NA DONNA SINISTRA & SANTA.

hi loves, i know i have been absent for weeks now (and i sound like a broken record) and i want to sincerely acknowledge that disappearing without a word was inconsiderate and i apologize for not communicating it sooner. it was never my intention to leave anyone hanging, and my silence is in no way reflective of how much i care about our threads, your ims, asks, you, or how deeply i value the connections between our muses. i have just been pulled in too many directions offline, and haven’t had the time nor energy to give this space and you the love you deserve.

one.     social media (and its language especially),     to lucrezia,     is a foreign tongue.     when stiles and her are together,     it is not uncommon for her to glance over at him mid-conversation,     brows knitting ever so slightly,     the confusion plain in her eyes.     her english,     impeccable in its formality,     falters not in grammar but in grasping the absurd rhythm of internet culture — memes,     slang,     and the ever-shifting irony.     there may have been times stiles laughed,     but now he just translates.

lucrezia stood in the hush of the corridor, the silence so still it felt suspended — crystallized around her, thick with the scent of blood and something colder. her fingers, damp with it still, bore the rust-colored evidence along the delicate cuffs of her silk blouse — a favorite, naturally. it always was. the fabric clung in places, ruined beyond repair. olympia’s voice cut through the quiet like velvet sharpened at the edges — wry, unbothered, wrapped in the kind of ease only born from a childhood lived in rooms where blood on the floor was just another mess to mop. lucrezia didn’t lift her head. not at first. her gaze lingered on the slow-drying smears, where crimson bloomed like a cruel flower. her jaw was still, lips drawn in a line, though a flicker of irritation — almost delicate, played at the corners of her mouth. a rarity it had become for her to be the one covered in the life’s essence of another, she had refrained from doing the dirty work — literally. “ it’s always the good blouse ” , she murmured, lost in thought, not to olympia, not really to anyone. almost to the stains, as if they were to blame for their nature.