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con-fection · 4 years

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ASHES TO ASHES | jim moriarty x reader | part 1/13

Summary:

Jim Moriarty has always loved fairytales. In particular, grim, macabre ones that end in bloodshed. You've been abused by your step-family for years - in every meaningful way, you embody the story of Cinderella. Except, in your version, Cinderella murders her family and burns the house down. When Sherlock Holmes is assigned to find the killers of your step-family, he inadvertently becomes obsessed with you. And when Sherlock is obsessed, Jim Moriarty becomes a man intrigued.Word Count: 4k

Most fairy tales follow the same format. A lovely, picturesque life, subsequently followed by a tragedy, a period of hardship, all of which is solved by the power of love. The dashing prince saves the damsel in distress, and they remain happy and in love forever, having easily recovered from the trauma of the tragedy and hardship.

Originally, fairy tales did not end quite so nicely. They were macabre, morbid and horrifying. Just as real-life has a tendency to be. They weren't an idyllic escape from everyday life. They were nightmarish stories that reflected the fears of society.

By 1815, The Brothers Grimm had compiled several stories, among them The Frog Prince, Hansel and Gretel, Little Red Riding Hood, Rapunzel... and Cinderella.

The latter had always, always been your favourite. You had memorised every line, every word, every single mark of punctuation. You could recite every single version of the story off-by-heart. All of the variations sparked a deep-rooted curiosity in you.

How could the same story end so differently?

All that changed was the person reciting the story - and they would chip away at it, changing it piece by piece, passing it down orally, until it was barely recognisable. In some versions, the characters got their happy ending. Cinderella would marry her Prince Charming with the help of her Fairy Godmother. In others, they didn't. One of her vile step-sisters will hack off parts of their feet and marry Prince Charming, and Cinderella would be left alone.

Sometimes minor aspects of the story would change. Different variations would feature doves, her dead Mother, fairies, and occasionally, the glass slipper would be golden.

Your version was entirely different to anything imagined before.

...unbeknownst to you, however, was the fact that you weren't the only person that liked grim fairytales.

---

Your mother's battle with her myriad of diseases had been one that had defined your childhood. She had been ever-so frail, perpetually in and out of hospitals, constantly deteriorating. There was more than one occasion where you had watched her drop to the floor, her body entirely limp, and you had to be the one to call the ambulance. There were always, always, blood-soaked handkerchiefs strewn around the house.

She was plagued by illness, and in some ways you were suffering just as much as she was. Most children were afforded the luxury of not having to confront the idea of death - often they simply could not even comprehend it. You weren't so lucky as to experience that naivety.

There had been no play-dates for you, there was no time to entertain any other children when each moment had the potential to be her last. Every single waking moment was occupied with the crippling, gut-wrenching fear that one day she might fall down and that the paramedics wouldn't be able to find a pulse.

Every night you would go to bed praying that she would be there in the morning, that she would get her happy ending, that she could read your favourite fairy-tale to you night after night.

"And Cinderella and Prince Charming lived happily ever after, the end!" She would say, smiling brightly as if she hadn't read this to you so many times that she was bored of it. Your mother could probably recite it by heart now, too.

"Do we get a happily ever after, Mommy?" You had asked one night, right after your mother had set the book of fairy-tales down on your bedside table.

"If you pray, God will answer." She replied, ever-so-vaguely, fiddling with the little golden cross necklace dangling between her collarbones. Now you can recognise that she didn't look surprised by your question, rather, she was in the throes of longing for that happily ever after.

You liked 'happily ever after'. It was a comforting lie that you would willingly believe. In 'happily ever after' there was no pain - in your idea of a happy ending, your mother would recover and you wouldn't burst into tears the moment she staggered out of the room.

But 'happily ever after' had to come after years of torment and misery. It always did. There was no story in which the protagonist began happy and remained that way for all eternity. That would be dreadfully boring, and yet it was what you yearned for the most. Boring and happy would be good.

Her death was a mercy - quick and painless, in her sleep. Her funeral was equally as brief as her life, a bleak affair that you can hardly recall. You had been so, so young then, and the tears just wouldn't stop coming, rolling down your face as your chest wracked with sobs. You can't remember much about it, other than the feeling of your father's hand on your shoulder and the awful, almighty bitterness that threatened to send you to your knees.

Naturally, your mother's funeral had been one of the worst days of your life. She looked so small, so ashen in her casket. Her lips were completely unmoving, drawn into a thin line. Never again would she recite your favourite bedtime story. She didn't look like she was sleeping, not when all vibrancy had been removed from her skin, to the point where it was practically grey and she smelled like a chemical preservative that made you wrinkle your nose and sob even harder.

But, even worse than the funeral had been the wedding.

It had been horrifically easy for your father to move on, and to find comfort in your step-mother, Verona. You had only met her once before they were married.

"Honey, I want you to meet somebody." Your father had said. He looked so happy, smiling in a way that you hadn't seen him do since before your mother died, his lips curved upwards and a strange look in his eyes. "This is Verona, and she means a lot to me."

He looked at Verona the same way that you looked at your fairy-tales. They were an escape, a place where you could pretend that things were different and that you were happy. Verona, with her perfectly curled hair and pearly-white teeth, was his escape, his happy ending. You wanted so badly for her to be yours, as well. It wasn't to be.

"Hello," She cooed down at you. She could smile so sweetly, her peach-pink lips drawn upwards to reveal just a flash of white teeth. It was so saccharine, so lovely. Her voice could take on this mellow, melodic tone. It reminded you terribly of a siren's call - beautiful, and so, so alluring, but it wasn't something that you should put your trust in unless you wanted to drown. Verona always looked down at you - there never came a point where you were to be considered an equal. Never.

There was something about her that made your skin crawl. She was a vile lady, with a wicked grin, honey-blonde hair and long nails that looked like talons. To you as a child, you came to view her as practically a witch, clawing her way into your life just to destroy it for her own amusement. Your father was completely and utterly blind, incapable of seeing any flaw within her.

Now that you were older, you could see her as more than a one-dimensional figure that was simply labelled 'the villain'. She wasn't a nice person, not by your account, but she was complex. Verona was always distant from you, eternally glacial and condescending whenever nobody was watching. She wasn't like that to everybody, though.

Along with the step-mother came two of what you had assumed to be Satan's most accomplished demons. They had inherited a fascinating ability from their mother. The instant your father was in the room, all torment would cease. Whether it be pulling your hair, or vandalising your possessions, they had an innate ability to tell whenever your father was close by.

Verona loved them. It was the only time where she seemed to be genuine in her affection. She would dote on them constantly, cooing at them and reading them stories in the same way that your mother had once done for you. She could pretend to tolerate you in public, and at first, you had lapped it up, basking in her siren's call voice and gazing upon her like she could be your escape, too, like she was something to be cherished, to be worshipped.

She bombarded you with an eternal cycle of love - so much love that you couldn't even feel the pain of losing your mother. She would treat you like you were her own daughter. She would pat you on the head and speak to you so sweetly. And after, would always come the abuse. The screaming, the slapping, the hissed remarks, the threats.

It was hard to deify her after that. So, Verona became the villain, the terrible step-mother who was always there to hold you down.

The wedding itself had been hosted at the very same church your parents had been married in. Their vows were exchanged between what you remembered to be Verona's awful giggles, and you yourself had been a flower girl, along with your step-sisters.

Somehow you managed to feel even worse than you had at your mother's funeral. It wasn't really acceptable to scream and cry at a wedding, so you did your best to look at the very least neutral.

You had spent most of the day staring at the gaudy paper garlands strung from the ceiling, doing your best to avoid thinking about the three women joining the family.

Everybody seemed to adore your step-sisters. They were perfect when they had to be, blonde angels with blue eyes and the sweetest disposition. Aubrey and Alora - twins that were identical in every sense of the word. Your father loved these girls, and he loved his new wife. It was like his previous one, and his first, biological daughter had simply been discarded and pushed to the periphery.

There were no more blood-speckled handkerchiefs strewn about the house, no more pills stashed above the sink, and no more quick trips to the hospital. Instead, there were Verona's lipsticks, and your step-sisters' toys. Pictures of them dominated the mantle place. Their achievements were the ones to be celebrated.

"Well done, Alora. We're so proud of you."

"Oh, Aubrey, you're so smart!"

Any incidents of your step-family's cruelty that you did manage to complain to your father about were either dismissed as the lies of a girl acting out as a result of her grief, or as some minor sibling rivalry that you would get over in time. In fact, your father seemed delighted when he interpreted it as the latter. Sibling rivalry meant that you were coming to see each other as sisters.

"You know, one day, when you grow up, I bet you're doing to be so glad to have Aubrey and Alora. I know that you girls don't always get along, but this is a good thing. They're your sisters." Your father had said, so gently, so softly that you wished for a moment you could believe it - that it was true and you could bring yourself to be thankful.

It flooded you with some kind of resentment - that he could be so passive, so enchanted by Verona and her perfect daughters, that you could become practically irrelevant. That of all of them, your concerns were the ones to be disregarded.

That resentment didn't fade when he died.

It had been an accident - a car-crash. It hadn't even been his fault. He had been on his way home to you, and some maniac had run him off the road. It could have happened to anybody. It should have happened to somebody else. It should have been something you saw on the news and thought about briefly. Instead, you were left an orphan.

His body was far too mangled for any kind of open-casket funeral. By the age of twelve, you had been to two funerals - one for each parent. What most children would do is to hope they were happy together, reunited in heaven. That's what you should have hoped for. Instead, you would pray, over and over again, every single fucking night, that they were burning. That they were being roasted in the flames of hell, and that they were screaming out for your forgiveness.

God hadn't listened when you had asked for your mother to get well and recover from her illnesses, nor when you asked for her to come back to you. Life had been so cruel, and so, you reasoned that its creator must be cruel, too. Perhaps God would listen if you wanted to inflict pain, instead.

