ciroocasio

[ciroocasio]

DIEGO BONETA Scream Queens 1.02 "Hell Week"

[ciroocasio]

"Only if I had a reason to be." Ciro turned towards Marcella at her vanity. They were beating around the bush still about moving in together, but it seemed the natural course of action, all things considered. He wouldn't ask her to give up her home, not when the property was such a good investment, and he would always have his duties within the halls of the Amaranthus, so living close to his ancestral home was essential. But these details could be sorted out later; they had little but time ahead. Still playful, he added. "Which I don't think I do, in case that wasn't clear."

Marcella had laid a necklace on her table that Ciro reached over her to grab. He carefully lifted her hair to place it around her neck. "I know you, Marcella." As if to stay that he knew her longest-standing relationship was with her flat iron. "We haven't discussed details yet," Ciro would have been content with a judge in a courthouse but Marcella deserved more, much more. "I saw once where a bride wore black, and everyone else had to wear white."

"Would you be?" Marcella turns her head to look at him from where she sits at her vanity table, her hands pausing in dragging a brush through her hair. It's not something she's ever really thought about, him being jealous and it dawns on her that most of her friends are notoriously male. "You know that you're one of the few people I've ever had romantic feelings for, right?" It's almost less to him and more of a realization voiced out loud. Being a vampire, becoming something by nature so full of grace and natural beauty, had made her realize that she hadn't quite thought too much of herself as a witch. Surely no one would be into some feral swamp child and so she'd just rarely put herself out there. "You and maybe Gary Oldman as Dracula."

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@salvadormairena location: Wine Tent, Wolfchella notes: kiss kiss

Old Frascati was a very ancient, very serious business. While it would remain true to its roots, Ciro had a dream of broadening its appeal to the varied supernatural races of Rome. From there, they could branch out even further; wealth was one thing, but this was in part about legacy. There was a symmetry to resolving differences over a bottle of wine, and if that bottle was a marker of the Amaranthus coven and everything that his mother had helped to build? All the better.

"Let me see." Ciro had handpicked the servers who'd be handing out samples, taking orders, and managing the inventory as he and Salvador oversaw the operations. Naturally, Ciro had handpicked their outfits as well; this was Wolfchella and appealing to the lycans would be crucial. Lycans who were accustomed to dog treats and gapes required a very particular marketing strategy. "That won't do, here." Ciro handed the man a rolled up sock to stuff down the front of his short shorts. The wolves spoke in knots, "Pick up some boob tape from Stacy, you might not have pecs but today everyone will think you do."

Ciro turned his attention back to Salvador as he sighed at the soft launch, "This wine is six times as strong as our regular brew," lycans had historically high tolerances for alcohol, this would help with that. "the milkbones that went into the fermentation process was a stroke of very unique genius, now we just need a name for when the orders start coming in."

[ciroocasio]

@marcellabelanades location: Mojo Dojo Casa Marcella's House notes: kiss kiss, call this pre-wolfchella before Marcella goes to pick up Vinny.

Engaged life was outstandingly different from single life, at least this time around it was nothing like what Ciro had remembered from before. Then again, Ciro was only a few amalgamated pieces of the man he'd been throughout their engagement. The grave prodigy who'd taken Neva's every word to heart had fallen away to a debaucherous hedonist who couldn't stand the sight of himself sober. Ciro retained the nobility of his family name, though he'd learned to loosen the reins in order to come into himself. Marcella was part of that, Ezekiel perhaps played the greatest part in it though.

"A lesser man would feel threatened that you plan on taking someone else to Wolfchella." Ciro would be working the entire time anyway, he and Salvador were unveiling a new wine that was tailored towards the lycans very distinct metabolisms and palettes. Strong alcohol and milkbones, it was a winning combination. Ciro finished with the last of his buttons on his attire as he straightened at his reflection in the mirror, from behind his glasses his eyes flicked towards Marcella's reflection behind him. Playfully, Ciro asked, "Should I be worried?"

