#and believe it or not i am acutely aware of how old my siblings are

[pocket-mobster]

being in a room full of teenagers will have you saying stupid shit like "hey aren't you all younger than the movie Cars which i know for a fact was released on June 9th, 2006" and "if i go missing in the next 24 hours, it's specifically because all of you are younger than the movie Cars (2006) and it's all your fault"

[willel]

do you believe the theory that Mike parallels Brenner in regards to their relationship w El? I personally don’t as I think it’s a bit extreme to compare a 14 year old boy who’s still navigating the idea of love with a grown man who is abusive and takes advantage of vulnerable children.

-sigh- No. I've seen that and no I just don't. If it is a parallel, then it's a foil. You know, the opposite of not similar to

I've mostly seen people use it in shipping arguments and people, that does NOT look good for your side, ok? Brenner is literally scum of the earth and to even slightly relate the two together is just.... terrible. It would make Mike a terrible kid, which he isn't.

Has he stumbled? Yeah, he's a dummy little pre-teen teenage boy. He's had his head stuffed into too many comic books and thought he knew how a person with super powers should act. (not overworking themselves, keeping their hidden identity up. All that jazz like some marvel movie)

That is not the same as Brenner who kidnapped El as an infant and pushed her and her other lab siblings to the brink "for science" because of his own overinflated ego.

Their goals, their intentions, their beliefs are just not the same. If Mike and Brenner have been compared to each other, it's to show that he is different from him, that he's not a scumbag, just a dumb dumb sometimes.

The only characters who have really been compared to Brenner explicitly are Henry/Mind Flayer and Hopper.

Hopper was directly compared to Brenner by El, because Hopper was keeping her trapped in a small cabin in the middle of nowhere with no one to talk to except him. Hopper was doing it because "he knew best". While Hopper was right, he was also very wrong and he knew he could find a way to allow El to communicate with her friends without blowing his cover. He was just being greedy, stupid, and cowardly, but he got over it. He was able to change and grow as a person and pseudo father, which is why El willingly stayed with him (Even now, if El wanted to just leave, she could. They wouldn't try to stop her)

Unlike Brenner, who pretended like El could go or stay as she pleased, Brenner couldn't grow as a person. He stayed the same old greedy ego driven scientist who would never let go of El if he had a choice. Whether he restrained her by force, drugs, or even a shock collar.

As for Henry/Mind Flayer, doubt we really need to go over those, but Henry obviously picked up a lot of tricks from Brenner while he was imprisoned in the lab. Alllll the way back in season 2 I was picking up how the Mind Flayer was framed similarly to Brenner, a monster. An overwhelming "force" chasing after their unwilling target, making them do terrible things against their will. It all fits.

All of that to say, I am acutely aware of similarities and parallels with Brenner. Mike is not one of them, he's the opposite of Brenner but even that is irrelevant because Hopper mostly fills that role.

My advice when coming up with theories or character links for the sake of ships, be very careful not to paint a character out to be the devil. I'm sorry, but it's very hard to then turn around and proclaim that character is actually an angel when they're with someone else.

Instead, you should only focus on why maybe a relationship has run its course, or ways in which the old relationship can be laid to rest so a new one can begin. No one has to be a bad guy or like the bad guy for that to happen. You don't have to compare their relationship to literal abuse to come up with something that works and makes sense. There are better ways to craft a fun theory/evidence!

[captainsolare]

Under the Moonlit Sky

This is a request I got that ended up with a long word count so I'm making it it's own separate post.

Summary: Leopold asks his commoner crush to a party attended by nobility and royalty. She must navigate the party through her nervousness, confused feelings, and the classism of the nobility surrounding her.

Word count: 3140

Tags: angst with a happy ending, fluff, comfort, f!reader

You narrowed your eyes as you studied the boy standing in your doorway, “What did you just ask me?”

He cleared his throat, cheeks a dusty pink as he scratched the back of his neck, “I asked if you would do me the honor of accompanying me to a party this weekend.”

You swallowed, throat suddenly feeling very dry. “A party? Are you sure you’d want me there?”

Leo laughed, the sound almost grating to your frayed nerves, “Of course I do! I always have fun when I’m with you and these parties are so boring.” His lips twitched in disgust as he thought of how uninteresting these types of things were, sure his siblings were fine but with extended family he was expected to act a certain way and it felt constricting.

You smiled, and Leo perked up at seeing the twinkle in your eye.

“Oh I see how it is, I’ll just be your entertainment for the evening.”

Leo nodded, then fully realized the implication of your statement; eyes wide he held his hands up. “No! I didn’t mean it like that, I just want you to be there. Please?”

You crossed your arms, eyeing him with a skeptical look, but the longer he stared at you with those pleading eyes, the more convinced you were. Your frown turned into a giggle and you nodded, “I was joking Leo, of course I’ll go with you.”

“You mean it?” Leo asked, eyes hopeful this wasn’t a joke.

“Yes! I mean it.”

“Perfect! Thanks so much, I’ll be here at 7 PM sharp to pick you up.”

“Great! See you then.”

As soon as Leo left, you sank against the door, the facade dropping. “A royal party? Y/N what have you gotten yourself into?” You groaned, resting your head in your hands.

A party with Leo meant that royals and nobility would be there, and you were just a commoner from the city who’d met Leopold by chance. There wasn’t a drop of nobility in your blood and despite how accepting Leo was, the vast majority of the people there would eye you with contempt. At least you were a magic knight, you were in the Purple Orcas, so that would gain you a bit of respect, but the lack of noble blood was of greater importance. The more you thought about it the more nervous you became, but a promise is a promise and you’d do your best to keep it.

Your eyes traveled to your bedroom, did you have anything you could wear in your wardrobe? You pulled yourself off the floor and made your way to the armoire, throwing the doors of it open. You examined each piece of clothing, holding it up to you in the mirror. One by one, each of your dresses landed in a pile on your floor. Eyes pricking with tears you threw the last dress on the pile.

None of these are acceptable for a royal party, what am I going to do?

Your coin purse lay on your desk and you picked it up, peering inside. You had a substantial amount of money on hand, you’d been saving for a rainy day but you supposed that day had come, besides, a new dress could do you some good. You could wear it to future balls if you someday ended up dating Leo.

Blinking, you dropped the coin purse, of all the intrusive thoughts to enter your brain, it just had to be that one. You and Leo? It was laughable if the unattainability of it didn’t hurt so much, you supposed you did have a crush on him, but what was the use? Even if he did like you back, it isn’t as if you could act on it. Royalty and nobility sure, but you were a commoner, and a royal dating a commoner was unheard of, it felt taboo at times to even be friends with him.

You sighed and gathered the fallen coins, dropping them gently into the bag, perhaps you could do the more practical thing, and rent a dress, or at the very least buy it, wear it for the night and return it later. You pocketed the purse and set off for the store, heart sinking like a stone in your chest.

A bell chimed as you entered the store, and you immediately felt an oppressive wave come over you. The store felt stuffy, and you felt extremely out of place on the posh white carpet.

“Y/N! Is that you?”

You looked around at the sudden call of your name and came face to face with Vanessa from the Black Bulls, you instantly relaxed and let her pull you into a quick hug.

“Hello Vanessa, long time no see.”

You’d met her a few times while on solo missions, and had gotten to know the thread mage rather well.

“What brings you here?” She asked, lightly resting her hand on your shoulder.

Your cheeks warmed, “I actually got asked to go to a party this weekend.”

Vanessa gasped, clapping her hands together excitedly. “Was it that royal boy from the Crimson Lion Kings?”

Your cheeks grew even warmer at her question, was your crush that obvious? You nodded and she smiled even wider.

“Well, we need to find you a gown then, don’t we?”

Vanessa tugged you around the store, taking dresses off the racks and holding them up to your frame. She settled on a gray white gown, stars were woven into the bodice and the skirt, it was beautiful and you hoped it would look just as beautiful on you.

You stepped into the dressing room, tugging off your clothes and replacing them with the ball gown. As you looked into the mirror, you almost couldn’t believe it was you in the mirror. You were still you, that much was obvious and wouldn’t change, but you felt beautiful in the gown.

Opening the door carefully you stepped out and Vanessa squealed. “Oh my, you look gorgeous!”

You smiled, heart full from her genuine smile, “You really think so?”

“Of course I do, and that little lion cub isn’t going to know what hit him.”

You chuckled, imagining Leo’s dumbfounded expression was quite amusing. But you remembered your coin purse and frowned. “Could you take a look at the price?”

When Vanessa read you the price your heart sank, even with what you had saved there was no way you could afford it. Vanessa read the expression on your face and put her arms around your shoulders.

“Don’t worry sweetheart, I’ve got it covered.”

You tried to protest, but once Vanessa had it in her mind to do something there was no stopping her so you relented, handing her the gown after you had changed back into your normal clothes.

The rest of the week passed by in a flash, Vanessa showed up at your door at 5 PM Saturday evening to help you get ready. She laced the dress for you, tied your ribbon slippers and did your hair how she asked, then added a touch of makeup.

Soon there was a knock at the door and you gulped. Vanessa gave you a quick hug and you opened the door.

Leo stood there in a navy blue suit, pink sash tied as a (tacky) belt around his waist. As he laid eyes on you, Leo’s expression was as priceless as you had imagined.

“Come on, pick your jaw up off the floor, it’s still little old me inside this dress.”

“I can’t help it, you just look so beautiful.”

You gave a quick curtsy, “Why thank you kind sir.”

“Leo! Hurry up!” Fuegoleon called from the carriage.

Leo jumped, “Right! Shall we?”

You took his extended hand and he helped you to the carriage. You said a quick hello to Fuegoleon and his expression softened.

“Hello Miss Y/N, Leo has told me a lot about you. You look quite beautiful tonight.”

You swallowed the heat that was creeping up your neck, “Thank you sir.”

“Oh please, no need to call me sir, call me Fuegoleon.”

The carriage ride to the palace was awkward, you tried to make small talk by asking where the oldest Vermillion sibling was but were informed that Mereoleona couldn’t be bothered to come to events like these, and if she did she inevitably ended up setting something on fire.

“Ah, I see.”

You tried to shove down your growing nervousness, you desperately hoped that this night would not end up as disastrous as you feared. Leo helped you out of the carriage and you didn’t let go of his hand, causing heat to rise to his cheeks.

The doors opened and you quickly dropped his hand, your own tingling from the loss of heat. You immediately felt the harsh stares of the royals and nobility in the room; nobles were acutely aware who was outside their circle and although you were dressed nice it was obvious to them you were a commoner. You swallowed thickly as you made your rounds around the room with Leo, he was required to visit with everyone out of respect. You could feel their eyes looking you up and down, silently judging Leopold for bringing a commoner to a place such as this.

Relief washed over you when you finally sat at your designated table with Mimosa and Noelle. You’d met them a few times before, and you knew that you’d have some semblance of safety while you sat here.

“Hello Y/N! You look gorgeous tonight.” Mimosa greeted, pulling you into a quick embrace.

Noelle did the same and you murmured your thanks before taking a seat next to Leopold. “So, we’ve been relegated to the kids table?” You joked, causing the others to chuckle. “It would appear so.” Leopold said, eyes crinkling as he smiled.

Your table called much attention to itself as the four of you joked; it was a relief to be able to feel like you could be yourself here, until you risked a glance at the main tables and saw their judgemental looks. You took a sip of water, trying to force your bitterness down with it; you could brush things off with the best of them, but you had to admit it was hard when you felt you were invading a space you were not welcome in, just because of your social standing.

The string quartet sat down to play and the dishes were cleared along with the tables. Leopold stood awkwardly and asked you for a dance as Mimosa and Noelle giggled nearby. Your cheeks warmed, but you laid your hand gently on top of his and he led you to the dance floor.

“They’re so cute.” Mimosa whispered. Noelle smiled, hand covering her mouth, “I so agree.”

As the strings played, you let Leopold lead the dance. “You’re a better dancer than I thought you’d be Leo.” You said, smiling with a teasing glint in your eye. He stood a little taller at your words, “Why thank you, I’ve been practicing. Hey! What do you mean ‘better than you thought’?” He protested and you just smiled, relishing in the fact you had all of his attention for the moment. Leopold was so easily distracted, but not when he was with you, it made you feel like you were the only girl in the whole world, and at least for now, you could pretend that it would always be this way.

There was a tap on Leo’s shoulder, from a nobleman you didn’t recognize. “May I cut in?” He asked, his voice nasally and grating. Leo nodded, giving you an apologetic glance, and the two men switched partners. The man took your hand with a tight grip, twirling you this way and that across the floor. You could sense the hostility coming from him as he pulled you close to whisper in your ear.

“Filthy commoner, your kind aren’t welcome here. Leave now and never speak to Leopold Vermillion again, or else. We can’t afford anyone tainting the royal family’s blood.”

You didn’t need to ask if it was a threat, your heart was caught in your throat as the man’s words sent ice through your veins. You wanted to protest, but the man had planned it perfectly. You couldn’t make a scene here, and no one had heard his awful words so no one would be able to back your story up, and even if you did voice your concerns, most of the people in this room would likely agree with the sentiment that had been expressed to you.

“We’ll be watching you.” The man said quietly, before Leo could cut in again.

Leo grabbed your hand once more and instantly noticed something was wrong, it wasn’t extremely noticeable, but he had been around you long enough to know when something was bothering you. His hand rested on your lower back as you swayed with him. The lump in your throat grew larger as you met his eyes, then looked back down at your feet.

Did this really have to end? Couldn’t you pretend, for just a moment longer that this would all work out? That Leopold was the person who would sweep you off your feet for the rest of your life? Couldn’t you freeze this moment for the rest of time? Leo’s smile as he pressed his palm into yours?

You felt your heart shatter as the song ended and you pulled away, tears pricking in your eyes. Leopold looked visibly confused, but you brushed him off.

“I just need some air.”

As soon as you were out of eye and earshot you ran, eventually finding a secluded outdoor patio. You slammed your hands on the railing. This wasn’t fair, you shouldn’t have to feel this way because of their prejudice. You’d known the house of cards would come down eventually, the hope that you had placed in a future with Leo, the future you kept locked away in your heart. Tears streamed down your cheeks despite your best efforts to keep them in, and you watched as the balcony railing became slick with them.

Inside, Leopold heard the murmurs of relief that you had disappeared. They sent him bristling, which one of them had hurt you bad enough to make you need air? His eyes scanned the crowd and they fell upon the man who had danced with you last. Without hesitation, he strode over to the man, grabbing his collar. Gasps could be heard all across the room at Leopold’s sudden outburst.

“What did you say to her?” It was like a roar was ripped from his chest, his knuckles were white with the force of his grip.

The man squirmed in his grasp, “I just… I just told her we wouldn’t take kindly to her tainting the royal bloodline.”

Leopold let go of the man, his eyes wide with shock, then anger. “How dare you! How dare you treat a personal friend of royalty that way! I’m disgusted with you.” Leopold’s words came out as spats, and he whirled out of the room, desperate to find you.

He found you, shoulders shaking over the patio railing as you cried. A gentle hand was placed on your shoulder and you stiffened.

“Hey you.” Leo said quietly.

You sniffled, you didn’t want him to see you like this, but there was no avoiding it. “Hi.”

“Can I give you a hug?” He asked.

You nodded and stood, letting him pull you into a warm embrace. You always felt safe here, and that fact made you cry harder, because sooner or later, you’d have to let this go, give up his arms so someone else could be held by them.

“I’m sorry that man said those things to you.” Leo said quietly, stroking your back with a gentle hand.

You sniffled, “You don’t have to be sorry. I knew what I was getting into when I came here tonight, I’m sorry for causing you trouble.”

Leo stiffened at your statement, anger bubbling within him once more as you apologized to him.

“Hey. Listen to me.” He took a step back until only his hands were resting on your shoulders,

“Pardon my language but screw what those losers said! You are gorgeous and I wanted you here tonight. In fact you are the only person I wanted to be with tonight.”

You blinked, not believing what you were hearing. “What-- what are you saying Leo?”

“I’m saying I’m in love with you!” He swallowed, heart pounding in his chest, “I have been for a while actually, that’s part of the reason I asked you here tonight.”

To his dismay you began to cry, fresh tears streaking down your cheeks.

“Are-- are you okay?! Did I do something wrong?” Leo began to panic, studying your face carefully.

You shook your head, “No, you didn’t do anything wrong. These are… happy tears I think.”

Leo looked confused, “Happy tears? Why?”

You laughed at his expression, Leo could certainly be dense sometimes.

“I’m happy because I love you too, dummy.”

Leo wasn’t sure he heard you right, you liked him too? He grinned, smile as wide as the half moon in the sky.

You hugged under the night sky, stars glittering above you.

Leopold wiped the tears from your eyes, and gave you a kiss on the forehead.

“Shall we go inside and give those losers a heart attack?”

You frowned, “Not a literal one I hope.”

He chuckled, “No of course not, just one that will hopefully kick their classist asses.”

You followed Leo back into the ballroom, pinkies intertwined and heads held high.

“Attention everyone, I have an announcement to make!”

The room stilled as everyone turned to look at the royal boy.

He grabbed your hand more fully in his and held it up for them all to see.

“Ladies and gentlemen, and others, this is Y/N L/N and I am in love with her!” He yelled.

Gasps were heard throughout the room at his announcement, nobles looked around in shock.

“I’m going to marry her someday and if you don’t like it, you can leave!” He declared, sending a wash of heat to your face and gasps throughout the crowd.

Silence dominated the room for a long moment, and you were positive at least one woman fainted. Fuegoleon cleared his throat and the attention turned to him, “Well, it would seem we have a pre-engagement to celebrate, so start the music.”

The quartet began to play once more, and you danced with Leo for the rest of the night, if anyone took him up on his offer to leave, you didn’t notice or care; the only thing that mattered is that you loved him, and he wanted to keep you in his arms forever.

[gallavictorious]

Seven Days left~ Give us 7 favorite Shameless moments

One day late – whoops! Sorry about that, sweet nonnie; this was the most delightful ask and I was very stoked to get it. ❤️❤️❤️

Disclaimer: I misread the question because I’m a dumbass and went for Gallavich moments. My bad. :o These are seven of my favourite moments, by the way: I just can't decisively pick my ultimate top seven. Also put them down in chronological order rather than in order of how fond of them I am, because it'd would've been too hard to do otherwise.

4x08: “You coming back?” This scene is quite uncomfortable, what with Ian's demand for blowjobs and Mickey's obvious (though temporary) discomfort, but I think that's what has me returning to it again and again (and what has had me writing one very long meta and a fic about it). It represents a shift in their dynamic, with Ian claiming some power in the relationship for himself, and even though it is uncomfortable, it's fascinating to see – and needed to happen for them to work in the long term (even if it maybe didn't need to happen like that – but then again, it's just so in character for both of them, however messed up?). The look Lip and Mickey exchanges after Ian's “relationship issues” never fails to get to me either, and I think it's important to note that Lip makes sure that Ian is okay with the situation and then he leaves them to it; he doesn't try to interfere or dissuade Ian. I keep wondering what that means to Mickey, having Lip – who's certainly not a friend at that point – know about him, and about him and Ian, and not really caring beyond making sure his baby brother is okay? I kind of think that maybe Lip and Mandy both showing Mickey that they're aware of the situation but not making a big deal out of it is really fucking important – people can know he's gay without it having to be a thing and without the world ending. Terry is a horrible outlier.

4x11: “Just wondering if we're a couple or not.” Maybe it's the mutual manhandling, maybe it's them trying to negotiate and sort out the current dynamics of their relationship. There's so much tension and so many layers here, history lingering, even as they're both fond and playful: lots to unpack. Damngoodcoffee once noted that Ian almost looks scared when Mickey pushes him to the bed, and I haven't been able to unsee that since, or to forget that the last time Ian pushed Mickey to verbalize the truth of their relationship Mickey kicked him in the face. I also love love love the lead up with Carl and Ian, “do you love Mickey?” – “I like how he smells.” Please take note of Mickey washing his hands: the dirtiest white boy in American is an example to penis pee:ers everywhere.

5x08: “Sorry I'm late.” Ian's surprise, and the look of hesitant wonder as Mickey shows up and moves to lie down next to him, like he can't quite believe that Mickey is really there, that he actually came. Mickey's quiet apology, no excuses or explanations about how he needed some time to deal (which, you know, it's very fair for him to need); he's there for Ian now, putting his own fears and pain and needs to the side to be what (he thinks) Ian needs him to be. That admittedly doesn't work out great for either of them in the end, but still, in this moment, it is what they both desperately crave: to just have each other and find shelter in the other's arms. Ungh. That gentle kiss to Ian's hair, how Ian finally relaxes and reaches up to grasp Mickey's wrist, holding on. It breaks my heart and soothes me, all at the same time.

10x07: Domestic bitches. Probably the scene I've tag ranted about the most, because I. Love. It. To. Pieces. Ian's so glad to be back in a place where he feels at home and can be useful by doing important stuff like picking up shampoo and shit for Mickey (in prison, I think he was acutely aware of them being on Mickey's turf and him feeling a bit not comfortable with being the one in need of protection?) and he's so damned happy that he gets to be here with Mickey. Gets to help him out and playfully slap his ass and kiss his cheek and squeeze his titty and just love him and be with him. And Mickey, being completely unconcerned about this display in front of Sandy; in fact he seems to adore being so obviously claimed and loved and wanted, and that's such a huge shift from the boy who was once terrified by the idea of letting Ian kiss him even in private. Argh. Just. Them being domestic bitches and loving it – and each other – so fucking much. They're giddy with it here and it makes my heart swell.

10x10: “When you know, you know. Right?” I have an absurd weakness for Ian being petty, and Mickey really had it coming here, so. You know. Allow me an evil chuckle. The Byron of it all is an unwelcome distraction (and Mickey gritting out “the love of my life” makes me cringe so hard every single time), but then I look at the absolute glee in Ian's eyes when he realizes that Mickey is going to a hipster concert and yeah, this is Kee's shriek of delight. Mickey looks very good in his shirt and with the hair and the cigarette, and that's always an easy sell with me. (He also looks so uncomfortable with Ian finding out about the concert but, again, he kind of had it coming.) Aah. Ian's certainly not the only petty character on the show, but it just looks better on him than on anyone else. He's got it down.

11x10: “Hit my husband again, I'll fucking kill you.” Mickey isn't even in this scene, and still. I didn't expect Ian to take such a firm stance on this (considering that Lip is his brother and Mickey was not innocent in the fight) but maybe that's why I love it so much? I swear, the jolt I felt when hearing it for the first time, it nigh on knocked me over. “My husband” Ian says, making a point of emphasising the nature of his relationship to Mickey; the Gallaghers generally strike me as having a general expectation of putting birth family above partners when push comes to shove. Fiona certainly did for a long while, and though Lip's kind of screwing his siblings over to create the life he wants with Tami and Fred this season, I think he still sees the sibling group as Ian's primary unit, and Ian wants to remind him that this isn't the whole truth anymore. Also, protective!Ian is glorious. (I love me some brothers on the porch, so even without this line, this is a great scene. But with it – holy mother of God, I've been slain. I'd feel embarrassed about the number of times I played it on repeat the next day, but I'm too old for that shit.)

11x11: Intro Speaking of protective!Ian... I'm sorry, there's just no arguing with the aftercare vibes and I don't even know how to process that properly. Mickey's a little out of it, seems like, since he's rather slow to respond to the intrusion and displays none of his usual intiative and agression, whereas Ian is very quick to shift from gazing lovingly at Mickey to chasing us out with a determination and anger usually reserved for Frank. I mean, how else would you explain it? (And okay, it's an intro and breaking the fourth wall, so speculating about when it happens in canon is of course foolish, but I'm just saying that they're in their new flat with very little furniture still so it has to happen around the time of the last episode but I very much doubt they played around like this when everything was so weird between them so probably not between 11x10 and 11x11, but say they got back to their place after their reconciliation on their old bed and just kept on reaffirming their bond in all possible ways? Yes? Yes.)

Special mention: 10x06 Deleted Bathroom Scene. Mickey is looking fine as fuck – please, do wear black tanks more often, I am begging you, Mick – and his eyebrow game is in excellent shape, and then we have Ian seeing to his wounds (be still my heart) and pulling at his hair when Mickey's just a shade too bratty and Mickey's little look of 'okay sure I had that coming' and I'm sorry, but I am dead now. Deceased. Only two things detract from this otherwise perfect scene: Ian's titties tattoo on prominent and unfortunate display, and the confusion about whether or not Mickey didn't even learn the simplest Spanish words during his stint in Mexico.

So, that's me. I could just as easily have picked seven completely different moment, but I do love all of these very much.

[trashficdumpster]

Writing Practice

Spirits were high among the ranks.

Byleth waded through crowds of jubilant soldiers. Some of them toasted in her direction, others cheered for her as she went by. A handful of them bowed reverently to her as she passed by, muttering words of praise and eyeing the Sword of the Creator sitting at her hip. It was odd that these soldiers kept their faith even as they worked to break free of the Church’s influence. Then again, Byleth’s time at the academy reminded her that faith and authority were not always in alignment.

She made a beeline for the command tent, unmarked and identical to all the other tents in their camp. Once inside, the din of the celebration was easy to ignore. Edelgard, still clad in her ornate armor, Hubert, Randolph, and Ladislava stood around a map, quietly discussing something.

“Ah, Professor.” Hubert looked up, some semblance of affection in his expression. Edelgard’s crowned head snapped up.

“My teacher,” she nodded to her generals, dismissing them. They bowed and left, nodding to Byleth as they exited the tent.

“Have I missed something?” Byleth asked.

Edelgard shook her head. “No. I was instructing my generals to curb their soldiers’ enthusiasm. A little revelry can be tolerated, but we have a much harder battle ahead of us. In the days since we took the Great Bridge, the army has eaten up more provisions than we accounted for.”