The resentment didn't fade - rather, it intensified. After that, you really didn't need anybody to read Cinderella to you.

You had lived it.

---

The first person to rise was always you. It had been that way for years, the beginning of your well-established daily routine.

It was so cold, down in the basement. It wasn't given the same insulation as the rest of the house - and why would it have been? Your parents had mostly used it for storage, primarily for things like your bike, tools, and those family picture albums that you couldn't even bring yourself to open. At the time, there was nothing down there that had really deserved to be kept warm.

It was in rather poor condition. The bricks that comprised the walls were all cracked, and the black paint covering them was chipped and unevenly applied, the shelves looked liable to fall down any minute, and there were piles and piles of things everywhere. There is a saw lying on the ground, next to a few planks of wood that your father had never had an opportunity to use for anything and a stack of cannisters of gasoline that you eye affectionately.

There was always a breeze blowing through the basement, too. Your parents had discarded what they didn't need and stored it in the basement, and once they were both dead and buried, your step-mother had done the same to you.

Your old bedroom, where your mother used to read you bedtime stories and you would fret over her health, had been stripped bare and subsequently turned into Verona's walk-in wardrobe. You had been relegated to the basement, left to freeze whilst fur-coats and cocktail dresses got to enjoy central heating.

To keep warm, you would bundle yourself up in whatever shoddy blankets you could find. They would scratch at your skin and you would shiver against them, grinding your teeth together and hissing at the cold, silently cursing at Verona. It wasn't entirely uncommon for you to wake up and discover your lips had turned blue. It would worry you sometimes, that if it got too cold, you would simply die in the night and there would be nobody to notice.

It was early enough that you could hear the birds cooing sweetly outside, singing to one another as they flit through the branches in the trees outside. It was such a lovely thing to watch, and even lovelier to hear. It's such a pretty sound. You're not entirely sure that your step-family have ever woken early enough to hear it. If they hadn't before, then by now they had certainly missed their chance.

This was meant to be when you would start your chores. Your step-mother had left you to take on a maid role in the house, cooking and cleaning for them, waiting on them hand and foot, scrubbing the floors and surfaces until they shined. It filled you with rage.

Of the four of you, you were by far the best in every measurable way. Verona and her daughters were harpies, beasts with perfect faces that managed to fool just about everybody they came into contact with. Your father had been just one of many that was too naive to see it. They didn't bother with the pretenses around you - you had always seen them for what they were.

By now, you should be starting to sweep the bottom floor of the house, and making breakfast. But today would be different.

You creep up the stairs, your eyes constantly darting around the house, searching for any sign of the other inhabitants. They aren't awake, and you don't expect them to be, but it's always good to check, just in case.

Verona's left her purse on the countertop, next to a wine glass with a pink smudge on its rim and a pair of black elbow-length gloves she'd worn to a dinner the night before. The mere sight of it makes your lips curve up into a sneer. It's the ugliest shade of pink lipstick - vibrant and bold in all the wrong ways, but she somehow makes it look good. Of course she does - it's a talent of hers, really, to make the worst things seem not simply palatable, but also tempting.

You leave the wine glass, there will be no need to clean it today. With a sharp intake of breath, you open the purse, snatching all the money you can from it. Fortunately, Verona likes to keep most of her money in cash, so there's a decent amount. There's enough, at the very least.

The kitchen is obsessively cleaned - every surface shines from your efforts. It's clinical, sterile even, and the smell of cleaning products still permeates the air. There's a broom in the parlour, but you won't be using it.

Never before had you done anything like this. Today was a day that you had fantasised about for years, exploring and navigating different variations of it before constructing the master plan. These steps you were taking had been carefully considered, each and every action poured over obsessively, to the point of madness. All aspects of the plan were to be treated with reverence - they had practically become holy, and you recited them more often than you would prayers.

Already, you were breathing too quickly. There was adrenaline in your system, and your hands were slightly clammy. Nerves - but you weren't nervous. Not really. This was a burning, scalding anticipation that writhed around in your gut and clawed at your insides.

You allow yourself a brief moment to try and relax, letting your eyes flutter shut and letting your shoulders drop. There is a need to be tense - everything hinges on today, on whether or not you accomplish the plan.

When your eyes open, you immediately gravitate towards the knives. Before you select one, you go for Verona's black silk gloves, putting them on and admiring the way they look against your skin, and how smooth they are. They're the kind that's awfully expensive, but they look glamorous. She had worn them just the night prior, when she went to some fancy dinner.

They're hauntingly elegant, a mark of sophistication that contrasts so nicely with what you're about to do. They're a rather lovely way of ensuring that there's no fingerprints left in the house.

It's then that you pick a knife - a weighty silver meat cleaver with dark grey indentations on the handle. They make it look almost porous, and you know that the knife had been part of a set, a gift from one of Verona's friends who was into the culinary arts.

It's heavy, and you test the weight, passing it between your hands, looking at it reverently. The birds are still singing, chirping in harmony, nature's soundtrack to what is about to become a horrific crime. Whether the birdsong will harmonise with screams has yet to be determined. It has the potential to sound like a symphony - a completely lovely cacophony of everything you enjoy.

The meat cleaver shines in the soft sunlight - simply holding it makes you feel assured.

---

You create your own version of Cinderella. One where the house burns down.

The evil step-mother and bratty step-sisters are already dead when the match hits the gasoline that's long-since soaked into the floors. They had been hacked to pieces, their throats split open, almost to the point of decapitation. The blood would seep from the gaping wounds, spilling onto the bed sheets and staining their blonde hair red. They had looked so human in their sleep, so unsuspecting.

There wasn't even any time for them to awake and feel terror, or shock. That, at the very least, is a mercy. You had never really intended for it to be - it was more of a practicality than a fantasy. In the fantasies, the executions had lasted far, far longer.

As a child, experiencing the pains of loss, you had prayed for your parents to burn, so that they may feel as much pain as you. There was no way of knowing whether or not God would come to answer your prayers, so you decide instead to burn the people you can reach.

The meat cleaver is placed back into the kitchen - there's a chance that the wooden knife block may burn and char it and obscure the fact that it was the murder weapon. You keep Verona's gloves and you keep the cash.

There's something so beautiful, so incredibly vindicating about watching it all go up in smoke.

The house burns so beautifully. Flames dance in the windows, consuming the lacey white curtains, creeping their way up the ceiling until the roof catches fire and slowly caves in on itself, the slate-grey tiles becoming charred, crumbling and sliding over one another.

The birds stop singing. They squawk in agitation, fleeing from the nearby trees and taking to the skies. They, much like you, evacuate and watch the show from afar. They start their birdsong afresh once they're out of danger, singing proudly.

Plumes of smoke take to the air, contaminating and invading the morning sky. It's so dark, so thick that it's liable to block out the sun. The smoke's descending to the ground, too, sweeping over the grass like a terrible, ominous fog, rolling over the street and barrelling towards you in waves.

Your eyes and throat burn - you can feel the heat, even from a distance. You're breathing in wisps of the smoke - it's so strong that you feel simultaneously feel like you're choking, juxtaposed with this great, overwhelming sense of freedom. It smells so horrible you want to gag - it's not like the comforting smell from whenever your father would barbeque. It's stifling, oppressive, even.

And yet, despite your eyes watering and the feeling of nausea that the smell inspires within you, you doubt there has ever been a sweeter smell.

The flames flicker so brightly, swaying in tandem in a variety of oranges, reds, yellows and even a flash of white. They're so bright you can see it reflected on your skin.

The plan has been completed. You're entirely satisfied, and yet you're left directionless. Everything has amounted to this moment - to the burning of the monsters. This is your happy ever after, you think.

You stand there, bathed in an orange hue, simply watching, for as long as you're able.

Inevitably, you have to leave. You're rather tempted to dash back across the street and take Verona's car, if only to steal away another thing she loved. Her daughters, her life, her car. But you don't, as much as you would like to. It's another whim, another fleeting fantasy that has to be sacrificed for the sake of your freedom. Perhaps the car would burn, too. It's relatively close to the house.

Getting caught would simply transfer you from one life of imprisonment to another. The inner city of London seems as good a destination as any - it's not too far, and there nobody will know your name.

#jim moriarty #jim moriarty x reader #bbc sherlock

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officialao3fandomlastforever · 4 years

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Fandom’s 5 Romance Anime to Watch this Week

Ah, love. Who doesn’t enjoy a good romance story filled with powerful emotions, strong bonds, and occasionally, a little bit of battle or a dash of fantasy/sci-fi elements? I know I enjoy a fantastic romance story every now and again. And I’m sure everyone is always looking for a new tale of love to enjoy. So today, I’m going to give 5 recommendations to you all of some romance anime to watch.

As usual, please be mindful of any content warnings if you decide to check these series out.

Now that we’ve gotten that settled, let’s get to the recs.

1) Snow White with the Red Hair

Living in the kingdom of Tanbarun, Shirayuki is a young girl who runs an apothecary shop, working hard to be the best herbalist she can be. However, her life is turned upside-down when the prince of Tanbarun, enamored with her long red hair, orders her to become his concubine. Not wanting to live the life of a prince’s play thing, she cuts her hair and escapes to the neighboring kingdom of Clarines. After meeting Prince Zen of Clarines and saving him from a poisoned apple, Shirayuki returns with Zen to the castle and begins to pursue a career as a court herbalist.

This story has a little bit of aspects of multiple fairytales, including Snow White and Cinderella, and it may seem a little heavy on the classic fairytale tropes at times, but it has that perfect balance of sweetness, charm, and love that can hit the spot. A definitely nice, mellow romance for the fairytale lovers out there.

2) Toradora!

