Lucrezia Guides Emilia's Bloody Hands Under A Faucet / Water Source And Begins Washing Them Clean.
lucrezia guides emilia's bloody hands under a faucet / water source and begins washing them clean.
the water was too warm. it made the blood feel thicker somehow — less like something to be washed away and more like something that had sunk too deep to ever really leave.
emilia didn’t speak. her eyes remained fixed on their hands beneath the faucet, the red swirling down the drain in ghostly ribbons. lucrezia’s touch was steady, reverent even, like a priestess performing a ritual rather than a someone scrubbing sin from skin. ❝ you don’t have to do this, ❞ emilia murmured finally, her voice low, almost hoarse. not from pain. from restraint. ❝ I'm not some frightened girl in ⁿᵉᵉᵈ ᵒᶠ ᵃᵇˢᵒˡᵘᵗᶦᵒⁿ. ❞ but she didn’t pull away. because for all the blood she’d spilled, there was something strangely disarming about lucrezia’s hands — so calm, so sure, as if she’d done this before. maybe she had. maybe that’s why emilia stayed still. why she let her. because only someone with her own share of ʀᴜɪɴ could understand what it meant to do terrible things … and still want to be touched gently after. her gaze finally lifted, meeting lucrezia’s with a quiet defiance — and something else flickering behind it. not regret. never regret. just … weight. ❝ are you always this gentle with ᴍᴏɴsᴛᴇʀs? ❞
More Posts from Ncantari and Others
You break the rules and become a hero. I do it, and I become the enemy.
That doesn’t seem fair.
Monica Bellucci as Francesca in La Riffa ( 1991 )
she didn’t smile. not at his question, not at the way his words lilted so easily between implication and charm. the air between them had cooled by degrees, not with malice, but with something quieter — older. like caution pressed into silence. ˢᵒ ʷʰᶦᶜʰ ᶦˢ ᶦᵗˀ ᴬ ᶠᵒʳᵗᵘⁿᵃᵗᵉ ᵃᶜᶜᶦᵈᵉⁿᵗˀ ᴼʳ ᵖʳᵉᶜᶦˢᵉˡʸ ᵗʰᵉ ᵐᵉᵉᵗᶦⁿᵍ ʸᵒᵘ ʷᵉʳᵉ ᵐᵉᵃⁿᵗ ᵗᵒ ʰᵃᵛᵉˀ she heard it for what it was — not curiosity, not truly. it was a shift of the board. an invitation to let him steer the narrative, to hand him the reins under the illusion of shared conversation. her gaze stayed fixed on him, ˢᵗᵉᵃᵈʸ ᵃⁿᵈ ᵘⁿʳᵉᵃᵈᵃᵇˡᵉ. that, too, was a kind of answer. ❝ you’re very good at answering questions with more questions, ❞ she said at last, her voice calm, precise. ❝ though i suppose that’s the game, isn’t it? ❞ she didn’t wait for his reply — she didn’t need to. it was already written in the curl of his mouth, the ease of his posture, the too-smooth cadence of someone used to slipping through locked doors with words alone. ❝ i’ve seen people lie with less grace, ❞ she continued, her tone still unbothered, still measured. ❝ but rarely with so much ᴄᴏɴғɪᴅᴇɴᴄᴇ in being believed. ❞ she stepped forward then, slowly, allowing her presence to fill the space between them, not to intimidate — that would have been too obvious — but to remind him that she was not just listening. she was reading. every line, every pause, every carefully chosen word. a small silence passed between them, deliberate, weighted. then, her voice — quieter now, but edged with something steel-spined and certain ❝ i don’t trust men who smile while they’re being watched. ❞ she let that linger in the air like the last note of a spell, her expression unchanged, unblinking, as though she were waiting — not for an answer, but for something more revealing. a misstep. a crack in the veneer. a shadow, even slight, that might betray what he really wanted. because people like him never asked questions like that without a purpose. they didn’t speak in riddles unless they had something to hide — or something to gain. so she watched. and waited. because if this was a game, she intended to know all the rules before she moved her first piece.
" would you believe me if i said wrong place, wrong time ? "
the sorceress studied him carefully, her gaze sweeping over the pristine cut of his coat, the polished cufflinks, the effortless poise of someone who had never wanted for anything. his words were smooth, his demeanor composed — but there was something just a little too measured about it.
she let out a slow breath, eyebrows lifted as she regarded him with quiet scrutiny ❝ would you believe me if I said I didn't believe in coincidences? ❞
her voice was steady, laced with the unmistakable lilt of her sicilian accent and edged with quiet sᴜsᴘɪᴄɪᴏɴ — and yet ᴄᴜʀɪᴏsɪᴛʏ flickered beneath it. men like him didn’t end up in the wrong place at the wrong time — unless they meant to be there.
♱ ⠀⠀… ⠀⠀𝐅𝐋𝐀𝐔𝐍𝐓 ⠀⠀𝐈𝐓 ⠀⠀𝐅𝐑𝐈𝐃𝐀𝐘 ⠀⠀.
⠀⠀… ⠀⠀non⠀è⠀un⠀𝔦𝔫𝔠𝔞𝔫𝔱𝔢𝔰𝔦𝔪𝔬,⠀sei⠀solo⠀IN⠀FISSA⠀.
𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐆𝐄𝐃⠀𝐁𝐘⠀﹕⠀@ashbalfour & @gunfear i could only ever dream of being able to keep up with you beauties but thank u for letting me try
𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐆𝐈𝐍𝐆⠀⠀ ⠀﹕⠀@herfacade , @gorekissed , @heiliqe & @pistolmadeofroscs
“I inherited my moms anger” “i inherited my dads coldness” well i inherited my grandmas spooky glowing red skull amulet and my towns has seen nothing but locusts swarms and floods since
The Times, Shreveport, Louisiana, November 30, 1913
And this girl? She is somewhere between this heart & this knife.
— AL-SADDIQ AL-RADDI ⚜️ My Voice: A Decade of Poems from the Poetry Translation Centre (Ed. Sarah Maguire), transl. by Mark Ford & Hafiz Kheir, (2014)
Ada Limón, from "To the Busted Among Us", Sharks in the Rivers
-
heiliqe liked this · 2 months ago -
ncantari reblogged this · 2 months ago
