nvghtingale
* ─ 𝑁𝐼𝐺𝐻𝑇𝐼𝑁𝐺𝐴𝐿𝐸.
was it a vision, or a waking dream?
fled is that music: —
do i wake or sleep?
ISABELE ÁUREA DE AZEVEDO
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@ohbluejay !
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# 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 ? ❜
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A Lover’s Discourse: Fragments, Roland Barthes
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WHERE THE CRAWDADS SING
2022, dir. Olivia Newman
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Meditation On The Threshold: A Bilingual Anthology Of Poetry, ‘Dido’s Lament’ by Rosario Castellanos
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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.
the plan has gone off without a hitch ── the true iteration of the tear has been tucked away, and all isabele has to do is go to the agreed upon location and retrieve it. she weaves through crowds gracefully, stopping to make idle chitchat on the way there. the guests must know that she was here, that she is not in the opposite side of the room where hell is about to let loose. in their eyes, isabele must be no more than an innocent bystander ── one among many, blending into a crowd.
it’s reminiscent of the wine cellar, the hiding place ── after the blood that was spilled there, isabele is hesitant to smash more glass. but she must ── so she takes one of the vases in an empty hotel room ( the tall, cream - coloured one with the pale yellow lines ── it also reminds her a little bit of pasi, the softness depicted ) and smashes it on the ground.
this is how nightingale retrieves the last tear of heaven.
❛ don’t be silly, ❜ she giggles, turning to face them ── still in their arms, never leaving their arms. ❛ it is only a simple observation. ❜
she isn’t one to downplay her acts of romanticism, usually, but a mere truth feels like so little right now. she wishes that there were more flowers in this rooftop garden, or that she’d gotten them a gift. they brought her one ── rather, they sort of returned it. a simple golden bracelet that they used to share all the time. originally isa’s, she’d slid it onto their wrist once because she said it’d look nice on them. it had ended in a fit of laughter, the discussion where they insisted on taking it off because what if i lose it, love ? and she fought back because so lose it, but wear it until then ── it looks so lovely on you !
❛ let me observe you instead … please. let me remember this. ❜ their plea may be the most gentle request she has received ── or perhaps it’s the tragedy of it all, making her heart flutter like so. the fact that this is the last time that they get to spend a small eternity looking at each other, relearning the lines of their face or the way they smile. they get to rediscover the flecks of colour in the green of her eyes and she gets to memorise their freckles once more.
gunfire echoes behind her, and she’s running down a hallway. her shoes were discarded somewhere back, her pace frantic. she knew this would happen, of course ── a diversion was always meant to be part of the escape plan. it is an undisputed classic, and it is a classic for a reason: it is a highly effective way to keep anyone from noticing that there’s something in a secret pocket in isabele’s gown.
❛ isa ── isa ! ❜
isabele freezes, a chill running down her spine as though a spider made of pure ice were crawling along her back.
this is wrong.
pasi isn’t meant to be here.
❛ the sun’s coming up, ❜ she whispers. it’s barely audible, lips part in the slightest. she doesn’t want to ruin the moment by speaking ── but isabele is reminded of a simple fact: if they’re lucky, only one of them would hypothetically have enough time to forget. the awards are tonight, their last sunrise spent together. one last date ── a vow in itself: to transcend death and remember each other for eternity, no matter what. it is an act of defiance against the forces that want to keep them apart.
they’ve always been a tragedy - touched pair, and yet, they’ve managed to love each other through it all ── they’ve conquered grief with held hands, defeated death with an embrace. they do the same now, basking in the warm glow of a rising sun that gives them one last day.
❛ it’s beautiful, ❜ they whisper in return. their eyes are still locked on hers.
it’s chaos.
broken glass litters the floor of the main ballroom after the destruction of a window from someone hidden in a pocket of congealed shadows. enveloped by darkness, she knows that said member of her team will not ── cannot ── be found in time.
but pasi does not know this.
pasi runs towards her and envelops her in their arms ── god, their heart beats too fast, hammering against their chest at frantic pace. isabele is too stunned to do anything but blink in shock, feeling dread rapidly piling up, the world being placed on atlas’ shoulders. the weight of a life in the pocket of her gown.
