#orion massetti

[diveronarpg]

In fair Verona, our tale begins with ORION MASSETTI, who is THIRTY-FOUR years old. He is often called ORSINO by the CAPULETS and works as their SPETTRO. He uses HE/HIM pronouns.

There’s only one difference between a man with his own interests in mind and a man who claims to serve the mob first: the latter is a LIAR. The only child of a couple who tried to buy their son’s love at every available opportunity by showering him with the finest gifts and then some, Orion Massetti has been—and still is—many things: a spoiled brat, a GLUTTON, and a self-centered ass (he’s always loved that one), but the one thing he’s never been—has never cared to be—is a liar. Most children learned to twist the truth to avoid punishment, but he never had the need; the Massetti’s had created a monster when they’d granted his every wish, and the tantrums he threw put an abrupt end to any and all punishments they might’ve tried to enforce. He’s always prided himself on being brutally honest and sinfully indulgent, two traits he could thank his parents for if he wasn’t so VAIN. Shame is learned, but it’s a lesson he was never taught; likewise, humility is best exercised by those who care enough about the opinions of others to be considerate of their low self-esteems, and Orion has always been too self-absorbed to keep his ego in check—as a matter of fact, it’s the only thing he won’t let another do for him. He prides himself on being the smartest man in the room, and that’s not only in reference to his clothing.

A man can’t play the game and expect to win without getting his hands a little dirty, and he certainly can’t expect to have any fun without being a little LASCIVIOUS. Good at what he does and even better at what he shouldn’t, he’d kiss a man for a good time and slit his throat in the same breath, and that’s exactly why Cosimo Capulet wanted him. He’s a man of desire—that much is clear, but it’s terrifyingly easy to underestimate him, to mistake the lust in his eyes for the type to be satisfied by unbroken flesh. A weapon hiding between layers of silk and at the bottom of too many glasses of red wine, he’s as DEADLY as he is lovely, a not-so-guilty pleasure that kills. He’s the man your parents warned you about, donning the mask of the man you were warned against becoming. He is hands in your hair and a knife between your shoulder blades, a toast to good health and cyanide-laced champagne, and he let the Capulets claim him not because he had any ambition to ascend their ranks whatsoever, but because he was BORED.

And they should take care to ensure he doesn’t get bored again. Sworn to one mob but pledging undying loyalty to none, he lounges with one foot over the line of betrayal and the other atop his knee—SHAMELESS. A wise man like him knows better than to put both feet on the ground without first confirming that it will hold his weight, but the option, he knows, is there; it’s no secret that the best soldiers can be bought, and he likes to think of himself as quite the commodity. He gave them his word, yes, but a man like Massetti talks to hear himself and signs his name because he likes the way it looks; he’d sell the Capulets out for the right price and a bottle of Verona’s finest wine, but Cosimo seems hellbent on outbidding any man who dares to try—least of all Damiano Montague—and as long as he gets what he wants, Orion is content to play the part of soldier for a little while longer. He’s always been a PATRON of the arts—an active participant, if you will—and theater is certainly no exception. What can he say? He’s a man of many talents.

Few people know what to make of the son of Dionysus, but most would agree it adds to his allure. His wine-stained lips color him a glutton, but the blood on the bottom of his shoes draws a different picture. It’s all the same, though; a MASTERPIECE warrants admiration because it is a masterpiece, not because its components are pure. He’s in this game—this war—for himself; he always has been, and odds are, he always will be. Only time will tell which family will reign supreme, but a man like him has no concept of family—of loyalty. Dangerously passionate and luxuriously lethal, he is the vision of Verona in all its glory, and God, what a vision it is.

GRACE DALY: Curiosity. He usually pays no attention to families that are not placed upon the same pedestal as the Capulets or Montagues. Certainly not the Dalys – but one particular Daly has caught his eye. She listens too carefully, watches too eagerly, craves blood a little too ravenously. There has been no particular instance that this suspicion was aroused, but rather a series of oddities that have surrounded her that have made his brow pique a little more. It isn’t often that he rises to the occasion, but for some reason or another the Daly woman is forcing him to make his loyalties with the Capulets more apparent – and more vicious.