Hubert’s piercing stare settled on Byleth. “And we have you to thank, Professor. Some of the more…devout troops are convinced you’ve returned to lead us to victory — that after five years, the goddess herself has finally declared who will win this war by sending her chosen one to us. It’s quite poetic.” He mused. Edelgard, however, did not seem to think it was funny.

“Whether we win this war will depend on our discipline and resolve, not some prophecy or divine intervention.” The tension in her posture eased a fraction as she looked across the table at Byleth. “That said, I am very grateful to have you with us once more.”

“Yes, of course Your Majesty. I’ll take my leave now. I have enthusiasm to curb.” Hubert skulked out, leaving the two of them alone.

Edelgard looked troubled, though Byleth couldn’t imagine she would be happy after spending years fighting battle after battle. “We will win the war.” Byleth finally said. “You would have won without me, for the record.”

“Of course we would have. You taught the Black Eagle Strike Force well.” Edelgard replied matter-of-factly. She pulled up a chair and indicated that Byleth should follow suit.

“I’m not some sort of chosen one, you know.” Byleth sat down, acutely aware of how her body didn’t ache in the slightest. She could be wounded, of course, but she healed faster, and even her old injuries never bothered her now. It was unnatural. “Whatever Rhea did to me worked by chance.”

“Do you know what she did to you?”

“No. But when we fought her before I disappeared, she screamed things at me. That I was a mistake. And there are the entries in my father’s journal. In any case, it was all a gamble and I happened to win the lottery.” Before fusing their souls, even Sothis marveled at their shared existence. If the progenitor goddess herself was at a loss, well, Byleth couldn’t hold her responsible.  

Edelgard seemed to consider it for a long while before she spoke again. “Do you know why I refuse to believe that our victory — or anything for that matter is a result of divine providence? It’s because that would mean that my siblings had to die in order to mold me into who I am today. That their lives ultimately had no meaning. The idea that there are others who have been tortured the way I have all because it is part of some grand plan disgusts me.” There were dark circles under her eyes, but the fire that burned within was far more prominent.

For days after that conversation, Byleth couldn’t stop thinking about the look on Edelgard’s face and the conviction in her voice. There was a strange throbbing in her chest that stirred when she thought about that particular moment. Upon her return, Byleth had noticed how her students — though they were her equals now — had changed over the years. But Edelgard…it seemed as though she was finally able to reveal her true self and not the girl with a terrible secret she was forced to be. It had been a choice in the same way Byleth’s decision to turn on Rhea had been.

“I wonder if I’ll get to be myself one day.” Byleth said aloud, though she received no telepathic response. She did, however, get the overwhelming feeling that if she kept making decisions for herself, that she might one day know who she truly was.

[nalu4emily]

The Unexpected Reward - Chapter 9

Summary: Natsu and Lucy go on a job together, but what they bring home is something neither anticipated. Forced to make a life changing decision, they have to adapt quickly, but that's never easy, especially given the circumstances. As they work together on their toughest adventure yet, they find themselves drawn to one another, in ways they never realised. Nalu/cute/fluff/multi-chapter.

Lucy had been startled awake again that morning. Her heart was pounding and her breathing heavy from the same recurring nightmare she dreamt of every so often. A nightmare that had continued to disturb her sleep ever since they'd returned from their last mission, the fateful one where they'd been stalked by Haru's biological father. It always started with him looking for them in the forest. Sometimes her dreams replayed what actually happened, other times it was Haru he'd kidnapped instead of Amelia. Then there were the worst ones where he'd carried out his threats on the children and it made her sick to her stomach, jolting her awake covered in sweat. Each dream always ended the same, Natsu was no where to be seen and she was unable to stop the man from harming the children.

They'd returned from that job two months ago now, and every time Lucy thought back to it, she remembered every word that guy had said and the horrific things he'd planned to do. She'd been so thrown off by who it was, she'd let her guard down and her nightmares were a constant reminder of what could have happened if Natsu hadn't been there to protect her and the girl. What if he'd been a mage? What if it'd been Haru he'd kidnapped? It's those sorts of thoughts that made her question herself and tormented her conscience.

Natsu had become acutely aware of her waking during the night and in order to help her get over it, he'd taken it upon himself to find a solution. She needed something that would bring back her confidence in her abilities, not just as a mage but as a mother who could protect her child without the assistance of others. She needed something where she had to rely on herself to pull her through and what better than a solo mission, Natsu thought it was perfect. He'd had a hard time convincing her, but she'd finally accepted the job he'd picked out. Lucy was about to embark on her first solo job since who knows when and as nervous as she was, she couldn't wait to get back in action and hopefully prove to herself that she was still just as strong as she'd always been.

Natsu had accompanied Lucy to the station, and waited with her. "You doing alright, Luce?" Natsu asked, he knew she was super anxious about going alone, but he wanted her to know that he had every faith in her, he knew she was strong, she always had been, he just needed her to see that.

"Yeah, I just hope it all goes well." She said, a few sweat drops appearing on her brow. She was just glad the mission he'd picked (without her permission, she might add) looked pretty simple, it wouldn't take more than a day to complete, which meant she'd be home late that evening. "Are you going to be okay on your own with Haru?"

"Sure, I'll be fine. Haru and I are gonna have lots of fun! Aren't we, buddy?" He beamed, lifting the smiling baby up to his face. Little Haru spent most of his awake time smiling these days, he was such a happy little guy. At only three months old, he already had his own personality coming through. Natsu chuckled at his adorable expression, nuzzling his nose up against the baby's making him giggle uncontrollably. "Listen Lucy! He's laughing! See, I told you we were gonna have fun!" Natsu couldn't stop smiling, the infants giggle reverberated through the station and it was the cutest noise either mage had ever heard.

"Oh my goodness! That was the sweetest little laugh ever!" Lucy felt her chest warm as she stepped closer to join in on the fun, "Did Daddy make you laugh? He's silly isn't he?" She chuckled, as Natsu handed him to her so that she could have one last cuddle. "Mama's going to miss you so much today!"

"Think of it as a break, Luce. You're a great mom, but you need your space too and then you can tell us all about it when you get home." He grinned at her, trying to relieve her stress somewhat with the approaching train thundering into the station.

She gave Haru one last little kiss on his cheek, before giving him back to Natsu. As she was about to walk away, Natsu grabbed her wrist and drew her to him, placing his hand on the back of her head and tangling his fingers into her hair. "Remember why you're doing this, Luce. You've saved my ass more times than I can count, but you've just gotta believe in yourself again, like I believe in you." Her chest flood with warmth, eyes turning watery from his kind words.

Laying eyes on his beautiful partners face, he kissed her wantonly, heatedly, not caring who was around to see. He smirked against her, gazing at the cute blush that'd crept up onto her skin. Still in each others embrace, they pulled their heads away, lost in their own small bubble.

"Damn you and that mouth of yours! How am I supposed to get on the train looking like this?" She gave him a bashful smile, her eyes flickering between his hot mouth and fiery gaze.

He leaned closer, sporting a sly grin and tickling her ear whilst whispering into it, "Maybe I'll show you more of what my mouth can do later."

Lucy's ears were red and steaming, her entire face felt like it was on fire. How was she meant to concentrate on this job now, when all she was going to be plagued with was erotic images of his hot mouth all over her. He chuckled lowly, leaning back to get a good look at her flushed face. Feeling satisfied with her reaction he let go, wishing her luck as she boarded the carriage and they waved at each other through the window when the train pulled away. It was strange seeing Lucy go off on a mission without him, he'd always accompanied her before, but he knew she needed this, it was for her own good and so, with that in mind he looked down at the gurgling baby, and grinned.

"What do you think, little guy? Where d'you wanna go?" He waited for some sort of response. The baby held his head up from his father's shoulder and smiled once again, "To the guild? Good choice! Daddy was thinking that too! Happy should be there by now." Natsu grinned, turning to walk in the direction of the city.

He wandered slowly through the streets of Magnolia, talking softly to the little one as he showed him all the different market stalls, making sure Haru knew exactly where to get the best food in town. Although he never liked being apart from Lucy, Natsu did enjoy spending his time with just Haru. He loved to show him all the things he found cool and exciting, or spend hours playing with him whilst telling him stories of Igneel or his and the teams past adventures. It was their special bonding time, something Natsu hoped they would continue to do as Haru got older. It was these precious moments that the slayer would cherish for the rest of his life, one's he wished he could've had more of with Igneel, but that was the past and Haru was his future and what a bright one it was turning into.

After finally reaching the guild hall, Gajeel was quick to run over, "Salamander! Are we still on or what?" Referring to a bet they'd made the other day. Natsu had been bored, so challenged Gajeel to see who could use their roar attack for the longest, but before he could follow through with it, Haru had woken up from his nap. "Or do you surrender to the superior dragon?"

"Superior? Ha! Don't make me laugh, Metal head, I just got better things to do." Natsu scoffed, gesturing to the bundle he was carrying, whilst continuing to walk straight passed Gajeel without a second glance.

Gajeel's mouth dropped open, totally dumbstruck. Did the infamous salamander just turn down a bet? The iron dragon slayer was speechless, he couldn't believe his own ears and apparently neither could any other guild member that'd heard him.

"Are you sick, Natsu?" Lisanna asked, putting her hand against his forehead to check his temperature.

"No, of course not. I don't get sick!" He looked up at her hand until she removed it from his head. Checking his temperature wasn't going to work, it was always high. "I feel fine." He reassured her. He sat down at the bar and turned to the crowd gathering around him, staring sceptically at the bewildered looks they were giving him. "What did I do now?" He groaned, rolling his eyes.

"What don't you do, Pinky!" Gray muttered under his breath from across the bar, knowing Natsu would hear him. The fire breather turned swiftly to the smug looking demon slayer and scowled, about to give him a piece of his mind but instead was interrupted by a barrage of comments flying at him from all over the room.

"Uh-oh! He's pussy whipped!" Macao shouted from a nearby bench.

"You're damn right he's pussy whipped, what's she threatened you with? No sex? That'll do it!" Wakaba shouted straight after, then they both began to laugh when Natsu choked on and spat out the drink Mira had just given to him. Luckily his reflexes were quick enough to move Haru out of the way.

"He's on his best behaviour so Lucy gives him some once she gets back!" Cana drunkenly blurted, "Good boy Natsu, you'll be getting your dick wet tonight!"

"Making babies is MANLY!" Elfman cried.

"Who said anything about making babies you big dolt!" Evergreen scolded, smacking Elfman with her fan.

"You're trying for another baby? That's so cute! Haru needs a sibling." Levy said with a little sparkle in her eye.

What the hell were they all going on about? A question Natsu often asked himself with regards to his guild mates. He'd stopped trying to look at each person individually as they spoke and had started to drift off. Is this what Lucy had to put up with every time their relationship was brought up, because, man, did he feel sorry for her! The only thing he could do was wait patiently until they all shut up, because unlike Lucy, he was use to their antics.

"You guys are like vultures…" Natsu sighed, not looking remotely amused whilst raising his eyebrow at them. Haru had started to get tired and began whimpering from all of the commotion. "See, now look what you've all done! Haru was the reason I turned the bet down, not because of whatever you old lechers were calling it." He accused, pointing his finger at a sniggering Wakaba and Macao, then turned back to the others. "And anyway, what's it to all of you what Lucy and I do?" He pulled Haru away from his chest and laid him down in his arms, making the little one comfortable and pulled out a bottle of milk from his backpack to warm up and feed him, watching as the baby's eyes instantly lit up.

"So… you are trying for another baby?" Mira sneaked in there, her eyes like stars at the possibility of that being true. "It's okay, you can tell me."

"Why would I tell you that?" Natsu looked up, confused as to why he'd tell her something that wasn't true, until he realised she'd misunderstood him. "That's not what I meant!"

"But you didn't deny it, so how're we to know?" Levy teased, elbowing Natsu in the arm.

"I think they are! You should hear the noises they make when they think they're alone together." Happy flew over, and started circling Natsu's head, giggling along with some of the girls.

"Happy! You'll upset Haru if you keep doing that!" He growled at the exceed, then turned back to the rest of them. "No, we're not trying for anything. Lucy and I haven't even… er-" He stopped mid sentence as he realised what he was about to say would doom him for all eternity, but by the looks on their faces, it was too late.

"How is that even possible? You've been together for months now, what are you both doing?!" Cana shrieked, making Haru burst in to tears from her racket. She was gobsmacked. How is it they'd been sharing the same bed and not touched each other?

"Oh no, it's okay buddy, don't cry. Cana's just got a big mouth that she can't keep shut." He frowned when Haru refused the rest of his milk, deciding that he wanted to be held against Natsu's chest and have a cuddle instead.

"Natsu, even I have to admit I'm surprised that neither of you have fornicated, I assumed most loving couples did that sort of thing, to, er, procreate or otherwise…" Erza had tried to keep her composure whilst saying that and even though she'd sounded the part, she'd failed miserably by turning the same colour as her hair.

"Forn-a-what now? I don't get what the big deal is here? It's not like I don't wanna, I'm just waiting for Lucy to want it too." He thought he was doing the right thing by waiting for Lucy, was that not what he was supposed to do then?

"Have you not thought that maybe Lucy's waiting for you too? If she's not done that sort of thing before, there's no way she's gonna initiate it with you. You gotta be the man and go for it." Gajeel grinned, making Levy blush.

"Go for it? But wouldn't that scare Lucy off?" He asked, if he knew Lucy would be ready for it then he would have done it ages ago, but he couldn't be sure without asking her directly and there was no way he was going to do that.

"Well you haven't scared her off yet and that's a feat all in itself!" Gray smirked again, man did he love to wind Natsu up.

"Hey droopy! What's that supposed to mean?!" Natsu snarled through gritted teeth.

"Gray, your clothes…" Cana huffed at the ice mage as he looked down at himself and freaked over losing his clothing, then turned back to Natsu, gaining his attention again. "Just go for it and see where it takes you. You never know, you might be pleasantly surprised…" She smirked, like she knew something he didn't.

Natsu had picked up on the subtle cue, and smirked to himself. So Lucy had spoken to them about it? Which was surprising but by the sounds of it, she wanted it just as much as he did. However, it's not like he could do much about it right now, she wasn't there, but she would be later and he couldn't stop his imagination from running wild. However, those lewd thoughts were unfortunately interrupted by the she demon and her sister.

"If you want, Natsu, Mira and I could take the little one tonight, so you and Lucy can spend some time together?" Lisanna offered, she'd been dying to get her hands on the baby and so had her sister. "I imagine being parents is hard work especially without a break every once in a while."

"But, I'm not sure if Lucy would-"

"Lucy would appreciate it as well I'm sure. You could do something romantic for her for when she gets home?" Mira said, smiling at the dragon slayer.

"You got to have time to yourselves every once in a while, Gajeel and I do. It doesn't make you a bad parent for wanting some space." Levy explained. It did sound quite tempting to take them up on the offer, spending a night with just Lucy sounded like heaven.

"Then you got no excuse not to bend her over." Cana laughed, watching as the dragon slayer's face started to redden a little.

"You've always gotta lower the tone!" Natsu said staring at her, before turning back to Lisanna, "Fine, but you forgot about Happy, it's his house too."

"I don't wanna get in the way of your gross kissing, you always sound like you're trying to eat each other. I'm going night fishing, Lily said he'd come with me!" Happy laughed to himself, earning a scowl from Natsu to shut him up, but it quickly turned into a chuckle, shaking his head, that cat would never change.

Natsu spent the afternoon at the bar stuffing himself silly and playing with Haru, when he was awake, and Happy, before it was time to hand the little guy over. He gave Haru a kiss on the cheek and smiled when the baby smiled back at him. He gave him to Mira, gauging his expression to make sure he was alright before he left. He noticed a slight hesitancy from the baby as he stared into the smiling face of the she-demon. But it wasn't long until Mira had managed to win him over allowing Natsu to relax a bit, making his leave he smiled to himself when he heard the baby giggle again at all the weird noises Mira was making.

Once out of the guild, Natsu halted and took a long, deep breath, he was kinda nervous and excited about the night he'd somewhat planned for Lucy. He hoped her job was a success because then she'd be in a good mood as well. He began to walk again, carrying himself all the way home.

Lucy's job had been a triumph, she was so thrilled to be back in action and she was doing it without the help of anyone else, just her and her spirits. The job itself had been relatively easy, it was to transport a load of ancient artefacts across from Hargeon to a small town on the west coast of Fiore, she was requested to keep them safe and stop anyone from trying to steal them. It had been exhausting using her magic for the entire journey but she had completed it, got paid and had just pulled in to Magnolia station.

She couldn't wait to get home to take a nice long shower and see Natsu. It had gotten quite late now and she imagined Haru would be asleep in bed, so she'd have to wait to see him. Lucy was curious to hear how Natsu's day had gone too and wondered briefly if he would make good on his words from earlier.

She felt herself flush at just the very thought of it, would he do it? They'd been together for a few months and they hadn't got passed overly passionate kissing and heated flirting. Lucy absolutely loved how he made her feel but she still wanted to go further, she wanted to experience what it was like to be truly intimate with someone and surely he did to, or was he really that clueless? In her desperation, she'd even gone to Cana for advice which hadn't really helped, she was much too vulgar to have a serious conversation with. It had left her at a dead end, she was too shy about that sort of thing to outright ask for it, but she wanted to do something, even if it wasn't all the way it could be at least some of it.

Lucy had finally reached her house, only to be startled when Natsu seemingly appeared from nowhere, he grinned, pleased to see her home at last. "Hey, Luce. I thought I could smell you." He said, watching her relax a little and smile back at him. "Are you just gonna stand there or do I have to come to you?"

She dropped her bags and ran up to him, jumping into his arms. They kissed fervently and it instantly made Lucy's skin heat up, she really didn't think she'd ever get use to kissing him like that. When they finally pulled away, grinning like idiots at each other, she remembered that she hadn't seen Haru or Happy and wondered where they were. But before she could ask, Natsu took her hand and guided her to the nearby hill top close to their house. Her breath caught in her throat when she laid eyes upon the dazzling sight before her.

Just like the view from their bedroom but even more spectacular, was Magnolia city, all lit up and mimicking the beautiful night sky above them, the stars were out in full force and she could see the constellations clearly. She looked at the ground and noticed a large blanket and a few cushions had been laid out, in just the right spot for stargazing, it was simple but effective and very much Natsu. She realised then that he must've planned this for them and that Haru was probably with one of their friends for the night.

"It's so beautiful! Did you plan this?" She asked, not being able to rip her gaze away from the stunning scenery.

"Sort of, I guess. You always say the stars are brighter from up here, so I figured you'd want to spend some time looking at them." He said, watching her reaction to it all. "Come and sit down, Luce, I made some dinner for you too if you're hungry?" Her face paled at the thought of Natsu wrecking their kitchen, she made a note to check it before they went to bed. "And before you bombard me with questions; no, I didn't mess up the kitchen and Haru is with Mira, he's fine." Natsu said, leading her down onto the blanket and bringing out a basket full of food. "Oh, and Happy's gone night fishing with Lily." He finished, feeling like a responsible adult.

"Well, look at you acting like a grown up and for the record I wasn't going to ask. I'd already guessed that Haru was with someone else, otherwise you wouldn't be so calm. However, I'm still dubious about the kitchen." She chuckled at his sheepish grin, whilst digging into the food to settle her rumbling stomach. "My job was a success by the way. You were right, I really did need that, it felt good to use my magic again. I had fun!"

"Good, did you get any one trying to steal the stuff?" He asked, he was genuinely interested in how her job went, wanting to hear how bad-ass she'd been. Which had always secretly been a huge turn on for him.

"Yeah, loads! I didn't realise the relics were that important. I sat on top of the train and used my Sagittarius star dress to shoot them all as they approached. It was like playing a game…" She continued to tell Natsu all about it, smiling and laughing at all the things that'd happened.

"...and just as we were pulling into the last station, some big burly guy came onto the train and knocked me out of the way. His size took me by surprise at first, but I quickly changed into my Taurus form and beat him. It was like letting all my anxiety out at once." She finished, grinning from ear to ear. "Apart from the train ride, you would have loved it. There must have been over a hundred of them trying to ambush me and I took down every single one of them."

She felt so refreshed telling Natsu about her achievements and he looked so pleased for her, soaking up every word she told him. He could see the little glint in her eyes had returned, the way she was talking about what she did had brought hope to him that her confidence had returned. He stared into her beautiful eyes as they held this new type of vigour, she looked ready to take on the world and just like always, he'd be right there beside her.

After what seemed like hours of talking about their days, they found themselves laying down on the blanket, huddled closely to one another, gazing up at the stars. Lucy felt like a weight had been lifted and now she had time to relax with her dorky partner, and just be themselves for a change. She couldn't remember a time where she felt more at peace then what she did in that moment, she could have stayed there like that, forever.

"Thank you for today, Natsu, it's really helped clear my head of everything that's been troubling me. I should've listened to you all along, I am strong enough, I know I am and just like always, you've been there to help me see it." She said, nuzzling her head further into the crook of his neck. His hand was splayed against her exposed stomach, stroking it lightly. "And laying here like this with you is just the perfect way to end the day."

"Anything to keep you smiling, Luce!" He murmured against her hair. "I'm just glad it all worked out! I told you I believed in you."

"You did and I'm so grateful for it." She beamed, she was so content in that moment. It got her thinking of how precious times like these were, where they could be just Natsu and Lucy, the two best friend turned lovers. "I could stay like this with you forever, but I guess now we have Haru, we'll miss out on times like this. It's a shame we didn't do more of this before becoming parents." It wasn't that they didn't spend time together, they did plenty of that, but it was always as friends not as anything more.

"We won't miss out, Luce. We'll find time to be just us, I promise. Haru won't always be this small, then we'll have all the time in the world to be with each other. I said forever didn't I?" Natsu thought back to when he'd told her that, it'd been when he first came to terms with his feelings for her. It felt so long ago now and so much had changed since then, they'd achieved so much together. However, he understood how she felt, it was a shame they'd both been too dense to see what was in right front of them. But without Haru, they'd still be in denial and who knows how long it would've taken for them both to act.

"Yeah, you did say that." She smiled up at him and kissed his jaw.

Natsu brought her closer, brushing his fingers over her hip, grazing a sore spot and making Lucy hiss suddenly. She flinched at the painful vault that ran through her leg, making her sit up. Natsu bolted upright, concerned by her reaction, he wanted to check her over to make sure she was okay. After a quick scan of her body, he caught sight of a huge dark bruise that'd appeared on her right hip.

"Whoa, Lucy! That's one hell of a bruise!" Natsu was shocked by how big it was, it must have been fresh because that hadn't been there earlier. He brushed his fingers gently over it, earning a small whimper from her, as she tried to hide how painful it was. "Sorry, I didn't mean to hurt you." He grimaced as he looked up to her eyes and saw her bravely trying to hold back her tears from the pain it had caused.

"Don't worry, it doesn't hurt that much. I'll be okay." She said as she went to touch it herself, "Ouch! I take it back, that's so sore! It must have been from that huge guy I defeated earlier, he was pretty tough." She yelped, whipping her hand away from the darkened area.

"That bastard! At least you beat him, Luce!" He said smiling at her, trying to lighten the mood. "I'd apply heat to it if I knew it would help, but I don't think it will. You need ice on that."

"Hmm, looks like I'll have to go and find some ice then…" She said slyly. Putting her finger to her lip, she put on a cute thinking face. "Do you know of anyone in particular, that could be of assistance, Natsu?" She pretended innocence, struggling to hold her smile down when she saw Natsu's face turn into one of disgust.

"Don't even go there!" He raised his eyebrow at her, realising that she was trying to provoke him, but after all of her past failed attempts at doing just that she definitely wasn't going to succeed this time either.

"Go where? I only asked if you knew of anyone that could provide me with ice, or would you prefer to see me suffer?" She said, moving slowly closer to him, careful not to touch the bruise. She put on her best innocent smile as she looked deep into his eyes through her lashes.

"I think you know my answer already, Lucy. And as much as it would kill me to say it…" His eyes bore deep into hers, his hands clutched both sides of her head and gently stroked her skin. His face remained calm and serious as he spoke, "I'm sorry, Luce, but I'd have to let you suffer." He murmured, flicking his nose against hers, before moving back a bit.

She gasped, watching his lips split into a mischievous grin, "You're so mean! How could you? And here I was thinking you loved me." She joked. It's only when she noticed Natsu's eyes go wide that her own mirrored his, her hands shot up to her mouth when she realised what she'd said out loud. "N-No, wait, I-I, er, that's not, I d-didn't mean…" Feeling herself become quickly flustered, she started babbling, trying but failing to make up any excuse for what she'd blurted.

Natsu tilted his head at her and furrowed his brows whilst she rambled on, confused by what she was trying to tell him, "Didn't mean what, Luce?" He asked.

She stopped her erratic talking instantly, "What I said, did you not hear me?" Was he pretending that he hadn't heard her? Her heart sank a little, maybe he wasn't ready for that yet? She felt her mood dampen, who was she trying to kid? He really was clueless. She went to stand, her painful hip pushed to the back of her mind, no longer caring about the discomfort as she tried to adjust to being on her feet. "Never mind, Natsu."

Just as she was about to turn she felt a warm hand wrap around her wrist, stopping her from walking off, but she was no longer in the mood for his antics. "Wait, don't go! I heard what you said, Luce." He said, almost frantically. He stood and took a step closer, hand cupping her cheek, totally transfixed by the radiant glow of her glossy brown eyes, wavering back and forth between them. "And you're right… I do love you."

She gasped, not actually expecting him to say it. "You love me?" She blushed a little but not caring about her pink skin. He loved her? Natsu Dragneel loved her? Why was it so surprising? That was usually how relationships developed, yet she still couldn't believe what her ears were hearing.

