#⋆ ˚ ｡ ⋆ ୨୧˚ . the utopia city is the nymph's playground ━ ( v. golden age of rapture )

[venusofrapture]

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　 　˚　　　　 . ★⋆. 　　　.   　　˚　✭　 　　*　　 　　✦　　　.　　.　　　✦　˚ 　　　　 ˚　.˚　　　　　✭　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　 　　 　　　　 ✦

⊹ ˚ . ♡ ┆・ verses dump ━ !

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　 　˚　　　　 . ★⋆. 　　　.   　　˚　✭　 　　*　　 　　✦　　　.　　.　　　✦　˚ 　　　　 ˚　.˚　　　　　✭　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　

[venusofrapture]

The complimentary words earned a widening smile, the genuine quirk of her lips that habitually came, even if it was as brief as the flash of a bulb. Dread lingered over her upcoming encounter with the big man of Rapture; her man, she tried to remind herself. He promised her so many things, said so many nice things alone in the privacy of her dressing room, the shadowy places where he'd lean close and whisper her heart's wildest desires. Sure, tension came, distance grew; the disconnect between them had always been there, yet it was she who wouldn't - couldn't - see it, hear the tone, understand the inflection, the roaming eye, whatever kept his favorite close, always there to fit his whim.

She wanted this, wanted him. Because, otherwise, what would she be left with? She came here to be with him, believed it was possible to finally, finally earn his total devotion. If she only held out a bit longer, tried a bit harder, smiled larger, laughed and shined and said the right things, then she would have what she wanted: to become Cohen's leading lady, become Ryan's wife. She just had to try harder, be better, do more, whatever it took to finally get what she convinced herself she wanted, needed.

She looked to Amelia and saw the portraits of the Holy Mother from the humble, country church in her youth. Strange how often the image came to her, gazing at the elegant, pristine woman, the one who reminded her of hushed prayers in whitewashed chapels, fluttering pages of the bible on quiet mornings. A memory came and went; she replaced it with the gnawing dread of finding a dress that would achieve the impossible for her.

" Oh, yes, I know. I've looked and looked, yet nothing I've got really does it. Maybe something in the shops will work. . . " She doesn't answer the question, doesn't admit it's all to distract herself, move, speak, push the dark away, focus on a task, a dress to end all dresses, like the impossible dresses from fairytales. Maybe she'd be lucky this time around.

" it's not as if he has written anything new in the past few years. " so much for rapture being a home for the artist - everything here is more stagnant than the hot, still ponds she dimly remembered peering into in her youth - nothing grows. nothing changes. just rot and rust and ruin -- but she is being a pessimist, isn't she? best saved for sundays when her head is bowed low and her shoulders are tense, too busy listening for the heavy sound of ryan's men marching through the halls. " -- why doesn't he write something with you in it? you'd make a perfect leading lady. "

it is not as if jasmine deserves her melancholy - god knows the dancer has enough of her own ( and such is the burden of women, she thinks. to sit with pain until it no longer aches ); jasmine does not spend time with her to sit near a pulpit, and this is no sermon. even so, she means what she says. jasmine is wasted upon the stage of fort frolic cohen has exiled her to - and a part of her wonders if jasmine knows this, too.

another drag of the cigarette against her lips - it does little to quell her nervousness; hardly does anything at all, in fact. " something on your mind? " comes the question; blue eyes watching the way jasmine moves - cigarette wasted as she crosses the floor, and the good lady sits up a little straighter, prim and proper upon the chaise lounge. she doesn't fit the setting; some remnant of a bygone era in the hard line of her shoulders, the neatness of her crossed ankles. doesn't fit - despite all her trying. " it must be an awfully important party to have you say you've got nothing to wear. isn't your boudoir just bursting? " there's more to it. has to be - and jasmine has always insisted on looking her best. easy to do when she was the jasmine jolene. " are you looking for something bold? nouveau? sleek? you'll make an entrance regardless, my friend. "

[venusofrapture]

A little smile played upon her lips, a curl of red that encouraged her bright blue eyes into exchanging their dull restlessness for a glint of something mischevious and delighted at Amelia's answer. Whatever gloom had been lurking within was pushed back behind the distraction of her proposition. At the mention of Cohen, she almost laughed, a further turn of her smile that nearly dispelled all signs of her previous feelings from her face.

" This week's run are all shows I've seen before, anyway. " She spouted this offhandedly, considering her continued support of him despite how difficult he had become to get ahold of. Even catching him after the curtain calls had become a challenge.

She put this out of her mind, all worries locked up in a box and stuffed down deep. She'd want a drink, another cigarette, and some brilliant conversation to sustain her this evening. She knew with Amelia she'd get exactly what she hoped for, and then some.

Despite just starting her cigarette, she unthinkingly snubbed it into a crystal ashtray nearby, smoke still curling in a dancing wisp towards the ceiling. She rose smoothly, that dancer's grace in each step, each movement as she strode a few paces further into the room. The clock on the wall indicated the hour, a gilded, curly-framed thing that kept a steady cadence beneath their conversation.

" A shopping trip would be wonderful. I've been meaning to find a new dress for- " An important date. With him. She's been wanting to speak with him, their visits dwindling, leaving her aching and uncertain. It came and went out of her mind. " -a big party next week. Something fresh. I've grown tired of everything in my closet. "

the cigarette doesn't take the edge off like it once did. the good lady blames it on the fact there are salt stains upon the paper, rotting into the tobacco ( smuggled at a premium from the surface - and for all her preaching in darkened corners away from ryan's eyes and ears, she cannot quite give up her vices ); it burns her throat when she inhales, not quite able to disguise the cough that rattles in her chest. jasmine remains composed as ever, elegant in the way she moves, breathes. as if ryan's favourite girl could be anything other than perfection.

" i do not know how you stand it. " our lady means many things. this place. these people. him. all things that die upon the tip of her tongue, left unsaid - silences that knot inside her until she could choke upon them.

another inhale - her nerves are still jittering; all live wire and electric, eyes nervously meeting @venusofrapture's gaze; that same dissatisfaction mirrored, and she replies too quickly; all in one sharp breath. " yes. " another inhale, the smoke filling her mouth, her lungs. " what do you have in mind? and don't tell me it's another one of cohen's shows. perhaps a shopping trip will change your spirits. "