DELILAH BELLO: Indifference. He supposes that she expects him to act as a jury of one, to condemn her as the whore her husband claims she is or affirm her innocence and lend her a shoulder to cry on, but she’ll be sorely disappointed if she does, because he intends to do neither. Odin was a fine drinking partner and she made lovely conversation, all things considered, but he can’t say he was particularly attached to either of them, and their lover’s—or not—quarrel is none of his concern. He has no interest in playing the hero—not for her, not for anyone—and it’s nothing personal. But for what it’s worth, he’s quite familiar with the way adoration looks on a person, and Delilah was always the very picture of it around her husband. If he were a gambling man (and he is), he’d wager that the woman hadn’t done a damn thing. Pity.

HECTOR RIVERA: Taunt. He’d be amusing enough to toy with even if he weren’t a Montague; his affiliation with the rival mob is only a bonus. He first encountered him at the Twelfth Night, where he’d made the younger man blush by locking lips with the nearest willing statue, breaking the kiss, and asking if he cared to join. Their next meeting saw Orion offering to buy him a pity drink to match the pitiful way he trailed after his companion, the Godrej kid—Horace, is it?—like a lovesick puppy. He’s very much aware that his affiliation with the Capulets dictates that he should be threatening to do far worse than loosen him up, but he can’t bring himself to care.

ORPHEUS AHULANI: Rival. “You’re the second best-dressed man in the room, Ahulani. But you’ll have your chance shortly—I’m about to step outside for a drag.” He doesn’t feel threatened by the man; that’s not it. Men like him don’t feel threatened. It’s beneath them—like cheap champagne and petty gossip. But they do acknowledge those who try (and fail) to come close to them, and arguably, that’s exactly what he’s doing—a favor, if you will. The other man’s got a lot going for him, but he’d have even more if he didn’t stand anywhere in his vicinity. All jabs aside, however, Orpheus is a worthy companion; he cons like he looks, and he doesn’t look half-bad.

Orion is portrayed by FRANCOIS ARNAUD and was written by BREE. He is currently RETIRED.

[orpheus-vault-blog]

ø , % , ツ

ø for a LATE NIGHT text.

sent to ORION at 02:37 — I hear you’ve been awfully concerned with a certain part of me recently. Making all kinds of assumptions.

sent to ORION at 02:37 — I can assure you that you have nothing to worry about. Or maybe you do, depending on just how insecure you are.

sent to ORION at 02:37 — But you’re more than welcome to come and see for yourself.

% for a CURIOUS text.

sent to ORION at 08:28 — Your dear mamma is drinking her morning coffee all by herself. I do hope she’s not lonely.

sent to ORION at 08:30 — Perhaps I should say hello, keep her company?

ツ for an EXCITED text.

sent to ORION at 16:16 — It seems Cosimo wants us working together again.

sent to ORION at 16:17 — I don’t know about you, but I can hardly wait.

sent to ORION at 16:17 — Last time was such a success.

[julianacapulets]

Fingers fragile as a wishbone ram into the door of @dukemassetti & @rafaellacapulet​’s residence—the rap of them against the wood as furious as the woman they are attached to. One more second, one more second, one more second, Juliana Capulet stays herself... and tries to remember the early hour of dawn that finds her stood at their doorstep without turning her cheek to appraise it, unable to. Her eyes wouldn’t see it, anyway, this much she knows; only Rafaella’s face swims in her mind. It is MARCH 17TH, 2019: a few weeks since a bullet had lodged in her shoulder for the first time, and only a few hours since the second had been extricated from the muscle tissue Pandora Phan had embedded in it the night before. Juliana can still feel the cold of the night beneath ashen flesh – and somehow, it is Orion Massetti who was about to experience a world of pain, if the Capulet woman had anything to say about it.

[RECEIVED] ORION MASSETTI: This is a mass text to let everyone know Rafaella is home. With me, that is. My home. She's pretty fucked up, so for the love of Santa Maria or whatever, do not rush all at once to see her. We can set something up individually. 

The text message still lights up the screen of the cellphone clutched in her grip. The fist is the same that knocks at their front-door – because it has to be, with the appendage’s counterpart caught in a sling that restricts movement, the only part of her that remains steady when the cool air nips at her through the thin garment. Hazily, Juliana registers the quiver of blanched fist out of the corner of her eye. A hasty flick of gaze, and she cannot deny the gauze. Tucked away at the back of her mind, perhaps it might be able to bother her that two bullet-wounds in such close proximity of one another mostly meant debilitating implications... were it not for the face that loomed in front of it, just as it obstructed the view of herself as the very vision of a madwoman, stood in the middle of a Verona street in the blush lace silhouette of a nightdress accessorised with stark white bandage-dressing. But she cannot think of any of it. She cannot think of anything but... 