❛ are you hurt ? ── let me look at you, ❜ they say, frantically, pulling back. she’s dishevelled, but unharmed. so are they. with a breath of relief, isabele throws herself back into pasi’s arms ── pasi, her beloved pasi, who held her so gently just that morning. they kiss her forehead, and this is when she notices that she’s been crying ── this is when she breaks altogether, a sob escaping her as she curls into them and holds onto them tightly.
❛ pasi ── pasi, please ── ❜
what is she begging for ? perhaps isabele is begging them to leave ── it was easier to go through with the plan when she did not have to look them in the eye, when she was blinded to the stakes by the desire to live another day, to see another sunrise and a sunset and a sunrise, and so on, in a long - lasting chain of days with peaceful endings. but is there peace to know when two - thirds of the murder is to be gone ? perhaps isabele is begging them to stay ── it is easier to forget about the stakes like this, when they kiss their forehead and they hold each other. they’re also crying.
❛ i’m right here. my isa, i am not letting go. ❜
❛ here, ❜ isabele says, taking off her ruby necklace and putting it around their neck.
❛ here, ❜ isabele says, taking the last tear of heaven out of her pocket and placing it in one of their hands. they look at her in a moment of pure shock ── for once, isabele cannot tell what they are thinking. she can only see the dread ── because fate is quite literally in their hand now. they get to decide who lives. who dies.
oh, but by handing the tear to them, isabele has already made that decision. almost.
❛ nightingale ! where the fuck are you ? ❜
no.
❛ promise me you’ll wear it ? for me. there’s gold in it. we’ll match. you always love it when we match. ❜
warden comes running in her direction, and isabele frantically makes pasi’s hand close around the tear ── but they shake their head and try to give it back, and it is a terrifying push and pull where neither of them wants to condemn the other. take it, pasi, please ── no, my isa, it is yours.
it all happens too fast. it’s a blur of motion. it is warden grabbing her by the midsection and pulling her out of pasi’s embrace, it is her sobbing and kicking and screaming, crying out no and pasi and please so many times that her throat goes raw, nightingale’s sweet voice turned to shrieks touched by all - consuming sorrow. pasi lets warden take her, but isabele still refuses to let her hands close around the tear.
time is running out.
pasi picks it up and solemnly puts it around her neck when she is too debilitated by her own struggle to fight back ── and in this, there is a moment of finality. acceptance. they know this, too. they give her a sad smile and press a kiss to her forehead.
❛ i swear it. i love you, my isa. ❜
❛ i love you too, my pasi. ❜
❛ promise you’ll remember me ? ❜
they’ve always wanted to be forgotten, yet they choose her heart to take residence in when they are gone. she’s stopped fighting by now, but warden still won’t let go. he doesn’t trust her ── as he shouldn’t, for isabele would sooner be the one becoming a phantom that exists solely in sunlight - dipped memories floating around the beautiful heart within their ribcage than be the one who dons the black of mourning once again in life. grief has chosen her, though ── silly of her to think she would ever fully climb out of its jaws.
she pulls them in and presses a kiss to their lips.
❛ i swear it. i love you, my pasi. ❜
they leave that morning to return to their team, and she’s left alone in the sunlight.
one day, she will watch every sunrise with a gold bracelet on her wrist.
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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. ❜
they walk together, practically arm in arm. in their matching attire, they appear to be the best of friends. yes, to the outside eye, this would almost look rehearsed ── the elegance with which they move through the crowd something otherworldly, pandora’s hand taking isabele’s and pulling her up onto her own pedestal. isabele moves through the world like her, too ── in the end, they are not too different. a woman on a screen, a woman on a stage. women on magazine covers, dressed in designer clothes and having people learn how to trace their smiles and replicate them on paper.
except isabele has reason to loathe pandora ── a simple reason called anezka. simple and all - consuming, burning bright and golden with the glow of unconditional friendship. who is the enemy of my friend ?
an annoying bitch.
❛ wine or champagne, dear ? ❜
❛ champagne please, isabele. ❜
despite running in the same circles, isabele has succeeded in avoiding pandora until now. the encounter, amiable in appearance, is tense with veiled annoyance ── it must be mutual, isabele muses as she takes a small sip from her own glass of champagne ( matching pandora once again, how cute ) . since isabele hasn’t exactly shown pandora gratuitous kindness over the years. she’s been deemed unworthy of it.
and yet here they stand, facing each other, taking sips out of matching champagne glasses.