"Now who isn't listening?" He grinned fondly, taking in her gorgeous stunned features, with his hand still on her cheek, rubbing softly at her delicate skin. "I wouldn't lie to you, weirdo. I said it because I meant it." He brought her head closer to his, their lips brushing together and curling up into a tender smile, "You mean everything to me, Lucy."

Lucy's mind had turned to mush, she felt her knees turn weak, like they were about to collapse. She clung to his jacket to steady herself and wrap her head around what he'd just told her. She didn't know what to do with herself, she was so filled with joy it was making it hard to think straight, but luckily Natsu was there to save the day. He pressed his mouth to hers, slowly bringing her down until she was laying against the blanket, never breaking contact. He caged her between the soft floor and his hot body, overwhelming her lips, it was a feeling like no other. She wanted to sate his hunger for her, to be completely and utterly consumed by him and have him gorge on every part of her body until there was nothing left except pure, sweet bliss.

Unable to control her inner desires any more, she snaked her hands up his body and ever so slowly unzipped his jacket until his front was completely exposed. The cool air against his burning hot skin seemed to shock him at first, stopping in his tracks when he felt her colder hands lay flat against his chest. Disconnecting from her mouth and gazing deep into her eyes, it seemed like he was looking for something, a sign maybe? Or a reason to her actions? Usually, she wouldn't have been so forward, but now that he'd confessed his love for her, she didn't want to back down, no matter how inexperienced and nervous she was, but he still didn't look too convinced.

"Is this really what you want, Lucy? There's no pressure to do anything if you don't wanna. We can just have a bit of fun?" He spoke tenderly to her, wanting to show his utmost sincerity, because this wasn't some one night fling. He wanted to make sure she was actually ready for it, and not just doing it because Cana or Mira had told her she should be, and definitely not because she thought that this was what he wanted. "We can just start slow, then see where it goes."

Lucy's chest flooded with nervous energy, he was so sweet sometimes, and she definitely wanted this, she'd wanted it for the longest time, but her nerves were starting to get the better of her. "Of course I want this! I love you, Natsu. I've loved you for so long and now I want to show you just how much." She rested her hands on his broad shoulders, her words made his stomach do back flips and then she smiled, the most beautiful shy smile appearing on her smooth features and it took his breath away."I've just never done this before and I'm kinda nervous is all."

"I know, Luce, neither have I, but we can learn together. You know I'd never do anything to hurt you, your trust means everything to me and I would never break that." He spoke lowly, almost like a whisper. She nodded back at him, smiling sweetly at his words.

He leaned back down to her mouth and kissed her softly and full of passion for the girl he adored so much. It wasn't long before the kiss became more needy but it still held the same amount of love in it, because that's what he intended to do, make love to her, whether that be tonight or any other night. Natsu loved Lucy with every fibre of his being and she deserved his very best efforts.

He made his way down to her neck, paying extra attention to all the areas he knew made her squirm. Her hands went straight into his hair, while his were laid next to her head. Travelling down to his shoulders, she hooked her fingers under his open jacket and pushed it off of him, hearing it crumple on the floor. Wanting to feel his hard muscles against her skin, Lucy reached down to her own top and slowly pulled it over her head, forcing Natsu to detach himself from her. He pulled back a bit to gaze over her slender form, and damn, was she stunning! She could make any man hers if she truly wanted, but she'd chosen him and for that, he would be forever grateful.

He looked down to Lucy's chest and noticed they were still encased in her bra, that was no good! He wanted to get a birds eye view and that stupid bit of material was stopping him. He smirked up at Lucy, as an idea popped into his head. He hooked his finger around the material and in a second her chest was on fire, burning the bra away, but not hurting Lucy, exposing her enormous chest to him and all she could do was shriek at the sudden warm sensation on her skin.

He seemed pleased with himself but she never got a chance to scold him before his mouth dived down to her nipple and latched on, flicking his tongue over it. Her mouth dropped open and inhaled sharply at the new sensation, her head flung back as she arched herself a little into the air, pushing more of herself into him. His free hand came up to play with the other one, making Lucy moan out loud. Natsu felt himself respond to the noise she'd made to the point where it was now very obvious in his pants. He was so turned on from watching her enjoy herself, it was a stunning sight to behold and he could only imagine what having sex with her would be like.

He released the nipple from his mouth but kept his hand firmly on the other one as he began to make his descent to her stomach. Her creamy skin was so sensitive, and so deliciously sweet, her scent was ever so strong right now and it was overwhelming his senses the closer he got to her legs. He finally reached the band of her skirt, looking up to Lucy to make sure they were both in sync.

"P-Please don't burn it…" She whimpered out quickly as he continued to play with her nipple.

He smirked at her, she could barely get the words out, and all he was doing was playing with her breast. He removed the skirt, the proper way, as swiftly as possible, leaving her thigh high socks on and taking off her boots to make her more comfortable. She was now laying before him in nothing but her skimpy (pointless, he thought) underwear and some thigh high socks and what a sight it was. His cock twitched again, he could feel the blood rushing from his head down to his groin as his arousal began to take over. He was glad for self control because, by god, was it difficult seeing her like that.

He was having a hard time controlling the heat radiating off of him, which she was glad for because the air had a bit of a chill to it. He was staring at her, like she was some delicate piece of jewellery that might break if touched in the wrong way, but she missed the contact and so proceeded to help him along. She reached down and slowly took off her underwear until only the socks remained on her body. She felt her face blush like crazy, but couldn't take her eyes off of his face. He looked mesmerised by her, he'd seen her naked a hundred times before and yet it all felt so new. He gave her a soft smile as he began kissing her again, making his way down from her hips, to her inner thigh, nipping at her sensitive skin. He edged closer and closer to the area her overpowering scent was strongest until he could go no further.

"P-Please, Natsu, touch me. I want you to touch me." Her voice soft and wavering as she looked down at him, her heart pounded uncontrollably when she saw how close he was to her.

"Touch you where, Lucy? Show me." He said, he wanted to get this right, but with having no previous experience a little guidance was needed until he got the hang of it.

Lucy felt herself flush even more as she opened her legs wide, giving him the full view of her nether region. She reached her hand down, using her fingers to separate her lips to reveal her swollen clit. Now this was an area he'd definitely not seen before, but still felt compelled to see what that would taste like and moved his face down to where she was showing him. He held her legs apart and encased her clit with his mouth and began to suck lightly, using his tongue to swirl over and around it, whilst keeping his gaze on Lucy's face. Her eyes instantly rolled to the back of her head and let out a long breathy moan. Her hands landed back in his hair, pulling and tugging as he continued his onslaught, his warm tongue felt like heaven.

"Yes, Natsu, right there, i-it feels so good…" She mewled, totally lost in the pleasure he was giving her.

He wanted to elicit more of those erotic sounds from her and make her tell him just how amazing she felt, it was like music to his ears knowing that he was the one causing her to feel that way. Natsu grazed his fingers lightly over her entrance and watched her breathing become harsh and heavy, then ever so slowly pushed a single digit into her. He could feel her tense around him and she groaned at the new sensation. Once she seemed to relax, he added another finger, stretching her even more, but this time her expression turned strained.

"Does that still feel good, Luce?" He asked, he didn't want to hurt her, that wasn't the point of this.

"Mm-hmm… really good." She breathed, bucking her hips up a little, "Fuck me with your fingers, Natsu."

Smirking at her choice of words, she was quite the dirty talker, if she liked that then he'd have to up his game too. "As you wish." he murmured, going back down to suck on her clit, whilst moving his hand back and forth inside of her, making her groan loudly over and over again.

She could feel the tension building up within her and to add to her sweet torture, the more she moaned the faster he would go. The feeling of his fingers massaging the inside of her walls was enough to almost send her over the edge, and he could see she was close. Natsu was enjoying watching her teeter on the edge, he kissed and nipped his way up her body, fingers continuing to work their magic before he eventually found himself face to face with a very flushed and burning hot Lucy, and fuck, did she look absolutely breathtaking in this state.

She could feel her climax approaching and it was so intimate with their eyes locked on each other as he brought her closer and closer. He leaned down to her ear and sucked on her lobe, "That's it, Lucy, come on my hand, show me how good it feels." He growled against her, sending a shiver through her spine.

Hearing him speak like that made her snap. Tremors racked Lucy's body as her orgasm took hold, tensing around his fingers and crying out into the night. She felt her mind go blank, while her eyes rolled into the back of her head, it was like nothing she'd ever felt. He halted his movements, allowing her to ride it out with his fingers still firmly inside her. He gawked at her writhing body beneath him, totally captivated by how incredible she was. When she finally came down from her high, Natsu was staring down at her with the biggest smirk on his face, obviously pleased with himself that he'd managed to make her climax.

"That was so hot!" He growled against her mouth, claiming her lips briefly and removing his fingers from her. "We should take this indoors." He grinned playfully, carefully lifting her from the ground. Natsu chucked her over his shoulder, ignoring her protests to put her down and took her inside. Now the fun could really begin!

Hi! Sorry this took a bit longer to come out, I must have rewritten it about 6 times in the end, but it's here now, thank god! :D And don't worry, I haven't cheated you out of smut, this chapter was long enough without adding any more to it, so you will be getting the full, unadulterated smuttiness you've probably been waiting for, or not if you don't like that sort of thing. I hope you enjoyed and thank you for reading! :)

[inkdheart17]

One thing I hate most is being judged, accused, and/or scolded without being confronted. I know the things I've done weren't always great, but i also know that I've never done anything so bad I would later regret it.

Yet, it seems that more and more people seem to think that my silence means I'm guilty. It definitely doesn't. If I decide not to speak of an event, then it's probably because I was the victim, and I'm still hurting.

The most recent big event that's causing a lot of issues for me is a falling out with a person I used to think of as a best friend. I had trusted this person with... Well, everything. I always went out of my way to help them feel comfortable about who they were and tried my best to boost their confidence. I felt that it was necessary, as a friend. I thought all friends did that to each other. Little did I know that very few did that to me.

I didn't need it as much, thankfully. I have my sister, who's my own personal hype man. My mom also supports me. We may be closer than most families i know, but my mom and I aren't close enough for me to come out to her. About anything, actually. Still, i trust her with most things. So, I never needed my friends to truly be there for me. Except once.

I had just broken up with my first and to this day only boyfriend. I had been extremely cautious on who I accepted to date because I was acutely aware of how toxic people could be. My own father and his family being a prime example of that. I had already given up on trying to date someone when I noticed my feelings for my ex. We went out and after the honeymoon phase, I began to notice how similar he was to my father. I became anxious. I tried to reach out and instead was cut off.

Many of the people around me don't know the details. Not sure if I want to share them anymore either. But I'm writing this to vent and hopefully help someone else that went through a similar experience.

You see, the break up didn't hurt so much because he left. It hurt because I lost so much because of him. I lost his family. Whom I had gotten very close with as he refused to ever visit my family. So, we only ever went to his place. I lost my friends, because some of them refused to interact with me after he left. And I lost my peace. My anxiety was once again in control and I was fighting hard to keep everything together once again.

This was the one time I begged for support from those around me, and I quickly found out who to cut off from my life.

At the time, I had moved in with friend A and coworker B, who was dating another guys friend of mine at the time, C. They all faked being supportive at first. Telling me I should just ignore my ex and forget everything. He was never worth my time. Things like that. I had actually called C the night my ex broke up with me. I thought of C as my brother and all I wanted was for my bro to come over and comfort me. He didn't. He had things to do early the next morning and was in bed with B. So, neither of them were going to be there for me. It was only A who kinda distracted me with a drive, but she was so quick to add venom into me. Almost as if she wanted me to hate my ex. Which I did for a while. But it wasn't until I spoke with my still best friend, J, that I found the support I needed.

While all this was happening, i was struggling to finish my final semester before graduated with two bachelor's degrees. You can imagine the kind of stress I was going through as I was also fighting with the University to keep my scholarships for one last semester so that I could graduate. The funny part is that J knew exactly how I behaved. He knew the difference between the times I kept our talks short because I was busy, and when I kept our talks short because I was in distress. He asked me to hang out with him for a day. A day he could've easily filled up with catching up on school work, or being with family, or even spending time with his girlfriend. I still feel very touched remembering how he decided to try and help me instead. All because I didn't react like usual.

He didn't push me to say anything, but my ex came up in conversation and I had to tell J that we weren't dating anymore. That then spiraled into how pressured I felt with school and how unsupportive my roommates and C were being. I told him how A would react aggressively when were alone. Straight up calling me a bitch for ignoring her when I had homework to finish, but would then cry and say I was the abuser as I had blocked her on everything whenever B and C were around.

I told him how I had turned to B in hopes of getting advice, as she shared a room with A and would probably know what was going on with A. Instead, B had told A about all the negative things I said in a fit of rage and never once mentioned how I did want to fix our relation, but A had really destroyed my trust in her and had (has) yet to apologize. I told him how my ex would ignore me on dates and would only pay attention when we were physical with each other. Which made me want more physical interactions despite my general apprehension due to past trauma. And how my ex unceremoniously texted me that he was done because I got mad he wouldn't pause his game for like 5 minutes just to hear me out during an anxiety attack.

J calmly took all this in and advised that I move out. Not back in with my parents, but that it may be inevitable for me at the time. Then he warned me not to bottle up my hatred for my ex cause it would make me hate men in general. And I tried not to, but that hatred started with my dad. So, when C blocked me out of the blue, with no confrontation what so ever, I lost all the trust I had left. I mean, if the guy I thought of as a brother would rather listen to two women who know nothing about me just cause he's dating one of them, then how low were my standards? Why was it so easy for me to get betrayed? It happened with A, it happened with B, it happened with C.... And now he's happening with another friend, D. Who has yet to respond to any of the text messages I've sent her and has now started to hang out with A.

I once again turned to J. Asking if it was normal to feel hurt when a friend was still friends with someone who hurt you. J agreed it was painful but that ultimately I had to remember that they were their own person and that they were going to make their own decisions on what relationships to keep.

I felt discouraged but knew he was right.

As I type this up, I've had to pause a few times to wipe away tears. I think they sting when you feel a bit if anger when crying. Not sure.

Anyways, all this is to say that you'll never be free of selfish assholes. You'll live with them, you'll work with them, you'll move in with them, you'll befriend them, and nothing I say will help prepare you for the pain you'll feel when they reveal their true colors and destroy some part of you. Still, you should never change because of them.

I've given up on dating and friends because of these new experiences topping old traumas. I've been groomed, molested, raped probably, psychologically and emotionally manipulated and abused, all before entering seventh grade. I can't remember my childhood thanks to dissociative amnesia. So, instinctively, I no longer trust humans. It's a lovely existence and despite having won this battle before, I'm looking at suicide once again and am having to remind myself that I've already been through hardships. That all will be fine again. It's just a matter of time now.

But, fighting suicide is almost impossible without help. Without support. So, if you find yourself stuck with toxic people, with selfish assholes, with treacherous friends, cut them out.

We don't need them. They're a cancer that feeds off your good intentions and then blame you when they've dried your soul. It'll hurt a lot at first, but eventually, all will feel better. You'll find peace again. Maybe you'll connect with an old friend who'll always be there for you, like I did with J. Perhaps your siblings will be your own hype man like mine is. Maybe your relationship with your parents will get better like mine is with my mom. You'll finally start feeling better about yourself and try things that cancer wanted to steal from you. I've just gotten through a job interview and hopefully I'll be working at the office I've been trying hard to get into some time next week. Perhaps you'll also take the next step in your career?

So, to by fellow disappointed-in-humanity victims, sometimes it takes swimming in shit before being able to relax in a healthy mind. Take off those rose tinted glasses. Harden your heart and cut out people you know are hurting you. Don't listen to them, and if they take others with them, know that they also aren't worth your effort.

I would much rather be alone than be with a friend who believes I abused another person without ever talking to be about it. That's a person who'd rather believe your abuser than try and figure out why you would ever dare hurt someone. You don't need them.

I probably should like a bitch. Trust me, I get it. I often feel like I'm too harsh and that I should just unblock people to settle things down again. But you know what? I was very complacent and unmotivated when I had the people I blocked on my life. And now that I cut them out? I'm taking my first steps to establishing a career here in my town. Which is arguably a very hard town to settle in as a non-retiree.

Free yourself. Cut them off before they bleed you out

[sapphires-and-gold-fics]

Sense & Sensibility Braime AU Update!

Forget Me, Not

Chapter 17

Colonel Casterly came in while Brienne and Ser Brynden were finishing tea, and by his manner of looking round the room, Brienne immediately fancied that he neither expected, nor wished to see Sansa there, and in short, that he was already aware of what occasioned her absence. Ser Brynden was not struck by the same thought. He greeted Tyrion warmly enough, and then made up some errand to take him from the room, leaving Brienne and Tyrion with the housemaid clearing the service, but not before pausing before Brienne to say  “The Colonel looks grave as ever, Miss Stark. Do tell him the news. I leave it to your sense.”

Tyrion watched his host go, and then looked frankly at Brienne, almost causing her to laugh aloud at the Blackfish’s conspicuousness. He drew a chair close to her place on the sofa and, with a look that perfectly assured her of his good information, inquired, “Is there is more truth in what I’ve heard than I initially believed, Miss Stark?”

Brienne raised her eyebrows and then drew them together, concerned that Sansa’s name might be in the mouths of strangers. “Do you mean Mr. Snow’s marriage with Miss Poole?” Her friend nodded. “Yes, we know it too. Where did you hear it?”

“In a shop where I had business. Two ladies were waiting for their carriage by the door, and one of them was giving the other an account of the intended match, in a voice so little attempting concealment, that it was impossible not to hear all. The name of Snow might have been nothing, but the repeated assertion of Mr. Ramsay before it was undeniable. And one thing also served to identify the man still more - as soon as the ceremony was over, they were to remove to Harren Hall, the estate he acquired in the Vale. It would be impossible to describe what I felt and thought on hearing this news.” He considered her expression seriously. “Miss Stark, your sister - how did she receive it?”

Brienne sighed in semi-relief. “Till yesterday I did not think that she doubted his regard, but I have learned that she did question his past, and only hoped that she might --” She paused, careful not to tread on Tyrion’s feelings, “I think she thought to save him from himself somehow. But that does not matter now. She appears to have a hardness of heart where he is concerned now, but I know my sister. She thinks herself central in a fairy-tale at times. If she could acquit him of his deceit and ride on to his castle with him, she would. Thankfully, no evidence has been presented in his favor. I wish I could be more certain of the depths of his dishonesty, that I might help encourage her dismissal of him, but I am afraid we do not know much more of him than our short acquaintance permitted.”

Tyrion made no answer, only nodding to himself and looking toward the hearth which seemed to grow brighter as the sun faded from the windows. And throughout supper, Brienne imagined him more serious and thoughtful than usual.

From a night of more sleep than she or her sister had expected, Sansa awoke the next morning to the same consciousness of misery in which she had closed her eyes for here, still, was the unfamiliar bed, there the unfamiliar curtains, and beyond the door the omnipresence of Ser Brynden’s aggravating good cheer. She missed her mother, even her younger sister. She missed being anywhere but this cramped city with its too-close neighbors. She had the good grace to appear at breakfast, but she did not remain below stairs for long after.

With a letter in his outstretched hand, and countenance gaily smiling from the persuasion of bringing comfort, Ser Brynden addressed the girls from the door to their room. “Now, my dear Miss Sansa, I bring you something that I am sure will do you good.”

In one moment Sansa’s imagination placed before her a letter from Ramsay, full of tenderness and contrition, and without real thought, she was on her feet ready to snatch the letter away and, despite what Brienne might imagine her feelings to be, drop it into the fire, so far gone was her affection for him. But the work of one moment was destroyed by the next. The handwriting of her mother, never till then her heart’s desire, was before her, and the acuteness of the desperation which followed such virulent rage, she felt as if, till that instant, she had never suffered. All her impatience to be at home again now returned, though if she were honest with herself it was not to Riverrun she wished to go - not to that place that held the memory of the abbreviated life of her foolish romance, but to Winterfell where she had last been happy and surrounded by those she loved, without the cloud of artifice in his shape. Her mother was dearer to her than ever, dearer though the very impetus of her writing had been Brienne’s application to entreat from Sansa greater openness towards them both, this with such tenderness and conviction that Sansa wept with agony, wildly urgent to be gone.

Brienne, unable to determine if Sansa would be better off in King’s Landing or at Riverrun, or some other place where Catelyn might meet them, obtained her sister’s consent that they wait until her mother’s opinion on the matter to be known.

Ser Brynden left them earlier than usual, and Sansa, who had joined Brienne downstairs following her cousin’s departure remained fixed at the table where Brienne wrote to Catelyn, watching the advancement of her pen, grieving for the effect such a letter would have on her mother, allowing even for a small inward smile for Arya who, upon hearing the news, would very likely imagine Ramsay into irons and off the plank.

In this manner, they continued for about a quarter of an hour when they were startled by a rap at the door. Sansa went to the window and confirmed it with some resign to be Colonel Casterly, back as if he’d never left. “We are never safe from him,” she declared.“A man who has nothing to do with his own time has no conscience in his intrusion on that of others.” With this, she quit the room at least a little more in spirits than she had entered it. Brienne was thankful for Sansa’s improved mood but, when she saw Tyrion’s anxious and melancholy look, she could not forgive her sister for esteeming him so lightly.

“I met Ser Brynden in the street,” said he after the first salutation, “and he suggested I come hither without him.” He gestured at her materials, “I hope I do not interrupt you.”

She folded her finished letter. “Not at all. I only need to see this into the footman’s hands, and I will be at my leisure.” She stood and rang for a servant, and after a moment was able to give Tyrion her full attention.

He sighed. “I would not intrude, I assure you, nothing but an earnest desire to be useful… I think I am justified - Brienne, I would like to… no, I must relay--”

Brienne startled. Friends they had been, but never before could she recall his using her given name, even privately. She recognized the seriousness of his countenance and tone, and at once understood that this must be a continuation of last evening’s distress.

He saw her alarm. “Miss Stark, forgive me.”

She stood and crossed to the sofa where he sat, placing herself beside him, “No! That is, there is nothing to forgive. I think I understand,” she said, “you have something to tell me of Mr. Snow, I think. Something that will open his character further, something from which we may only gain from hearing, please--” she was excited now, “please, Tyrion.”

He nodded, sighing, “You will find me an awkward narrator, Miss Stark; I hardly know where to begin.” He stopped a moment for recollection and then, with another sigh, went on, “No doubt... that is, I understand that you know something of my relationship with my father.”

She hesitated, thinking, “Ser Brynden did, I think, mention some difficulty in your family, yes.”

Tyrion looked a little surprised but continued. “There was a lady I once knew. She was a cousin, an orphan from her infancy, and my father's ward. We were of an age and were raised together in almost every way. I cannot remember the time when I did not love Tysha. We were both nine years old when my dear mother passed bringing my siblings into the world. And though I loved them, I was acutely aware that my love for her was different. And her’s for me was, I believe, as fervent as the attachment of your sister to Mr. Snow has been, and it was, though from a different cause, no less unfortunate.”

Tyrion rubbed his eyes distractedly.

“At seventeen she was lost to me forever. She was married - married against her inclination - to my father.”

Brienne must have made a sound of alarm for Tyrion looked up at her, his weary eyes worried, and clasped her hand, but whether that was to support her or lean on her for strength was unclear. “We were going to run away together. But my sister, her mind poisoned by my father from an early age, revealed our plans to him. He has blamed me all my life for weakening my mother, and when she died he hated me even more. He had no regard for Tysha but in doing this, he exacted his revenge on me. Her fortune was large and despite what people may think, despite current appearances, our family’s property was much encumbered at the time. His pleasures were not what they ought to have been."

Brienne cringed. She had heard of such arrangements. Silently she thanked the gods that her family had no fortune to part with, nothing to motivate undeserving men to commit her sisters to a life of despair.

"I hoped - foolishly - that her regard for me might support her under any difficulty, but the consequence of my father on a mind so young and so inexperienced as hers was but too natural. She resigned herself to her misery, as did I. To my eternal shame, I quit the country, removing from them in the interest of everyone's happiness, but perhaps especially, selfishly, my own. The shock of her marriage, though, was nothing to what I felt when I heard two years after that my father had quietly had said marriage annulled. I might not have heard it but my dear brother, who was but eleven at the time, defied our father’s wishes and wrote to me.” Tyrion paused and smiled softly at Brienne, lowering her hands, earnestly, “He has always been the most thoughtful--”

He rose hastily and began pacing the room. Brienne, affected by his story, could not speak. Eventually, he returned to his seat, no less melancholy. “It was another three years after this unhappy period before I was discharged and returned to Westeros. My first care when I arrived was to seek for her, but she could not be found. Her legal allowance was not adequate to her fortune, nor sufficient for her comfortable maintenance, and my father, when I confronted him, suggested that her extravagance had caused her to outlive her means, but that was a despicable excuse for his actions in all but robbing her of her inheritance. Some six months later, I found her.”

His voice broke, and now Brienne reached out to comfort him.

“She was, to all appearance, in the last stages of shaking sickness. Life could do nothing for her, beyond giving time for better preparation for her death. To whatever credit I am allowed, that was given. I saw her placed in comfortable lodgings, with the best maesters, and the best dreamwine. I visited with her every day during the rest of her short life. How could I do anything else?”

Brienne could see the tears forming in his eyes, and spoke her feelings in an exclamation of tender concern at the fate of his unfortunate friend.

“Your sister, I hope, cannot be offended,” said he, “by the resemblance I have all this time fancied between her and my poor cousin. But their fates, their fortunes cannot be the same…Yet to what does this all lead? I promise I would not distress you for nothing. This is a subject I have broached with few in the last fourteen years, I promise I shall try to be more concise.

Brienne assured him that she was not under undue distress and urged him to continue.