Ryuji Takasu is a kind-hearted boy with a knack for housework and cooking, though because of his looks, he’s often mistaken for a terrifying delinquent. Taiga Aisaka is Ryuji’s neighbor, and is considered the most terrifying student at school for her anger and violent outbursts. When Ryuji learns that Taiga is best friends with Minori Kushieda, the girl he’s smitten for, and Taiga discovers Ryuji is friends the guy she likes, Yusaku Kitamura, the unlikely duo team up to try and win the affections of each other’s best friends, slowly growing closer and forming a powerful bond of their own.

This is by far one of my favorite school-life romances, and the behaviors and mannerisms of the characters are very unique and make a lot of sense given the setting and backstories. And the track “Lost My Pieces” from the OST always makes me cry. A definitely classic that everyone should give a try at least once.

3) Romeo X Juliet

Two households, not quite alike in dignity. In Neo Verona, where we lay our scene. After a bloody coup d'état lead by Leontes Montague, the House of Capulet has fallen, with the only surviving member being the young Juliet. Many years later, Juliet takes on the mantle of a vigilante known as “The Red Whirlwind” to fight back against the harsh rule of the House of Montague. However, nothing is ever so simple. After sneaking into a ball held at the palace, Juliet meets Prince Romeo, and not only discovers that he is a kind, caring soul, but the two also fall in love at first sight. As the flames of war continue to grow, can these star-crossed lovers find a way to stay together? Or will tragedy befall them and all they care for?

Very loosely inspired by the famous Shakespeare play, this is an amazing interpretation of the tale and is by far an amazing story in its own right. Whether you’re a fan of the Romeo and Juliet story or not, I highly suggest you give this one a try. If for no other reason than that the OP is phenominal.

4) Waiting in the Summer

Kaito Kirishima is a first tear high schooler living with his sister after the death of their parents. He’s always carrying around an 8mm handheld camera and recording his friends and family, wanting to create memories that persist after death, earning him the nickname “the Director” from his pals. After an accident that nearly kills him, an alien by the name of Ichika Takatsuki heals him, and ends up staying at his house while his sister is away on a business trip. Ichika came to earth in search of a place she’s never been but has memory of. The two grow close and, together with their friends, attempt to find this place in Ichika’s memory, while also trying to complete a student film together and avoiding dangers lurking around them.

A nice, gentle, and rather blanced sci-fi love story filled with cute moments, beautiful artwork, and a lot of heart. It can be a little over the top, but I feel like that just adds to the zaniness of the setting. A definite must watch if you want a show with a lovely summer romance feel.

5) This Boy Caught a Merman

On a dark night not long after the funeral, Shima Kawauchi is sitting alone on a sea wall with a photo of his grandfather, who had recently passed away. When the photo falls into the water, Shima jumps in after it despite not being able to swim, only to be rescued by a merman. After learning Shima feels alone, the merman agrees to move in with him so that he won’t be lonely. Shima gives him the name Isaki, and Isaki’s presence brings a new light to Shima’s life.

And finally, a nice ova with a rather nice romance between two boys who lean on each other for support. I already did a review of this a while back, which you can read here if you’re interested. By far one of the best mlm romances in anime, and absolutely worth your time.

And that’s my 5 romance anime recommendations for this week. Are there any you think I should watch? What’s your favorite romance anime? Feel free to let me know!

Have a wonderful day everyone, and thank you for reading.

#fandom reviews #top 5 #anime #snow white with the red hair #toradora #waiting in the summer #romeo x juliet #this boy caught a merman

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diveronarpg · 6 years

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Congratulations, LEO! You’ve been accepted for the role of PARIS with an approved FC change to JI CHANG WOOK. Admin Jen: Wow, I literally have to stifle the urge to keysmash my way through this note because THAT is how over the moon I am about your application, Leo! Your analysis of Priam was so intricate and it touched on various nuances in his character that I was very excited to see people explore and peel apart - his moral compass, his honor, his purpose, and most importantly, his masks. The interview was quite riveting to read and I adored how prominently your portrayal of him shone in the narrative. I particularly enjoyed observing his mannerisms and how they contrasted with his thought process but in general, the interview was full to the brim with interesting details to observe and inspect. As soon as I finished reading, I was certain that you would be perfect for Priam. I can’t wait to see him on the dash! Please read over the checklist and send in your blog within 24 hours.

WELCOME TO THE MOB.

Out of Character

Alias | Leo.

Age | 18, though I still feel like a prepubescent teen oops.

Preferred Pronouns | she/her

Activity Level | I’d give myself a seven outta’ ten for activity levels.

Timezone | ‘m in France, so the timezones might be wonky.

Current/Past RP Accounts | [ x ]

In Character

Character | PARIS ; If possible, I’d like to use Xavier Serrano or Ji Chang Wook. [clutching fcs and sobbing as they spill over my hands.]

What drew you to this character? | “… the world in which he was a child was starkly black and white.” This, I feel, reveals the crux of the matter: that Priam Taravella, born with steel fused into his spine and rigidity formed into his very being, is now such a man of metamorphosis. And, yet, his core hasn’t changed at all. Something like there is enough in me to swallow the world and this body of mine can scarcely contain this hunger would be an apt description for the void that lingers in him. No ambition? What a lie. The ant who dreams of becoming a lion is merely a dreamer of impossibility, but the lion who dreams of becoming a king? There’s the ambition that his family refused to see in him. Priam Taravella was always a man with his feet rooted to the earth and his eyes fixed upon the horizon line because there’s where the gold glitters. Nothing is impossible, for he simply doesn’t deign to dream of impossibility. And, yet, his family mocked him for this and gave him the cold shoulder simply for daring to dream of things tangible. Maybe he cared about this, once upon a time, but nowadays he scoffs at the past, preferring to keep his sights on the present, and oh, there’s simply nothing like it.

There’s this, as well. “Verona’s underworld has made him apathetic towards most things but he has no tolerance for men without honor.” Oh, Priam. In a world where people may say that the sky is green and the water purple without an inflection of remorse, his honor brings such an interesting dimension to his character. He is, for all intents and purposes, a man who still adheres to the ‘black and white’ view of his youth; despite his hollow core, despite the blood that runs from his hands, despite the boundless ambition that serves as a never-ending bloodhound, he still places honor as something important to him, something that’s integral to his very being. And, isn’t this a paradox? In order to move up in the underworld, one must draw their lines of morality in sand, to be washed away and redrawn with every situation that follows. And, yet, Priam’s rigidity doesn’t allow for him to do this: there are some lines that he would never cross, even given the pros and cons of such an action.

He is a man of honor, and aren’t honor and glory both one and the same? Many would beg to differ, but the truth in his mind is the truth of the world. God made man in the image of Himself, the humanists would say, and isn’t this the primary facet of life in a search for unending glory? Verona is a city of divinity; a god without glory is no god at all. Likewise, a man without honor isn’t even worth a single good-natured thought. I think this makes him so very interesting, that in his rigidity and in his purpose, he sees himself as an honor-bound man. Are the three mutually bound? Is he truly a man of honor?

Is it even possible for a man with boundless ambition, crown tilted upon his head and smile slanted across his mouth, to be a man of honor?

(priam, what happens when you end your search? could the void inside of you ever be satiated?)

Which, speaking of, is such a fascinating concept. The void inside of him can be for many things, but the fact that Juliana is the first (and perhaps the only) person who has ever made him feel as if he belonged hints towards a boy who was starved of affection. Yes, he has potential, he knows that he has potential, but what I find interesting is that the Taravella name means something to him. It’s a shackle that he bears with his head held high; he is a boy of only twenty-three, and I think that this bears emphasis, that he is twenty-three and already believes that the only true part of his identity is his name. And, yet, at this age he already takes for granted that love and that sense of belonging are worth something. These are concepts that are not given freely; if he’s not useful then he isn’t worth being loved. This concept is found again in the way that he believes that his name might be the only thing that allows him to belong.

And the only way he would be loved is if he put on the mask. This, in turn, reminds me of a quote: “There was no one in him; behind his face (which even through the bad paintings of those times resembles no other) and his words, which were copious, fantastic, and stormy, there was only a bit of coldness, a dream dreamt by no one.” There’s something in this that causes one to wonder: where does the mask end and the man begin? Who is he, underneath the habits and personas that he had to adopt in order to realize his ambitions? Iago claims “I am not what I am,” and is this, too, true for Priam?

God, he’s just such a fascinating character, wow, and I could go on and on and on. I’ll leave you with this last quote: “History adds that before or after dying he found himself in the presence of God and told him: ‘I who have been so many men in vain want to be one and myself.’”

What is a future plot idea you have in mind for the character? | I really want him to be submerged into a situation where he must lose his sense of purpose or honor-bound duty or even a situation where he has to redraw his lines of morality in order to feed his ambition. The simple anguish in the fact that he must be, perhaps, somewhat like the men he hates, those men of no honor and of no purpose, would be absolutely lovely. Would he rationalize it to himself? Would he choose honor over ambition or vice versa? In a world that seems to be doing its damned hardest to kill them all, what could he possibly choose?

Why does he hate Boris so much? Is it simply because he can’t stand his ways? Is it truly because the Kovrov man reeks of shameless disloyalty? Or is it because he could see himself in the way he hungers for something more than the lot he was given in life? (maybe it’s because he knows, somehow, that this is the man he could become, that this might be the man he is.) I’d love to explore this.

Oh, Juliana. Dearly beloved, my tender heart, mio tesoro. In a man who’s more steel than flesh, she’s the tenderness of his childhood days in an era void of softness. Maybe this isn’t love—something about her eyes, her smile, the lilt of her voice—but it’s close enough. It’s good enough. (or so he hopes.) And, yeah, she makes him want to believe in the concept of loving and being loved. But, God, fuck, in a world such as this, any hint of tenderness is a hint of weakness. And Priam Taravella has long had enough of being weak. God, there’s so much space for nuance here. Does he truly love her or is it just the knowledge that they know so much about each other? Oh, and there’s this: in those moments of tenderness, in those moments when he’s pressing gentle lips to her forehead and folding his fingers over her hand, is he still acting?