❛ your hair looks so nice tonight, pandora, ❜ isabele starts, her smile firmly in place, ❛ your hair and makeup team can truly do wonders. ❜
pandora ambrosi is too good an actress to slip up at any moment, but isabele doesn’t need visible proof of the effect of her backhanded compliment ( the first of many over the evening ) . were she to slip, isabele would expect narrowed eyes, pursed lips.
instead, she gets a response:
❛ thank you, isabele. ❜ pandora’s smile looks so much more natural than isabele’s own. she’s a phenomenal actress, to her credit. shame, that she’s so insufferable. ❛ will you delight us with your singing, or have you yet to recover from that cold ? ── it was a cold, was it not, that made your singing a bit off in your last performance ? ❜
low blow ── low fucking blow, isabele wants to say, as she is the one who breaks first. a sweet laugh released though her green eyes are set alight ── they start to glow a honeyed golden, a mesmerising amber, as they lock onto pandora’s. her voice is a quiet hiss reserved for her ears only. what a privilege ── a song of her own.
❛ shut up and drink your champagne. ❜
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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.
her footsteps are filled with determination, the clicking of high heels against flooring. hands tucked into pockets. purse filled with the contents of a plot strung together by a mourning mind. darkness - stained already, if a grave’s dirt is still under her fingernails, why not employ those hands for something gruesome ? they have yet to be cleansed. maybe they never will be, fully. maybe she’s okay with that if it means that everything that must happen, will.
dear javi,
my friend, i write to you because i have a confession to make: i have not been well. it has struck me in ways i could not have imagined. i have mourned before, spent a lifetime grief - struck, yet this … it’s unimaginable. i have been turning to my dearest friends, asking for company. i’ll be in hotel cecilia’s rooftop garden tonight.
please tell me you can heal a broken heart.
love,
─ isa
delivered at his doorstep. there are teardrops scattered along the page, and in secret, isabele cannot tell if they are entirely birthed from feigned grief or if they are a symbol of escaped sorrow. if it’s snuck out of her like a secret breathed out into the air, said aloud.
of course he shows up that night ── why wouldn’t he, when his friend now has reason to dress in all black ? she’s clothed in the colours of mourning. she’s wearing a jacket and trousers this time, unlike her usual penchant for dresses. severity and formality linger in the lines of the clothing, adorn her with them.
❛ thank you for coming, javi. i was expecting you. ❜
this is not the sight he was expecting ── she can tell easily. javi isn’t hard to read. he’s frowning and his eyes scour her form rapidly and messily, drawing a haphazard analysis of a situation he can’t understand. she walks past him. locks the door.
❛ isa, what are you doing ? ❜
isabele pulls out a gun.
❛ what does it look like i’m doing ? ❜ isabele’s reply is defiant as javi raises both hands, setting a frail barrier between the two of them. it can be torn down so easily, can’t he see ? hands are capable of so much, from holding another’s to claiming a life by wrapping around the throat, or knuckles connecting against flesh, or tearing, or hitting. but hands cannot stop bullets.
❛ you aren’t thinking straight, isa. put that down. ❜
a laugh, wicked and verging on maniacal with its harsh edges ── not meagerly torn up like paper, but sharpened like the dagger strapped to her thigh at all times. she’s learned how to wield it since it was used against her by lawrence. the gun in her hand is the one she’s kept tucked away for emergencies and heists only. taught to use it by mateo. funny, how the murder has acted as such an influence for her ── self defense as the origin of both, yet a twisted isabele now wields them with a newfound thirst to stain them both crimson. let it bathe her hands, too, leave an indeleble mark ── fuck it.
what does she have to lose, if she’s already lost herself to the hands of death ? she has risen in the ranks from being the dirt under the reaper’s shoe to its servant. she acts in death’s name. an eye for an eye, tonight ── a life for a life.
❛ no, ❜ she hisses. ❛ i will not put this down, javi. you know why ? because you had no right to make that call ── it should have been me. not them. not pasi. ❜
he’s paled ── does he see it now, the weight of her grief ? ❛ it was what they wanted. isa, they were begging me to save you. it was the only way. ❜
❛ it should have been me, ❜ she insists. ❛ but if it wasn’t … i suppose it must be you. ❜
javi moves to run, and isabele laughs again as she steadies herself ── the voice of the nightingale, distorted, the last sound he’ll get to hear. she aims. fires.
ah, a perfect shot. right where he’d placed it on their body. how poetic.
they would have loved it.