“Tysha left to my care her only child, a little girl, offspring of her first guilty connection, who was then about two years old. She had been very precious to her mother, and perhaps only that affection had protected the girl from the mother’s illness. I saw the girl into capable hands and eventually to school. I would have discharged this precious trust myself by watching over her and her education, but I had already parted ways with my father and had no home of my own as yet. I saw little Tysha whenever I could, and once I secured my own estate about five years ago, she visited me there often. I called her a distant relation, but I am well aware that I have generally been suspected of a much nearer connection with her - truly, Brienne, if you saw her I think you would know immediately that I am not so fortunate to be the true father of that beautiful girl. She has--”

He stopped as if catching himself in the midst of telling an unintended secret. Brienne looked away as if to not insist on whatever details he wished to conceal for now.

His expression turned sadder. “Three years ago I removed her from school and placed her with a very respectable woman who had charge of a handful of other similarly-aged girls. She had just had her sixteenth nameday when she suddenly disappeared. She had, with my permission, gone to Maidenpool with one of her friends who was attending her father there for his health and - I knew him to be a good sort of man but I did not realize that he had been generally confined to the house. I gave his daughter more credit than she deserved. The girls were ranging all over the town, making friends with the stranger himself. I could learn nothing but that she was gone; all the rest, for seven long months, was left to conjecture.”

He chanced a glance at Brienne who was giving him every ounce of her attention. Catching his eye, she nearly lost all sense, “Good gods, Tyrion - do you mean…” Could Ramsay be even more despicable than Sansa had lead her to believe?

“The first news that reached me of her,” he continued, “came in a letter from herself, which was forwarded to me at Riverrun, arriving the morning of our picnic. Only Lord Edmure knew anything of the situation; I’m sure my sudden departure was strange to some and, I believe, gave offense to one. Little did Mr. Snow imagine, I suppose, when his looks censured me for incivility, that I was called away to the relief of one, whom he had made poor and miserable. He had left the girl whose youth and innocence he had seduced, in a situation of the utmost distress with no help, no friends, and ignorant of his address. He left her in Flea Bottom to whence he had absconded with her, and left her with nothing.”

“This is beyond everything,” replied Brienne in a fierce whisper.

“His character is now before you, Brienne. Only imagine how helpless I felt when I was assured that your sister would marry this animal. Now you may comprehend my behavior. To suffer you all to be so deceived... but what could I do?

Brienne’s thanks followed with grateful earnestness; attended too with the assurance of her expecting material advantage to Sansa, from the communication of what had passed. “At first she will suffer a little I think, to revisit her blindness where he is concerned, but I am sure she will soon become easier.”

“I need not say, perhaps, that none of this is public. You are now part of a very small circle of knowledge, but I hope that your family may trust my word in this and, should you have any doubt, you might of course apply to my brother, who will most assuredly support this information. He was my second at my only meeting with Mr. Snow since finding him out.”

Brienne startled at this and looked at him anxiously. “What, have you met him to…” Brienne could imagine just then holding the point of a sword against Ramsay’s neck herself.

“I could meet him no other way. She confessed the name of her lover quite reluctantly, but when he returned to town we met by appointment. We returned unwounded, and the meeting therefore never got abroad.”

“Would that I had been there with you,” quipped Brienne, “he might not have left the field.”

“I can only hope, Brienne, that you never have such cause.”

Brienne sighed. “Is she still in town?”

“No, as soon as she recovered from her lying in, I removed her and the child into the country. I had to be back in town on business right away, so I charged Jaime with overseeing things there until she was settled with the additional staff. I am determined that she and the babe will want for nothing.”

Brienne’s heart leapt into her throat and could not suppress itself, “Jaime?”

“My brother.” His eyes widened. “Gods, I was certain you knew!”

Her head swam as the pieces of his tale fell into place. Of course, Tyrion was the very brother Jaime had spoken of. And Robert’s wife - yes, the cruel sister who fell in line with her father’s wishes. Jaime had traveled east perhaps not just to see Mrs. Blackwood and his goddaughter, but to visit his brother, to aid him. And Jaime had been present - suffered another duel to--- All this time there had been something comforting and familiar about Tyrion, but… “But Casterly--” she blurted.

“--is an old family joke, just like me. I styled myself as such when I purchased my commission because I didn't want the shadow of my father's exploits over me. But I was born Tyrion Lannister. Lord Tywin Lannister is my father.”

[bytheangell]

Gallery of Broken Hearts - Part 2

(Read on AO3) (Read Part 1 on Tumblr or AO3)

Maryse arrives at the Institute in record time for someone with no access to portals or a speed rune to activate. She meets little resistance at the entrance - Isabelle intercepts her almost immediately, silencing the Shadowhunter at the door with a single look before ushering her inside. Maryse shrugs off her jacket as they walk now that she’s out of the brisk October air - she never realized how stifling the Institute could be until she was free of it. “Isabelle, what’s going on?” It will help to get some idea of what she’s walking into here. Alec has never been an overly emotional person and the boy she spoke to on the phone sounded so lost, so broken, that he hardly sounded like Alec at all. In fact she’s positive she hasn’t seen him cry since he was probably five or six years old…. Possibly longer. That’s her fault - her failing in not allowing him to feel safe in coming to her when he was hurting. She’s glad that doesn’t hold true now, though she wishes the situation never arose for her to realize it.

“Alec broke up with Magnus,” Isabelle says. “He… by the Angel, Mom, I told him not to. I didn’t think he was going to do it so quickly, I thought I had time to talk to Magnus, to talk Alec out of it…” Isabelle is keeping pace with her mother’s long, determined strides.

“But why? He asked for the ring, he was going to propose , I just don’t understand what happened to change things so drastically, so fast.”

“Let him tell you. It’ll be better coming from him, I think. Just… he’s not doing well. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him this upset. He’s trying to put on a brave face but he looks worse every time he disappears for a while then comes back out. I already tried the ‘you fucked up, now fix it’ approach but I think I only made things worse… so try to be supportive, alright?”

It’s an ominous warning, especially considering the frustration she felt after speaking with Magnus that morning. How can Isabelle expect her to be supportive of something that clearly hurts the both of them so much? If neither of them want this, then why is it even up for debate?

They reach his door and Maryse knocks. “Alec? Alec, it’s me.” She goes to turn the door handle and let herself in (he is expecting her, after all), but it doesn’t budge. He locked himself in. She waits for him to come and let her in instead.

“Come in.” He barely cracks the door open before moving away from it again, back into the room. “Close the door,” he adds, sounding wary.

She does as she’s told, immediately noting the curtains drawn closed and the dim lighting once the hallway light disappears behind her. Even so she can see he’s been crying - his eyes are red and swollen, the skin raw from wiping at it too frequently.

It breaks her heart, and she suddenly has no problem finding that sympathy Isabelle encouraged her to have, wrapping him in her arms and holding him tight against her; the moment she does he dissolves into sobs. This is the second time she’s been in this position today, and it hurts worse than the first even though this time she goes into the moment expecting it.

Not that a mother can ever be truly prepared to face the total heartbreak of one of her children, to see a level of pain in their eyes that she wouldn’t wish on her worst enemy.

Alec’s crying stops abruptly and he pulls away with a sniff. She watches his gaze grow confused, brow pinching together for a minute before frowning as his eyes fixate on the dark stains on her dress. She’s suddenly acutely aware of the lingering smell of Magnus’ cologne (or possibly shampoo?) on her from earlier.

“Mom… what were you doing when I called you?”

“I was in the shop,” she replies innocently enough, buying herself an extra moment or two to decide just how much of her morning she wants to share with him. How much would help and how much would hurt, at least until she has a better idea of what happened between him and Magnus the night before.

“He came back to talk to you?” Alec asks, confused, trying to piece together the scene in his head.

Maryse shakes her head and sighs. “He never left. I found him there when I went back to open.”

She waits, watching Alec’s face fall at whatever image of Magnus he pictured in his mind while knowing that whatever Alec’s imagining couldn’t possibly hold a candle to how fragile Magnus actually was, and still is.

“How is he?” Alec asks finally, voice quiet. “How is-- I know I’m supposed to make you feel better, but I’m going to to lie to you. He’s a mess. And so are you. So why don’t you tell me what happened?”

“It’s for the best, you have to believe me. He’ll be better soon. He’ll be fine.” Maryse wonders how many times he repeated those words to himself in the past 12 hours. How many more until he might start to believe them. “I made a deal… a deal with Asmodeus, to get Magnus’ magic back. His condition was that I leave his son, and that Magnus could never know about the deal.”

Maryse watches the way Alec’s expression shifts during the explanation. Some of the sadness fades and is replaced with resolve, with that fierce determination to set things right that she watched him don time and time again during trainings or missions… the face of a soldier hardened against the sting of loss.  

She sees her son sacrificing himself once again for the good of someone he cares about, someone he feels responsible for. She watched him do it once before, nearly marrying a woman he didn’t care about  - couldn’t care about - for the good of their family. And now, for the good of the man he wishes was his family, he’s calling off not just a marriage but an entire relationship with someone he loves.  

Maryse Lightwood is tired of watching her son suffer for the sake of others. She knows it’s in large part because she raised him to shoulder those burdens whenever possible for his siblings and fellow Shadowhunters. These were the beliefs she instilled in him before she realized how wrong they could be to blindly follow… before she saw her son suffer through them time and time again.

“Oh, Alec,” she sighs, reaching for his hands.

“He begged me to stay with him and I walked away.” That resolve breaks again, fresh tears springing to his eyes. “I almost couldn’t do it, but I had to. He needs his magic back...”

“He needs you, too. I know what you told me about the dinner, but… This isn’t what he would’ve wanted, not for either of you.” She gives his hands another squeeze, trying desperately to think of a solution. Some loophole, some middle ground, to fix this before the damage is irreparable. “Last night, while he was helping me at the shop, he told me he wasn’t drinking anymore. That he was trying to get better at adjusting, because he didn’t know what he’d do without you.”

Alec winces, visibly flinching at her words. She doesn’t want to hurt him, that’s far from her intent, but he needs to know. He has to understand exactly what he’s doing before she stands back and watches him see this through.

“When I lost your father, and my runes, I don’t know what I would’ve done without you and Isabelle and Jace-”  

“Stop, mom, please. That’s… that’s different. He’s immortal. At least, he will be again, soon enough. He’s been with thousands of people before me and he’ll be with thousands more after me. He’ll be fine.” She searches Alec’s face for any sign he buys into a single word he’s feeding to her, practiced excuses no doubt already given to his brother and sister before her.  

“Do you really believe that? He sacrificed his magic for you, Alec. Do you really believe he thinks so little of you as to just, what?, shrug and move on, with or without his magic?” She can’t believe that. And neither can Alec whether he admits it or not. “What if getting his magic back isn’t enough?”

Alec freezes at the question, eyes wide as if he truly hadn’t considered the possibility that this deal might not solve all of Magnus’ problems. And then, very slowly, his voice hoarse and barely above a whisper, he says, “...it has to be.”

A heavy silence falls between them. Maryse came over here for answers but now that she has them it only leaves her at more of a loss than she was before. There’s no quick fix for this, no advice that feels even remotely helpful.

“What do you need from me? What can I do?” She asks instead.

“Is M…” Alec starts, then stops abruptly before speaking again. “Is he still at the shop?” Her heart aches at the way he stops to avoid saying Magnus’ name.

At least knowing that Alec still loves Magnus makes it less likely she’ll be deemed a traitor for taking him in this morning. “No. I sent him back to my place to clean up and get some sleep.”

Alec swallows hard and nods. “Good. Can you just… keep an eye on him? Until his magic comes back, if you can? Or at least make sure he goes to Catarina’s, or… I just don’t want him to be alone.”

“Of course,” she agrees. She meant every word she said to Magnus the night before about caring about him, about considering him family. And this… this complicates things. But she isn’t about to abandon him, either. “You could come with-”

“No!” Alec practically yells the word. “I can’t. I could barely walk away from him once, I couldn’t… I’m not strong enough to do it again.”

Maryse wants to push him to reconsider but the time doesn’t feel right. “...If you’re certain.”

“I am. It has to be this way.” Alec confirms, blinking his vision clear again. “Give me a minute, I can grab his things for you.” He walks over to the wall and turns on the light, making quick work of gathering everything that Magnus brought with him from the Loft into a large duffle bag before handing it over to her.

“I don’t have to go back right away. I could stay here with you for a little while.” Maryse says, already knowing it’s pointless but offering anyway. She receives the exact response she expects from her son, as touching as it is heartbreaking.

“No. I’d feel better knowing someone’s with him. And I need to clean up and get back to work anyway. The last thing I need right now are rumors… the truth will be bad enough once it gets out.” She opens her mouth to argue that perhaps that isn’t such a good idea so soon, but bites down gently on her lip instead. At least if he’s busying himself with work for the day he won’t be sitting here alone, either. She can come back and they can figure out the rest later.

“Okay. Call me if you need anything. Anything , alright?” Maryse sets the bag down to give Alec another hug, with two extra squeezes before she lets him go again.

“Alright,” he promises, but when he takes a step back he looks like he wants to say something more. “I just-- thanks. For everything.” She nods, forcing a small smile onto her face she prays to the Angel looks more reassuring and hopeful than she feels, before leaving.

She has a lot to think about on the walk back to her apartment, not the least of which is what she’s going to say to Magnus. He’s going to want answers, explanations she can’t give him. And as much as she thinks Alec isn’t doing the right thing by keeping this from Magnus, by making this decision without his knowledge, it isn’t her place to tell him.

She just hopes she can remind herself of that often enough because the temptation is already there to go behind her son’s back and fix things with Magnus, magic be damned.

“Magnus, I’m back!” She calls into the apartment, but doesn’t quite yell, not wanting to wake him if he did manage to fall asleep since he got here. It’s quiet as she sets the bag down on the table and makes her way to the bedroom to check on him -- but he isn’t there. The sheets aren’t even undone from how she left them that morning.

“Magnus?” She calls louder this time, checking the bathroom next before the uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach gives way to a full spike of anxiety when he isn’t there, either. She passed by the living room earlier but glances through again just in case, this time noticing the pictures. Every picture she has with Alec in it is turned down. One is broken on the floor. The only room left is the kitchen---

The sight of the empty bottle of wine left out on the counter fills her with dread. There’s a note left under it: ‘ Sorry.’ and then underneath that, in the smaller script of an after-thought, ‘ I won’t be a burden on the Lightwood family any longer. Thank you for your hospitality.’

Oh, Magnus.

She never should’ve left him alone. She doesn’t want to worry Alec, not when he can’t go after Magnus himself… maybe this is for the best. Magnus leaving them behind, trying to move on, it’s what Alec wants for him if he sees this through. But that doesn’t mean she has to like it, or accept it.

She pulls up his number on her phone and is surprised when he answers. “Magnus?” “Please don’t call me again, Maryse. I know you mean well, but this is difficult enough as it is.” His words are slurred, and she hears the noise of cars around him.

“You promised me you’d be here when I got back. Where are you?” She says quickly, before he can hang up.

“I’m just going to see an old friend. He should be here any minute, and then everything will be better again.” There’s a strange calmness to his words that makes her uneasy instead of reassured.

“What does that mean-”

“Ah, there he is. Goodbye, Maryse. Take care.” Magnus ends the call and this time doesn’t answer when she tries to call him back.

Everything will be better again .

She can’t imagine how, but she hopes for his sake that he’s right.  

[adriata-archive]

Breakaway (ACOTAR College AU)

Special thank you to @helloetherealsunshine​, @swishandflickwit​, and @acourtoftruelove​ for encouraging me and screaming along with me while I got this fic off the ground.

Also available on AO3

Chapter One 

Feyre loved flying.

Not in planes - never in planes. The idea of being trapped in an airplane for hours at a time, completely at the mercy of the pilot, terrified her. Putting her life in the hands of people she didn’t know, people she didn’t trust, wasn’t in her nature.

But stunting with her team? That was a whole different story.

Feyre loved the rush of adrenaline, seeing the faces of everyone in the crowd and feeling the steady support of her teammates around her, the rush of wind during the dismount before she was being set back down on the ground. She had known after her first ever basket toss that cheerleading was the sport for her, and she thanked her lucky stars every day that Velaris University had thought she was good enough to offer her a full ride if she cheered for them. She was doing what she loved and getting an education for free because of it, and if that wasn’t enough, she was able to go to practice every day with her best friend so that they could cheer for her boyfriend together.

She was a lucky girl, and she tried to remind herself of that fact as she half-heartedly listened to her roommate explain that she was moving out of their dorm.

“Sorry, I know it sucks to get a new roommate towards the end of the quarter, but ever since my parents got divorced my mom needs help wrangling all of my younger siblings under control,” Clare said, her voice apologetic as she tossed clothes into a suitcase. They hadn’t been the best of friends, Feyre and Clare, but they had gotten along well, and they had a system that worked - not everyone could say the same of their roommates.

Feyre had been lucky with Clare, and that alone made her sad to see her go.

“I get it,” Feyre said, and she did, she really did. “Family comes first, always.”

“Maybe you won’t even get a new roommate,” Clare said hopefully. “You could end up having the dorm all to yourself.”

Feyre smiled. “Fingers crossed.”

-/-

“Did I tell you that Clare’s moving out?” Feyre asked, motioning for an increase in pressure until her forehead was pressed flat against her legs.

“Tam might have mentioned it,” Lucien said, removing his hands from Feyre’s back and sitting on the gym floor in front of her. “He told me you sounded stressed out about someone new moving in.”

Feyre raised her eyebrows and suppressed the urge to roll her eyes. “Usually I think it’s cute when he worries about me, but that’s a bit of a stretch. I think he’s more concerned than I am at this point. If I get a nice roommate, cool, but if I don’t, it’s not like I spend much time in my dorm anyway. I spend most of my free time at your apartment.”

“You know how he is,” Lucien said, shrugging. “Besides, he has the big game in two weeks to worry about.”

“They’ll win.” There was a confidence in Feyre’s voice that she almost didn’t recognize when she talked about Tamlin and the rest of the football team; as one of the few sophomores on the cheer team, she often felt that she had to earn her place, and knew that she worked harder than half of her teammates to stay in shape and be what everyone expected a VU cheerleader to be.

It was exhausting, but it was worth it. Being able to go to school and cheer on her boyfriend made it worth it.

“He told me to ask if you’re coming over once Captain Bitch ends practice.”

“I believe that’s Junior Captain Bitch, actually,” Feyre corrected, not even bothering to mask the disdain she felt for Ianthe. If ever there was someone who should not have been allowed to be in a position of authority, it was Ianthe.

Personal biases aside, Feyre hated Ianthe purely because the latter insisted on sleeping her way through the males on the team. Feyre really could have cared less, if it had all been completely consensual. If asked, she had no doubt that all of the men Ianthe had slept with would say that they were willing participants, but she had a reliable source that had told her otherwise.

Feyre was all too aware of the dangers of antagonizing one of the junior captains of the team, but when she caught Ianthe attempting to send a seductive smile Lucien’s way, she openly glared. She might not have been able to spare any of Ianthe’s other victims, but she could protect her friend.

“Ignore her,” Lucien said, the words coming out rough instead of reassuring, as Feyre knew he’d intended. “She’s not worth our time.”

“How’d she even get to be junior captain, anyway?” Feyre asked. “She’s probably the worst flyer we have and her dancing is awful.”

Lucien grinned. “You mean you don’t think that watching her writhe around the gym floor is a fantastic way to spend your time?”

Feyre laughed and punched him in the shoulder. “Shut up.” She could feel Ianthe’s eyes burning a hole into the back of her head, but she wasn’t going to allow the other woman to dictate how she interacted with her friend. Ianthe could pout all she wanted; nobody else decided what Feyre could and could not do.

Lucien’s eyes, which had been laughing back at Feyre, suddenly focused on the entrance to the gym. “Tam’s here.”

“Tamlin’s here? Why?” Feyre couldn’t help her brows from furrowing as she looked over her shoulder to see her boyfriend casually leaning against the doorway. “I told him I’d call after practice, and he asked you to check if I was coming over.”

“Practice is running a little later than usual,” Lucien offered, waving a lazy hand in Tamlin’s direction.

“I guess,” Feyre said dubiously, following Lucien’s example and waving at her boyfriend before going back to stretching. “He’s going to be bored, though, if we don’t get out of here soon.”

“Maybe if she notices we have an audience, Her Ladyship will relieve us from our duties.”

Feyre snorted and leaned forward, her voice dropping into conspiratorial whisper. “If you ask me, it’s high time for an impeachment.”

“Whatever you say, poly sci major,” Lucien said, smirking as he avoided Feyre’s half-hearted swing at him.

Neither of them noticed the way Tamlin’s carefully neutral expression slipped into a frown as Ianthe told them they’d be running through partner stunts, or the way he stiffened as Lucien placed his hands on Feyre’s waist.

-/-

“Hey, babe,” Feyre said cheerfully. Tamlin slung an arm around her shoulders and pulled her close, despite the fact that she was covered in sweat and had never been a fan of public displays of affection. It made her acutely uncomfortable, but Tamlin was almost her polar opposite in that regard, so she compromised when she could.

“Yeah, hey, babe,” Lucien repeated with the same level of enthusiasm, snickering when both Feyre and Tamlin shot him withering glares. He dismissed Feyre’s without a second thought, but something in Tamlin’s eyes prompted him to stall so that he was walking on his roommate’s other side rather than next to Feyre.

Feyre had to try hard to pretend not to notice.

“How was practice?” Tamlin asked, pointedly not looking in Lucien’s direction.

“As good as practice led by a would-be dictator can be,” Feyre quipped.

“Ianthe’s not that bad,” Tamlin protested, opening the passenger side door of his car for Feyre. “If you guys hung out with her outside of practice you’d know that.”

Feyre arched an eyebrow. “You have to say that. You’re in the same major. Solidarity and all that. And haven’t you known her since high school?”

“Middle school, actually,” Tamlin said stiffly. The apartment he shared with Lucien was only a few blocks from the university gym, but their practice had gotten out later than usual, and he didn’t want Feyre to be walking around in the dark, even if he and Lucien were with her. “She’s one of my oldest friends. You could at least try to like her.”

“I could,” Feyre agreed. “But I probably won’t. You have the whole childhood nostalgia thing working for you when you talk to her - we don’t.”

Tamlin sighed, his hands tightening around the steering wheel as he pulled into a parking space. “Can you try? For me?”

Feyre frowned, but she didn’t say anything about the way her boyfriend shifted into park with more force than was necessary. “Okay. I’ll try.”

“Thank you,” Tamlin said, his smile little more than a thin line as he motioned for Feyre to stay seated while he got out of the car and walked around to open her door for her. She was more than capable of opening her own damn door, but the protest died on her lips when she saw how tense her boyfriend was.

She didn’t say anything when Tamlin interlaced their fingers and squeezed, even when it started to hurt.

-/-

“Clueless,” Feyre said, shifting from her spot on the couch to rest her head on Tamlin’s shoulder.

“We watched Clueless last week,” Tamlin reminded her, idly running his fingers through her hair. “Maybe we could move out of the nineties tonight?”

“Fine,” Feyre said, grinning up at him. “How about Dirty Dancing?”

Tamlin chuckled and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “You hate Dirty Dancing. You think it’s cheesy.”

“Yes, but it’s one of your favorite movies, so we should at least consider having to endure Patrick Swayze teaching someone named Baby how to dance.”

Lucien groaned from his spot on the floor, sprawled out in front of the TV as he sorted through their DVD collection. Feyre had tried (and failed) to convince one of them to get a Netflix account since she’d first started hanging out at their apartment, but both Tamlin and Lucien were surprisingly old school, and she’d had to learn to make her peace with it.

“Will you two just pick a movie already?”

Tamlin laughed again, his arm loose around Feyre’s shoulders as she tucked herself further into him. She liked him like this; relaxed and easy-going, free to be affectionate in the comfort of his own living room. He’d been tense lately, the pressure from the football team growing to be a little too much this far into the season, and she wasn’t sure what she could do to help him carry what seemed like the weight of the world.

“Let’s watch Clueless,” Tamlin said, his smile soft as Feyre clapped her hands.

“Excellent choice.”

-/-

It was late when Feyre got back to her dorm, but she figured that since Clare had moved out and her new roommate wouldn’t be moving in for a couple of days, no one could complain. Tamlin drove her back and insisted on walking her to her door, lingering a little longer than was necessary. She was fairly certain that he was waiting for her to invite him inside, but she had class the next day, and so did he - a fact which she firmly reminded him of before kissing him goodnight and sending him on his way.

Something eased in her chest as Feyre watched Tamlin disappear around the corner of her hall, something that she didn’t care to dwell on.

She let herself into her room, leaning against the door after it shut behind her, and contemplated whether it was worth taking a shower this late. When she opened her eyes, though, she found herself wondering if she’d left the light on the entire time she’d been at practice and then at Tamlin’s, and finally saw the boxes on Clare’s old side of the room.

“Hey,” Feyre said slowly, focusing on the girl methodically unpacking boxes and stowing clothes away in the other closet. “I’m Feyre.”

Her new roommate turned around, and Feyre blinked despite herself. The other girl was absolutely stunning in every way, but what caught Feyre’s attention was the large bruise covering half of her face.

“I’m Morrigan, but you can call me Mor.”

Tagging: @darlingfireheart, @goldbooksblack, @who-tf-was-i-before-fandoms

[iamapoopmuffin]

Naruto OCs

And thus I give you the next set of kids, these ones being some of my Sunagakure shinobi. Their fighting style as a team is somewhat reminiscent of the Sand Siblings, which was unintentional but eh, here you go.

Sakyu - Sakyu has light skin, messy purple hair and brown eyes. His forehead protector is worn on his upper left arm and he never wears a shirt beneath his flak jacket. While I'm sure he has other abilities in his arsenal, Sakyu's primary method of attack and defence is via magnet release, used via iron sand. He has made the claim before that he believes himself to be in some way related to the third Kazekage, but there is literally no evidence of this beyond having the same bloodline limit, and even then magnet release is known to exist outside of that particular bloodline, even as far afield as Kumogakure.