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Grayson had come home, and Ciro was relieved because, above all else, they were family; as the Amaranthus grew, he felt it was important to repair the previously burned bridges. "Neva Rosato," Ciro had opted to name the rosé after his mother, "it's made from grapes harvested from winter's mountains. The elves have made for exceptional partners. The chill makes it more of a liqueur," sweet and tart all at once. Incredibly decadent, but more than a few glasses would give anyone a headache, the perfect homage to his mother. "I have some other experiments on the horizon; there's a wide market for supernatural tinctures: blood wine has historically just been red with blood mixed into it, but Salvador and I have been developing methods that the vampire community will find more enticing." Ciro had a sharp mind for business; cleaning up his act was the least he could do in preparation for The End. Fortunately, it had stuck. "What about you, Grayson? Have you been to Amico's club at all? It's finally making money."

@ciroocasio Location: Amaranthus Home

The Crown had passed, the Tower Stood, and the vestiges of a crumbling stone wall was there – Ciro. Grayson had remembered the rigid way his mother had ran the coven, the way she'd easily bound him from spilling secrets. A lesson learned; whispers of an easy way out. It had never been the case. There had been so much that had been expected of Ciro, so much that his mother had brought down, that now, in the shadow of a Tower, the Amaranthus could rebuild and change. It had been obvious why Grayson had waited to return. The death of the old guard, the shattered coven, and a way to reclaim what he had never really considered a birthright before – until there was no one left to hold it over his head. He'd grown up alongside Ciro, and it seemed their generation was keen on striking out on their own, at one point, he'd been disappointed he never got to say goodbye. The sight of Ciro holding a head of a hellhound remained fixated within his mind at times. "So this is a new wine?" Spells and wine, it took little to make Grayson interested now, "A rosé, too. Stunning. What are you calling this one?"

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END

Okay was as good as yes. After further confirmation, Ciro reached forward and affectionately brushed some of Marcella's smoothed hair away from her features. It felt a tad ridiculous that it had taken them this long to see what was right in front of them, but in hindsight, a great deal had obscured the bigger picture. Too much of their nature was made up of rebelliousness, falling in love with the person you'd been arranged to be married with? The notion was ridiculous and bordered on defamatory, but here Ciro was, in love.

Something reasonable and intimate, a graveyard maybe; this castle had to have a vast one somewhere across its expansive grounds. There would be time for that again later, though, for now, he turned the other and dipped her as he'd done at the Midsommar horror show. Into the air that lingered between their lips, Ciro made another statement, this declaration was just as bold and just as truthful as his previous incantation. "I love you, Marcella Belanades."

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"Excellent."Ciro appraised as he loosely threw his arm across the shoulders of the vampire; true to his nature, Ciro was a little drunk but only in the fashion where he was fun. Salvador was a relation of some degree to Marcella, separated by some variation through other mutual means; he was also a reliable employee with an unquestionable palette. It made him the ideal business partner, "We'll have to begin immediately; Bacchanalia's first feast day is only a couple months away, I want to be ready to premiere something by then." Given the current climate it might be an ice wine but they'd muddle with some processes to get the appropriate fermentation down.

END

Salvador offered a brief chuckle in understanding, he'd sort of quietly moved along as a sommelier within Old Frascati, a vampire attempting to blend into society wasn't unheard of, but it was an Amaranthus-coded place and they had always been so strictly set within their ways and beliefs. There was, however, something to be said about recognizing these carefully placed boundaries, even respecting them, but understanding the changes within the world and deciding to amend them. Ciro may not have been the Sovereign, but he was of old Amaranthus blood, and his opinion mattered greatly to their cause and coven. "Hell yeah, it's a yes," a scoff punctuated his acceptance, anyone vampire have been a fool to decline being apart of such sanguinary ritual that could, hopefully, under the Senate's declawing, become commonplace.