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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
#𓅪 ❛ 𝐒𝐓𝐔𝐃𝐘. ‣‣ ( MEMES. ) ❜#𓅪 ❛ 𝐌𝐄𝐌𝐄. ‣‣ ( GCDHOODS. ) ❜#peep the fancy text ever :eye emoji:#this is what happens when u say dealer's choice#i wanted death and love and encoded#u get all three
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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.”
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𝐔𝐒𝐄 𝐌𝐄 .
── from @cathartidie .
part i. jealousy
the two of them arrived together at the gala, standing side by side. arms linked, they smile at each other like two parts of the happiest couple ── happy couple, famous couple, picture perfect fucking couple in their coordinated outfits. the two of them are giving interviews before the awards begin. they’ve had their picture taken again, and again, and again ── it would almost inspire jealousy within isabele, if she cared about overshadowing them. in truth, she’s been keeping her distance. she is not one of the stars to be gazed upon tonight, hers is a different portion of the night sky. he’s been invited, of course ── one of his movies was nominated, after all, and who was he going to bring to the event but his partner ? famed director meets them and falls for them, the famed composer, what a beautiful love story ── the papers have been eating it up for a while now, haven’t they ? after all, it’s how she found out about the two of them.
she can almost hear it, the haunting whisper in the back of her mind in a the nondescript voice of a fellow guest: ah, how did that one song go, the one released in 1991 ? the duet ? maybe they’ll play it tonight ! it must have been written about the two of them, sweet of isabele de azevedo to have performed it ──
part ii. utility
her grip on roje’s arm tightens at the thought of a certain song by a certain composer being played for the world to hear ( again ) , and they look at her with a frown.
❛ what’s wrong, isa ? ❜
it isn’t anything that they deserve to be burdened with. ❛ nothing, dear. ❜ she gives roje a halfhearted smile, gently rubs the spot on his bicep that she’d unintentionally held onto a little too tightly. ❛ just a little tense. i’m sorry, i should be more careful. ❜
they return her smile, except the kindness within it is amplified by a hundred, a thousand ── they’re one of the kindest people she’s known, someone so genuinely sweet and tender. she’s lucky to have them beside her ── acquiring her own invitation was not easy and had taken some careful maneuvering, especially when isabele was bold enough to request a plus one.
who do you intend to bring with you ?
a date. his name is roje lai.
she was met with a look of surprise ── for all of isabele’s bold flirtation, she’d never been seen with another in public. perhaps this is why her request had been met with approval, inevitable source of gossip. from the moment she dropped their name, isabele could sense it ── the turning of gears in journalists’ heads as they sought to put two and two together. to find said roje lai and track his movements to draw conclusions of his character. what could they glean from the way he moves, the clothes he wears or the way he smiles ?
❛ it’s okay, ❜ they answer, ❛ i’m glad you’re alright. ❜
from the corner of her eye, isabele spots a pair of paparazzi looking in their direction ── not one to waste an opportunity, she brings her hand to gingerly cradle roje’s face and tilts her head to the side so that hair spills down her back rather than over her shoulder, giving the cameras perfect view of the smile she’s painted on ── just giddy enough to depict a blooming romance, just sweet enough to carry reality.
❛ certain. ❜ and a camera clicks, flash going off and momentarily blinding her. isabele much prefers the critics. but that may be because she’s well aware of how much they love her ── the cameras are more instantaneous, and it feels inelegant. abrupt. a click, and a story is half - written already. thus, let her spell out the other half for them.
this they know: isabele de azevedo unexpectedly shows up to the golden eye awards, and even more unexpectedly, she does so on the arm of a stranger.
this they don’t: isabele de azevedo and roje lai have an odd relationship, carved out of conflict but made soft to the touch by shared peace offerings. she still recalls the feeling of flying when he’d pushed her on the swing, the sliver of joy they’d granted her in the respite they’d both sought.
this they won’t: roje lai was not really selected as a plus one because of his kindness, gentleness or attractiveness. roje lai is also called vulture. vulture is strong and cannot be killed. vulture doesn’t immediately catch onto some things, and somehow, neither did their team ── she’s isolated them and kept them as a bodyguard while the rest of her team carries on with their plans. it hadn’t been easy, yet somehow, it had all worked out. it’s using them, yes … but it’s survival. and until they part, at least she and roje can have a nice time together. she does enjoy their company ── finds them beautiful in so many ways.