Sakyu is proud, boastful and confident, a natural born leader and someone who will happily put himself in danger if it means protecting those close to him, even if others scold him afterwards. He knows how to bring out the very best in his team. As with the Ame three, Sakyu and his team are closer in age to Konohamaru than any other major character.

Saryu - Saryu has dark tan skin, long brown hair and dark eyes. He wears his forehead protector over his forehead, always wears long sleeves on missions to hide his hand movements from enemies, and usually has cloth over his mouth and nose, sometimes a bandanna, sometimes a top with a high neck. thHe also has a scar on his left cheek, extending down across his chin, though this is usually hidden. His main method of attack is with the puppet jutsu, with his main puppets being long, bendy things such as snakes, worms or dragons. Basically, he is Worm On A String Boy.

Saryu is a quiet observer, not very talkative, keen-eyed and trusting strongly in the abilities of his team. He has learnt to put on a show when using his puppets, and is the type to playfully pester and tease. Quiet, but friendly and playful. As an adult, he gets travel sick on the Thunder Train.

Sabaku - Sabaku has light skin, very long blond hair and dark pink eyes. He's tall, slim and a pretty boy skilled with make-up. His forehead protector is worn around his waist. He carries two handheld fans for use in combat, and primarily fights with genjutsu mixed with wind release. His genjutsu style isn't fully thought out, but I like the idea of it being somehow linked to either a perfume or his own sweat, hence being able to spread and direct it with the wind and his fans.

Sabaku is stubborn but good-humoured. When he sees an opportunity to mess with someone, he will take it, especially if said person is an asshole or a pervert. He and Saryu get along very well when it comes to their playful bullshit. Sabaku can also be quick to anger, which tends to be his downfall in battle. He is acutely aware he has a temper and wishes to get better control of his emotions.

He also successfully beat the shit out of Iwatobi during the final stage of their chunin exams.

Sarashi - Sarashi is Sakyu's younger sister, and has the same basic colour scheme. She also wears pink hair clips and has freckles. At her first appearance, Sarashi isn't quite old enough to enter the academy, and is quite clingy when it comes to her big brother. Their parents aren't around any more, it's just the two of them, and she can't help but worry when he's away on missions. Other than her 'my brother might die' based anxiety, she's a well-adjusted and playful girl, but sometimes needs some encouragement to join in with others. She grows into a kind and gentle, if somewhat naggy adult, and prefers the puppet technique to using her bloodline limit. She is more interested in the entertainment industry than in being a ninja, but while she is still a civilian, she has been taught in an unofficial capacity to protect and defend. The siblings Sakyu and Sarashi could be potential targets of Eien's when he is hunting bloodline limit users, but his initial target for magnet release is a child living in Iwa as she is far less protected or dangerous.

[misssophiachase]

Let’s Talk About Sex

New Orleans, LA - 17 months post TVD finale

"What's sex?" Klaus was rendered speechless by his little girl's question. One minute they were happily making beignets in the compound's expansive kitchen and the next he was struggling to form words.

"Um, where did that come from, Hope?' He replied, clearing his throat and brushing the stray flour from his jeans to buy a little extra time. "I mean, uh, what do you know about..."

"Sex," she repeated, wiping some icing sugar from the nearby plate and licking it off her index finger. She looked so sweet and innocent and then she just had to go and throw that three letter word at him without any warning whatsoever.

"Let me rephrase that," he coughed. "Why are you asking about..."

"Sex."

"Could you please stop saying that word? I'm acutely aware of the subject matter of this particularly awkward and painful discussion with my seven year-old daughter," he rambled, more so to himself than his rather confused child.

Klaus thought it might come one day but never this soon. His most pressing concern wasn't the fact he'd been celibate since a certain tryst in the woods but the fact that he had to explain the birds and bees to his only daughter. 

If he'd known, Klaus might have at least done some reading and practiced his spiel in advance. How she'd stumbled across this knowledge was another concern, and if it was who he thought they'd be liver-less come dinner.

"Well," he began, motioning for Hope to sit down on the nearby stool next to him. Even though it was a foreign feeling, Klaus was fairly certain it was something resembling embarrassment. Who knew the big, bad hybrid could be vulnerable to such an emotion? "Uh, when a man and a woman really love each other..."

"Like you and mom?'

"Well," he mumbled, avoiding that particular question for obvious reasons. Explaining sexual intercourse was one thing but having to revisit his fleeting past with Hayley was another. "They like to show that love by sharing a very, uh, intimate experience..."

"What does intimate mean?" Klaus resisted the urge to roll his eyes in his daughter's presence. It was difficult enough he couldn't articulate what he wanted to say but he was having to simplify his vocabulary too. Kids were a tough crowd that was for sure.

"Looks like I arrived at the perfect time," she interrupted, leaning against the door frame with her arms crossed over her chest in amusement.

"Don't you have anything better to do, Rebekah?"

"Apparently not, please don't let me interrupt your little chat," she replied, her tone saccharine laced. Klaus couldn't miss the sly smirk tugging at her lips and all he wanted to do was wipe it off her face. Unfortunately some good old Mikaelson sparring in the courtyard would have to wait until Hope wasn't in their presence.

"Does Aunt Rebekah know what sex is?" Hope asked, her eyes trained on his sister now.

"Well..."

"Maybe she could explain it instead, dad," Hope interrupted. Patience never really was her strong suit, much like her father.

"Well, if you'd prefer to speak to your Aunt about this subject, then who am I to object?" Rebekah's grin had now morphed into an outraged glare in his direction. That's what she got for trying to be so smug during his time of parental need.

"Hope, sweetie," Rebekah smiled, making her way towards the bench and placing her hand on the little girl's mane of red hair. "I'm not sure if I'm the best person to explain that."

"I'm hardly surprised given that drought you've been experiencing of late, sister dear," a cheeky, male voice chuckled from the stair case above. Klaus was seriously rethinking this shared living arrangement yet again, if only to spare his poor daughter.

"Why you son of a..."

"Enough both of you! Watch those unsanitary mouths," Klaus muttered, protectively placing his hands over his daughter's ears. "You are both over 2000 combined but yet my seven year-old daughter is even more mature than you!”

"For all she knows I'm talking about the bloody weather," he growled. Kol always did have to get the last word. "Not Rebekah's lack of..."

"I already had my daughter saying that word multiple times, the last thing I need is you joining the damn chorus," he hissed, finally removing his hands from Hope. "Although that reminds me that we need to have a chat about what specific terms are deemed acceptable in this house."

"And here I thought freedom of speech was written into the Constitution," Rebekah drawled.

"What's the constitution?" Hope piped up. At least she'd moved onto something more savoury conversation-wise. Now this was definitely something Klaus could explain. Before he could elaborate his suit-clad elder brother entered looking at them all curiously before fixing his gaze on Hope.

"Politics at such a young age, I am impressed Hope."

"We were actually talking about something much more exciting like S-E-X," Kol spelled out. "But King Klaus has apparently decided to legalise censorship."

"I can spell you know, Uncle Kol," Hope offered, nibbling on a beignet. She seemed unusually calm while her father and his siblings bickered, Klaus hated to admit it but it was kind of a normal occurrence in the Mikaelson household.

"I really shouldn't be surprised that you've filled the poor girl's head with these mature terms," Elijah scoffed. All of the siblings recognised this as the beginning of one of his long-winded lectures. They could be here for a long time at this rate. "Kol, it's time you started to realise just how much your actions reflect upon impressionable minds..."

"I overheard Aunt Katherine telling you just how good you were at sex last night and that she really wanted to show you..."

"What was that you were saying Elijah?" Kol boasted triumphantly. He didn't reply but his flushed cheeks were a clear indication that he'd been caught out by his niece.

"And you were the one I thought I could trust," Klaus muttered. This situation had been escalating out of control the past fifteen minutes. All Klaus knew was that he had to get Hope out of there and now. "How about we go out for some ice-cream, honey?" The one thing he knew was that the promise of sugar would surely dampen her persistent interest, well for a few hours at least.

As he walked out, Hope ahead of him, Klaus whipped back around. "We are having a family meeting when I get back, oh and make sure Katherine gets that memo too." The look on all their faces was enough to tell Klaus he'd made his point. 

He opened the heavy, wooden door, gesturing for Hope to walk outside. What Klaus hadn't counted on was the familiar blonde standing on his front door step dressed perfectly in a white dress, denim jacket and boots. Especially after that pesky sex discussion which had stirred some unexpected arousal within him at the thought of their hot and heavy outdoor activity. Sexual frustration was an understatement.

She looked just as beautiful as the last time he'd seen her up against that tree sans shirt and panting heavily with that creamy skin flushed and those golden waves tousled. As much as he was happy by the surprise visit he wished she hadn’t turned up with such an unpredictable little girl on the loose.

"Hello," he offered, albeit feebly.

"Yeah, hi," she bit out. It sounded like someone was a little nervous herself.  All of the possible reasons for her surprise appearance ran through his mind, the most obvious being a certain cheque he’d donated to her magic school that Klaus knew hadn’t been cashed. 

"Who are you?" Hope asked, interrupting the prolonged silence. Caroline tore her blue eyes from his and focused on his daughter.

"That's not very polite, sweetheart," he chided. "This is Caroline."

"You must be Hope," Caroline smiled. "It’s nice to meet you."

"You're pretty," she grinned. Klaus couldn't have said it better himself and didn’t even have to bribe her to say it.

“Thank you,” Caroline uttered, her cheeks slightly tinged pink from the unexpected and lovely compliment from his daughter. 

"So, do you know about sex, Caroline?" She asked. Whatever pride he was feeling towards his daughter was replaced with instant mortification. There wasn't much else he could feel at this point. 

Obviously the promise of ice-cream wasn't enough to quell those questions and to his ex-lover of all people. If Klaus could have melted into the floor he would have. If Caroline was shocked she was doing an impressive job of masking her reaction. "Apparently no one here can explain it."

“Why am I not surprised?” She asked, shrugging her shoulders in his direction. 

“Excuse me?” He baulked incredulously. Caroline didn’t respond just folded her arms against her chest defiantly. “Hope, honey why don’t you go to the car?” Her curious glance between the two before she walked away told them she would have preferred to hear the rest of the conversation. 

“I wasn’t having sex with myself against that tree last time I checked.”

“Charming,” she drawled. “Maybe you should start with that as an explanation to your daughter, Romeo.”

“Fine,” he admitted. “I had no idea what to do or say. She just came out with it and then I had Rebekah, Kol and Elijah interfering as bloody usual.”

“Well, I have to admit when I was on my way here I didn’t see this being our first conversation.”

“I’m shocked,” he joked. “How did you envisage it happening?”

“I was going to throw your cheque back unceremoniously and then leave but I have to be honest I’m entirely too intrigued to see how this all plays out first.”

“Believe me if I knew that I’d give you a preview.” 

“She’s a bit of a handful like her father, huh?” Klaus looked over at his gorgeous girl as she played animatedly in the front garden. 

“I wouldn’t have her any other way,” he grinned. 

“You’ve really changed, Klaus.”

“Is that a good or a bad thing?” He asked leaning in closer so that he could inhale that vanilla scent he’d missed terribly. 

“I don’t know I’ll have to get back to you on that,” she replied, nudging him playfully. 

“How about some ice-cream?” 

“Fine, but don’t think you can rope me into this whole birds and the bees talk, Mikaelson.”

“Well, it was worth a try at least,” he teased, placing a stray lock of hair behind her ear and then guiding her towards his car, thinking he could get used to outings like this with Caroline and his daughter. 

On FF HERE

[archivesdiveronarpg]

Congratulations, PIKA! You’ve been accepted for the role of MEDEA. Wow, wow, wow, wow, wow. Pika, you have no idea how absolutely ecstatic I am with this application. You capture their erratic nature -- how they seem never completely there but when they do...oh, when they do you should be careful. The future plots have me absolutely giddy with anticipation, the interview got me swoonin’, and the para sample seemed like the ribbon on top of it all. I am so excited to have Mallory in our midst once more and I can’t wait for everything to unfold!  Please read over the checklist and send in your blog within 24 hours.

                                                                            WELCOME TO THE MOB.

Out of Character

Alias | pika.

Age | eighteen.

Preferred Pronouns | she/her/hers or they/them/theirs, idrc.

Activity Level | lmao u already knooooo :))))))) terrible :))))))))))))

not great, to be completely honest. however, now that school is slowing down, i should be a lot more consistent; realistically, i’ll be on about every other day.

Timezone | pst.

Current/Past RP Accounts | hugo, noelle, miles, landon. the last two are hella old, ngl.

In Character

Character | madea ;; mallory chanda.

What drew you to this character? | lookie here: i loooooove the dynamic of the witches, the idea of each as an aspect of fate. cinead, the all-seeing, bears down the judgement of the past; hea, all-hearing, plays the fickle strings of the heart and mind as they shift in the present; and mallory, all-knowing, dances with fate, swapping secrets like gossiping old friends. each transcends the concept of the individual, but each is incomplete without the others. they’re delightfully enigmatic, and i love me a good mind screw.

i think that the thing that draws me to mallory in particular is their caprice, and their capacity for more. when you read mallory’s bio in tandem with their siblings’, you (or i, at least lol) definitely get the feeling that they’re the baby of the family. the siblings are cold and they are no exception, but underneath the facade of ice lies a deceptive blue flame—one so hot it burns you frozen, one that changes direction with the lightest breath of the wind. they seem to be more impulsive than their siblings (i mean seriously they just…..went out and won the lotto, nbd), but you can’t help but wonder: are they merely whimsical, or working toward some grander scheme? maybe it’s just because i have an undying love for meta, but i feel like it’d be such fun to play a character consistently a step removed from the present, eyes always flicking around the scenery because ultimately, it is not the individuals that matter, but what they do with themselves—how they leave a mark on the world.

What is a future plot idea you have in mind for the character? |

001. ► supernova (gods, impartial? ha. tell that to the greeks, darling.)

mallory’s relationships with hector and clark fascinate me in that, imo, despite being completely different in sentiment, they both stem from the men staunchly denying fate. my interpretation of mallory is one who believes strongly in fate, and the contrast between them is one that i’d like to see play out. they will not meddle with the fates of the men who meddle with fate, no matter how much they itch to, but i want them to do so. bring the god down to the level of mere mortals. make them give into their whims and engage with the world.

002. ► white dwarf (a deal with the devil; can you sell your soul when your heart holds no credit?)

mallory is more impulsive than either of their siblings. though they likely wouldn’t pick a side in the war for verona, i could certainly see them making deals with one side or another—with the clear caveat that they are neutral, and equally likely to assist another willing to bargain with a god. how would this play out? more importantly, how would their siblings react to this? there is a price to pay to make deals with gods, and i would love to see how mallory reacts to having multiple puppets on their strings.

003. ► black hole (the world began with a bang, and shall end similarly.)

mallory’s siblings are more than their family—they are the counterparts to their soul. how will they react to a threat to their existence? though their souls transcend the limits of mortality, their bodies do not, a fact mallory is simultaneously acutely aware of and utterly uncaring of. but, just as the gods of olympus are most vulnerable at their most opulent, what would happen to the witches if somebody attempted to question their omnipotence? i want fire and brimstone. i want the wrath of gods. mallory already has the fire. i’d like to see them burn.

In Depth

What is your favorite place in Verona?

They touch an impeccably manicured finger to their lips, considering the question. It’s rare that they have to field personal questions—most given the honor of their counsel are after a specific goal, and their questions tend to reflect that single-mindedness. Still, the triviality isn’t unwelcome, and though Mallory raises a wry brow, they answer genuinely.

“Did you know,” they begin offhandedly, “that I had originally proposed putting modern art in the Twelfth Night? My siblings and I diverged in opinion on this, obviously. And, as you can see, my opinion was overruled.” A sigh. “Is it not tragic, the plight of the youngest?”

But a smirk slowly slides across their face. “Please do not tell my siblings I said this—I do hate being wrong, you see—but they were right; Baroque has been a most fitting choice for the museum. Tell me: have you been there at night?” They close their eyes indulgently, snapping open to reveal an unreadable expression. “It’s great fun. One could even say that it is magical.” This sets them off, peals of musical laughter falling from their lips. “But I don’t think it’s magic that compels guests to kiss the statues, no? That is a human honesty, and truly, there is nothing more fascinating to observe.”

What does your typical day look like?

“Hm.” They drum their fingers across the top of their other hand, but their attention seems elsewhere. “I’m afraid the answer may bore you.” They uncross their legs, re-cross them, and continue their answer. “I wake up…hm. After the sun, but before noon. I will usually tend to business at the hotel in the afternoon, and perhaps fit in a catnap before the evening. Come then, I go to the museum and turn those who stay after closing into statues.”

They smile prettily. “Just kidding.”

What are your thoughts on the war between the Capulets and the Montagues?

They still, and a chill falls over the room. They still, and for the first time, there is a presence in their eyes—it is as if their mind has been elsewhere until now, and they have finally joined the present conversation. A smirk rolls over their lips, different than the one before; this one is distinctly feline, languid and knowing.

“It’s silly. Pettiness is such a waste of time, wouldn’t you agree?”

It’s not a lie, but it’s not quite truth, either. Yes, it’s a waste of time, but one Mallory is fascinated by, the way an entomologist is fascinated by a colony of ants. One to be watched from afar, perhaps on the sofa with their siblings. And—

“Oh.” The moment is broken; they have moved on to a new thought. “Perhaps I ought to ask Hea to buy popcorn before they come home.” They stand, obviously dismissive. “Yes. I shall do that.”

In-Character Para Sample:

It is a beautiful evening, the type that romantics write poetry over and lovers meet under. The sun paints a cascading orange against the sky, pulsing the last vestiges of light before it inevitably falls into bed with the shadows chasing it. And Mallory walks to work.

The heels of their shoes—four inch wedges, sensible for crossing cobblestones—glide soundlessly across the streets of Verona, leaving no trace of their owner behind. They walk languidly, confidently; their siblings are conducting business elsewhere, but their only responsibility for the evening is to prepare the Twelfth Night for the night. There is no rush. There rarely ever is.

And so, when a man approaches them, face alight with the reluctant, cautious awe characteristic of arrogant men humbled by proper power, they allow him to speak.

“Please,” he says, begs, “read my fortune. I’ll give you anything—anything!—I just…I think something bad may have happened, and I need to know what’s coming next.”

The only indication that they heard the man is in the single, perfectly-groomed brow that raises at his plea. The man certainly looks a mess, clothes rumpled and sweat beading on his brow. Mallory is unmoved by his appeal to their ethos.

But, admittedly, they are intrigued. Desperation is an endearingly human trait, one that Mallory finds almost charming.

( they can hear their siblings groans in the back of their mind, particularly cinead’s. well, it isn’t cinead’s time that they are wasting. )

“Hm,” they say. A beat passes. The man trembles. “Follow.”

—

“Three of swords, the Hanged Man reversed, and the Tower. Fascinating.”

“F-fascinating? What does that mean? Is that good?”

A laugh bubbles from Mallory’s chest. “Good? Bad? To label fate with something so crude would be boring.” They rise, and gather the three cards from the dusty stoop, brushing them off gently. “Fate is fate,” they say, and their eyes meet the man's—he cannot hold the contact for long, and looks away quickly. Their head inclines, feline in its judgement. “Though yours…your selfishness shall be caused by suffering.” They sigh. “How dull,” they say, more to themself than the man, shaking their head in disappointment. “If that is all, I shall take my leave.”

Mallory rises, and turns to walk back to their intended destination.

“W-wait!” The man calls to their back. “I can’t…I…You have the power to help me, right? I…I want to make a deal with you!”

Mallory pauses. Smirks. It seems they now have an appointment for the evening.

How fascinating.

Extras:

a playlist:

→ i put a spell on you ;; nina simone

i put a spell on you / and now you’re mine

→ never catch me ;; flying lotus ft. kendrick lamar

life and death is no mystery and i wanna taste it / step inside of my mind and you’ll find curiosity, animosity / high philosophy, hyper prophesied meditation

→ special affair ;; the internet

penny for your thoughts, i know what you want / i can read your mind even from behind

→ bone+tissue ;; gallant

sell me something i can use to catapult my value / treat me like the cardinal anointed in my vessels

→ fantasy ;; alina baraz and galimatias

so you say you wanna get so high, breathe me in like air tonight / let yourself get lost in the garden of my mind

→ white ;; frank ocean

i dreamt of storms, i dreamt of sounds / i dreamt of gravity keeping us around

→ ready or not ;; the fugees

i play my enemies like a game of chess / no stress where i rest if you smoke some sess

hc’s and misc. bits

mal likes to read fortunes—tarot, palms, astrology. to them, it’s a silly game…but for those brave enough to ask, there’s always an eerie accuracy to them, a thrum of power that beats through the air when they turn the cards. unlike cinead, they will never turn down a request to read fortunes, delighting in the schadenfreude that comes with being the messenger of fate.

more on astrology: they check their horoscope every morning (for a loose definition of morning). even though they don’t necessarily believe in it, if one of their siblings’ signs are low in the luck ranking, they won’t let them leave the house without their lucky item.

in keeping with what’s apparently a running animal motif, mallory has a unabashed fondness for cats. (they also have a remarkably similar temperament to the animal, but they vehemently deny this when their siblings poke fun at them for it.) they have a cat named metis, whom they love dearly.

mallory is a night owl; the witching hour is their favorite time of day. mornings, to them, are entirely overrated—there’s no sense of romance to them. or so they say.

they love dancing, and practice all styles one could imagine, from ballet to salsa to hip hop. it is not an uncommon sight to see them at the tempest, undulating in a dance that is unorthodox but undoubtedly alluring, liquid moonshine slipping deftly through the crowd.

drunk!mallory’s passion is singing. only their siblings have ever seen this.

drunk!mallory cannot sing. only their siblings have ever seen this.

to call mallory vain is not incorrect, per se, but also not entirely right. they take great pride in maintaining their appearance—their aesthetic is black and flow-y, lace and long skirts and dark lips—but it is more a matter of preference than vanity.

mallory enjoys mixing drinks, though they rarely indulge in them themself. it is not an entirely rare sight to see them creating concoctions at the bar of the tempest. they cannot stand coffee.

on occasion, mallory will spend the day simply wandering the city. they won’t talk to anyone, but they enjoy people-watching.

—

( They stood in order: Cinead, then Hea, then Mallory. It was a habit ingrained by age, ingrained by habit, and though it was in Mallory’s nature to push against convention, it was one of the things they never questioned.

Cinead, Hea, Mallory. Order, balance, chaos. Always three. Always one. )

—

( the whisper of silk on skin, the bite of a frosty morning. wind that whips through the trees, displacing all but the birds. fingers brushing through hair. catching someone’s gaze from across a busy intersection. the ghost of breath. fractals in snowflakes. )

—

( each time they take one of you, you do not clench your fists. you do not yell childishly, you do not reach out to your siblings

and make no mistake, they are your siblings, even if your blood traitorously refuses to acknowledge this

because

you know.

you know that fate will return you where you ought to be:

by each others’ sides. )

[thickasthievesrpg-hidden]

WELCOME TO THE HEIST, HAYDEN!

YOU’VE BEEN ACCEPTED FOR THE ROLE OF CIRO CAPECCHI

A note from Admin Risa: Welcome back, my love! I’m so glad to have both you and Ciro back. Undoubtedly, you’ll do his role all the justice in the world, and I’m very excited to see you both on the dash again! Congratulations on your acceptance! You’ve been to the museums, the banks, the isolated manors with their black dogs and gilded keys. You’ve stolen their necklaces, their jewels, the prized heirlooms in their vaults and their safes. They’ll watch out for you. Please visit the after acceptance page and submit your account within the next 24 hours – we’re excited to have you with us!

I. INTRODUCTION

Name/Alias + Pronouns:

Hello! Before we jump into my actual application, I just want to extend a sincere thank you for giving me and so many others the opportunity to apply to such an impressive roleplay. No matter what the outcome ends up being, I am genuinely so excited to be applying, and I hope that I’ve been able to convey that in what I’ve written. Of course, that isn’t to say that I’m not a little nervous, because I most definitely am. Eek! Honestly, though, it feels like an honor to be given the chance to even briefly enter the world you’ve created, so I’m immensely grateful to each of you for giving me that. As someone who has administered several groups over the span of her roleplay career (though never on the scale that Thick is Thieves is on), I know how mentally taxing it can be, as well as how much free time it can eat up, so kudos to you for the wonderful job you’ve done, Risa and Taryn (and Ashley, too). With that small bout of praise and gratitude squared away, my name is Hayden, and the pronouns that I use are she/her/hers!

Age:

I’m currently only seventeen years old, but I will be turning eighteen very soon. My birthday falls on June second, and while I’m slightly intimidated by the idea of being a ‘real adult’ in the matter of just a few weeks, I’m also quite excited at the same time and very much looking forward to it. I mean, you only earn the privilege to vote once, don’t you?