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Okay was as good as yes. After further confirmation, Ciro reached forward and affectionately brushed some of Marcella's smoothed hair away from her features. It felt a tad ridiculous that it had taken them this long to see what was right in front of them, but in hindsight, a great deal had obscured the bigger picture. Too much of their nature was made up of rebelliousness, falling in love with the person you'd been arranged to be married with? The notion was ridiculous and bordered on defamatory, but here Ciro was, in love.

Something reasonable and intimate, a graveyard maybe; this castle had to have a vast one somewhere across its expansive grounds. There would be time for that again later, though, for now, he turned the other and dipped her as he'd done at the Midsommar horror show. Into the air that lingered between their lips, Ciro made another statement, this declaration was just as bold and just as truthful as his previous incantation. "I love you, Marcella Belanades."

She wants to just say it over and over. That he doesn't mean it, that it's a party, there's been drinking. It would be so easy to keep brushing it off. And she could, but despite how much she tries to push it all under the rug, she keeps coming back. There was a reason she'd called him that night, a reason she'd been thinking about him after all these years. Marcella stops shaking her head and her hands find either side of his face. Her mouth opens to speak but the words won't come out. It felt a bit like she was fighting fate, she had given up her magic, she had become something else entirely. That had been running away, she'd ran to what felt like the ends of the Earth and still he held her. "Okay." Tilting her face, she rests her forehead to his. He had a fair point, they were wasting time. They had already wasted so much. The crisis that he wasn't going to be around for all of her life could wait. At least long enough for her to press her lips to his this time. It's brief but it's a promise. "Okay." When she nods her nose brushes against his and the word, the acceptance, all starts to sink in slowly and then all at once. A hand smooths into his hair and she can't help but laugh just a little at the ridiculousness of it all. He has been here this whole time, a phonecall away, someone who really, truly understands her, someone who cares for her. "I'll marry you."

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So much had been lost, power, talent, friends, and family. It was a small token that the Amaranthus now had the chance to grow into something new that was still reminiscent of the old. Ciro had sat down next to her, and now he placed a hand on her shoulder; Hazal was like a sister to him in some ways. Now it felt so much like she was one of the few remnants of the family that Ciro had left, the other being Amico. Ciro couldn't say anything to her about grief that she didn't know already; loss and emptiness were comfortable friends now in this old house. They had the way forward laid clearly ahead of them, but that didn't stop Ciro's feet from feeling like lead every morning when he dragged himself out of bed. "Come on, we should get you back to bed."

Pride came before the downfall and Hazal would feel the shame of her collapse in the morning, her heart ache and a cold lived from within that was only removed in moments of terrible realization that death had its grip and she had lost Ezekiel, heat flooded in with a swell of panic and she couldn't believe how many times she had held onto her house of cards desperately trying to rebuilt. She wouldn't release Amaranthus so easily with all the ghosts that live within.

The Amaranthus coven had been eradicated many moons ago with only her and Ezekiel sitting broken on an untouched house, it ached with its quiet and she wished that the estate echoed more of the devastation that the plaster had split and the walls had come tumbling down, a more physical effect of all the lives that had become lost. She was grateful even with the tears that poured down her cheeks that it wasn't empty, that there was life within and for all the witches that had made their way home or had forged a new path by joining the Amaranthus coven. She prayed that they knew that even as she often choose her books and archive as company, burning the candle as even with the most charms she was too haunted to sleep.

Hazal is nothing like Neva and she hopes Ciro know that she loves him as he is, that she understands the pressures that have threaten to break him as she quietly takes his hand in hers as he joins her at the bottom of the stairs. She can't stop crying but she doesn't sob, she stares hollowly ahead and she can feel her heart beating so loudly in her ears. "Forward we must go, so many have died in this house, it's a tomb that never quiets. I'm happy for the new life here even as I mourn those that have passed." She nods, hoping he understands that even this won't keep her down forever but it has wounded her.

