha struggled to wrap this around her head. How can he be so well-versed in podcasting? He really surprised her every time she met him. She won't admit that yet. Even then, her expression softened as she watched him speak. It was new and exciting to her.

"Ah-" she said, as she tried to figure out what to say next. One always have to be careful of what came out of their mouths. "We're live too, huh?" She muttered away from the microphone before leaning in. "My favorite meal? Well-" she had to think about this, "I really enjoy cassoulet with a glass of malbec, preferably from Vignobles Arbo."

[suntusita]

from : aŭdakieja  / to  : @niekonepadarysi

The bar was a commotion of clinking glasses and raised voices, a ringing mess that Aŭdakieja navigated with a downward, focused gaze. She sat at the far edge of the booth, her fingers wrapped around a glass of plain mineral water, watching the bubbles rise with more interest than the conversations around her.

Before long, Aŭdakieja felt his prescence before she saw him; a familiar weight in the air she tried to ignore. When she saw Arūnas finally slide into a space near her, she didn't turn her head. She didn't blink. Aŭdakieja kept her profile still, her eyes fixated on a point on the wall.

"I should have stayed home," she muttered into her glass as she took a sip of her drink. She finally shifted her glaze, letting it slide past him with a neutrality that suggest (re: pretended) that she didn't know him.

"Hey-" she started off, "you're blocking the light."

[suntusita]

from : aŭdakieja  / to : @coltii-romanesti

The silence between them was as biting as the winter air, but she didn't mind. Aŭdakieja stood perfectly still, a gray silhouette against the blurring white of the storm. Snowflakes entangled her lashes and the cold nipped her nose a sharp and irritated red, yet, her stare remained fix and vacant. She looked at Vladimir like a failed data point, someone she was unable to align and found utterly unamusing.

To anyone else, this quiet would be heavy, but to her, it was an open space that she didn't fill the need to fill or, in this case, care for the sentiment of the moment. Finally, Aŭdakieja's voice drifted out, soft as the falling snow.

"And here I thought you were a smart man."

[suntusita]

" so...we aren't going to pay attention to the obvious? "

[suntusita]

A NEW BOMBSHELL HAS ENTERED THE VILLA;

meet aŭdakieja : dossier / historical relations / please like this post if you would like to interact with her ! * replies may take 1-2 business days.

[suntusita]

open stater : mutuals please! theme : inspiration from "the world we knew" by frank sinatra

The Mediterranean night hung heavy over Port Hercules, smelling of salt, gasoline, and the ghosts of a thousand sun-drenched summers. Mer sat hunched over a workbench littered with hydrophone sensors and a antiqued shortwave radio she restored herself. It was an old habit, she enjoyed bringing old items back to life.

As she began to dial, a static sound that sounded like the waves crashing beside her. Crackle. Hiss. A snippet of a French weather report.

Suddenly, the static smoothed into a haunting hum. It wasn't the sea nor the wind. It was a frequency that has not been active in...who knows when. Mer froze, her hand hovering over the dial.

"Was someone there?" She whispered to herself before an electric jolt overwhelmed her—a sensation she hasn't felt in decades. She reached for the heavy microphone, her thumb hovering over the the push-to-talk button.

Click.

"Allô—I hear you," she murmured, her voice low with a rasp that carried. She didn't ask for names, yet. Names were too dangerous for people like her. "You're transmitting a dead channel, stranger...what are you looking for?"

She let go of the button, the silence rushing back to fill in the space. She watched as the green needle on the meter pulse, waiting to see if a voice will bridge the gap of her solitude once more.