huh. she hasn’t told them.
part iii. sincerity
they’re walking arm in arm down a hallway, as are others ahead of them, all making their way to an elevator at the end of the hall. the next part of the event is starting soon, after all ── but there’s no need to be punctual, is there ? there is such a thing as being fashionably late, in the end. but they’re too sweet to let that happen, so he’s started walking a little faster to catch the elevator in time, until ──
❛ i like you, roje. ❜ it’s spoken out of the blue, just loud enough that they’ll hear before they rush off too far. sure enough, the admission makes them freeze in their tracks, and the elevator leaves without them ── it’s only them in the hallway now.
❛ you do ? like … like - like ? ❜
god, he’s cute. she can’t help but giggle, cross the distance between them. in truth ── maybe it wasn’t just the inkling of jealousy that led her to suggest roje as her guest to the rest of magpie’s team; maybe it wasn’t just the pro of having a bodyguard she could easily hypnotise at her side. maybe there’s that genuine endearment. maybe she was happy to propose him and argue in her own favour before the rest of her team, convincing them that this was the only option for a date. maybe the best way to answer roje’s question isn’t with words, but by pulling him down and pressing her lips to his.
maybe she isn’t fully using them, after all.
#𓅪 ❛ 𝐒𝐓𝐔𝐃𝐘. ‣‣ ( MEMES. ) ❜#𓅪 ❛ 𝐌𝐄𝐌𝐄. ‣‣ ( CATHARTIDIE. ) ❜#once again no double spacing bc too many word make brain go uh oh#buT ILYSM DEL SORRY I RAMBLED HKDFHK
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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.
there is no music playing for her to dance alone to, no wine to sip, no audience to watch her perform. she can’t bring herself to sing alone ── isabele has sung through tears in the past, through sprains and illnesses, but singing through the sorrow of the inevitable death of those closest to her is … singing while descending into hell. reverse orpheus, she has no eurydice here to follow her path. only emptiness, and hades awaiting her at the end of the road to either take her hand or open the doorway for her loved ones to walk through.
rachel is not meant to be here.
nobody else is meant to be here, but certainly not her. not the one isabele once toyed with and used, this walking reminder of her own ability to take another and steal their liberty to get what she needs ── wants ── out of them. rachel, with her beauty and the story of her betrayal, is supposed to be elsewhere, somewhere isabele does not have to look at her anymore and where words no longer have to be exchanged. in another world, one where isabele can tuck away her sins and betrayals neatly for another to forget once she has repaid her debt and can go on to live freely ── a life renewed, a second chance granted by herself rather than given by a hand whose help and intervention she must pray for.
she thought she’d had enough of prayer, yet perhaps she ought to have begged for a little more loneliness tonight ── being alone in silent contemplation of her troubles would be better than being accompanied in verbal confrontation. there is no other way that this can end, is there ?
❛ you won’t tell me what you’re doing here, ❜ isabele states. it isn’t a question.
❛ i’m not doing anything here. and if i were, it would be none of your business. ❜
isabele lets out a dry laugh, and shakes her head.
she considers, first of all, firing back. there could be pleasure in telling rachel to fuck off ── to let her have the opera house for herself, for this is a land she’s conquered and does not intend to share tonight. claiming sole ownership of a stage she’s commanded a hundred times before, back when she used to take breaks from vienna to perform here for a season or another as a coveted guest. verum was a second home until it wasn’t. it isn’t anymore, is there ? but there’s something close to it, closest to it, upon this stage.
she considers, second of all, rising and leaving. letting her shadow cast over this stage in a final trace of her presence here, an abdication of the throne she’s built for herself. let rachel have this ── consider it an apology for having hypnotised her for information in the past, consider it a peace offering when they will be going up against each other in a deadly contest in only a couple of days.
isabele does rise. and she does fire back, too, in her own way ──
❛ have you ever heard me sing, rachel ? ❜
❛ opera isn’t really my thing. ❜
isabele smiles to herself. ❛ take a seat. it is tonight. ❜
ave maria will never be sung as sweetly as when nightingale stands in the middle of the stage. she bows, and exits stage right. one last audience member.
one last performance.