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Oh, how a year could change things. Last January Ciro and Amico were in... Where were they again? Was that Japan or Amsterdam? It was hard to keep track, but he did remember they were balls-deep in an escort and having the time of their lives. Now they'd ended up back at the Amaranthus house, Ciro was basically a teacher and Amico was a business owner. "I'm not your secretary; I'm your benefactor: write that down yourself," Ciro said as he baked fully nude under a light he'd conjured that was akin in potency to a tanning bed. Naturally, he couldn't be wearing any clothes because then there'd be tan lines. Ciro lifted a lid and looked towards Amico, "It's a good idea, though." Drag was mainstream now, and Ciro loved that for them.

closed starter for @ciroocasio location: amaranthus house note: theboysarebackintown.mp3

Amico felt like his very much party life had to change to an extent. Unfortunately and fortunately, he now had a thing for a woman with a child. It was definitely a change of pace for him, definitely something to get used to. Not that there had been any development in their relationship at all. Really, it just felt like they were friends hanging out sometimes. They hadn't even kissed for fuck's sake. That was information he didn't even want to bother telling Ciro about yet. His witch would probably drag him for filth even hearing about it. Towel wrapped around his waist, he looked up from his phone and to Ciro. "I'm thinking about having themed nights at the club. Maybe there's such a thing as exotic dancers in drag." He lifted his finger and then pointed towards the other. "Write that down."

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"You know me better than that." Ciro's hand moved down to the small of Marcella's back, the other brushed affectionately through the long hair that fell past her shoulders. "You know I've never said anything I didn't mean, but this, this is something I've put a lot of thought towards." Logically, the two of them just made sense; they always had, even when denying what was right in front of them. "You need someone to stand by your side, as I do. You're immortal and going to live forever, but if I get to spend what mortal years I have with you, then I would count myself lucky. You and I make sense, Marcella. So if I only have a few decades to be your husband, I have no interest in wasting more time. Marry me."

It seems like the apology kind of throws the witch for a loop and she gets that. It was such a strange thing to do, apologize for something she'd really meant. It hadn't been something she'd really thought about at the time, kissing him. It'd felt so natural, like something she was meant to do and standing there, she couldn't help but think that she would do it again. About how she kind of regretted not kissing him when he'd been drunk in her living room, bottle of wine in one hand, eyes staring at her tits as he talked about Rome. She remembered being a teenager and seeing him, knowing that she was promised to him. Petulant attitude and teenage rebellion aside, she remembered there'd been a brief 'what if' that she didn't think she could ever outright let go of. Because she had thought that maybe it was something she had deserved for all she'd been through in her life, a practical Amaranthus prince. Marcella would be lying if she said she hadn't thought of what their life could be together. And then he kisses her. He kisses her and she stands stock still at the shock of it all before she's thinking about the war and seeing him die, refusing her bite, and she kisses him back as if she could bring that man back to life, her hands finding the sides of his face. She kisses him because she had wanted to that night she'd called him from her kitchen, her back against her cabinets. But they part on his account and those two words have her desperately fighting to not just burst into a cloud of bats right then and there. "You don't mean that." He can't possibly, not after everything, not after everything she'd done.

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At Christmas, you were supposed to tell the people who mattered to you just how much they mattered. Ciro could spend his life resenting Marcella for where her path had led her, or he could look beyond that, rise above, and be sensible. Naturally, he hadn't forgotten the feel of her lips on his or the absence he had felt after she had left. Truthfully, that precise moment before she'd left him there in the dust was something that he had replayed repeatedly. A record that Ciro had worn and scratched down until nothing was left. Marcella wasn't just out of his league because she had the best tits in the city by a mile; she was precious enough to him that he'd torch the town and all his beliefs if it meant he could walk by her side.

"Don't be." It was like any regular statement of fact; there were weeks - months - of silence between them. He'd offered a supportive hand on the steps towards Ezekiel's funeral, a few choice words here and there, but along the path to where Ciro stood now, he'd put together the pieces of all that it meant to be a vampire. At least, all that it meant for Marcella, her dark, macabre family of death and tragedy. He'd feared for a time that her grief had left her alone, but it had been over two months since Ezekiel had died, and Ciro was not sure if he was even resentful anymore or just... No, he knew what he was. He'd known it the moment he'd laid eyes upon her outside the steps of the forum, he'd known it the moment she'd brushed his lips against his and then run off, and he'd known it the moment he'd answered his phone in the middle of that unfortunate night.