And, also, we cannot forget about this: is he even able to discover himself underneath those layers and layers of masks? We can see that his sense of honor is a way that allows him to hold onto something even through the switching of personas, but isn’t there something more than simply that in a person?

Are you comfortable with killing off your character? | Oh, God yes. The more tragic the death, the better.

In Depth

Priam, with a sickly-sweet taste sitting on the root of his tongue and fingers digging into the blankets, wakes up underneath someone else’s sheets at ass-o'clock in the morning. It’s slightly sticky. His mouth pulls into a slight grimace, lashes feathering across the slant of his eyes as he breathes out a longer breath than usual, but the glint in his gaze is devoid of any natural feeling save for a vague sensation of apathy.

There’s a flash of what might be faint amusement as he flicks a glance towards the remnants of last night—scattered items of clothing, the lingering scent of sex, the marks on his companion’s skin—even as he ruffles his fingers through his dark curls, languidly arching his back into a stretch. The arm slung around his waist tightens with his motion before relaxing—Priam carelessly curls his grip around the appendage and tosses it away from him and towards its owner—and there’s a grunt as the man wakes up, lounging in bed and watching lazily as Priam retrieves his pants. “Leaving so soon?” husked out from sleep-ridden vocal chords.

There’s a pause as Priam tilts his head back, flicking an idle glance towards the speaker. Already, the apathy in his gaze had vanished, leaving behind only gentle amusement and a form of satisfied grace. His mouth tilts into a grin. “Mm,” all movement and indulgence as the sound of a zipper rips through the 3am aftermath, “I’d love to stay, mi amor, but I have work in the morning.” The slant of his mouth is a finely crafted thing—God, he’s too tired for this right now, something screams in him, but his every action is mechanically precise—as he quirks his lips upwards towards the other man, roguish charm in the echo of his gesture. Priam Taravella has a reputation to uphold and God forbid he ever forget about those layers of masks weighing upon him like Atlas’ skies.

(Sometimes, he’s frightened by his own capacity for all of this. It comes easily, now, like habit. Other times, he gazes at himself in the mirror and tells himself something like i built myself from the ground up and this is the result of my pride. It’s a delicate balance between irony and smug self-satisfaction.)

Despite the annoyance he holds for clingy lovers—simply the fact that he has had to answer tedious questions in the morning annoys him—his lovely features light up into that charismatic feeling of promise.

(When he’s feeling particularly ironic, he calls it smile number thirty-five where the corners of his lips are tilted at a precise angle of 68 degrees, teeth showing ever-so-slightly and eyes softening. It imbues a feeling of earnestness, as can be seen from all the times he’s practiced in front of the mirror when he was younger.)

“You must be tired,” and there’s that artificial flare of heat that seeps through his gaze as he, seemingly reluctantly, drags his attention from the lines of the other man’s body after lingering upon where the drape of the sheets hid the contours of the man’s lower abdomen. He flicks his glance away after precisely three heartbeats of time, knowing that this gesture was sufficient enough to allay all concerns. “Rest.” He stands. There’s a brief bit of pause when he catches a glimpse of his reflection in a nearby mirror—sometimes he thinks that the day when he can’t even recognize himself is near—though the movement seems more like it’s a hesitation to leave. “I’ll see you around,” lying through his teeth with a smile of no substance.

“Will I see you at your favorite place?” exhaled from behind him as his fingers linger at the nape of his collar. Inch by inch, he drags his sleeves up over the breadth of his forearms, folding them below his elbow with the tuck of a button.

“My favorite place?” echoed, though his motions never cease. He refrains from looking back at the other man, knowing that the microsecond of disdainful amusement would show in the curve of his mouth. “Yes, of course,” knowing, too, that favorite hardly means favored.

“The Hotel Emilia?” again, from behind him, and there’s a note of expectation that’s laden within the drowsy voice. Priam simply abhors the expectation that this man has of him and his gaze grows dark, though there’s a careful regard as to how the slope of his shoulders tenses; simply put, he doesn’t let himself do anything except to retain movement in the form of satiated grace.

“You caught me,” a deep timbre laced with fond laughter. The Hotel Emilia? A lie that he’d concocted once he saw the interested flicker of the other man’s lashes on the afternoon of the day before, sunlight streaming in from stained-glass windows and lingering upon handsome features. Something to arouse sensation; oh, the Taravella scion has a weary side, a human side, and wouldn’t onlookers feel honored for the ability to see that soft smile upon Priam’s face?

He knows very well that humans are more likely to worship perfect idols, but that growing close to people requires various imperfections. (He has those in spades.)

Priam slips on his gloves, flexing his fingers against the cool fabric, and takes long strides to the exit of the house. Once he’s graced by the dusk, gentle breezes tugging at dark curls and nipping lightly at his nose, a faint smile slants across his mouth before being obscured by a brighter grin of greeting—still as hollow as ever—towards the few who are still on the streets.

A woman wanders up to him, fingers digging into her pockets and ruby-red lips tilted into a sly grin. “Priam Taravella,” voice low and suggestive, “exiting a random house in the early morning. I wonder, is this something you do every day?” Her gaze flicks up and down, blatantly admiring the way his clothes fit to his body.

He snorts, a sort of glacial coldness readily receding from the shallow depths of his eyes at the interception, even though he gives into the indulgence of tapping his fingers against his thigh once in a subtle show of irritation. “It could be,” allowing a slow, flirtatious grin to cross his mouth, “Miss?”

“Not important,” airily waving her hand. She rocks back and forth on her heels, eyes bright as she peers at him. “What do you do every day, then, Taravella?” The mockery in her voice is evident, as is the almost-envious idolization in her gaze.

He feigns a glance at his watch and watches as the woman’s eyes lingers on his exposed wrist. A Patek Philippe, circa 1997, and as expected, she involuntarily sucks in a breath. Priam doesn’t allow his mouth to twist into an expression of indulgent disdain, but it’s a near thing. “I eat breakfast,” drawled dryly, “just as you do, I’d assume.”

A wry grin slips onto his features like something that belongs. “Then, I get to work. Afterwards, I might go for a drink or two, maybe to an opera or an art exhibition, and then I attempt to buy presents for my beloved fiancée.” He lowers his voice, lashes feathering across the slant of his eyes in an artful show of candor and loving laughter, as if the simple thought of Juliana was enough to bring him joy, “Between you and me, the only reason I’m not sleeping on the couch every night is because of this.”

“Do you buy her flowers?” eager curiosity.

He makes as if to reply, but then he places a finger to his mouth. “Some things are meant to be a secret,” tucking his hands into his pockets and nodding at her. “Have a good day.”

God, it’s like he tasted something sour. He’s barely crossed a street before his gaze flickers towards another hovering figure, watching as they attempt to watch him. It’s almost four in the morning and still he is besieged with flies from all sides. Best to get this over with.

Priam beckons, gentle laughter in his eyes. “You have a question for me?” low and soothing. They yelp, almost scurrying off, before they think better of it and sheepishly wander closer.

“Y-yeah,” a soft whisper. “I just- I, uh, I-”

He watches them patiently, even though faint exasperation is bubbling up from the depths of his chest. “Mm?” prompting them with a noise that slicks from the back of his throat, though the smile tilted upon his lips hardly budges.

“I-” They take a deep breath, as if steeling themselves, “I just- You know,” they twitch their fingers and Priam’s eyes narrow towards the motion before flickering towards the bulge underneath their coat, near the side of their waist. He makes some effort to relax his musculature even further into a state of apparent languidness. “The war,” blurted out as they fidget.

Oh. Such an ugly concept. “What about it?” Subtly, he directs them both towards a nearby alleyway, an easy grin donned upon his lips as he clasps their shoulder.

“I- I feel so useless, not being able to do anything,” absently fisting their hands, “do you think I should join? At least then I’d be able to play a part.”

“I honestly can’t profess any experience with the war,” a blatant lie, not even twitching though the word drags itself tastelessly from his tongue, “but I believe in my fiancée and in the inherent righteousness of my betrothed’s family.” Conviction is rife in his voice and in the shift of his gaze as he continues, “This will end, soon,” soothing the other—oh, there’s something in his eyes that unfurls like twin flames, something that gives credence to the lilt of his voice and the slant of his mouth—“and the winner will be in the right.”

“Until then,” gently placing a knuckle underneath their chin and tilting their gaze upwards, towards the looming silhouette of a grand church, “pray.”