Timezone + Activity:

I. BASICS

Desired Role:

Ciro Maurizio Capecchi

Analysis:

sexuality/romantic preference — At just thirteen years old, Ciro Capecchi—burgeoning on adolescence and tiptoeing the line that divides careless childhood and disillusioned juvenility—began to realize that he failed to have much of a preference at all among genders when seeking companionship, physical or otherwise. Perhaps such realization would not have taken so long, but he had never thought to entertain crushes as a child, already too fixated on the blackened underbelly of his precious Palermo to take note of anyone around him in that way. However, the intense rush of hormones that accompanied puberty quickly transformed Ciro’s perspective on the matter, and without a word of warning, he found himself acutely aware of boys and girls alike: how each of them fashioned their hair differently from the others; how midday light caught the slopes of their cheekbones and the sharp curves of their jaws; how their lithe bodies filled out their Armani suits and Dior dresses, and later, after he had grown into himself a bit, how they didn’t; how easily mere glances could suddenly light a flame deep within him; and how, despite his best efforts, he was hopelessly, irrevocably invested in each and every one of them. His tendency toward brief, fleeting bouts of infatuation emerged with the rapid cycling of his crushes, a new one surfacing nearly every other week. The entire experience jilted him to a tremendous degree, particularly once he began to develop unexpected and unwelcome feelings for the very picture of French aristocracy, a boy two years his elder and princely in a way that Ciro felt he could never quite match. In a thinly veiled attempt to either avoid or suppress his crush, he rapidly redirected his attention to Silas Beauregard’s frigid younger sister. Beautiful Xanthe, her golden hair swishing at waist length as she spurned his advances with a girlish giggle and a twinkle in her crystal blue eyes, proved an effective distraction, and their flirtation—or, rather, his dogged pursuit of her—has persisted to this day. While his fixation on Xanthe has not changed, Ciro certainly has, which is perhaps most evident in his acceptance of himself, a development that is largely the responsibility of his mother. When Eleanor’s abrupt departure tore the Capecchi family asunder, his problem of liking boys and girls suddenly seemed trivial at best, and he was rather quick to reassess whether denying half of himself was worth the effort anymore. Seven years later, Ciro is still not officially out as bisexual, having never formally or directly acknowledged it to anyone, but it is an open secret among all five families and the Magpies in particular exactly whose beds he spills drunkenly into after the exorbitant affairs he calls parties.

birthdate — Ciro was born messily and painfully on the edges of winter, just as the crisp autumn of October gave way to the seeping chill of November. His was an ugly birth, one that came in the midst of Francis Villiers’ ascension to Thief Lord, a gruesome delivery that part of him suspects his father would prefer to forget altogether. Were he a religious man, he might think it divine intervention that someone such as him, with a heart so deliberately forged with steel and frost, was brought into the world just as the air of Palermo began to slip into unusually wintry degrees; were he privy to the gory circumstances of his birth, he may find some depraved metaphor somewhere between the deep crimson his mother spilled out onto the cot beneath her and the blood now on his hands, a stain left behind by the wicked things he has done. However, finding himself more attuned to hedonism and intemperance than worship and poetry, he instead chooses to focus the energy that would be expended on that analysis into organizing one of his most lavish parties of the year: a decadent festivity second only to his extravagant Bacchanalia, held in celebration and honor of his birthday, the fifth of November. Upon closer inspection of his birth date, it is quite appropriate that he was born on Guy Fawkes Night, an English holiday commemorating the dissolution of the Gunpowder Plot. From the attempted assassination of King James I to the bonfires lit throughout London following its failure, the entire day screams of Ciro’s fiery, deadly nature, while also paying homage to his absent mother’s homeland. However, forfeiting the historical relevance of his birthday, each winter, Ciro’s party proves to be nothing more than a grandiose, self-indulgent ode to himself, sung to the cacophonous tune of white powder and crackling fireworks and expensive liquor. Guests still willingly attend, though, in spite (or perhaps because) of Ciro’s blatant, unwavering egomania, and he revels in the attention he receives from them. He revels in all of it: the debauchery, the vanity, and everything else that comes with the parties held in his underground den of wonders.

birthplace/hometown — In spite of his persistent habit of cavorting across the globe, back and forth with such swiftness that it is quite remarkable he ever gets any rest at all, Ciro will always consider Palermo, Italy his home. It is where he was brought into the world, choking and bathed in blood, and it is where he intends to die as well, most likely in the same manner. He led a… comfortable childhood in Palermo, doted on by his mother and ignored by his foolhardy father. From early on, he was a brooding boy of melancholy disposition, but lacked the propensity for deliberate cruelty that his elder sister, Alessia, exhibited so thoroughly. If he were asked today, he would not claim that he was a happy youth, per se, but he certainly would not deny that he was taken care of adequately, and in the grand scheme of things, that was more than enough. After all, he was given free reign of the expansive halls of Villa Capecchi, given room to frolic and play and create extensive fantasy realms, ones where the dragon was never slain and the princess was never saved and the kingdoms all eventually fell to ruin. The dragon—a big, angry, foul beast and Ciro’s exclusive territory—would always triumph over the poor knight, blasting through his shining armor with its fiery breath, leaving nothing but ash and scorched silver where a valiant would-be hero once stood. Then, with mechanical predictability, the dragon would take the princess that it had been lording over to yet another dilapidated castle to wait out the next onslaught of knights, armed with nothing but a fierce greed and fire. More often than not, Ciro delegated the roles of knight and princess to Santino and Violetta, respectively; Tommaso and Alessia were always either too old or too busy to make believe with him, and the structure of his play allowed him a certain degree of cruel control over his younger siblings, one that he relished. Although not entirely intentional, his childhood games were told in three mostly unchanged acts: hope, loss, and recovery. If he were just slightly more self-aware, Ciro would perhaps notice a sort of subtle parallel between the cycles he goes through today and the recurrent nature of those long-forgotten games: his unremitting hope to someday ascend to power within either Cosa Nostra or the heist, the feelings of deep loss he experiences when an opportunity to seize that power slips through his clutches, and the gradual recovery of his bearings that occurs when he skulks away to lick his wounds and plot revenge on those he believes have slighted him. In a way, this uncanny resemblance almost makes Ciro appear prophetic, but mostly, it points to a young man doomed to repeat the same stagnant, cyclical pattern of hope, loss, and recovery forever, barring a dramatic shift in behavior. However, so long as his beloved Palermo is still there for him to come home to, his priorities will most likely continue to lie outside of attempting to avoid his own systemic self-destruction. The city is almost like a mother, filling the shoes of the one who abandoned him. It nurses his wounds and coddles his bruised feelings, but instead of doing so with bandages and gentle words, it offers him liquor and women, and he fervently accepts. Palermo may be his home, but he prefers to call it his patria.

occupation — Born to live and bleed and die for Cosa Nostra, Ciro knew from quite a young age that, eventually, he would be formally initiated to the ranks of the Capecchi cosca, Palermo’s faction of the sprawling criminal syndicate that lords over Sicily with powders and pistols and pills. Part of him feared this fate as a child; after all, his position within the mafia was all but carved in stone, an inevitable and unalterable part of his future, and the mere concept of irreversible change easily struck fear into the heart of the young boy. However, as he grew, eventually losing the glimmer of impressionable childhood in his dark eyes, so did his curiosity in and wonderment at the cosca. At just eleven years old, small and stealth, Ciro began to slip past the Capecchi children’s au pairs at opportune moments to follow his elder siblings through the cobblestone streets of Palermo, desperate to catch even a fleeting glimpse of something related to the future waiting for him in the dim alleyways and smoky villas of the city. While sightings of mafiosi in the flesh were few and far between, this behavior persisted for quite some time, until Ciro was eventually caught in the act; as surreptitious as he had been, he had not managed to escape the watchful eye of Vico Capecchi’s soldiers completely. Within the year, the boy was being utilized by the mafia, although sparingly. Sneaking here, stealthing there… it was all just fun and games to Ciro, fantastical tales of swashbuckling and delinquency to relay to Hale Rothschild at their next conclave. However, his natural agility did not negate his youth, and it was eventually agreed that twelve was simply too young to be fully immersed in the dark netherworld of Palermo. With the swiftness of a ship at sea, he was ejected from a society he had only just been introduced to, and he would have been lying if he had said it did not sting. Their attention refocused, neither Vico nor Lorenzo took note of the fire that had been lit within Ciro, the insatiable hunger for more. Still just a child and naïvely enthusiastic about the utter devastation he was capable of bringing, he had already found his greatest lover: the tantalizing thrill of danger. He wanted more. He neededmore. In a cruel twist of fate, he succumbed to the beginning of his long, illustrious affair with crime just as the mafia excluded him from it. Over the next several years, Ciro tried his best to keep up with his father and elder siblings, but his pace always seemed just a step too slow to match theirs. He ached as he watched Tommaso and Alessia move strides ahead of him, each of them with a sturdy hand clapped onto their shoulder, Lorenzo guiding them with what little parental instinct he was able to muster. The game was rigged, and from the very beginning, it appeared as if he was rigged to lose. Eventually, Ciro managed to carve out his own niche within Cosa Nostra, one that reeked of sweat and sex, but his ascension within the mafia resembled a crusade for acceptance more than it did a volley of death. Fighting tooth and nail was what it took, but he did it enthusiastically, with a fervor that went entirely unnoticed by his father. These days, he wields a revolver forged with steel and blood, the weight of it comfortable and familiar in the palm of his hand, and rakes in cash for Cosa Nostra through the sale of various narcotics. The majority of his transactions occur during his infamous soirées, pounding bass serving as background accompaniment to low murmurs and quiet taps of sharp metal against glass. Every euro that he earns is a small reminder that, in spite of his father’s disinterest in his advancement within the cosca, Ciro has managed to make a name for himself, both as a soldier and a socialite, and he has no plans of slowing down any time soon. Still, beneath his inflated sense of accomplishment, there is a lingering, slowly festering bitterness reminding him that while he sits lamely at the bottom of the mafia’s hierarchy, both Tommaso and Alessia—his cherished elder siblings, each of their temporary absences not yet forgotten by their brother—serve as caporegimes beneath Don Herrero.

criminal occupation — Sharp of tongue and quick of wit, it only seems a natural progression of his person that Ciro serve as con man for the heist alongside Alessia. After all, one of his greatest talents, outside of begetting death and inhaling blow, lies in manipulation and untruths. Deception comes so effortlessly to him that, were he not bred for the mafia, he would assume that he was born for guile and theft. He is the antithesis of James Bond, clad in stolen couture and silver-tongued lies—women want him, men want to be him—and he exploits it to its absolute fullest. In short, harnessing his forceful personality for the sake of the heist is easy for Ciro; it always has been, ever since his initial invitation to the underground society of thieves. However, his true power lies in manipulating that charm to add to his sprawling, intercontinental web of connections. Alessia, with her feminine wiles and duplicitous leers, could con the entire crew without breaking a sweat, and there is a part of Ciro that believes every affected simper is but a calculated ruse of his sister’s design. Were he still in his youth, he would almost feel sorry for her, knowing that her precious corpse of a husband was the only one who ever knew the woman beneath the wolf. He has no energy to waste on pitying her, though; he is no longer a child, and his cruel sister’s heart is no longer his concern. Ultimately, the point is that neither Alessia nor the society truly need Ciro to act as a con man, particularly when he is far more adept at acquisitioning useful outsiders to assist in heists. He has contacts on six different continents, all but desolate Antarctica, each with distinct strengths that they bring to the table, but Ciro is all too aware of the risk that comes with involving outsiders in their heists, so no one ever gets the whole story. It is always just a fraction, a small excerpt of whatever plan the Capecchis are concocting, and not a syllable more. He murmurs a cool, collected, “I need your help,” into one of his many cell phones and leaves it at that, because for the most part, it seems his associates have learned better than to go fishing for information. The ones who have not have been swiftly removed from his list, without hesitation or remorse. Separate from his cons and his connections is his presence within the Magpies. Ciro adores the Magpies in spite of finding the Villiers’ bird imagery ridiculously silly and would defend them fiercely if a situation required it. He loves the concept of willfully blurring the lines between the five families just for the sake of feeling like he is part of something special and exclusive, and over time, he has grown to love his feathered comrades as well, but feigns detached aloofness in their presence. Emotional investment is a sign of weakness if he has ever heard of one, and in their world, the weak are shoved aside, forgotten, and excluded. They end up like little Cecily Villiers, in all of her sickly uselessness, and that is the last thing that Ciro will ever allow to happen to him. Even the deepest of loves are not worth obsolescence.

Four Characteristics:

agile [+] — There are a vast number of things that Ciro believes he excels at, but agility was the talent of his that initially forced Vico to take note of him, and that is something that he continues to take a paltry sort of pride in to this day. Just eleven at the time and already so full of lust for the world of malfeasance lying in wait for him, he had been largely ignored by the mafia in favor of his elder brother and sister, and for good reason. Tommaso and Alessia, at their respective ages of twenty and sixteen, were older, wiser, and altogether a more sensible choice for Cosa Nostra. However, Ciro’s ability to sneak surreptitiously through the streets of Palermo, stalking his siblings like a hungry feline in the grasses of the African plains, drew a small fraction of attention away from the pair, enough for the cosca to involve Lorenzo’s third-born in a handful of their simpler maneuvers for a handful of months. He has honed his ability over the years, so he is capable now of stealthing so thoroughly and with such haste that he almost seems to meld with the shadows themselves; this proficiency in nimble movement has aided him during jobs for the heist far, far too many times to count. The fact that he now, fully grown, stands at a diminutive five feet, nine inches tall and weighs little more than one hundred and sixty pounds sopping wet only enhances his natural agility. He would be grateful for his stature if it were not for Tommaso towering several inches over him, even further emphasizing the authority that their father has inculcated him with. It may be nothing more than a simple trick of the light, the way his brother seems to stand at his fullest height while in Ciro’s company, but he still resents him for it.

ambitious [+] — The feeling of hunger, rooted in the pit of his belly, gnawing and insatiable, is one that Ciro has grown quite comfortable with over the years. It has been smoldering within him for as long as he can remember, swelling and bloating him little by little, slowly distorting him into the man that he is today: a grotesque, rapacious version of himself, unrecognizably different from the impressionable child that he was in his quixotic youth. He is driven by an overwhelming greed, a predatory yearning for more, but it is not nourishment that he craves so thoroughly. Ciro hungers for power, for control, but most of all for validation. All that he has ever been is the neglected middle child, forgotten by his father in clear favor of aloof Tommaso and callous Alessia, overlooked in the presence of dovelike Violetta and elegant Santino. The only thing that he has ever wished for is the chance to follow in his father’s footsteps, to prove himself a worthy and capable leader, but he was forced to watch as that opportunity was ripped from his grasp and passed off to Tommaso, who neither desired nor appreciated the privilege that he had robbed his brother of. Despite being jettisoned to the sidelines long ago, Ciro continues to burn with an angry, white-hot hunger. It has cooled somewhat since his youth, not out of choice but of necessity, but his selfish ambition still thrives, and in it lies his motivation to keep pressing forward. Were it not for his drive to rise above his station in the mafia, in the heist, and most importantly, in his father’s eyes, even he is not entirely sure what would spur him on.

belligerent [-] — Violence pulses in Ciro’s veins, and it is obvious to anyone who has ever spent longer than a few minutes in his presence that he absolutely adores the metallic scents that accompany blood and gunpowder. He has recently taken to denying his lineage, but he is entirely incapable of changing how very Capecchi his aggressive tendencies are. Fighting is one of his many vices, but throwing punches and brawling is not the only way that Ciro’s belligerence manifests. While he enjoys showing off his scarred knuckles, he is frequently openly hostile using just his quick wit and his words, particularly with those whom has taken a dislike to. Even when confronted with people that he fears, like his elder sister and Bastian Castillo, he speaks with a pronounced bellicosity on his tongue; against them, he is sometimes even more antagonistic than he would be otherwise, as if his ire is, in some way, a way of coping with his fear, although it is logically warped. Much like his reckless father, Ciro’s immediate response to frustration is to lash out violently, attacking and shattering and breaking things in a fury. It is not the most efficient coping mechanism that he has developed, nor is it the fairest to Villa Capecchi’s maids, but he lacks the will to seek out healthier ones. Until he learns that he cannot destroy everything that angers him, Ciro will maintain his pugnacious and belligerent attitude… but at what cost?

callous [-] — Ciro has never been tactful, and almost as if to justify it, he decided long ago that it simply would not be very aligned with his family’s values for him to be so. He believes that, first and foremost, Capecchis are meant to march into moonlit battles with their guns drawn and at the ready, leaving only the pooling blood of their enemies in their wake, and fortunately, aiming his revolver has never required him to possess any substantial amount of social grace. The belief that he can lack diplomacy so long as he is a capable killer and a capable thief has shaped him as he has grown into a cruel, insensitive young man. He frequently masks this heartlessness, favoring to play the part of a silver-tongued, smooth-talking Lothario—the perfect counterpart to Hale Rothschild—but his true colors often bleed through. Surprisingly enough, his awful flippancy extends even to his closest colleagues and confidantes. Although he cherishes his self-made family, his precious Magpies and his wily thieves, not even they are safe from Ciro’s sharp, caustic words, which is exactly how he prefers it: it keeps the rest of the society at arm’s length, and it keeps anyone from daring to toe any closer. He knows better than anyone that, no matter how severe he’s capable of being, his bite will always be far worse than his bark.

debonair [+] — Ciro has always valued the finer things in life, an appreciation that is never more apparent than in the way he styles himself. Ever attentive to the latest fashion trends, he actively seeks out the finest menswear that money can buy and sinks thousands of euros into it each year; it is one of his few vices that he purposefully avoids obtaining through theft and deceit, though he sometimes cannot resist breaking his own rules. The way he presents himself to his colleagues clearly reflects his dedication to style, and he brazenly allows it to pervade various other aspects of his life as well. For instance, although nine millimeter Glock pistols are standard issue for the mafiosi initiated into the hierarchy of Cosa Nostra, Ciro’s weapon of choice is an antique Smith and Wesson single-action revolver, barrel black as night and inlaid with gleaming golden swirls and flowers. Its grips are mother of pearl and engraved with an insignia he has never quite been able to pin down: an exquisite, scripted R laid beneath a crown. Every now and again, he fondly remembers the jokes that Hale made when he first acquired the gun, flippantly suggesting that his friend had accidentally stumbled across a Rothschild relic. As far as Ciro is aware, the gun dates back to the late nineteenth century, but he could not care less about its origin; what is important to him is that it is within arm’s reach at all times, loaded and ready to sear hot metal into flesh and bone. It is startling, the lack of hesitance that such a handsome, sophisticated young man has to get his hands slick with blood, but he has always operated under the reasoning that one suit stained is simply an excuse to buy another.

dutiful [+] — The duties expected of him, both from his beloved Cosa Nostra and the global network of thieves that he considers his family, are perhaps the only thing in the world that Ciro holds in higher esteem than himself. Contrary to what many of his associates may think of him, his callously juvenile antics—from showing up to important society meetings on the tail ends of cocaine binges to speaking with unfettered filth in his mouth—conceal an earnest respect and passionate ardor for the criminal lifestyle into which he was born, and it is exceptionally rare that Ciro does not pull through when it is required of him to do so. Beneath his mask of red-rimmed eyes and expletive-laden speech, Ciro is dependable almost to a fault, and there is a part of him that wishes he could bear to let Lorenzo down just once. However, he is fueled in part by a rabid desperation to impress his father, and that does a splendid job of preventing from ever truly risking his disappointment. Whether his assignment is to execute a hit for the mafia or pull in one of his many contacts for the heist, he nearly always manages to accomplish it with a swiftness that could quite easily betray his childish behavior as a mere ruse were it not for the haste with which his filthy derision returns.

fastidious [+] — Within the society, the Capecchis are perhaps best recognized by their rash, gunslinging violence, and Ciro has, for the most part, been an avid supporter of such an approach to thievery. They sidle into the joint, murmuring a hotheaded mantra to each other in anticipatory whispers—prendono nessun ostaggi, prendono nessun ostaggi, prendono nessun ostaggi—and eventually leave with their pillage; if they are lucky, and they usually are, they go out in a white-hot blaze of exhilarated gunfire and glory. Ciro adores it, the bloodshed and savagery that comes with the Capecchis’ impulsive frenzy, but there is a part of him that yearns for order. He has an attention to detail that his father seems to lack, a diligence and desire for precision that sometimes seems better suited to the larking Villiers or even the minimalistic Lees. While he is rarely able to exercise it during jobs, Ciro’s meticulous nature oozes freely into his private life. He keeps his personal quarters at Villa Capecchi eerily neat, he is almost obsessive about organizing his extensive wardrobe (first by piece, then by color), and he is extremely particular about the state his numerous luxury vehicles are kept in. The same attention is lavished on each of his parties, as well as Il Coniglio Nero; his guests need only ask, and their every wish is usually taken care of in a matter of minutes, largely thanks to Ciro’s careful planning. In short, no effort is spared in making his life as comfortably precise as it can possibly be.

insecure [-] — Hidden beneath all of Ciro’s bluster and bravado and belligerence lies a profound and entrenched insecurity, one that has been slowly, but surely building ever since his youth. Lacking the natural inclination for introspection required to benefit from thoroughly examining his flaws, he purposely avoids thinking about it too deeply or too often, and consequently, he copes with his revulsion at himself by attempting to drown it in his many vices. Fighting, drugs, gambling, drinking, women… they are all carefully selected distractions, ones that prove surprisingly effective in spite of exactly how extensive his insecurity is. Each of them allow him to funnel the energy that would otherwise be focused on hating himself into something else entirely, something equally self-destructive, but requiring far less contemplation. If he did not make a point to ignore his self-loathing, it may occur to Ciro that the root of it, like so many of his other problems, lies in his father’s apparent prejudice against him. Lorenzo has never had any tangible amount of faith in his son, nor has he ever actively tried to conceal that from him. Unfortunately, a person can only endure that for so long before they begin to lose faith in themselves. Living under Lorenzo’s thumb has warped Ciro’s perception of himself grotesquely, but he does his best to mask that ugly insecurity with an unrepentant, imitated arrogance.

multilingual [+] — As a pensive child with more spare time than he ever knew what to do with, Ciro spent much of it schooling himself on the ins and outs of foreign tongues. He found himself fascinated with how their syllables clashed discordantly with those of his native Italian and even more so with how effortlessly he could manipulate his thick accent to better suit them. At best, his early dedication to multilingualism was borne out of pure childhood boredom; at worst, it was the first subtle sign of festering resentment at the attention that his father lavished on Tommaso, nearly a decade Ciro’s elder and seemingly without flaw. Regardless of the root of his small obsession, he has managed to amass fluency in seven languages over the years, matching his comrade, Evie Villiers. Among them are Italian, English, Spanish, French, Russian, Portuguese, and German. He learned Portuguese and German during periods of idleness in an attempt to relieve himself of some persistent lethargy, and Spanish was rather easy to grasp due to its innate similarities to Italian, but the other three have served a distinct purpose over the years: to ease communication with the Villiers, Beauregard, and Rozanov families using their respective native languages. He also picked up bits and pieces of broken, conversational Arabic during the time his crew spent in Cairo, but rarely attempts to flaunt it. Barring Arabic, he can speak each with the eloquence and articulation expected of a Capecchi, but favors his mother tongue above the rest.

opinionated [-] — For lack of a better phrase, Ciro sticks to his guns. He is obstinate and unyielding in the worst way, often refusing to change his opinion or course of action in spite of clear, irrefutable evidence that he is in the wrong. The best and most obvious example of this lies in his ceaseless pursuit for acceptance and power: he persistently blames his apparent inability to advance within Cosa Nostra’s hierarchy on his father’s purported prejudice against him, but truthfully, it likely has more to do with Ciro’s intrinsic inability to compromise or concede his argument in favor of a fundamentally better one. Inflexibility and leadership simply do not mix, and when they do, despots reign. He argues and bickers and feuds with whoever will entertain him, frequently just for the sake of doing so. Even in circumstances where the outcome of a dispute has no material importance, Ciro often stubbornly refuses to back down, like a feral dog whose sole instinct is to bite and scratch and snarl in hopes of victory or death in the pursuit of it. In fact, to his memory, the only times that he has voluntarily surrendered to an argument was when it occurred to him that doing so could potentially provide some benefit to him, either immediate or delayed. Otherwise, Ciro only submits when absolutely forced to.

persuasive [+] — Perhaps he was born with a natural command over language steeped into his bones, or perhaps it is a result of nearly two and a half decades’ careful practice, but Ciro possesses a certain charismatic articulation that draws people to him like moths to a glowing flame. He is a silver-tongued devil in every possible sense of the phrase, accoutred in fine suits with names like Valentino and Armani and Givenchy attached to them, coercing left and beguiling right, his victims too enamored of his mesmeric speech and hypnotic gaze to even notice that they have been duped until it is already too late for them. In another world, one where he strayed from the world of malfeasance and crime that he currently thrives in, he may have been a successful attorney or business magnate. Instead, he has focused his natural talent for blandishment elsewhere. This is how he lures hordes of women (and men, too, particularly the overtly boastful ones who think that they are much too clever to be swindled) to his bed and between his sheets. This is how he manipulates and exploits his dynamic personality for the sake of his family (not the one forged by flesh and blood, but rather, the one that he patched together himself using miscreants and thieves). This is how he has managed to survive this long in a game that has been rigged against him from the very start: by wielding his sharp wit and cogent speech like a pair of lethal weapons.