Ciro kissed her without a second, though Marcella had dictated the action last time, but with her back against the balcony railing, she couldn't simply disappear as she had before. Ciro kissed her because he'd longed to for ages, because last time she had caught him unaware, he hadn't been allowed to kiss her how Marcella ought to be. With languid prose and the steady beating of his heart ringing in his ears, Ciro's hand covered the curve of Marcella's jaw before he broke the exchange for a moment to make a singular, practical statement. "Marry me." It wasn't a question; he knew she loved him, and she had to know he loved her. They were too pragmatic to do anything but spend their lives together if the two of them were resolved to do so.

"I'm adjusting." His shrug prompts one of her own and there's this thing there between them as she smokes his abandoned cigarette. The little stick between her fingers is somehow a daunting reminder that whatever is in it won't affect her anymore, but he is another story. Witches could live rich, wonderful lives, she knew that. And yet they were in Rome and there were statues erected to the casualties of war, casualties they knew. Marcella flicks ash onto the stone and this isn't unlike the last party they'd been to and she looks over at him and she can't just leave it alone. "I'm sorry I kissed you and ran away." It's rather blunt for the subject matter but it's honest. "I never got to tell you that."

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Emotion clearly didn't look or feel natural on either of them. Yet it flowed just the same, at Ciro's words and then as the witch sat there and listened to Hakan's. He hoped a day would come when the witch could talk about the lost vampire and not just think about all the ways he'd failed Ezekiel. The boy had deserved better, and at every turn, it seemed he'd been let down in every way and in every regard save where his sire and progeny were concerned. That was both a blessing and a curse. "Likewise, the Amaranthus coven is open to you." Ciro paused for a moment; Ezekiel's room there had remained untouched for the most part. Memorabilia littered the walls from athletic competitions and human trophies that Ezekiel didn't understand. Some jersey that meant something. "I have a few albums from his days with us and some from before. I'll bring them by sometime." He raised his glass towards Hakan, parting, "He'd want the same for you. Try to have some fun. Until then."

END

It was good to hear things about Ezekiel from other people's lips. As much as he had dug into his lost progeny's life before, it felt like it was just surface level. Considering the way the former witch had dug a hole in his chest, he felt like it was necessary to remember him as more than just what Ezekiel had shown him. The wine glass floated over to him and he would not have taken it if he did not smell the distinct blood that sat within it. Whose blood it was meant nothing to him so he indulged for the moment as Ciro spoke. The witch's name was familiar on several principles. One was the Amaranthus coven that he had looked into. Another was Ezekiel. The last was Marcella. He did not have to bring up the latter because he simply was not the type to meddle in that kind of thing. The wine glass was brought to his lips as the other spoke. Only when the witch had stopped speaking did he stop drinking.

"What was he like with me?" He spoke the question out loud, but it had been him just thinking outwardly. A hint of a smile lifted onto his lips. "I always thought he seemed to have confidence in spades. Maybe that was what drew me to him in the first place." As much as Ezekiel always felt like he had something to prove, it still felt like those things he wanted to prove would be done no matter what obstacle stood in his way. "I would never classify what he did as cheating though. You do what you must to accomplish the goal you set out for yourself. That is what Ezekiel always did and that was what he did until..." His mouth shut as he stopped speaking. With a clear of his throat, he held the empty wine glass up to the witch in a cheers. "Thank you for sharing that with me. Feel free to visit whenever you desire. My castle is open to you." He got up from his seat. "Enjoy the party. He would have wanted you to." Ezekiel would have wanted Hakan to stop moping about, too. The best thing he could do right now was go have some fun.