Of course, he himself knows better than to pray to other gods.

headcanons:

ok so picture this: you take for granted that the smile slanted across daddy’s mouth is because you did well in school. you take for granted that mom’s words of adoration are because you’ve won some competition or the other. love’s something that isn’t yours to keep. and yeah, yeah of course he coulda’ been worse off. he coulda’ been begging in the streets or barely surviving or thrown into some sorta’ gimmick that he couldn’t have left, but there’s this. there’s this and then there’s those moments when he looks at the people who don’t wear crowns—he’s just a boy and this crown is too heavy for him to bear—and watches their fingers curl around their parents’ hands and watches their smiles—before he knows it, he’s learned how to curve his lips in the exact same way because wasn’t this called happiness?—and he wants.

took him years to realize that this wasn’t for him, but he’s still left wanting.

baby you know the closest you’ll ever get to god is in a cemetery and, oh, he’s visited many. at first, it was the death of a beloved pet. nowadays, it’s to somehow atone for all the sins he’s ever carried, ‘cos god knows he can’t go to a confessional. the dead, at least, tell no tales.

he totally brings back tons of presents for juliana and those he calls friends from his business trips 'nd stuff

okay okay okay hear me out; he’s totally got his fingers in all sorts of pies after leaving his family’s legacy behind. there was something in him that wanted recognition for himself, rather than for his name, and so he’s a fairly well known philanthropist and semi-political figure within the city. semi, as he doesn’t hold a specific position but he’s still rather visible. he also organizes fundraisers and galas and all those kindsa’ parties. whatever it takes for him to be known 'cos it’s something like yeah, i’m gonna’ take the highest position you know and force you to look at me without this goddamn legacy

prolly has a buncha’ hidey-holes. evil lairs. nah, but he does have places within the city where he can pretend, at least for the moment, that he’s just priam. just priam taravella ('cos yeah, even now his family’s name means something to him) on a rooftop and watching the stars. god knows if he didn’t have these places, he’d lose himself even faster

also a tsundere asshole. doesn’t act like it, usually, and it’s easy for him to smile and say stuff he doesn’t mean, but when he does mean something, something that’s either fuckign sappy or really heartfelt, it’d take a miracle for him to admit to it

twenty-three y/o dork, actually, despite all the airs he puts on. juliana knows.

v’ v’ v’ flirtatious. knows he’s pretty. knows how to use it.

DO NOT get into a drinking contest with this boi cos he will either get piss-drunk and say he’s not or you’ll get shitfaced drunk

prolly goes to the fighting ring ngl when he’s feeling too annoyed by the state of the world 'cos he’s still that same stubborn priam, jus dressed up prettier

is??? actually touch-starved like woah

tldr; doesn’t know how to be human 'cos no affection was given to him when he was younger and wow no wonder he’s kinda’ sorta’ feral but he’s learned how to put on masks THEREFORE aggravating the problem rather than solving it

priam aka mister 'ive got 99 problems but acting ain’t one of them’

#accepted: paris #accepted

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mirkwoodshewolf · 7 years

Text

Mother and Juliet; Regina x teen reader

This was my first Regina x reader oneshot. I can not tell you guys how much I LOVE Regina. I’ve loved her since day one and her entire character development has been so beautiful yet so tragic. I hope I do fellow Evil Regals proud on here like I have on wattpad. Be warned of suicide which is not worth it if someone breaks your heart, there is no coming back after you kill yourself, if you are suicidal or have any other mental problems just know there ARE people that love you no matter what those voices in your head tell you, don’t EVER listen to them.

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It’s a tale as old as time, but it’s not about how a girl finds the love in a beast. I’m talking about the love story that is as forbidden as the forbidden fruit. The sweet taste of its juices as it first consumes you only to then slowly turn to poison as it drains you of your thoughts and conscience until you’re nothing but it’s slave until death do you part.

You all may think you know the story of one of history’s greatest romance tragedies “Romeo and Juliet”, well you’re wrong. How do I know you may ask? Because I am one of them. My name is Juliet and this is my story.

It all began on my 14th birthday ball. I was standing in front of my full length mirror looking at my new party dress that my mother had made for me thanks to her magic. As I stood there, my grandfather Henry came from behind me and said.

“You look beautiful your highness”.

“Thank you grandpa”.

“Indeed you do my darling”. I turned around to see my mother coming into my room with her head held high and strutting proudly like the Queen she was. “But there is something you must fix my dear (y/n),” she then took me by the waist and straightened me out. “Now don’t slouch, posture is self-respect and if you don’t have it, no one else will give it to you”.

“Yes mother”. Throughout my whole life my mother Regina has done whatever it takes to make me the future Queen which means controlling every single aspect of my life. How I should pose myself, how I should dress, speak, etc. To be honest, I feel like a bird in a cage, allowed to show off my beauty but never be allowed to fly free all because of my mother.

She’s even made my birthday ball be a chance to find an eligible young prince to marry in order to unsure my step-sister Snow White would never claim the thrown.

“Now then, your party is waiting for its guest of honor, shall we?” My mother offered me her arm and I took it and the two of us walked gracefully out of my room towards the ballroom.

Throughout the rest of the night, I danced with every Prince from every kingdom that had come but like always none of them were interesting nor were they nice enough. They talked to me like I was a trophy or just downright disrespected me like I wasn’t worth anything to them. Taking a break I stood by the food table and got myself a drink of water. As I put the cup to my lips a voice said beside me.

“Can’t find the right partner?” I turned towards the voice and my heart skipped a beat. This young man was young maybe a couple years older than me, he had dark brown hair, skin that almost looked like it was kissed by the sun, and the bluest eyes I had ever seen. He was the handsomest boy I had ever seen before.

“Maybe” I said looking away trying to cover up my upcoming blush. I felt fingers underneath my chin and my head was being turned back towards this Adonis.

“If I may be so bold, I would like to ask her highness for a dance”. He took the drink out of my hand and placed it on the table and guided me towards the dancefloor. He slowly spinned me until I now stood in front of him. He took my hand and bowed gentleman style as he kissed my hand and I curtsied back and soon the two of us began to dance.

I don’t know what it was or why this was happening, but it felt so right. I felt like this boy was destined to be my True Love. The way we danced, it felt like no one else was even in the room as I only had my eyes on him and he had his eyes on me. We must’ve danced the whole night because the next thing I know, people are starting to depart to their carriages.

“My Lord we must return to Verona at once” I heard whom I assumed was one of his escorts call out to him. He smiled at me sadly and he said.

“I’m afraid I must go my fair Juliet”.

“Since you know my name, may I enquire yours as equal payment?” I asked. He then summoned out a rose and handed it to me and told me his name.

“To you my fair Juliet, call me Romeo”. He kissed my cheek then he left with his escort and I watched as he left the palace. I let out a sigh and I held my rose close to my heart. It was then I heard a very familiar voice.

“Well, well, well it would seem our fair Juliet has met her Romeo”.

“Rumpelstiltskin”. I said as I turned around and saw the Dark One himself standing before me. All my life whenever my mother would have meetings with the infamous Dark One, I would be forced to meet with him also and along with my mom teaching me how to do magic she always required that Rumple take me on as a second generation apprentice which I never failed them when it came to magic because I knew the punishment if I did.

“Hello dearie, so sorry I couldn’t come earlier but business as usual has me knee deep”.

“Its fine Rumple, the ball was pretty much boring anyways”.

“Not according to your face it wasn’t”. Suddenly the rose disappeared from my hand and I saw it appear in my teacher’s hand. He sniffed it and stated, “A rose by any other name would smell as sweet, for fair Juliet has fallen for the dashing young Romeo”.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about”. I tried to change the conversation but I felt him take my chin and he said.

“Ahh tut, tut, tut, tut, tut, tut, tut, tut dearie. You can’t hide anything from me, the look in your innocent young eyes tell me all, and you’ve finally found your True Love”. I looked away from my teacher and leaned up against the balcony.

“Maybe, I guess so. Does love always make you feel like this? Like you’re about to burst out of your body and just soar in the sky”.

“So I’ve been told. Though I must give you a heed of warning dearie,” I turned towards him and he continued, “True love can sometimes be misleading, and like all magic it comes with a price. So be sure to keep your heart in tack and don’t lose your head”. Soon a neatly wrapped present appeared in my hands and he finished off, “a gift for one of my favorite apprentices” he giggled then disappeared in his usual crimson smoke leaving me alone on the balcony.

Days later, Romeo would secretly return to my palace and the two of us would meet in secret as best as we could all because of my mother. When she began to suspect of my sneaking around (probably from one of her many spies who are always spying me maybe even from Rumple himself) she had ordered her guards to keep a close watch on me no matter where I was so in the end I would have to use my magic to distract them, get to my Romeo and then teleport us somewhere else where no one could find us.

She used whatever method she could to try and keep us apart, and it all became even worse when the Dark Curse was activated.

*Storybrooke*

For over 28 years we had to live under my mother’s curse. No memories of our previous lives, no knowledge of who we truly were or who our real families were. In this world I was known as Julie the daughter of the mayor. I had a younger brother named Henry who always tried to convince me that this reality wasn’t real and that our mom was “The Evil Queen”.

Of course to a moody 14 year old teenage girl who was dealing with an unknown broken heart that sounds delusional and of course we older sisters get bothered by our little brothers (come on I’m know I’m right, right?) anyways he had run away and had brought back his “birth mom/chosen savior” Emma Swan who was the suppose daughter of Snow White and Prince Charming and of course when she arrived, everything began to change.

Within a few months of her staying in Storybrooke, the curse was broken when she freed Henry from the sleeping curse that was meant for her made by my mom. And when the curse was broken, everyone was freed and began remembering who they were, including me.

After that things got even crazier when we tried to stop my grandmother from entering Storybrooke, dealing with Greg and Tamara, the dealing with Pan, the discovery of my new half-aunt? (I think is what I should call her) Zelena.

Through all the insanity and the drama that ensued these past couple of years, my heart still longed for finding my Romeo. I had heard rumors that he was here but I never had the chance to look for him and finally with things seeming to be back to normal, I decided to finally look around the town and see if I could find him.

So that night, I had made my escape plan to sneak out my room through the balcony and run out into the city to see if he would be out and about in the town. He was always like that my Romeo, a party animal and a daring man to never back down from a challenge. As I got onto my balcony ready to hop onto the tree and make my escape a voice stopped me.

“You’re really going to go look for him, aren’t you?” I turned around to see my mother standing there at my doorway to my balcony.

“What else would I be doing out here?”

“Juliet, baby I know I haven’t been the best mother—”

“Humph, that’s an understatement”. I muttered.

“Excuse me!?”

“You heard me. Back home you never cared about my happiness! Mother you’ve broken my heart by placing this curse upon us, Romeo and I were destined to be together and you tore us apart! You really are just like your mother but this time I’m gonna have a spine for once and go out and find him!”