Expansion:

evan alexander — From the moment that he first laid eyes on Evan Alexander, Ciro loathed him. He was not unlike the boys that Ciro had spent his youth with, heirs to fortunes too large to even conceivably imagine, and in truth, he was not unlike Ciro himself, striking and dignified even in the face of overwhelming uncertainty. However, from where he stood, Evan seemed to reek of a particular arrogance, the type exclusive to vile and narcissistic Americans. His charm, which Adelaide Rothschild and Xanthe Beauregard both fell rather quickly to, gleamed with the fakeness of a veneer, a flashy show in the place of substance. Ciro resented him with a fury, and somehow, naïve little Violetta had the audacity to suggest that his hatred was borne out of envy. Wasting no time to entertain that ludicrous idea, fifteen-year-old Ciro retreated to plot against Evan. However, in due time, his scheming proved altogether unnecessary. All it took was an accusation splattered on the front of a sleazy tabloid or seven, and the interloping American heir had ruined himself, no intervention required. Adelaide was heartbroken, Xanthe was suspiciously self-satisfied, and Ciro was disgustingly smug. With little regard for her grief, he spent the next several weeks informing Adelaide of how right he had been about Evan. Whether the moment was appropriate or not, he was eager to say, “I told you so,” and made a show of it each time he did. Years have passed, and Ciro no longer bothers mentioning Evan, particularly in Adelaide’s presence, having decided long ago that he had spoken his piece, but he still harbors a deep, unjustified resentment for him. His only hope is that the Alexander family remains where they are: lurking in the shadows, licking their wounds, out of sight and out of mind.

estela alvarez — There is something deliciously taboo about Ciro’s longtime fling with Estela Alvarez, and in truth, that makes him all the more invested in it. His attention first latched onto her when she was still dancing at Il Coniglio Nero, provocative and supernal in the dim lighting of his beloved club, and her grip on him has been viselike ever since. However, in the initial stages of their affair, Ciro was more enthralled with her lineage than her. Bedding the granddaughter of Alejandro Herrero was (and still is) a thrill for him, because it provided an opportunity for him to retaliate against Lorenzo Capecchi by crawling into the enemy’s bed and sleeping with her. As far as Ciro is aware, his father never found out about his small act of rebellion, but he received a sort of paltry satisfaction out of it anyway, one that eventually morphed into an attraction to the woman herself, pure and untainted. In comparison to Estela, chasing the skirts of unattainable women like Xanthe Beauregard feels like mere child’s play, and he is reluctant to keep up the pretense of those boyish flirtations. He still keeps an assortment of girls on retainer, each of them ready to heed his beck and call, but Estela is the woman that can be found between his sheets most often. Their vibrant personalities have a tendency to clash, but that occasional friction aside, Ciro prizes and spoils and treasures her, and in spite of his hesitance to involve himself in matters of the heart, he feels deeply for her. When their parents were wed, he made repeated attempts to quell those emotions, driven by the knowledge that their fling would forever be second to the marriage, but those efforts appear to have been in vain. Estela is the worst drug that he knows of, irresistible and devastating at once, but like an addict, Ciro cannot seem to keep himself from coming back to her.

silas beauregard — To be frank, Ciro is fairly certain that Silas Beauregard despises him. The sons of two members of Reginald Avery’s original crew, close in age and fiercely competitive, they have a history spanning back to even before their births, one of teasing cruelty between their fathers, and they have managed to continue that legacy, though on a much realer scale. However, their relationship was not always quite so feral, nor was it always composed purely of vitriolic glares and complacent sneers. In fact, he remembers a time when it was distinctly the opposite: at fourteen, imbued with a certain awkwardness in spite of his dignified upbringing, Ciro found himself developing an upsetting, unwanted crush on his his closest friend’s cousin, two years his elder and possessing a divine elegance. While the feelings confirmed the questions that he had been asking himself about his sexual preferences, they made him feel weak, and he was quick to suppress them. As soon as Ciro began to focus his energy on pursuing Silas’ sister, the feelings he had been experiencing for the Beauregard heir seemed to transform overnight, shifting from gnawing attraction to pure resentment. How dare someone make Ciro Capecchi feel weak just by existing in the same space as him? Like a child denied a toy, he realized the indignities that fate had served him, and in that instant, he decided that he loathed Silas Beauregard. From that moment forward, he acted accordingly. However, he does not, in fact, loathe Silas, particularly since his schoolboy crush has dissipated into nothingness over the decade that has passed since it first emerged; he has, at the most, a mild dislike for the man, which actually puts him rather close to the bottom of Ciro’s lengthy list of enemies. The Italianprincipe oscuro, in all of his savage glory, has always had a proclivity for melodrama, and Silas is simply another hapless victim of it.

lorenzo capecchi — Throughout his life, Ciro’s relationship with his father, the foolhardy and reckless Lorenzo Capecchi, has been tumultuous at best and toxic at absolute worst. Something has always seemed to lack, and in spite of his best efforts to earn his father’s approval via flashy displays of diligence, he has never felt visible or appreciated or welcome in the sleazy underbelly of Palermo. For as long as he can remember, Lorenzo has shown a clear and unabashed preference for his two eldest children, and over the years, that ignorance has proved as damaging to Ciro as the world of depravity and sin that he openly glorifies. While the drugs alter his mind and the liquor burns his throat and the women break his heart, the lack of attention that he receives from his father eats at him, gradually degrading all of the parts of him that were once whole and good, twisting and distorting them into something else entirely, something sinful and selfish and rotten; in his youth, he had aspired to grow up in his father’s image, to eventually be identical to him in every sense of the word, but now, as a disenthralled young man, he only wishes to someday be better than Lorenzo. Unconditional love has morphed into a fierce aggression, one that lacks any consideration for boundaries or territorial sentiments. In other words, Ciro’s current objective is to attain anything that his father holds dear, from Cosa Nostra to the heist and everything else in between, and destroy him and the rest of the Capecchis in the process, with little concern for how long it may take him to succeed.

santino capecchi — From the moment that Santino Capecchi was first brought into the world, screaming for air in a way that made his brother’s blood curdle, something within Ciro envied him, a condition both inexplicable and indelible. He was only five years old at the time of Santino’s birth, still enough of a child for the idyllic fairy tales and swashbuckling pirate stories that their mother told to help lull him to sleep, and yet within a matter of just a few weeks, he had succumbed to a preoccupying resentment for his infant brother. Like a leech, Santino clung to their mother and monopolized the attention that had once been lavished on her middle child, and Ciro absolutely loathed him for it, in spite of the fact that his helplessness could not realistically be avoided. As a consequence and a punishment, Santino received the brunt of Ciro’s cruelty as they grew up. He bullied his brother constantly, but learned early on that he would have to be subtle if he wished to get away with it, and so his torment was never overt. Never scrapes and bruises and sobs, but rather, derision and ridicule. His rancor only subsided when Ciro was a teenager, after he took note of their father’s clear preference for and faith in their older brother; incensed by Lorenzo’s ignorance and envious of Tommaso, his anger shifted permanently, and Santino was left unburdened by his brother’s ire. Their relationship cooled, and over time, Ciro grew to care for him in a way that he had assumed impossible for the better part of his life. Despite initial reservations, he eventually came to respect and even admire his brother, and that makes his plans to disintegrate his family all the more painful. He knows that if one of them is deserving of punishment, they all are, but that knowledge does not make ruining his brother any easier on what shreds remain of his conscience. What keeps him steady through his confliction is the quiet reassurance that not even Santino is innocent. After all, he, too, has blood caked into the crevices of his Apollonian hands and lies sleeping beneath his tongue; he, too, has a graveyard of sins and a mouth full of rotting golden teeth, gums blackened and sunken from the sweet decay of opulent vice. Ciro may pity the man, but he will never allow himself to pity the deed that will destroy him.

magnus lee — Growing up an heir to a fortune of inconceivable size is difficult. Although privilege pervades nearly every aspect of his life, there is a persistent, insurmountable despondency that has followed Ciro since birth. His efforts to drown it in booze and drugs and women have never proved successful at anything other than robbing him of his sobriety, and beneath his bravado, his melancholic boredom lingers. In spite of coming from different worlds within the heist, that leads Ciro to suspect that he and Magnus Lee are not entirely unlike each other. The pair have a taciturn friendship, one built on a foundation of parties and poker chips, but there is a parallelism between the two that is difficult to ignore. While Ciro has spent the better part of his life trying desperately to impress his father, Magnus was born with Raphael Lee’s faith already invested in him, and he rejected it. He grew up with the one thing that Ciro has always desired laid on a silver platter and placed in the palm of his hand, but with an impressive disappearing act, he utterly destroyed it. As a consequence, the two now serve as unexpected, but perfect foils to each other: the heir who spurned power and the one who hungers for it. However, their friendship does not revolve around the ways that they mirror each other, but rather, how they can best cheat the other out of their hard-earned money. Ciro is a man of many, many vices, and gambling is just another one of them, but he is often reluctant to submit himself to the presence of the common folk of casinos. In short, they lack the finesse that he values in a gambler, and that is where Magnus enters. Ciro lauds his talent with cards and chips, and he is, by far, his favorite person to wager against. They visit casinos together often, arm in arm, a devilish smile painted on each of their faces, and in return, the Lee progeny frequents the parties held at Il Coniglio Nero. In the entire world, there is nobody that Ciro prefers to lose to than Magnus.

adelaide rothschild — Much like a collector who has amassed a surfeit of wares, Ciro has accrued a handful of women he collectively refers to as his girls. They are sacrosanct playthings to him, past conquests to be kept on retainer for future use, and he spoils each of them recklessly. Belonging to this exclusive clique is a status defined by a steady trickle of fine jewels and couture dresses and pricey foodstuffs. In short, Ciro spares no expense on pampering his women, and in exchange, they heed his calls, a relationship that is eerily comparable to that of courtesan and client. He has never struggled in attaining new girls, but something about his small harem has always seemed to lack, and in a cruel parallel of so many of Adelaide Rothschild and Xanthe Beauregard’s experiences with men, Ciro has spent nearly a decade ignoring the former in favor of pursuing of the latter. Until recent months, the Rothschild heiress had never been extended so much as an invitation to his bed, save for the occasional contemptuous summons; he had never required her presence between his silken sheets because he had instead savored the years of fierce warfare that they had been engaged in since his besotted gaze first fell on Xanthe. Every withering glare, every snide remark and cutting word exchanged between Adelaide and Ciro brought him a repulsive sort of pleasure, and as a result, he quickly developed a reputation for deliberately instigating arguments just for the sake of seeing her getting worked up. In the months after Evan Alexander fled from their world, Adelaide grew ever more acerbic, her words spat out with more vitriol and less elegance than they ever had before, and in return, Ciro grew ever more infatuated with their hostilities. His captivation with her has mounted in recent months, and the rancor between them has as well. However, as much as Ciro adores seeing Adelaide bare her teeth and snarl at him, he also knows that he would much rather watch her bare other parts of herself for his pleasure.

hale rothschild — In the grand scheme of things, Ciro and Hale Rothschild are brothers first and foremost, friends second, and associates third; in other words, he values their fraternity more than he does their friendship and their friendship more than he does their fraud, and he does not foresee that changing in the near future. Ciro respects and cares for the Rothschild progeny with everything in him, and if there is anyone on the face of the Earth that he believes is as capable and intelligent as himself, it is Hale, his sole confidante. It almost amuses him, how they have evolved from childhood games of hide-and-seek and champagne jelly beans to where they are today, but he would not change them for all the money in the world. Hale is a shoulder to lean on, a pillar of strength (though he would never dare admit out loud that he uses him as such), and Ciro is fond of likening them to pairs like Frank and Jesse James, Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, and Leopold and Loeb—criminal duos from years gone by and the undeserving subjects of Ciro’s reverence—largely because he sees little distinction between them and the great crooks of the past. If anything, he believes that they are better. However, in spite of Ciro’s utter dependence on Hale, something always seems to be lacking, and he has never been able to wholly identify what it is. At first, he suspected that he was perhaps envious of Hale’s Kingfishers, but envy is an old friend of Ciro’s, one that he knows well, and this is a different feeling altogether. While he roisters, Hale idles, and there appears to be nothing that Ciro can say or do to fully rouse his friend to the decadence that he enjoys so thoroughly. They still cavort across the globe together, arm in tuxedoed arm, but there is a part of Ciro that fears their exploits may soon be coming to a grinding halt.

cecily villiers — Cecily Villiers, although young and sickly and useless, is a girl that Ciro finds especially peculiar, and despite writing her off as clumsy and awkward long ago, he finds himself musing on her place within the heist more often than he would like to readily admit. He finds it strange, baffling even, that a child of Francis Villiers, the Thief Lord, lacks the most basic abilities required to thieve and con, and he frequently ponders how such an inherently contradictory situation was ever allowed to occur. As if she were not eclipsed enough by her own father, Cecily appears particularly ineffectual in the shadows cast by her elder siblings, an unfortunate circumstance that Ciro empathizes with in spite of his distaste for the girl. Amid his recurrent contemplation of her struggle, Ciro has, in fact, considered that Cecily’s ineptitude could be excused, were she to shine in even one disciple of delinquency, but he has seen little evidence of her excelling at anything in particular. With no criminal prowess, she becomes a liability, and any insight that Ciro has into her plight is forsaken in favor of protecting his trade. Rather than attempt to relate to Cecily in any substantial way, he instead regularly toys with her, his express purpose embarrassing her. She is far too young to be a legitimate conquest of his, and he is well aware of it, but he has made a habit of flirting with her anyway. To the best of his ability, he keeps his language tame and unassertive, and that alone seems to do the trick of making the flush rise in her cheeks and the stutter emerge in her speech. Out of fear of Francis and respect for Evie, Ciro would never dare to legitimately toe that boundary, but it brings him more than enough satisfaction just to see Cecily grow uncomfortable.

charles villiers — Although he does not possess the discernibly brutish choler of the Capecchis, Charles Villiers shares an insidious guile with Ciro, irreplicable in nature and indicative of their mutual capability for delinquency. In another world, Ciro may have sought out Charles to serve as a mentor or adviser in place of the one that he lacks in Italy; alas, their world has not played out to such a fanciful end. Growing up, Ciro did admire Charles, to a certain extent, though he was an adolescent before he ever saw much of him in the flesh. Between Charles’ voyage to Jamaica, his obligations to his enigma of an uncle, and Ciro’s youth, there was little chance for the two to ever feasibly cross paths, and perhaps for good reason. Even as a child, Ciro was a force of nature, all wide eyes and devilish grins, and a pair of dynamic personalities acting together can end one of two ways: terrific or terrible. Years later, after the little Italian principe had been given ample time to play catch up with the rest of the heist, they met their end not with an explosive spectacle, but an underhanded, tactical move that left Ciro in a catatonia of astonishment and anger. In all truth, Charles most likely did not recruit Artemesia Cipriani into his gang of Daggers with the sole intention of riling Ciro, but it often feels that way. He had laid claim to her first; some part of him may have even loved her (crookedly because crooked was the only way that he knew how), and it all appeared to have been for naught because Charles, aided by his own vicious sister, had swept in and plucked her from his grasp, lacking an ounce of contrition. In another world, Ciro may have looked to Charles as a mentor, but in this one, he looks to him as a rival.

evie villiers — If Ciro is Butch Cassidy and Hale is his Sundance Kid, Evie Villiers is their enigmatic Etta Place, the final puzzle piece required to round out their little trio. There is a delicate refinement to her, an unattainable noblesse and a peculiar elegance, and even Ciro, who claims immunity to such resplendent qualities, often finds himself utterly enthralled by her. She is a force of nature with a powerful charisma steeped in her blood, and he sometimes muses that perhaps if their paths had crossed differently or if he were a different man altogether, he, too, would have fallen in love with the ebullient glow in her dark eyes and the bluster in her speech. Instead, Ciro harbors a deep respect for Evie and the capable thief that she has proven herself to be, one that is entirely platonic in its nature. Were she anybody else, he would have grown envious of her position as leader of the Magpies and accused her of lording over the group in a fashion not dissimilar to the way her father lords over the society as a whole. Forfeiting his envy in favor of friendship, Ciro stands loyally at her side, satisfied for the first time in nearly seven years not to be in charge; she temporarily quiets the power-hungry beast that has taken root in his belly, and there is a part of him is grateful for it. When he is with her, he does not plot or scheme, except to steal, and even then, those subterfuges are ones that they concoct together. On the nights Hale is consumed by his oppressive languor and unable to romp with him, Ciro turns immediately to Evie in the hope that she will fill his shoes, and more often than not, she does. He admires her as a woman and as a thief, and he enjoys her presence, but most of all, Ciro is grateful for Evie. She fills a space in his life that would otherwise be lacking, and if that presence were to disappear, much like the way Etta Place herself vanished from history books, he believes that an lonely, unwelcome hollowness would come over him. If that were to happen, he is not entirely certain what he would do.

II. WRITING

Para Sample(s):

Blinding sunshine glinted off of the exterior walls of Villa Capecchi as the oppressive heat of early August soaked itself into each of the crevices and alcoves of the seaside abode. Massive and threatening, the villa was a sprawling fortress nestled against the precipice of the rocky cliffside, a terracotta façade looming powerfully over the turquoise waters of the Mediterranean Sea. Heavy midsummer air hung thick and stagnant around the Capecchis’ home, a wet blanket of humidity pooling between skin and cloth, leaving a moist and sticky film on everything that it touched. The sound of waves breaking against the shore echoed from below the villa’s clifftop perch, carrying with it the briny scent of seawater and a cool, forgiving breeze. From within the home resonated its usual bustle: the piercing sound of men barking orders in sharp Italian, the clack of dogs’ claws against glistening marble tile, the low purr of various female voices, the operatic tune carried from the antique record player in Lorenzo Capecchi’s private office. In short, nothing appeared out of place. Silhouetted by an expanse of clear blue and tufts of soft white, the midday sun hung high as it cast its light over the villa and the three bodies laid out within one of its many open courtyards, their bronzed limbs splayed lazily across cushioned chaises.

In the soft haze of early afternoon, idling in the sunshine, the trio—a girl of no older than fourteen or fifteen and her two male companions, each of the three’s complexions sun-kissed and glowing—evoked the image of the ancient Roman pantheon. Their resemblance was evident at a mere glance; the smooth curves of their lithe bodies, their languid movement, the golden luster gently glistening atop their tans, and the self-possessed way in which they drawled to each other all spoke of an ancient divinity, one that could only be discovered buried beneath the rubble and ruin of the temples of yesteryear. Conversation among the three was not frequent, mostly because their basking lent itself more to a comfortable silence than idle chatter, but when they did speak with each other, they did so with a confidence that flowed freely from between their teeth and suspended itself tangible in the open air. Lacking a reasonable explanation for their rampant arrogance and alluring beauty, they had turned to the divine, and as they lounged beneath the sun, even they seemed aware of their holiness.

The girl, impeccably poised with locks of dark hair intricately plaited so as to keep it away from her face, could have been Minerva herself, the patron goddess of wisdom and symbol of strategic warfare. She spoke with tender conviction and a prepossessing wit, carried herself with an elegant impertinence, and radiated authority; both of her companions appeared to be utterly enamored of her presence. On her far right was a young Apollo, the patron god of the sun, all long limbs with an absent smile twisted onto his pink mouth, hands folded beneath his head and kaleidoscopic eyes slid shut. There was something inherently boyish about his disposition, from the crossing of his bony ankles to the slight tilt of his strong chin, and this youthfulness only appeared to build the longer that the three lounged there. After some time, his sprightly demeanor seemed to cause a gentle glow to emanate from where he lay, a soft sheen not unlike the radiance of the sun. He was a child of sunshine basking in his own brilliance, a bright and shining beacon stretched out comfortably in the center of a courtyard of Villa Capecchi, effortless and enticing all at once.

Laid between them was the third of their group: a withdrawn and pensive young man, mouth pressed into a firm line and one dainty hand curled around a crystal snifter. It was filled with some unidentifiable liquor, tawny in color, that he had been absently sipping for several hours. He was just a few months shy of eighteen, but the hard angles of his face and the severity of his expression did not betray his youth; his demeanor spoke instead of a grotesque, acquisitive opulence and a sophistication attainable only after a number of years living with the taste of silver in one’s mouth. In the soft light cast by the afternoon sun, the boy appeared serious and contemplative, a stark contrast against his languid and relaxed companions, although he shared their bronzed complexion and divine composure. Just beneath the surface of his handsome, chiseled exterior hid a darkness, barely restrained, lurking insidiously in the turbid gold and muddy green of his whiskey-colored eyes; it was only the most obvious sign of the recklessness inherent to his person, the foolhardiness that, when unleashed, was capable of wreaking havoc. This boy was Mars, patron god of war and destruction, violence pulsing white-hot and angry in his bloodstream, anger bubbling tempestuously beneath surface, his gaze fixed on something in the distance that neither Minerva nor Apollo could perceive.

Eventually, he spoke, and the illusion was shattered. Their holiness crumbled to dust, to dirt, to ash, all in an instant, and it became obvious that the trio were sunbathing adolescents, not the Roman deities of years passed.

“You know, Hale, when I invited you to spend the summer with me, there was a part of me that thought you wouldn’t come,” he murmured, his words warped by a thick and unmistakable accent. The English language came effortlessly to Ciro, his mouth curving around the syllables of the foreign tongue with ease, but he had never quite managed to eliminate the Italian timbre from his speech, and his companions suffered for it. Time dragged forward slowly, the quiet of the courtyard thick and weighty, as if he were making a careful decision on what to say next; after a long moment of sun-drenched silence slipped by, he finally continued: “After all, why laze away the days with Evangeline and I when you could be off chasing the skirts of Parisian women?”

Hale laughed then, a dry chuckle coated in derision, and shifted lazily onto his side, eyes sliding open in search of his friend. His shirt, an expensive white button-down that he had matched that morning to a pair of cuffed khaki shorts, crumpled beneath him as he moved, leaving creases and lines where the fabric had previously been smooth, but the crinkling went unnoticed by the trio. After all, none of them had ever been the type to cry over spilled milk (or, in this case, wrinkled linen). Once his eyesight had adjusted to the sudden wash of bright sunlight, it took just a moment for Hale’s gaze to find Ciro’s, glowing hazel locking with deep chestnut in an instant. In spite of his disparagement, his mouth was still curled upwards, his gleaming white teeth still exposed in a boyish grin. His look was one of disgruntlement, but happiness. The moment that his smile faltered and his expression was replaced with one of furrowed brows and skepticism, that changed.

With an intense exasperation, Ciro said, “Oh, don’t look at me like that.” There was an indistinct lilt to his voice, a slight twinge of barely suppressed laughter, and although his firm line of a mouth did not betray his amusement, the playful glint in his eyes did. From his chaise, he could see an identical bout of laughter threaten to burst from Hale’s lips, but he, too, was just able to curb it; its only outward manifestation was a slight smile, toying at the corners of his mouth, and a soft, throaty snort. Contrary to how it may have appeared, this kind of mischievous back and forth was not at all unfamiliar to the boys. The vast majority of their time together was spent teasing each other relentlessly and quelling girlish giggles, and over their many years of friendship, they had learned to drop any pretense of maturity or sophistication when in the presence of each other.

“Like what, Ciro?” Hale asked after a long moment. The cadence of his voice rose and fell rhythmically as he murmured his friend’s name in a gentle singsong, and that, coupled with his furrowed brows, conveyed a look of innocent questioning across his features. To anyone else, his skepticism may have appeared genuine, but his friend—more accurately, his brother—was not just anyone.

“Like how you’re looking at me, stronzo,” Ciro said, peering through Hale’s transparent attempt at incredulity with ease. As he spoke, his eyes rolled in a blatant act of snide dismission and then slid shut. Sprawling lazily across the chaise, he took a long drink from his snifter and drained it in the process, apparently ready to return to sunbathing. However, the swiftness with which their companion—who had previously been mentioned as Evangeline, but preferred Evie—raised her head and looked at Ciro, an accosting gleam in her dark eyes, indicated that the meaning of his insult had not been lost on her. Although he was unable to see it, there was a small fragment of her expression that spoke of a gentle disappointment. For the most part, though, the subtle quirk of her strong eyebrows and the small but quizzical smile on her mouth suggested some sort of challenge.

Her gaze still fixed intently on Ciro, Evie clucked her tongue chidingly and said, “Don’t tell me you kiss your mother with that mouth.”

Without a beat, he responded, “No, cara, of course not.” His brows pulled together as if he were confused or even offended by her accusations, but his eyes remained closed, the orange light from the sun dancing gently behind them. Ciro’s vision remained obstructed as Evie relaxed, the fabricated tension in her face quickly dissipating as a giggle began to bubble up from within her chest. However, her laugh, undoubtedly accompanied by some clever quip, was cut abruptly short when he added, almost as an afterthought, “Just yours.”

Neither Hale nor Evie were able to get a word in edgewise before a familiar voice sounded from the shaded portico behind them, gruff and accented and altogether unwelcome in their brief moment of youthful tomfoolery. Although the trio’s reaction was initially delayed, each of them hesitating to glance back and acknowledge their intruder, it was immediately apparent that the voice was that of Bastian Castillo, one of Lorenzo’s many companions and advisors, standing with his pair of ugly dogs in a stream of radiant sunlight that was partially obstructed by the thick stone column on his right. When Ciro did crane his neck back to look at him, he was somewhat surprised to see that the man, who was midway through his thirties and stood as if his body were naturally sloped to the left, appeared even wearier than usual. It was obvious even from where the three teenagers lounged that some kind of stress had taken hold of him, robbing him of the fire that normally lay dormant, but flickering in the deepest hues of his eyes.

Clearing his throat, loud and brusque, Bastian said, “I don’t mean to interrupt, but your father asked that I collect you.” His gaze lay intent on Ciro and Ciro alone; Hale and Evie seemed to register as insignificant presences, barely there and of little importance.

Ever an antagonistic little spitfire, Ciro’s only reply was to roll his eyes once more, turn away from the portico, and say, “I actually believe that that would be the very definition of interrupting.” Without waiting for Bastian to respond, he resumed his conversation with his friends, the beginning of a squabble on the horizon. However, their chat did not get far, because within a few seconds, the young Capecchi felt the hard tug of a hand on the scruff of his neck, weathered and scarred fingers hooking themselves on the linen collar wrapped loosely around his throat. The only warning of Bastian’s approach had been the dull clack of his shoes against the stone tiles of the courtyard, a sound that had been ignored entirely by the trio in favor of quarreling with each other.