                                                           R A F A E L L A – 

Oh, there had been an image in Juliana’s mind a matter of hours ago: bronze planes and sharp features turned ashen, gone cold; a golden halo of curls dully aglow in a sea of black-adorned mourning. Her blood on the grimy floor, and chains no longer holding onto her corporeal form. Her Rafaella: gone. Until... until this brusque, cavalier text message she’d woken up to, the sedative-drugs still laced in her bloodstream and tugging on her eyelids. After the agonising nightmares she knew as the reality jolted her in the bed she’d insisted upon laying in, refusing on another trip to a hospital, fiercely, until the Capulets had no choice but to relent to her wish. She had not wasted another moment on trying to convince anyone else of anything else – for how could she, how could waste another breath? All Juliana had left on her bed was a piece of parchment with the only name she’d been able to think of in weeks scrawled upon it with haste:

                                                             RAFAELLA –

What more could she have offered her soldiers when they checked upon their once more-slain principessa nesting in bedclothes stained with her blood & failure? There was only that name. Her name; her beloved Rafaella, her heart’s fire & the only sister she’d ever truly known – it was all she’d had to offer, all she’d been capable of, before she’d crawled out of her window like thief into the night, running & running & running. Running, down the streets her feet had tracked over & over, over the weeks slumber dared not graze her throbbing mind, grey matter turning darker by the moment, by the possibilities, by the soul the night leeched from her. There isn’t much left of her to lose. No loss could matter if Rafaella was gone.

No –

     Not gone –

She’s pretty fucked up, he wrote. 

This is a mass text to let everyone know Rafaella is home, he said.

Her fingers twitch, and she tells herself it isn’t for her gun.

[valentina-rising]

#

send me “#” for cell phone headcanons about our muses including:

what your muse’s name is in mine’s phone

orion ♔

what your muse’s picture is in mine’s phone

sometimes it feels easiest to watch him when she knew he wasn’t looking back. When his gaze was anywhere but meeting hers. Sneaking the picture was easy enough, a reminder.

 some would consider it a moment of weakness, seeing him without the suits that clung and a confidence that exuded from every fibre of who Orion was. Maybe Valentina visited because he’d seen her at her worst, lying in a bed pale and alone. She wouldn’t leave him the same way, though he was rarely alone. Words were not her strong suit, but she could smile. Doting in expensive liquor he was warned against drinking, books she’d seen and thought of him while perusing. It was enough, she hoped. So he stared out the window, and she watched for a sign of what he needed. A terrible dance for two people that ended long ago, that were anything but complacent partners. A friend? He was a friend.

what your muse’s ringtone is in mine’s phone

RIP to my Youth- the neighborhood

R.I.P. to my youthAnd you could call this the funeralI’m just telling the truthAnd you can play this at my funeralWrap me up in Chanel inside my coffinMight go to Hell and there ain’t no stoppingMight be a sinner and I might be a saintI’d like to be proud, but somehow I’m ashamedSweet little baby in a world full of painI gotta be honest, I don’t know if I could take itEverybody’s talking, but what’s anybody saying?Mama said if I really want to, then I can change.

my muse’s last text to your muse

[unsent] ✉ still alive?[unsent] ✉ your nurse scared me off, does one need so much beauty rest?[unsent] ✉  you asked me if I resented you. I don’t. But I won’t forgive you if you die. Not for them.[unsent] ✉  i wish I understood you, massetti.[unsent] ✉  im finding ways to bide time tonight, blood for blood. Wanna play? House arrest must be boring.[delivered 22:10] ✉ i’m glad you’re alright. you know where to find me if boredom strikes.

[ofrosso]

date: april 25th location: random bar availability: @la-bella-falco​

It was stupid to be out so soon; Orion being rescued, pulled from their clutches and dragged to the light, Paola being mauled, and Brielle attacked so close on their heels. There were surely dozens of young Capulet’s bristling to prove themselves, even more, still, that hungered for retribution for their dearest Massetti. Yet, Marcelo couldn’t bear to sit idle any longer. Part of them might even have hoped for something to funnel this raw anger toward, this feeling of utter uselessness, as fresh as when Vivianne had dumped them back into freedom, broken and pathetic. Let them find a salve for this wound in them, persistent and festering, so they might be fortunate enough to be relieved of its ache.  