“MY MOTHER NEVER CARED ABOUT MY HAPPINESS BUT I DO CARE ABOUT YOURS!” she screamed at me. Silence pierced the air when my mother continued this time her voice breaking up almost as if she was about to cry, “Do you know why I never approved of your true love? It’s because your dashing “Romeo” is nothing but a spoiled, selfish, tramp! For every girl he finds and claims to love he breaks their hearts. Some of them so heartbroken they’ve committed suicide! And I will not have my daughter be heartbroken by that someone like that!”

“No, no you’re—you’re lying to me again mom. When will the lies ever stop?”

“Don’t believe me? I can give you the names of the families that Romeo has ruined because of his heartless ways” I glared at my mom and sneered at her

“I refuse to believe that I’ll go ask him myself”. I then hopped off from the tree down to the ground and took off running with my mom shouting my name.

As I ran through the town hoping to find my Romeo, I soon came across the White Rabbit club. On the board outside it said “Teen’s Nite” and I knew then that’s where my true love would be at. I entered inside and loud music was booming through the speakers. I tried to gently push my way through the crowd of teens who were dancing around, talking or drinking sodas or whatever drinks they were serving.

Soon I took notice a tuff of blonde hair at a table and a familiar curve of his handsome face. It was Romeo. My heart skipped a beat as I slowly walked towards him to suddenly stop and watch in absolute shock and disbelief.

Two beautiful girls soon sat on either side of him and soon his friends and cousins came sitting down in front of him at the table and his friend Mercutio said.

“Man Romeo, to think you actually got to snag these two fine young ladies right here all in the same night damn dude you gotta tell me your secret!”

“A man as handsome as me never reveals his secrets but you’ll get there one day Merc”. His pals all oooed and playfully nudged Mercutio at Romeo’s burn.

“Hey what about that one girl you were with back home uhhh what was her name again?” asked Benvolio.

“Yeah what’d it Jewel or something?” said Mercutio.

“Juliet? Ahh that girl was too desperate. I mean all that time I was with her I never really cared for her. I just went with her to get away from my old man but man did she fall for me like a rock to sea. Yeah sure she was pretty but nowhere near as beautiful as the girls I have right here, right ladies?” the girls giggled sultry as they cuddled up against him.

I just stood there in shock about his words. I stumbled out of the White Rabbit until I was outside in the cold and leaned up against the wall before sliding down and wept.

I was betrayed, fooled, heartbroken, and felt completely stupid. Now I’m beginning to understand what Rumpelstiltskin meant on my 14th birthday ball that night. True love can be poison as well, just when you think you’ve found your destined one, the person who makes you feel like you’re on top of the world, they go around and turn on you. They throw you under the bus and just watch as their ‘love’ makes you suffer in such agony.

I could risk going back to my mom and having her throw back the ‘I told you so’ sass speech that she usually does whenever she’s right about something. I got up and just walked aimlessly out of the town and into the forest.

Just my luck as I walked, it began to pour down rain but I didn’t care. I was too numb to notice how cold I was or how much I was shivering. My clothes soaked deeply into my skin and my shoes were beyond soggy and muddy, but again I didn’t care.

“Julie?” I looked up to see my dear friend Grace (yep that’s right the daughter of the Mad Hatter Jefferson. During the curse, Grace and I actually became best friends and after the curse even with our parent’s past together we still remained close and even Jefferson doesn’t blame me for what my mother did to him, he never did).

“Hey Gracie” I muttered softly.

“Why are you out here in the rain in the middle of the night?”

“Grace I—I…..”

“What is it Julie? You know you can tell me anything”.

“Grace—can I please spend the night over at your place? I don’t want to go home”. I choked out a sob.

“Sure, yes of course papa won’t mind, come on let’s get you inside and warmed up. Papa can even make you some tea”. She then stood close beside me sensing my sorrow and held the umbrella over us and she guided me towards her mansion deep in the woods.

Once we got there, she called out to her papa.

“Papa! I’m home!”

“About time young lady I was just about to call the sheriff to search for—” Jefferson then came out from the kitchen and when he saw me soaking wet his eyes turned concerned.

“Papa, can Juliet spend the night? She doesn’t want to go back home”.

“Yeah of course. Umm….Grace why don’t you get her some extra clothes for her to sleep in as well as prepare the guest room for her”

“Yes papa” she said then she took off upstairs then Jefferson turned towards me and said.

“Juliet come with me into the kitchen and I’ll make you some tea”. I slowly walked towards him and he placed his hand on my back and guided me into the kitchen. He sat me down on one of the chairs and immediately began making the tea.

“There we go, nice, freshly brewed tea. Hopefully that’ll warm you up”. I took the cup in my hands and took a gently sip of it.

“Thank you Jefferson” I muttered quietly.

“It’s no trouble at all and hey,” he placed his hand on my shoulder gently before he continued, “stay here as long as you need to, I have absolutely no problems with it”. I nodded and thanked him once more just as Grace came down with an extra pair of her pajamas since we both wore the same size clothes and I changed in the bathroom and got myself more comfortable.

Later that night I was in the guestroom and I knew Grace and Jefferson were already fast asleep by now but I was wide awake. I couldn’t sleep not after all that I had heard Romeo say about me. His words still fresh in my mind, my heart feeling like my mother took it out from my chest and squeezing it as slow and as painfully hard as she could like she did to all of her victims back home in the Enchanted forest.

I got out of bed and prepared a note hoping that Grace would find it as I explained everything and swearing her to our ‘Sister sworn secrecy’ I hoped she wouldn’t show this note to her dad or even my mom about what I was going to do. As soon as the rain stopped for the night, I snuck out of the mansion and took off for another house far from the town but out in the open meadow of the forest.

By morning I had arrived at my destination. My half-aunt Zelena’s house. I walked up the steps of her house and knocked on the door and waited in the cold morning air until she opened the door. When she opened it and saw me she just sneered at me and said.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“I need your help. I need magic”.

“Why would I give you my magic when clearly you can get some from mummy-dearest. Now get off my porch!” She went to close the door but I stopped it with my magic and begged her.

“Please Zelena, you’re the only one I know who can create this poison, please aunt Zelena, you’re my last hope”. Seeing how desperate I was she then smirked and said.

“Come in my darling niece and we’ll see what Aunty Zelena has for you hmm?” I then entered her house and she closed the door.

I was now at the old Toll Bridge with the container of poison that Zelena had made for me. One taste of the Blackheart’s poison and my heart will slowly shrink until it dries up like a raisin and I’ll finally be free of my heartbreak and life as I know it forever. I slowly opened the flask lid and stared at the glowing purple liquid inside and shut my eyes as I raised it up to my mouth when I suddenly heard.

“JULIET STOP!!!” My eyes shot open and I turned to see my mom running towards me along with Emma, Snow, David, Henry, Robin and Hook. “Julie baby please don’t do this!” my mom begged me.

“You were right mom. You were right about him. But I don’t wanna hear your lecture right now, why do you all come?”

“Jefferson called us, he said that you had spent the night over with Grace but then when she came to wake you up she saw the note and got scared”. Started Snow.

“We then heard from Gold that you went to Zelena for poison and wanted to kill yourself, so we used a locator spell to find where you were at and thank god we got here when we did” finished David.

“Well you’re too late! My life is worthless without him. He was my whole world and he crumbled it down! If this is love I do not want it…. I’m going to take it from me and finally end the life he ruined”.

“Juliet put the poison down.” Mom started softly as she slowly walked towards me. “If you drink that poison, there will be no coming back from it. Suicide is permanent and there’s no going back from it. You’ve got so many people that love you sweetheart, and I love you more than anything. I should’ve done a better job to protect you I am so sorry. But Juliet sweetie, you will find your True love I mean look at me. I thought I was beyond all hope after Daniel but then I met Robin. He gave me a second chance to find love, Romeo just wasn’t yours. But that doesn’t mean you need to end your life because of one guy, I promise there will be a guy out there who will love you for who you truly are”.

Tears welled up in both of our eyes as my mom stood right next to me looking at me with her sad, brokenhearted brown eyes staring deeply into my own.

“Juliet. You’re better than him. Show me you’re better than him”. I just stared at her before finally breaking down and dropping the flask with the poison and wept hysterically in my mom’s chest. She held onto me and we both collapsed to our knees. She rubbed me back, repeatedly kissed my head and anywhere else she could reach and whispered words of comfort to me.

As I wept I soon felt more arms being wrapped around me and I knew it was my family giving me strength. It was that moment I knew I couldn’t let my broken heart control my life, I was going to try and press on and I won’t do it alone.

#regina mills #ouat fanfiction #regina x reader #mother!regina #ouat fandom #fluff #angst #heartbreak

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archivesdiveronarpg · 7 years

Photo

Congratulations, LESLIE! You’ve been accepted for the role of CLAUDIUS. Admin Bree: Put simply, this application was everything I’ve been looking for in a Clark app and more. You nailed him from start to finish, from your analysis to your interview (his cigarette, his nagging conscience) to the faintly nostalgic para sample (the violin, in particular). You brought him to life in all of his terrible, tragic glory, and I can’t thank you enough for applying. I can’t wait to see what you do with him on the dash! Welcome to DiVerona! Your request to change his faceclaim to Richard Armitage has also been accepted. Please read over the checklist and send in your blog within 24 hours.

WELCOME TO THE MOB.

Out of Character

Alias | Leslie

Age | 17

Preferred Pronouns | She/her

Activity Level | I’m attending summer school by June and school starts in July, which means I’ll inevitably come across busy weekdays and weekends. However, my activity is mostly still dictated by how much muse I have for my character. Writing is never an issue for me so long as my muse hasn’t been milked dry that day.