Bastian’s voice was quiet, its bite barely audible above the distant crash of waves against the cliffside, but lacked any semblance of gentleness when he said, “I think you misunderstood me, Ciro. That wasn’t a request.” The silence that fell over the group then lay thick and heavy like molasses, a burden that seemed to choke each adolescent with an insidious dismay. While they remained enveloped in the soft glow of the midday sun and the briny scent of seawater, the tone of the courtyard had shifted considerably. It felt abruptly serious, like something had gone horribly wrong, something that the three of them had not yet been deemed important enough to know about. Now that Bastian had closed in on them, Ciro could see the worry smoldering in his eyes and the tension embedded in the lines of his face. That kind of pronounced upset was rare in a man like Bastian Castillo. He was not the type to wear his heart on his sleeve, much less his anxiety, and so with every second that ticked by, Ciro could feel a sinister apprehension begin to build within the cavity of his chest, creeping up his throat and threatening to spill out of him like the ugliest kind of vomit.

Mustering as much nonchalance as he was able to, Ciro rose, brushed traces of invisible dirt off of his salmon-colored shorts, and muttered, “He had better make it quick.” With that, he followed Bastian through the massive villa to his father’s office; when they arrived, the room was dark and eerily quiet, the record player cold and silent, and Lorenzo sat behind his heavy, gleaming mahogany desk with a cigar to his lips and his fist clenched tightly around something that Ciro could not quite make out. Seated in the two tufted leather chairs before the desk were his two younger siblings, beautiful Violetta and handsome Santino, confused expressions twisted onto each of their faces. The moment that he opened his mouth to question the situation laid out in front of him, his father unfurled his fist so that he could raise his hand and silence him; out of it tumbled a crushed piece of paper, its writing warped and illegible from where Ciro stood in the doorway.

Unbeknownst to Ciro, he was in the calm before the storm. His life had splintered and fallen apart without his knowledge, and his father had already begun to deal with the fallout, but he was just on the verge of discovering the true extent of the upset that he had perceived. Unfair as it was, he had already experienced his last moments of truly happy, truly vulnerable youth; in time, he would come to yearn for it again, but the death of his childhood was quickly approaching. Ciro had thought that Bastian was leading him to just another meeting with his father, but in truth, he had been led to his own execution, one decreed by a note written in his mother’s hand.

Starter Example:

Idling between two of the trees lining the front terrace of the magnificent Chescote Manor, a cigarette smoldering between his lips, Ciro could not help but observe how brightly the stars seemed to glow in the wide expanse of midnight blanketing the English countryside. That is not to say that they did not shine in Palermo, pricking the night sky with their soft light, but here, the atmosphere was distinctly different. The stars of Ciro’s home illuminated the sea beneath them, lighting up the Mediterranean coast with luster and effulgence, but in Berkshire, the heart of the Villiers’ domain, theirnest, surrounded by the ambience of antique aristocracy, the stars seemed to glitter like diamonds.

He took a long drag off of his cigarette and, after a moment, exhaled a stream of smoke into the night. There was a metaphor lost somewhere in his thoughts that Ciro wasn’t quite sober enough to decode, and like the wisps of gray slowly fading into pungent nothing, he let it go. He had stumbled drunkenly out to the grounds of the manor in hopes of finding a moment of peace and quiet in the midst of the Villiers’ New Year Ball, and his cigarette and his place between the trees had provided him that. However, the familiar sound of footfalls approaching the grand entrance to the manor indicated that his solitude would quickly be coming to a close.

When the interloper came into full view, Ciro was not able to fully suppress a chuckle. In his drunken state, he lacked the prudence to withhold any unnecessary remarks, and without even announcing his presence, he stepped forward and asked, “You really decided to wear that? For this?”

III. FREESTYLE/EXTRA

Headcanons:

pets — A handful of years ago, Ciro decided to adopt a pair of purebred Ragdoll cats from a newborn litter of kitten with little to no warning provided for his family. Part of him had been longing for a companion with a semblance of permanence in his life for a while, but he stubbornly refused to accept the attention of a man or woman outside of his many sordid affairs, preferring transience and solitude to the risk of vulnerability that comes with monogamy. Instead, he sought his companionship in a pet, and, through an unexpected twist of fate, ended up with two: a red female and a solid black male. In a clear nod to the ancient Roman pantheon, he gave them the names Bellona and Bacchus, the former the goddess of war and the latter the god of intoxication. His cats’ namesakes reflect his aptitude for violence and dissatisfaction with sobriety well and, at the same time, serve as a subtle homage to Italy, his precious patria. Bellona, with her orange-tinged fur, is largely independent, lounging lazily on chaises around Villa Capecchi and almost always rebuffing Ciro’s attempts at affection. She eagerly sinks her teeth into the flesh of strangers and is quick to pick fights with Bastian Castillo’s massive guard dogs, and Ciro adores her for that, but he is not able to stave off the envy that bubbles up within him when Bellona voluntarily approaches his friends (generally Hale or Evie), imbued with far more warmth than he ever receives from her. On the other hand, Bacchus is obsessed with Ciro, clinging to and following him constantly, desperate for the affection that Bellona rejects. His purr deafens, and at times, his clinginess gets tiresome, but Ciro treasures his large ball of black fluff. In fact, just over three years have passed since the cats’ adoption, and he dotes on and spoils them like it is still just their first day as Capecchis. From collars encrusted with diamonds to luxurious beds threaded in gold, no expense is spared on his gattini, and he would not have it any other way. Much to the amusement of his many colleagues, it seems as though the singular soft spot of the mafia’s principe oscurois one of fluff and fur.

religious affiliation — The Capecchis—the devils of Palermo, swathed in obsidian silk and permanently reeking of false divinity and unrepentant arrogance—have never been welcome guests in the Lord’s house. They hail from the motherland of Catholicism and claim proud Italian heritage, but lack any substantial footing in the faith whose tenets run so deeply into the essence of their beloved country. Lorenzo Capecchi has always fancied himself holy, and that belief alone appears to have prevented any of his gaggle of children from pursuing religious enlightenment, his third-born in particular. However, that is not to say that Ciro has led a life entirely devoid of worship. In his infancy, he was baptized into the Catholic church at the Palermo Cathedral, the dark hair lining his scalp sprinkled with holy water as dead kings lay entombed around him. The ceremony was held out of tradition rather than any real allegiance to Catholicism, as was his Confirmation, and he cannot recollect a moment in his life that he has spent within that cathedral outside of the two rites. There were times in his youth, though few and far between, when Ciro sought out confessionals in misguided attempts to cleanse himself of lingering guilt over actions and feelings that he had not entirely come to terms with, but the cathedral never served him in that purpose; he was always careful to pursue his penance elsewhere. However, in spite of all of this, Ciro would never attempt to lay claim to Catholicism. From his perspective, he is not Catholic, because, like his father before him, he is both blasphemous and arrogant, and he clings like a vice to the idea that he is holy.

weaponry — In addition to his beloved revolver, Ciro has a rather wide assortment of other weapons that he wields on a regular basis, ranging from his own marred knuckles to sharp blades kept hidden in discreet leather sheathes. For the most part, he favors his revolver; there is a certain thrill that comes with firing a gun that he believes simply cannot be replicated, and even after all this time, he still gets that rush. However, guns are often impractical, and even mulish Ciro is capable of admitting that. They can be far too obvious and far too loud, and as technological advances emerge in blatant attempts to keep pace with modern criminals, far too traceable. This dilemma sometimes forces the young principe oscuro to resort to blades: a much messier weapon, one that requires a degree of otherwise unwarranted personal contact with whoever is unfortunate enough to be on the receiving end of his blows. In spite of his preference for firearms, Ciro frequently keeps a pair of knives—antiquities, like his revolver, and exquisite in their design—concealed in wrist sheathes, hidden away from prying eyes, while his gun stays beneath his jacket in a leather shoulder holster. The purpose the blades serve most often is not the one they are intended for, but a rather unsavory one instead: to cut sharp lines of cocaine in the intimate back rooms of Il Coniglio Nero while lithe, glittering bodies drape themselves on velvet chaises around Ciro. Meanwhile, his fists tell an entirely different story. While he considers himself above the grimy barbarism of Cosa Nostra’s underground fighting rings, he still enjoys the feeling of skin splitting and bone splintering beneath his bloodied knuckles and frequently seeks out brawls, most often when he has been otherwise incensed by some immutable force. Ciro’s fighting is treated like a hobby, something to be done by bored youths under mutual consent by the laze of afternoon or the lull of late evening, and as such, he fights without the savagery that the rings’ fighters have adapted to. His punches lack real force, and he secretly fears what would happen to him if he were forced to brawl for his life. Beneath that fear, Ciro has a wolf’s heart, and like all other children of the moon, he, too, has grown accustomed to the taste of blood in his mouth.

Mock Blog:

I’ve been reblogging and posting things onto a mock blog for the past few weeks in an attempt to both inspire myself and showcase parts of Ciro that I felt I couldn’t effectively convey through writing. There are well over a hundred posts on the blog, so I entirely understand if neither of you are able to go through all of it. In the interest of time, here is a tag of posts that I’ve made. It’s rather short and primarily things like questionnaires and character development surveys.

Playlist:

This is sort of a playlist. I say ‘sort of’ because it just doesn’t really have much of a structure. Normally, when I make playlists, I try my best to stick to fewer than twenty songs and dedicate a couple of hours to ensuring that they flow, but that simply wasn’t happening with Ciro. I couldn’t stick to just one genre, nor could I limit myself to fewer than twenty songs, so instead, I ended up making a gigantic song dump. I pretty much went through my entire Spotify library (and then some), added every single song with lyrics that reminded me of him, regardless of whether or not they flowed with each other, and I ended up with this mess. Some songs are more on the serious side, but there are a lot of fun, silly ones, too, which I think is a nice break from his intensity. Again, I totally understand if you don’t have the time to listen to all it!

[fromtraveldiaries]

The Heir of Lingaraj Book Store

Rakesh Nayak joined our class in grade 5. His transfer to our class was a result of language choices all of us had to make early on in our lives. Each one of us had to give in writing to the school the language we wanted to study from among Odia and Sanskrit. I couldn’t understand why we had to make a choice and couldn’t study both. So a few kids were transferred to our class, an Odia section, Rakesh one of them. A scrawny kid having a bony face with an aquiline nose, a protruding Adam’s apple, and mischievous eyes is how I remember him.

We hardly interacted with each other till probably the last 2 years of school. Our early interactions were limited to shouting to each other asking for a pass when we were on the same football team and glaring at and pushing each other when we were on opposite sides. He was surprisingly strong and immovable for a wiry kid. He was given the nickname Dhedi Nayak, dhedi is an Odia slang for lean. Though he wasn’t tall, he used to sit in one of the last rows in the class where the taller kids sat. The occupants of these rows invariably didn’t perform well in exams. I am not sure if they sat there because they weren’t good at studies or if they weren’t good at studies because they sat there. I can’t quite recall if they sat there of their own accord or were made to sit there. I don’t remember a lot of things from back then but I remember learning 2 things about Rakesh a few years after he moved to our class. One, he played table tennis and was apparently quite good at it. Other students used to talk about his matches and wins or losses from time to time. I came to know that he used to go for practice on all days after school and over weekends. I don’t know where he practiced or who he was coached by. In retrospect, I think I was a rather incurious kid who didn’t bother to find out about things that didn’t concern him, especially about his friends or classmates - a trait I’ve regrettably carried to this day. The other thing I learnt about him was that his father owned the Lingaraj Book Store, a rather famous schoolbooks store in the vicinity of our school. You could get schoolbooks in Lingaraj Book Store that were unavailable elsewhere. As smaller kids, we used to go there with Mom to buy Diamond comics. It was a small store but was located at a busy crossroads in the city that was frequented by schoolkids and their parents along with daily laborers, office goers, college kids, railway employees, rickshawpullers, and riff-raff. Part of the crowd in that area was also due to Tip-Top Saloon, a hair salon for men with an old white-haired proprietor and the Kalpana Talkies theatre, a shady establishment that screened soft-porn and B-grade movies.

It was probably in grade 9 that Rakesh made attempts at getting better in class. Like a few others, he had probably realized that board exams were less than a couple of years away and that it was time to break away from the general mediocrity that afflicted the back-benchers and initiate the process of moving up in life by being serious about studies and securing good marks in the 10th board. We were all told by everyone around us that getting good marks in the board exams was our ticket out of the school, the small city, and the dreary working life of the lower middle-class in general. It didn’t help that most of us weren’t particularly interested in getting out at all. We didn’t see the school, the city, or being a part of the working lower middle-class section of our society as things that we needed to escape from. But we didn’t have the temerity to say that aloud and tried, or pretended to try, to take our studies seriously in the last 2 years of school. Meanwhile, having experienced a spurt of sudden growth, I had been moved to the second-last bench myself and found Rakesh sitting right behind me in class. It was then that our interactions increased.

I wasn’t a particularly bright student but Rakesh was somehow determined to take advantage of our physical proximity and consequently, used to borrow my note books. We used to exchange notes, share class and home work, and gossip about this and that in general. His grades improved slightly over the months just as the defects in my football skills became more pronounced. He invited me a few times to his home, an offer I haven’t taken up till date. He often used to visit our home, for notes, clarifying doubts, or just to kill time for a while. I became acutely aware of his athleticism and physique when once he changed clothes displaying a ripped body with an 8-pack abs with absolutely no fat on him at all. Regular exercise and table tennis practice had chiselled his body into perfection. I recall chuckling at his nonchalance when I drew attention to this and contrasted his attitude with some other classmates who didn’t have great physique but bragged nonetheless about visiting the gym daily. It was a big deal for a school kid in Bhubaneshwar to have gym membership and these mates of mine talked and acted like they were the descendants of Adonis himself.

I used to think that Rakesh was lucky to have a bookstore at his disposal, what with all the teachers asking us to buy multiple practice books and question banks in the 10th grade. For Rakesh it was an albatross around his neck though. Most teachers used to ridicule him on account of his average marks and often said he was undeserving of the study materials that he had access to. Many teachers also told the class that we must all study harder than Rakesh because he was the son of a flourishing businessman and his future was secure whereas we were the kids of lowly paid government employees. They conveniently used to forget that whereas Rakesh’s father had only a small bookstore there were others whose fathers had bigger businesses, were powerful bureaucrats, or were influential in the corridors of power. The heir of Lingaraj book store, he was christened. The same teachers shamelessly used to ask Rakesh to get materials for them or used to visit the bookstore directly and appropriate stationery and question banks without payment. Rakesh never talked about any of this, but it was there for all to see. If he felt bad when he was mocked in the classroom he never displayed any emotion to betray his feelings. He was as cheerful and enthusiastic as they come. I have only a few fading memories of our chats in the classroom. If I was in trouble then he figuratively had my back, sitting right behind me.

After the board exams we went to different colleges and lost touch. Occasionally I used to pass by his bookstore and he used to wave at me from his seat at the counter, always excited to see an old friend, always smiling. After moving to a different city for work, I used to look for him while passing by his store on my visits home. I never saw him there. A couple of times I saw his father but never cared to go inside the store and strike a conversation or ask about Rakesh. One day, I got a friend request from him on Facebook. He sent a flurry of messages asking about my whereabouts and well being. The same gushing warmth and unfailing enthusiasm as the kid who I had befriended in school. I distinctly remember that I was busy with work during that time and neither reciprocated his enthusiasm nor responded properly to him. I made a note to myself to get back to him but never did. Soon thereafter, I quit Facebook and lost all contact with Rakesh. On subsequent visits home, I rarely passed by his bookstore. The few times I did, I didn’t see him or his father. Either the bookstore was shut or new employees were at the counter. I didn’t pay much attention to this as I had taken it for granted that whenever I wanted to revive my connection with Rakesh, I just had to enter the bookstore and ask for him.

Last year a school friend informed me that Rakesh had passed away. He didn’t know when or where or how but he confirmed that he had checked his Facebook account and had seen RIP messages all over his wall. It came as a shock. A few months earlier we had lost another school friend Sidhanta to cancer and it was difficult to believe that Rakesh too had departed now. On asking around I discovered that most of our classmates were either unaware of his demise or had no information about how it came to transpire. Earlier this month on our visit home, I went to Lingaraj Book Store, 21 years after passing out from school. The big neon signboard at the entrance proclaiming the shop to be the sole dealer for specific question banks and all CBSE and ICSE books had been replaced by a small glow signboard that just said Lingaraj Variety Store. The shelves held grocery items along with stationery and note books. The imposing counter was missing and a rickety partition acted as the barrier between the shopkeeper and the customer. A young man was sitting on a stool at the head of this partition. I thought his face resembled Rakesh’s. I didn’t even know if and how many siblings he had. The young man was Rakesh’s younger brother.

He confirmed that Rakesh had passed away in 2018, a year after the death of their father. He said something about him hitting his head at home after a fall in a drunken state and breathing his last at a small private hospital. It seems that Lingaraj book store had fallen on hard times and the last few years had been terrible for business. With online retailers and other new-age competitors aggressively snatching their clientele, Rakesh’s father had bet big on exclusively publishing question banks for board and competitive exams to revive their business. But the exam patterns themselves had changed and anyways umpteen question banks were available online for free. The investment fell flat and the business never revived after that. The huge financial loss they incurred took a toll on the family. Their father lost interest in the business and became erratic at managing the store. Being the eldest son, it fell on Rakesh’s shoulders to manage both the family and the business. Though his heart wasn’t in it, he sat reluctantly at the store. Meanwhile, constant drinking damaged his father’s physical and mental health. The severity of the loss ate him away from inside. The atmosphere at home became corrosive and there were regular fights and arguments. Their father died a bitter man, heartbroken till the end. Their father’s death hastened Rakesh’s dive into an abyss of drinking problems and bad habits. His liver was damaged due to heavy drinking and he suffered a serious bout of jaundice for which he was hospitalized for a prolonged period. After that he developed high blood pressure and had to be hospitalized again. The business was as good as dead. After getting home from the hospital, he continued drinking and his health deteriorated steadily. One night, he got up from bed to fetch himself a glass of water, lost balance, and hit his head resulting in heavy blood loss. He was rushed to a hospital and put on ventilator. He died within 4 hours of admission. His brother paused for a long time after the narration.

I bid goodbye and left the store hastily. I went to a wedding from there and didn’t really ponder over what I felt after hearing about the manner of Rakesh’s demise. It was only the next day when I had some time to myself that I realized Rakesh had died a needlessly early death like countless others in a dimly lit hospital ward in utter anonymity. If his father or he had received economic assistance in time, or if only he had someone to talk to about his troubles before irreversible despair set in, perhaps he wouldn’t have spiralled into self-destruction. If only his friends were there for him, he would be alive. I kicked myself for not returning his messages on Facebook and not walking up to him when he used to wave at me from their store. The loss of a friend is not only a reminder of one’s own mortality but also a reflection of the friendship you shared. If you aren’t there by your friends’ side when they need it the most, then it speaks more about you than your friend or their situation. I realize as I type that in a typical defensive and self-righteous manner, I have turned this into a piece that’s more about myself than Rakesh. I’ll probably forget Rakesh’s misery in a few days and return to living my life. His family will also eventually come to grips with their loss, but the anguish that a life could have been saved will forever gnaw at our hearts. Who’s going to tell the others now that the heir of Lingaraj Book Store is no more?

[limejuicer1862]

Wombwell Rainbow Interviews

I am honoured and privileged that the following writers local, national and international have agreed to be interviewed by me. I gave the writers two options: an emailed list of questions or a more fluid interview via messenger.

The usual ground is covered about motivation, daily routines and work ethic, but some surprises too. Some of these poets you may know, others may be new to you. I hope you enjoy the experience as much as I do.

Sharon Coleman

Sharon Coleman’s a fifth-generation Northern Californian. She writes for Poetry Flash, co-curates the reading series Lyrics & Dirges, co-directs the Berkeley Poetry Festival. She’s the author of a chapbook Half Circle and a book of micro-fiction, Paris Blinks. Her recent publications appear in Your Impossible Voice, White Stag, Ambush Review.

She’s been nominated twice for a Pushcart and once for a micro award for blink fiction.

She’s taught composition, poetry writing, creative writing, and college success at Berkeley City College for 15 years and directs their art and literary journal, Milvia Street.

She was a finalist for the Luso-American Fellowship for the Disquiet Literary Conference in Lisbon.

https://bccvoice.net/2016/12/07/sharon-coleman/

The Interview

1. What inspired you to write poetry?

I simply gravitated to it.  As a young person, I loved the rhythms and sounds, compactness and surprise. My older siblings and I used to make up all kinds of things to describe our world and make fun of it in the way that many children do until language is more about conforming than inventing. I read a lot of novels as a teen but ultimately found writing fiction a bit boring and predictable, though I’ve more recently picked it up again. There are interesting experiments in fiction to explore and I don’t think that every story has already been told. But I still gravitate to poetry and then creative nonfiction (a popular second love for poets.)

2. Who introduced you to poetry?

I was first introduced through children’s books, most of which are written poetically. One such book was Spooky Rhymes and Riddles published by Scholastic. My older sister used to read that book to me with a different voice for the various poems and characters before I went to sleep.  In high school, I was introduced to e.e. cummings and Edgar Allen Poe by my freshman English instructor, who had us memorize a poem and present it in front of the class. I began writing poetry throughout high school on my own.

Poetry also entered my dreams: during an afternoon nap, I dreamed of reading a long poem I had written and woke up remembering only the last line, “When my shadows get up and go good-bye.” It was clear that my poetic task would be to re-create the entire poem in my waking life.

3. How aware were you of the dominating presence of older poets?

Older poets have never had a “dominating” presence for me. Most of the older poets I know and have known have been very encouraging, suggesting books to read and places to send work and other advice. I’ve learned a lot about our local Bay Area poetry history through them. I have become very aware of the dominating arrogance of some poets in academia, of some in-crowd poets outside academia, of careerists, of the poetry industry, of prizes and awards. But I’ve become more acutely aware of how poets who have had an upward battle against sexism and racism and the old guard in the 60s and 70s can replicate similar barriers against the next generation. Our poetry scenes are still marked, even structured, by tokenism and compartmentalisation. I just read a book of poetry by a young white male (nominated for an award and published by Princeton Press) that contains a poem condoning base sexual harassment of women—and those that nominated it either simply didn’t notice or didn’t care. Or maybe because they nominated an otherwise diverse collection of books and authors, they felt this was ok. Fifty years later, it’s still an upward battle.

4. What is your daily writing routine?

I wish I had a daily writing routine. I’ve tried to develop one, but I have too much other work teaching.  Mine is a weekly writing routine in which ideas marinate over the week, and Friday or Saturday evenings, I either write a new poem or do a deep revision for my Sunday workshop. I carry a small notebook for ideas that come to me at any time of day.

5. What motivates you to write?

The desire to put into tangible form the insolite of experience. This is a term used by surrealists to express the manifestation of the mystery of the subconscious and of the collective unconscious in daily life. It means being poetically attentive to one’s surroundings at all times, which because I work, I cannot always do, but I try to. I write for coming generations to know what it means to live in this place and time, filtered through my historical perspective. I write to complete projects, to have a book or other publication, to physically hand over to another to experience.

6. What is your work ethic?

I try to not replicate the subtle linguistic constructions of racism, sexism, ethno-centrism, ableism, etc. that linger in our language even when we take a stance against them. This requires never-ending interrogation, learning, deep listening. As George Oppen said, words are never wholly transparent, and this is the heartlessness of words.

7. How do the writers you read when you were young influence you today?

I began reading George Orwell when I was about thirteen, beginning with 1984. My writing engages the political on different fronts. From James Baldwin and Carson McCullers, I look for the psychological depths that form and are formed by social hierarchies. From Hunter S. Thompson, I learned to keep far away from highly entitled drug enthusiasts.

8. Who of today’s writers do you admire the most and why?

There are so many writers today whom I highly admire, most come from demographics that have not had much voice in the literary world.  They have a strong understanding of many elements that have made them who they are and have deep multicultural understanding of our communities. I admire writers who don’t stay in one aesthetic or genre, who explore form as much as meaning. In the 90s, there was a huge divide between experimental and more traditional poets. This was not about thinking but rather about waging war. Today on the West Coast, the divide has been crossed many times and is dissolving; on the East Coast, the divide is stronger. In the 90s, I just followed my own way and was not popular on either side, being too narrative for the experimental poets and too elliptical for the traditional ones. I admire the many other poets who have forged their own poetics through these two camps like Brian Teare, John Isles, Mk Chavez, James Cagney, and many others.

9. Why do you write, as opposed to doing anything else?

I write for mental clarity, to somehow put into words the almost inexpressible. I write to explore language(s) and their unexpected capacities.  I write for historical understanding. I write for the personal pride of seeing published pieces I’ve worked hard on and believe in. I also do other things that are very fulfilling.

10. What would you say to someone who asked you “How do you become a writer?”

Read. Write.  Learn craft, process, and technique. Really learn craft, process, and technique. Never stop exploring craft, process, and technique. Find or create literary communities. Give to those communities.

11. Tell me about the writing projects you have on at the moment.

I am currently finishing a book-length poetic sequence set in the house in which I grew up, the drama within the family, the transformation of the landscape and people of the area. When I was about six, my family moved into a wreck of a house in an otherwise idyllic suburban neighbourhood in a city south of San Francisco. It had been the farmhands’ house when the area had been a dairy farm.  And another house had been added to it, forming a two-story house. One of my sisters said it had the “public uglies.” Yet it provided all four siblings with their own small room, and my parents fixed it up very well. Later, my father was told this was the dairy farm he had work at when he was eighteen. The place had changed so much that he didn’t recognize it.

The series is written in ten to eleven sections of four to seven poems. Each poem is nine lines, justified both right and left and with many caesura or spaces within the line. The narratives are multiple and fragmented and flow according to association, braiding in and out of each other. This series has been an exciting and painstaking exploration of form. I am very thankful to my writing group, the Green Heart Collective, for being the literary midwives of this project. Here is an early version of series’ beginning: http://www.yourimpossiblevoice.com/spinning-vinyl/

Wombwell Rainbow Interviews: Sharon Coleman Wombwell Rainbow Interviews I am honoured and privileged that the following writers local, national and international have agreed to be interviewed by me.