It was only natural that that inclination be met with its harbinger; dark hair folding over petite shoulders, spine arched like a serpent waiting to strike. How badly they yearned to jerk both of those assured palms outward, and point to the scarlet dripping off them as an oracle predicting her fate. Lucrezia had most often been the siren call toward such rabid agendas pulsing beneath their breastbone, and now, the victim such cravings settled upon. She had a particular talent for bark, which had often prompted forward Marcelo’s own impetuous snapping of jaws. Tonight, however, they request no foreplay.

Making a beeline for her, they waste no time rolling their shoulders in anticipation, seething out a, “Lucrezia,” as they near. “Something of mine reeks of you,” Marcelo snaps, hazel hues narrowing in on her, “care to explain why my soldato looks like she’s had a cat fight with a jaguar?” Their jaw shifts, gaze flaring with something daring, something nearly pleading. “Brie, unlike you, was taught not to play with her food. When she carves you ear to ear it’ll take more than a surgeon to put you back together, micio, I’ll make sure of it myself.”

[odessasvernon]

date: march 26 location: the cathedral  availability: closed to @dukemassetti​

Odessa walked into the cathedral with bated breath. She always felt like she had something to prove when the Capulets and Montagues clashed. She was used to being seen as a weak link among the Montagues, a young girl struggling to uphold the legacy left behind by her father, but she had been fighting those assumptions for the last month or so. Odessa was tired of being underestimated by her enemies. She was tired of them seeing her as nothing other than Lawrence’s sister or Alvise’s daughter. Every step she took felt weighted, and Odessa was tired of carrying the weight of her precessors. 

Her veins thrummed with an unfamiliar excitement as she fought alongside Matthias. It wasn’t the same excitement felt by her more aggressive peers--- it was a feeling of defying expectations. No one imagines that the emissary would use her fists before her voice. It was the feeling of being acknowledged as a player in the game rather than a pawn captured early on in the match. Each hit meant she was growing. Each battle won sent a message.

When she watched Matthias’ eyes travel and his form take off, she felt the excitement melt. There was a certain fear in her eyes at the sight of her old friend jumping into the so relentlessly. It caused her to freeze in place--- like a deer caught in headlights. The trance of the fight lured her into a state of oblivion, but the state was broken when she finally turned around and saw a familiar face approaching her quickly.

Orion Massetti.

A face that had burned into her memory. A voice that rings out in her bad dreams. Her heart pounded rapidly at the sight of him as the memories threaten to overwhelm her. Her fist clenched as the memories faded away and left behind only an image of the man in front of her. Odessa took a deep breath, bracing herself for her next action, before she pounced.

[ivanrahal]

date: march 19th, 2019 time: 4:00 p.m. location: orion’s house closed to: @rafaellacapulet​ featuring: @dukemassetti​

Orion’s voice on the phone is cutting before they’ve even begun. “I’m going to make this clear only once: if you put Rafaella into a state of further harm, I will find you, and I will make your balls into decorative earrings and sell them on the black market while you die slowly in my playroom, with only starving rats for company.” It sounds like he’s pacing; he probably is. “Until she can fight for herself again, I’m a loaded gun in her hand. You do something she doesn’t like, she knows what she can use me for.” This is a reminder that Rafaella, too, doesn’t always trust Ivan, and that Orion is certain of his place at her side. “I’ll see you in an hour. Don't be late, or we won’t be taking visitors.”

The voicemail cuts off with a soft click, and Ivan looses a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. Everything within him feels...tight. Coiled. Like a rubber band pulled too taut, a tenth of a second away from snapping. The bones in his hands ache from the stiff clench of his fists, and he’s gnashing his teeth together so hard that he thinks his jaw might shatter. It kills him—to bow to Orion Massetti like this kills him.

Ah, the things we do for… Lust? Like? Not love, but maybe something like it. An echo of it, or a shadow, perhaps—rotten and dark and convoluted. A far cry from what love ought to be, but no less devoted; no less crazed.

He swallows as much of his pride as he can stomach and begins the short trek from Handkerchief to Orion’s home with stiff limbs and an uncharacteristically heavy-footed gait. Distantly, he notices a few Veronesi nervously shy away from him as he trudges through the city’s cobblestoned streets, judging the scowl on Ivan Rahal’s face to be an indicator of a looming hurricane. Their judgment is sound.