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a drabble about one character killing another for @gcdhoods @nvghtingale
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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.
he doesn’t like to be touched, she’s gathered that much ── one needs no keen eye to notice that he never reaches out first. she’s rested a hand on his shoulder in the past when he looked stressed ( burden of leadership, she supposes ) and linked her arm with his when a fellow member of the member undermined her ── promptly thereafter, she’d glared at said member and spun a bouquet of words from thin air to beautifully call him a dickhead. isabele’s usual propensity for touch is muted when it comes to kasimir ── because she cares, genuinely cares. smiles and winks when she asks if she looks nice and he says no because her mascara is smudged. defends him in the face of aversion even when she knows he does not need her to ── that he is most definitely strong and well - spoken enough to stand up for himself. she hopes that he’ll still appreciate the way that she stands behind him, arms folded over her chest, ready to bite back at whoever bites first.
she shows up at his door with a bouquet of flowers ── hydrangeas in a shade as similar as that of his eyes as she could find; giddy smile on her lips as she rings the doorbell. her interest in kasimir may not be expressed outwardly, not as boldly as she’d express her desire to spend time with others ── it does not mean that said interest is not there nonetheless.
it’s just past lunchtime. he greets her. asks what the flowers are for. she explains that they’re for him, and he invites her inside and puts them in a vase while she takes a seat, crossing one leg over another.
❛ i have a confession to make, dearest kasimir. i didn’t come here just to give you flowers. you see, i have been thinking about you ── about us, in fact … and i wanted to ask you out. dinner, my treat. ❜
while kasimir looks petrified, isabele is grinning from ear to ear. this may be the first time she’s seen him speechless.
❛ isa, i … how do i put this ? ❜
isabele giggles, leans in conspiratorially. ❛ what, you’re not interested ? you don’t think about me in that way ? ❜
he hesitates for only a moment before shaking his head. kind of him, not to call her a fool for having come to him with such an irrational thought. and perhaps what he expects is visible disappointment at the rejection, maybe surprise, the visage of one who misread signs and must go away with her tail tucked between her legs ── but instead, kasimir gets a laugh from isabele, and a wider smile. ❛ oh, i know you don’t ── of course you don’t, my dear. that doesn’t mean that we can’t have a lovely time at dinner, does it ? we don’t even have to call it a date. just … two people having dinner, ❜ she shrugs.
isabele has, at last, managed to draw a smile from kasimir. ❛ two friends, ❜ he amends.
❛ yes. two friends ... on a date. ❜
she’ll ask him out on a number of dates after that one. she’ll send him perfumed love letters sealed with kisses and he’ll respond in neatly pressed blank paper. she’ll write elaborate declarations of a make - believe love that they’ll both laugh off. the love may be platonic, not romantic ── his love is one of the strongest she’s felt.
#𓅪 ❛ 𝐌𝐄𝐌𝐄. ‣‣ ( KASIMIRFREI. ) ❜#𓅪 ❛ 𝐒𝐓𝐔𝐃𝐘. ‣‣ ( MEMES. ) ❜#i just realized that my timeline may be a little off but#we're going to vibe#and pretend that it isn't <3#because am lazy#but i LOVE U SM JULES
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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 ?
isabele could only sit through half of her funeral. she had to leave by the time it was time for anezka’s eulogy ── it would have been something too beautiful for her to witness, it would have been too devastating to endure. so she does not know how erin reacted when she got the news.
isabele struggles to imagine what erin would have looked like, to picture her face as anything other than its usual expression. did she mourn isabele in any way ? did she raise a glass at a bar in a silent toast for what could have been a friendship, had they not been so caught up in petty bitterness ? had erin spared more than a day’s thoughts to her ?
all she can hope for, in the end, is that she comforted nour. despite her innate strength, nour is someone who ought to be held ── and for all of isabele’s doubts on whether her death meant anything at all when everything seems so inconsequential in the eyes of the half - faithless, she knows nour is someone who would mourn her.
in the end, it takes her nearly a year to make her way to erin’s side. she stopped by mateo’s and tried to tune his guitar, spent time with badr and tried to forge a one - sided friendship ( played a game of whether or not she could spot them in the shadows ── lost more often than not, but there’s nobody there to laugh at her, or with her, aynmore ) . the days move idly by. isabele watches erin perform her stunts and claps politely when she gets it right, takes care of kitty when she’s out.
and then it’s been a year since isabele died, and she’s sitting at erin’s side at a bar.