Timezone | GMT +8

Current/Past RP Accounts | My accounts can be found here (x), here (x) and here (x). Most of my experience, as you may as well realize, are from only city RPs so I’ll be deviating from my comfort zone here, should I get accepted!

In Character

Character | Claudius (Clark Godrej). While I love Cillian Murphy, could you possibly see Richard Armitage in his stead? This is only a secondary concern, though!

What drew you to this character? | Is it considered a crime if you, at age seventeen, have not read any Shakespeare play? Of course I’ve seen adaptations of Romeo and Juliet, Macbeth, and Much Ado About Nothing, but other than that my knowledge on Shakespeare is nada. The initial knowledge I have of Claudius comes from Cliffsnotes (I especially like the part where the writer calls him ‘morally deficient’ and how he sacrifices humanity and humanness to acquire his goals), but reading his biography just made him more interesting for me.

It’s easy to conclude from first glance that Claudius is some sort of psychopath, but I believe that he is far more than that. C (I hope you don’t mind if I use this in future reference to him) has the makings of a Byronic character: plots spread across his life nothing short of tragedies, with misery and scorn imbued in his heart although still capable of love. More than that, however, I see him as possessing an inferiority complex stemming mainly from being constantly behind his older brother, whose shadow still rightfully looms his very movements to this day. Fusing Byronic characteristics with inferiority and you have yourself a deeply flawed character. As a writer, I aim to make my characters written in such a way that they aren’t just an overplayed trope.

Additionally, while he’s an emissary of the Montagues, his true loyalty lies within himself and himself alone—doing everything with his interests in mind, his mob allegiance only taking second place to his selfishness. Though what is important here is why he has become so selfish in the first place—and the answer lies with his older brother yet again. He’s neither owned nor valued in his life, and the barest semblance of anything that could become his he takes so with passion. This has especially struck me personally, considering that I’m a little bit of a greedy prick in real life (what can you do? Haha) but I do so with a justification it’s just me “taking back what I’ve lost”. And that’s primarily what C has become. So much has been taken from him that when the opportunity presents itself to “steal” something which is his brother’s own, he does so with a smile on his face, because he thinks—he knows—this is what he deserves. Him loving his brother’s wife and him killing his brother, however, are other stories entirely.

Despite all my ramblings, I don’t think I’ve definitively answered why I damn well love C so much already. He’s suffered most his life and from that he becomes a truly grey character for whom it is difficult to sympathize with, and with good reason. He’s malicious, selfish, and bitter; on the other hand, he’s driven, loyal to a fault, and extremely calculating in his methods. Without a doubt, C is human and everything that entails – a product of life’s calamities and fleeting radiance.

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

Giya | Similarly to the third-season villain in The Legend of Korra (I can’t help but make a reference!), the one thing that tethers the villain to the ‘earthly realm’ is that of his one true love. I imagine that C will approach her death with the same approach as he did his brother’s own. He’ll be throwing himself to his work in an effort to erase all memory of her, but this fails with even the barest mention of her name. It will be an interesting and admittedly difficult challenge to paint him as anything but irredeemable after that point, because what else is there for him to live for in this goddamn world? The thought process would be unreal. In his mind, he’s killed for nothing. Now both his brother’s and Giya’s deaths lull in his conscience. Nightmares come more than ever before, as if compensating for their scarcity back then. Her death has unlocked in him a weakness that he so wishes to eradicate. Ultimately, though, I just want to see how he can grow from all this. He truly doesn’t have anything holding him back now, which leads to him becoming more reckless than ever.

Gallows (TW: suicide ideation) | Whether he be huddling in stacks under stacks of books or requesting that he take on other responsibilities aside from his job’s conventions, C is unwittingly distancing himself from others. He’s a tightly wound up storm and within good reason—in his perspective the universe throws tragedy to him constantly. So tightly wound is he that when he’s approached with the subtlest impression of compassion the storm comes resurging. Because, in the deepest trenches of his organ writhing underneath his ribcage, there remains still sentiment that motivates him to live. But he is so good at hiding his emotions, so good that I fear the inevitable numbness will push him further and further the edge. That being said, I desire for him to have even one friend to whom he can open up. It’s scary and characteristically unnatural for him to do so, but without a support system, I have an inkling that he’ll believe death is the only escape to the horrors he’s lived.

Gone Wrong | The brazen hiss of a car tire as it glosses over a roughly cemented road. Bones and synapses and organs smashed as his air bag failed to protect him from the damage. Lungs filled with inhaled carbon monoxide. Eyes dimmed, with only blinding white light in his line of sight. A fire developing from the car engine. Himself, unable to escape. C is a perfectionist above all. And while he’s internally already broken, I’d like to explore how physical incapability and how the loss of work – the only thing that keeps him going now – influences his actions. Always one to stubbornly brush off help, there’s no telling how he’ll fare on his own. In his perspective, such an accident is his past’s way of coming back to haunt him.

In Depth

The following THREE questions must be answered in-character, and in para form (quotations, actions written out if applicable, etc). There is no minimum or maximum limit for your response - simply answer as you would were you playing the character.

TW: suicide ideation

The pair opposite each other on a shadowy nook in the comfort of his home. Separating them is an old mahogany coffee table smattered with scratches and even a bite mark, stemming from a former dog of whom he’s now disposed. A glass ashtray, whose surface has turned the color of tar, sits on the middle. Two glasses of water—the lone thing which Clark has prepared for them both, actual sustenance be damned—is placed strategically on its sides, as if guarding the ashtray’s secrets. Crossing his legs and drumming his fingers endlessly on the arm rail, he waits impatiently for the other’s question, having no desire except to continue his day per usual.

“What is your favorite place in Verona?” The interviewer asks, expression of pure civility.

A shake of his head, fingers flicking his cancer stick before it finds its way between his lips once more. A click of a lighter is heard as he alights his cigarette and begins to induce poison in and out his lungs.

Momentary silence is observed before his chapped lips part to repeat the other’s words. “My favorite place in Verona…” He muses, crossing his arms over his chest which serves as another means of defense. He decides not to give an honest answer, and having easily mastered the art of deceit he’s certain that the other will believe him regardless of his utterance.

“…is the capital library.” Then again, his response carries an undercurrent of truth. He neither wholly desires the fragrance of old books wafting through shelves that shadow the most miniscule of moves nor the hushed atmospheres upon which even a mellow laugh of a child is contorted into something ominous. He craves, in their stead, the peril lurking above the bookshelves and away from an entire city’s line of sight. It is among one of his safe spaces, a place where he can tread with peers of similar ideologies, those who have learned to accept him despite the rage bubbling underneath his system.

But you’re still lying. A conscience, faded but still ingrained into the back of his mind, tells him. He daren’t admit it to anyone, but the bridge dividing both parties is where his heart lies. The Castelvecchio stands unwitting of its role in the raging civil war, and he’s loath to think how much tragedy it has seen. And oh how he desires to trace both the footsteps of Capulets and Montagues and to discern how many of them have taken their last steps here—

—and how sometimes, when his heart is heavy and his shoulders become too heavy laden, when all efforts of alleviating the pain becomes all for naught, he imagines how it feels like to jump from one of its stones and into the raging river underneath.

But that is a story for a later day. Now, all that concerns him are finishing his cigarette. And this ruddy interview.

The other man taps his feet ceaselessly on the mahogany floor, eager to write his words yet again. But Clark is not one to satisfy another. In fact, he relishes in taking away their pleasure. Let him experience a twinge of suffering, a lone crevice of his mind says, let him.

A gleam in his eyes is evident yet again as he throws the stick somewhere, making neither moves to throw it properly nor extinguishing its tip. Let it burn. His conscience says treacherously.

He sees the impatient expression plastered on the other’s face, and a faint gale of laughter escapes past his lips. “Oh, do you want me to continue?” He utters, raising a single brow. “You’re not going to get an answer more than that.”

“What does your typical day look like?” The man almost stammers now, but ever so quick on his feet, disguises the gaffe with a small cough.

His head tilts, ever so slightly, at the candid inquiry. A perfectly-sculpted mask shatters only in the rarest of occasions and today is no exception. His face is still, devoid of emotion, with only those who have been trained in the art of distinguishing the cartography of Clark’s face having the knowledge of where to look. The faint curl of his lips is suggestive of sinisterism rather than of genuine amusement, cerulean blue irises glimmering with that of the sweet smell of danger.

“Shall I bore you with the details?” Clark leans back on his chair, folding his hands on his lap as he does so. His eyelids flutter shut as he inhales the remnants of nicotine looming in the air, a fleeting repose to boredom.

“That’s why I’ve been brought here.” The interviewer does not even attempt to conceal his slight annoyance.

Let him wait. His conscience, or at least whatever is left of it, speaks. These days the small voice in the back of his head only serves to vex him all the more. Sometimes it speaks well, but far more frequently it does its stark opposite. The latter now speaks to him, in a cold, calculating way that almost mirrors his own speech.

A shallow laugh bubbles and escapes from his system before he can stop it. “Don’t tell me you’re actually interested in the makings of an emissary. Wouldn’t you rather learn about the boss, who sits atop his throne? Or their second-in-command, whose deeds are so dark they can bring the diablo on his knees? Or the advisers, whose words occasionally serve much better than the soldiers’ actions?”

There is no response on his opposite’s part. He continues.

“Or wouldn’t you rather learn about the unspeakable?” Clark leans forward, looking side by side as if to keep a secret from an invisible audience. “Wouldn’t you rather learn of a thief in the night, strutting across the room as their eyes fixate on another silhouette? Wouldn’t you rather learn of a man with quiet, calculated steps, stifling his would-be victim’s mouth with a handkerchief and plunging a knife into their back? Wouldn’t you rather learn of a man whose arm contains now a trail of crimson as he remorselessly leaves his victim, who has lips growing purple with each passing second and their skin flaking at the slightest touch?”