By the time he reaches Massetti’s front door, he feels feral, restless. His nerves are frayed and his pride reels as he lifts his hand to rap on the front door. His still-healing ribs twinge, but the ache of broken bone pales in comparison to the ache of broken ego, and his entire body screams in protest against having to ask Orion Massetti for permission to do anything, even something so juvenile as entering a building—especially something so juvenile as entering a building.

It takes every last scrap of self-restraint he possesses to smooth his face into something that resembles boredom, and when Massetti at last opens the door, Ivan’s ruse is fully intact, and he looks equal parts resigned and indifferent. Cool eyes flick from Orion to the foyer behind him, and he sneers with naked distaste. “Your taste in decor leaves something to be desired, Massetti,” he says by way of greeting as he shoulders past Orion and strolls into the living area. His bark lacks any real bite, for Orion has somehow managed to get ahold of Ivan’s leash, passed from Rafaella’s hands to the whoremonger’s, and he’s painfully aware that if he so much as raises his hackles, he’ll be choking on his own collar—Orion will make sure of it. So he lets the slew of insults burning on his hateful tongue fizzle and peers into Rafaella’s room. Empty. She must be in what he assumes is Orion’s bedroom. He turns and reaches for the doorknob, but a sharp “tsk, tsk, tsk” sounds from behind, and he pauses. He turns to look at Orion, who’s promptly wagging his index finger at Ivan. “Ah-ah,” he warns. “Knock first.” Ivan gapes at him. For a moment, he considers cutting Orion’s tongue out of his mouth and making a door knocker out of it, but he decides this is in no one’s best interest, least of all Rafaella’s, so he acquiesces. When he knocks, he hears no invitation, but he also hears no objection, so he enters the bedroom and makes a vulgar hand gesture at Orion as he shuts the door behind him. 

Tension branches in the corners of his mouth and eyes, and he can’t tell if it’s because he wants to kill Orion Massetti or because he wants to kill Matthias Warren. She’s a shadow of the woman he kissed and fucked and laughed with mere weeks ago, and for a moment, he struggles to reconcile the wound-addled, broken-winged bird before him with the vicious, foul-mouthed harpy he’s come to know. As he perches himself on the edge of her bed, he pushes the sensation away with ease, comforted by what he finds in her eyes: matching lagoons of sea-glass blues and greens, flickering dimly with life and ferocity. Ah, there she is.

“Ya amar,” he murmurs, voice uncharacteristically soft, perhaps softer than it’s ever been. Tentatively, and with excruciating slowness, so as not to startle her, he reaches out to sweep a lock of hair away from her face, tucking the golden curl behind her ear. He touches her with impossible gentleness—the sort of gentleness that a monster of his caliber should not be capable of; the sort of gentleness that looks nearly unsettling on the likes of Ivan Rahal, king of nightmares. Relief and concern wash over him all at once, and the polarity of the two emotions agitates him. She’s home, she’s here, she’s alive. But she’s left something behind, he thinks—her strength, maybe, or her passion. Something’s missing. He resolves to recover whatever it is she’s lost, and to make those who robbed it from her beg at her feet on bended knees. 

“If you’d wanted to play with bondage, cuore mio, you only had to ask,” he teases, looking pointedly at her wrists, both of which are red and raw—a byproduct of too-tight bonds, he’s sure. Tenderly, he draws his thumb over the pulse of her wrist, trying in vain to leech the hurt there with skin-to-skin contact. In hindsight, perhaps now is not the appropriate time to make jokes about bondage, but he wants only to see her smile. He realizes with sudden apprehension that he can’t remember the last time he saw it—her smile. “I would’ve been happy to oblige you.” I always am. He searches for something else to say—and comes up short. His words have never failed him before, and for the first time in a long, long time, he doesn’t know what to say. So for the first time in a long, long time, he tells the truth: “You were missed.” The closest thing to “I missed you” that a beast like him can manage. 

[cuorepietoso]

Friday 8 March 2019 Osteria la Mandorla 2220 h  /  10:20PM Closed for @dukemassetti

     There’s a dark corner in this bar, an alcove with a window, half-hidden by a fall of curtain. Battista makes his way there with his shoulders straight and an ice cold mixed drink in his hand, keeping his gait slow and purposeful. It wouldn’t do to be seen as anything other than cool and deliberate, especially not here, where he’s spent what seems like hours flirting and charming half the crowd here. 