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How indeed. Well, not well. Ciro had a hard time penning down just how he felt exactly. Busy was a good way of putting it, though it hardly seemed to encompass anything. He liked the feeling of abundant productivity; the business was doing well, the coven was flourishing, and really Ciro had nothing left to complain about. The losses had piled high over the last year, but he was still alive and that was something to hang onto. Ciro didn't offer much in the way of an answer, instead he just shrugged noncommittally as he looked back into the double doors to the party. "You?"

She smiles softly at thought, that Zeke's all over the party. He truly is, from the diamond fangs to the Gucci Slides in the giftbags, the music. He'd have loved this and she thinks she'd seen Zeke at just about every event where she'd had to get dressed up. They always wound up gravitating towards one another and Marcella has to take a drag from Ciro's now abandoned cigarette to and distract herself from the fact that she wouldn't find Zeke in the crowd, not tonight. "How are you?" It feels like such a trivial and rhetorical question, loaded. It's not something she really has a right to, his business. But she is curious, she is rotting away at home most days but she is rooting for the Amaranthus now more than ever.

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"Neva Amaranthus would be turning in her grave, it's true." Stalwart as she was when it came to their traditions and to old grudges, Ciro, Hazal, and this generation were resolved to push towards progress. Something new, a powerful force to be reckoned with still, the Amaranthus had been rebuilt. Different and better than before. Their mutual connection through the pluto bloodline made something about this feel inevitable, "and while she wouldn't be able to say it out loud, I think she'd be proud." One of their own had been turned by Salvador's own sire, he had a grave in their cemetery, and now this act of rebellion was Ciro's means of pay homage to the witch that he had failed so many years prior. He extended his hand towards the other, "So, is that a yes?" Perhaps in the past it was discouraged for marshals to cooperate on this level, they were to keep to their own, their businesses, their problems. Ciro hoped to change that, he and Salvador could begin something new together.

The Lush had once been known for a stalwart reputation, a vampire marshal who strictly followed what was to be expected of him. He'd always stemmed from jewels and gemstones, but opulence had been void of such life; riches had been hard earned because his family had crafted the very gems they garnered. As a vampire he'd learned the hedonism that was woven within such garments and riches, splendor uncharted as the Lush became gluttonous in his approach. Blood, gems; nothing was off limits and his reputation fell to what Salvador was entranced by. "This feels sort of like a dream," it was padded with sarcasm, though the Lush had never seen any Amaranthus 'lower' themselves to a pact between vampires. "Sounds like something that would have made heads roll, but now it's a political statement," Salvador meant no offense, he could read between the lines and Old Frascati was something he was always reliable for.

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"Am I really that obvious?" Ciro asked, playfully, as he lurked on the fringes of the castle. Old Frascati wasn't known for experimental or new ventures, quite the opposite actually. Their methods were so well appreciated because they'd survived for thousands of years, improved upon by the generations upon generations of witches that had worked over them. "Vampires and covens have a great deal in common then." They were bonded in their own way, their mark was just a way of tying them all together. "I've been working on something new, something that'll make adding a few drops of wine to a glass of wine seem trivial." Ciro put the bottle down before he put his full attention on the lushful savant, "A blood wine, preserved and aged under the Old Frascati name." A tribute and sign of partnership between vampires and the Amaranthus; it felt the least that Ciro could do. "I'll need a partner."

"You're not really invested in the vampire limelight, are you?" A mere chuckle as even Ciro, his boss and the owner of Old Frascati, balked at an ancient bottle of wine. The question was simple, and the answer was just as uncomplicated, but it was always a touch humorous that innocent questions spiraled out of those who seemed entrenched in power and privilege. "Yeah, you could call him that. Give or take twenty-six, or maybe twenty-seven... hundred years ago, he gave me a choice." Power; which seemed silly at the time, but when a creature that could turn to locusts and rats slaughtered your measly little village, it'd have been idiotic to have refused. "We're really protective over the people who turn us, and vice versa." Shrugged as Salvador stepped forward, searching for a certain bottle amongst the dozen.