❛ i know this place, ❜ isabele mumbles to herself, casting her eyes around the place. this is where they ran into each other once the two of them thought they were free. once the two of them thought nour and erin were done for good, once too many drinks ended in a shared night and years later, an incredibly awkward reunion. isabele smiles fondly, chuckles at the memory. the bar itself, a sign of the one time they didn’t look at each other with sheer, undiluted spite. for once, they’d actually gotten along. or got as close as they could to it.
❛ thought you would have forgotten all about me … but alas, look who’s nostalgic. ❜
erin raises a shot glass. isabele mimics doing the same. they drink it in unison.
❛ thank you for remembering me. ❜
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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
#𓅪 ❛ 𝐒𝐓𝐔𝐃𝐘. ‣‣ ( MEMES. ) ❜#𓅪 ❛ 𝐌𝐄𝐌𝐄. ‣‣ ( DCVES. ) ❜#no one perceive me#jen u can perceive me#mori u can perceive too
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𝐎𝐅𝐅𝐄𝐑 𝐌𝐄 .
── from @nourflage .
droplets of rain tap - tap - tap against the window of the car as it weaves through the streets of monaco. the night’s air captures the light cast by a thousand windows, life gleaming within the buildings, and expectations rapidly forgotten as streetlights they pass. tap, a droplet against the window, racing downwards and off the back of the car. tap, another, merely a speck against glass before it, too, vanishes. tap, a third ── fourth, fifth, ephemeral visitors that leave a rapidly vanishing wisp of a trail behind them. much like nour and isabele themselves.
two women sit in the back of a car while a third drives, they blend into a multitude of vehicles with ease ── much like isabele melted into her surroundings during an art auction, having slipped away and taken a prized artifact for herself. a tiara tucked safely into a box, in turn concealed within her purse. she brings it out now and opens it just slightly ── enough to peek in with a cheshire - cat grin upon excited features. this is one of her first heists, and the rush of completion lives within her bloodstream as the gleam of diamonds takes residence within the shine of her eyes, reflection of all that is bright and shiny.
❛ n ── snow owl, ❜ she rapidly amends, giddy laughter drowning out the first trace of a dangerous slip - up, ❛ we did it. holy shit, we did it. ❜
❛ it isn’t over yet, isa. ❜ a hand placed over her own, it is nour who closes the box and conceals the beautifully arranged gems from view. she’s right ── of course she is. over the time they’ve shared together, isabele has quickly gleaned that nour is almost always right. she is worth every ounce of trust that isabele has given her. and nightingale, in turn, hopes to be someone snow owl can turn to. she just wants to be a good friend.
so far, so good ── they’ve steadily forged a friendship built upon the foundation of understanding. they both have debts to repay. they are on the same team, they are expected to work together … and they do. beautifully, in fact. nour’s designs fit isabele perfectly and turn her into someone who evades any recognition, isabele aids nour however she can. sometimes that means standing perfectly still while measurements are taken. others, it means sitting by nour’s side and singing along to the music played by fei’s radio station if it’ll entertain her, keep her up and working diligently. charm meets charm, elegance meets elegance, poise meets poise ── friend meets friend.
❛ perhaps that is not. however … there is something i can wrap up right now. apologies for the presentation, darling ─ i was in a bit of a rush. ❜
grin turns playful as isabele lets her purse rest upon nour’s lap and tucks right hand into her coat’s pocket. from it, she extracts a ring ── polished gold, featuring an owl’s head crowned with oak leaves. owl emerges from leaves victoriously, dazzling eyes two diamonds looking out upon the world with the same boldness as nour herself.
isabele takes nour’s hand in her own and slides the ring onto her finger with a smile. ❛ listen ── i know it’s too literal and you may not like it very much, but i found it pretty … and it reminded me of you. so i may have snatched it up. ❜
a giggle, isabele attempts to fall into silence as she brings a finger up to her lips, though she is unable to wipe the smile from her features entirely ── eyes still crinkle at the edges, corners of lips are still quirked upwards.
❛ promise you won’t tell the corvids ? i don’t want to get told off. it’s just a ring. ❜
just a ring that could have thrown everything off ── it doesn’t, as people are far more preoccupied with a missing tiara full of prized gemstones than they are with a single, small ring. just a ring, with an owl’s face upon it. just a ring, just an offering, just an honest display of friendship. one of many gifts to come.
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