     Still, he is technically hiding. The stress of the past few weeks, months, years feels like it’s getting to him, turning a silver tongue to lead in his mouth once more, and he just needs a moment to himself in the dark, to let his shoulders slump, to hold the frigid glass up against the heat bleeding from his cheeks, artificial warmth flushing his skin. He just needs a moment to himself in the dark to convince himself he’s not being hunted, there’s no noose hanging over his neck, no-- 

          Stop. 

     It’s not something to be thought of now. He needs to keep his head, he knows. So he cracks the window, lets the cold spring air seep in around him and cool his blood, and sighs hard enough that he can see his breath cloud outside, fogging the glass. The condensation from the drink still pressed to his cheek runs down his cheek, his neck, into the collar of his shirt. Footsteps behind him barely audible over the music cause his shoulders to tighten, and he buttons down his expression once more into something neutral, glad of the instinct when he sees just who it is lurking behind him. 

     A name he can easily put to the handsome face, considering the company he keeps. Orion Massetti--Orsino. So much for not being hunted here, he’d be lucky if the man just decided he wanted to try to gut him here. The thought amuses him. So he gives him a guileless raised eyebrow, and pulls his drink away from his face to take an unconcerned sip. “Do you often follow strangers around at clubs? Or did you drop something over here--” His voice is dry, and he leans back against the wall, where the cold air seeps into his skin and hair like little digging fingers. “Don’t let me get in your way.”

[litanyoflight]

MARCH 26th, 2019, marks the capulet anniversary, and lillian does not know just how many years it must have been since the inception of an organisation that felt, lately, as though it had been around forever. her amber-eyed gaze wanders THE CATHEDRAL, not restless, but searching, for something(/one) to busy her mind. unexpectedly, her scanning has her eyes locked on @dukemassetti​‘s, and with a grin curling her mouth, her feet wander towards the familiar face.

perhaps they are not friends – not by the strictest definition of the word, at least. they do not set their hearts down at one another’s feet, nor do they reach for one another amidst a tumultuous avalanche of their demons. lillian wen and orion massetti, to be sure, do not mean safe harbour to one another... and yet, as her stilettos click-clack morse code across the cathedral’s floor, the sight of orion still buoys lillian undeniably. 

                                                   why? one might question. 

after all: comfort is hardly the first feeling the man’s reputation elicits, with it being one that more than precedes him amongst the capulets between whom it is her job to circulate. an occupational hazard as much as it is a potential hamartia, the emissary-woman does listen; intently, consistently. from what she’s heard, she knows of the occasional bout of admiration; fear, too, often intermingled with that same admiration, and even, from the brave, puritanical, humane, or an intriguing cocktail of all of the above might even risk emanating disgust, even. but comfort? hardly. if his reputation didn’t render such an emotion an impossibility, lillian suspected the wolfishness of his countenance just might.

it is only a fortunate truth that lillian knows herself—better than most anyone else, in fact—to exist beyond the fray, purposefully. lillian wen does, all too often, enjoy her beauties as unreservedly as she does her beasts, and orion massetti means just so happens to be a little of both. the curl of her mouth and the glimmer in her gaze is telling enough that she does not, ultimately, mind. she’s wondered, of course, whether such is the case because she has known orion for far longer than their occupations have been in any proximity. it has never been violence—of the capulets’ inciting, or a more independent project—that has served as the baseline for their connection. before anything, they only ever bonded over a mutual reverence for the divinity of art. lillian has wondered, more than once, if it is why she does not evade him, knowing what she is now privy to as a part of the capulets’ world.

then again, her conscience serves to remind her, that it would be a lie to claim that she never gleaned darkness from his aura before her initiation – or even, frankly, before she knew of cassian butt’s existence... just as it would be a lie to claim that it ever dissuaded her from approaching him, in all those years, careful but fearless all at once, just as she goes to him now. single-handedly she sweeps two flutes of champagne off a passing tray, without her gait ever stuttering in its smooth glide.

the shoulder-seam of her own tuxedo-jacket grazes orion’s when she sidles up beside him. “you are quite the dapper rascal tonight,” lillian hums, tilting a flute to him.

[catherinedaly]

date: 19 march 2019 location: orion’s house status: closed to @rafaellacapulet​

If you’d told Catherine Daly a year ago that she’d be visiting Rafaella Capulet--willingly--at Orion Massetti’s home, she’d laugh. There was no visiting the lioness that is the advisor, only reporting to her when demanded to. There was no attempt to work alongside the woman rather than bowing and revealing a tender underbelly. There was no connection to the Capulet woman, aside from the king they both decided to serve.