He sees him now, swallowing in fear as Clark utters his sentences.

Fear is what he does best, he thinks.

“…that beats talking about mundane business trips, no?”

The interviewer conceals none of his fright, almost instinctively taking the glass of water and, putting his lips onto its brim, drank its contents until it is half-empty.

“Erm… I suppose we should skip to the last question,” the interviewer speaks, “what are your thoughts on the war between the Capulets and the Montagues?”

“You want the truth?” Clark replies, almost gnashing his teeth.

The interviewer nods, gaze fixated at him, as if daring him to finally venture onto the realm of honesty.

“Who was it that said, ‘All war is a symptom of man’s failure as a thinking animal?’ Sun Tzu, or John Steinbeck?”

“I believe it was Steinbeck.”

“And it was Einstein, was it not, who said that ‘killing under the cloak of war is nothing but an act of murder’?”

Another nod of the interviewer’s head.

“I believe in neither,” Clark speaks, voice carrying an undercurrent of exhaustion. His next words are a product of his mind’s quiet, feeble surrender, letting his walls down ever so slightly. There is no doubt on the authenticity of his words. “War is humanity’s greatest achievement. We have grown past the point of conventions and conformity to the extent we wage battles in an effort to fight for our ideologies. In war, we see the best and the worst of mankind. Innocents cry for help and the braves deliver. In war, there comes innovation and breakthroughs, inventions that wouldn’t have otherwise been made if we remained not in distress. War makes heroes and victims of us all. War is not a dishonor to civilization but rather its saving grace.

“That being said, who am I to judge as to whose faction is in the right? One man’s enemy is another man’s freedom fighter, and the Capulets and the Montagues understand this. In both points of view, there is no senseless brutality but justified hatred. And while I belong to the latter faction, if I had been born on the other side of the tracks, I most likely would’ve followed suit on the other team.”

Moments of defenselessness aren’t especially sought after by him, but Karma’s ugly cousin Fate ought to have thought otherwise following this encounter’s inevitability. Even while he is having the conversation his candor stings, like a snake’s venomous bite, as if the serpent seething in his system desires nothing more than to sear its scales permanently onto pale flesh. To bring back the mask he’s slowly uncovered.

Heedless of mind’s qualm, he continues, “I’m a selfish man. I do things primarily for my own gain. I’ve forgotten how it’s like to care for another. Being an emissary is just a job. I don’t expect, nor anyone should expect, that I be a hero.”

Gradually pushing himself out of his chair, Clark begins to take out another cigarette stick from his breast pocket. I’ve said too much. He muses internally as he lights the cigarette and brings it between his lips, unable to resist nicotine’s sensual destruction. Walking over to where the interviewer sat, Clark brings his free hand on their shoulder, he utters:

“Enough is enough.”

In-Character Para Sample: We do require one in-character para sample. Again, write as much or as little as you need to get your interpretation across.

01.

In his hand, he holds a picture frame of himself and his music teacher. It’s dingy and dusty from decades of wear and tear, its outlines faded as if adding a natural vignette. It has been long, too long, since he’s last held his much-loved string instrument. It is rare, almost nonexistent, that his work be entailed with bouts of rhythmic resonance.

From happier times, it’s captioned.

“Clark Godrej,” his teacher once said, “you are a promising violinist.”

He remembers those days where sonorous notes weaved by his fingers fill the room as effortlessly as a summer breeze. He remembers the violin’s warm vibrato that dispels the sorrow surround him. He remembers the magnified, thunderous applause befitting for an artist of his talent. As a child four feet ten tall, he is the smallest of performers, pale and porcelain skin serving only as another reminder of his fragility.

But the string instrument is far from the only thing which he manipulates. He has trained the line of his lips to contort into a smile; eventually it becomes a part of him. A smile, seamlessly orchestrated, with no single note amiss, and with every chord struck with the neatest precision. It is a trick he uses as a means to hide the darkness coursing through thin veins. He performs this smile every time he takes a bow on the stage, with his parents and brother distinctively absent.

Even as a child, Clark’s memory has never been quite fickle. But at some points there is a failure of clarity, a glitch in the well-oiled machinations that is his consciousness.

He remembers small things.

He remembers the young Clark as he leaves the recital is a torrential downpour of rain. The pitter-patter of his ruined leather Oxfords as he makes the way back to the Godrej home. Even then it seems to him like Fate’s bitter laughter, taunting and flagrant in its repose.

He remembers himself staggering through the family’s doorsteps like an animal venturing into a new cage. The case enclosing his violin is wet all over, having used it to safeguard his own body.

He remembers a silhouette carefully approaching him. “You’re late.” His father speaks first, lips curled into a grim line.

He remembers himself mussing up his hair, droplets of rainwater stuck to his raven locks dampening his fingers. “It was raining.” He chimes in gently. “Did I miss dinner?”

He remembers the tension looming between the pair like thick musk, carrying an undercurrent of disapproval. “You did.” The words roll out of bared teeth. Like a statue his body hardens, swallowing in fear as he sees his father’s tightly-wound features. “Did you do this on purpose again?”

He remembers himself not listening. “Of course not. What’s for me to gain?” His remark is uttered as a faint mumble, as if his speech is still uncertain to tread another lie. He remembers not wanting to be there, not at all, not in a family dinner where his brother was celebrated and himself all but ignored. “I’d rather rest, if that’s alright by you.” The sigh he releases from his system is heavy and resolute.

He remembers his father not wishing to rescind, instead pushing on his inquiry. “Do you think this is some sort of game, Clark?” His father doesn’t wish to rescind, instead pushing on his inquiry.

It is at this point that his mind fails him, drawing a blank where there should’ve been a memory.

But he does remember this:

He remembers a resounding, echoing slap.

He remembers a hand-shaped bruise on the side of his cheek as he looks at himself in the mirror the next day. It stings at the slightest touch.

He remembers a quiet breakfast.

He remembers darkness.

And he remembers a violin, split in two.

(The next two are just drabbles for a graphic for his relationships with Haresh and Giya that I gave up doing because I have 0 Photoshop skills whatsoever haha)

02.

His grief, like many things about him, is tightly concealed. No one will know about his running as soon as the wake came to a close, his legs failing him, and him sinking to his knees as soon as he opens his front door. No one will know how he takes one look at his bare flat and realizing how bereft he truly is of company and friends and anything akin to love. No one will know how he untangles his tie and wishes that he can also untangle himself from his mask of feigned indifference, worn so constantly that it’s already been seared permanently into his flesh. No one will know how he prays that night, prays with only God as his witness, asking for a mantra of reconciliation even though he knows his deed is unforgivable.

No one can know.

He is Cain, and he will carry his sin to the grave.

And when Death does come to find him, as it shall inevitably, whether today or tomorrow or the next, Clark will point his gaze right back. His eyes will brim with tears, unshed and unspoken, for it is only in his last moment that he can expunge his prolonged sorrow.

03.

Long has he past brave illusions for a happier and more radiant tale, plots coated with no small amount of deluged tragedies and stuck in a ceaseless discourse with Fate, ever so realistic in its manifestation. Hope for his tale’s possible saccharine resolution bid its farewell so long ago leaving him with only bare remnants of opportunities for felicity, but when the shadows grew too long and the days felt too short, he tenaciously and persistently hanged onto these loose ends.

But as Giya’s thread, too, is cut loose, he finds himself holding onto nothing.

And what else is there to live for?

Extras:

Pinterest (x) Inspo tag (x) There isn’t a lot round here, but hopefully it works. X Playlist (x) Element: Fire MBTI: ENTJ “The Commander” Moral Alignment: Chaotic Neutral Primary Vice: Pride Primary Virtue: Prudence

Headcanons:

GIYA. The way I see it, Clark first sees Giya as his brother’s property. So when their mutual attraction is made known, Clark is obviously ecstatic, for he’s acquiring something that was rightfully his brother’s own. Somewhere along the road, however, he does fall in love with her to a fault, enough for murder to come into play. That said, Giya is the only person Clark has ever opened up to, and that list includes his parents and his brother. There’s no one on Earth he would kill – or die – for. It is because of this reason that her death affects him more than his brother’s own. Love is something he’s gone through decades by without, and with her absence comes him growing more and more detached from reality.

MENTAL ILLNESS. I wrote Clark with the idea that he is suffering from psychotic depression. Having been diagnosed with a mood disorder with psychotic features myself, I believe I am able to do this interpretation justice. I’ve already made evident some of his symptoms in the interview and para samples, including irritability, difficulty concentrating, talks or threads of suicide, isolation, and psychotic features such as hearing things that aren’t present. Still, this remains undiagnosed, considering he’ll probably go set something on fire before he goes to a therapy session.

FAMILY. While he had a relatively good upbringing, one incident comes to mind (as is evident in the para sample) that serves as his breaking point. By no means was his father abusive, but the ordeal turned into a heated debate that led to a physical squabble which has permanently blacked out from his system. It further sets up his animosity towards his family and his envy towards his dear, darling brother.

MUSIC. Classical music is his go-to genre, while his violin is his favored string instrument. He owns a Merano 4/4 purple violin.

APARTMENT. His apartment is quaint and comes equipped with a small living room, a kitchen, and a bedroom on the upper floor which is a converted loft. Despite this he keeps it meticulous, save for a few cigarette butts here and there.

SEXUALITY. Clark is demiromantic, but experiences sexual attraction to both men and women. That being said, he doesn’t exactly search for sexual conquests. He lets it develop naturally, and if the chemistry is there, he pushes forward.

He smokes way too much.

I wrote Clark with the idea that he carries himself with a malicious streak, eager to make others fear him, lest they actually see through his mask and attempt entrance.

#accepted #accepted: claudius

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