How times have changed.

It’s why she’s on her way to Massetti’s now, Apollo propped up against the door of the Maserati with his head poking out the window. She’s not been demanded to report to la consigliere, nor is she coming for work. Catherine is coming to see Rafaella with her own eyes--to make sure she’s truly home after a botched rescue attempt. 

The car purrs to a stop and the canine in the backseat begins to wiggle with excitement, for he knows they’ve reached their destination. She exits first and then retrieves Apollo, quick to hold his harness and latch the leash on before approaching the home. “Be good, per favore,” she says to her companion, anxiety bubbling in her chest as they approach the door.

What if Rafaella didn’t wish to see her? What if Rafaella didn’t wish to see Apollo? The women have never been close, though the finding of Remmy during la purga has bound them--loosely, of course, but still bound. That, coupled with the death of Stefano Mazzi and the ire Cat felt when Raf wasn’t a part of the Capulet retreat from Hotel Emelia a month ago, is enough for the blonde, who’s only recently begun to learn to love in a new way--fiercely, unapologetically, and violently if need be.

She’s sure Rafaella would be proud. She hopes so, at least.

The woman and dog enter the house and Apollo wishes to run free--to find Remmy, to find toys discarded around the home. And yet, Catherine keeps him close, hellbent on doing what she’s meant to do. She rounds a corner, knuckles knocking softly against an ajar door; Apollo’s muzzle forces through the crack, curiosity getting the best of him. Catherine follows suit, finally entering the room. 

At the sight of Raf, the black and brown dog tugs almost desperately against his harness, rearing to his hind legs and letting loose a loud whine. He’s missed Rafaella, too, but the captain swallows the sentiment, unsure of if her superior would be inclined to hear such a thing. “I hope you don’t mind, consigliere,” Catherine murmurs instead, reeling the German Shepard back to her with a faint half-smile, “but I decided to bring a guest. I think he knew I was coming to see you; Apollo—” who, at the sound of his name, barks— “doesn’t normally try to weasel past me to get out the door, but he did today.” Baby blue hues flit from dog to woman, curiosity and worry disguised by what she hopes is a reassuring sort of warmness. 

“Can we interest you with a bit of fresh air? We’re going for a walk.”

[dukemassetti]

october 8th a carabinieri interrogation room afternoon | closed for @katarinadvpont

Orion is not a model prisoner. He never quite displays as caged or out of control. Judging on body language alone, one might think him ready to walk out at a moment’s notice. He is here to entertain the Carabinieri task force, nothing more or less. His body lounges splayed within the chair, and he lights a cigarette, filling the room with a cloud of smoke as he exhales. He waits.

They might think making him wait on them will be a hardship, but he has an endless patience for games. In his day to day he might get angry to wait for something, but a game? There’s different rules to each one, and when he applies himself to one, he treats it like a promise. Orion Massetti’s word is bond, and so, he waits.

In his mind, he’s watching Tiade drive. There’s something extremely soothing about leaning into her ridiculous hairpin turns, watching the wind blow in her hair when they take the top off. She can sing well, but she does so badly to annoy him, and it makes him laugh. They each try to out-do each other by shitting on the melody harder than anyone can fathom, until he’s half-laying in the seat, his muscles tight under the strain of laughter. 

The room comes almost into focus when he hears the door, but it’s through a haze of smoke he’s been producing. Orion gives a slow smile to the woman before him; Katarina du Pont, markswoman extraordinaire and one of the newest recruits to the Capulet crown. He only knows her tangentially through mentions from Everett, but her face is well known to him because his father’s always wanted to represent the du Ponts. 

She’s a Capulet, now. Does she know one when she sees one? 

❝ Carabiniere du Pont. ❞  He greets her by name, but makes no mention of why they’re here. His best guess is that the task force has been looking into the murder of Venere Bissacco, the latest person foolish enough to build a case against both families within the mafia rings. They made their bed and lie in it still, but he wants to make du Pont say it. To see her face while she tries to do her job, all the while knowing she’s on the take.

It’s an interesting thought experiment. A chance to observe a descent the way he did with Everett so many years ago.

[orpheus-vault-blog]

✧

orion massetti –

I would kill you. ✧ I would physically hurt you. ✧ I would attack you unprovoked. ✧ I would manipulate you. ✧ I dislike you. ✧ You annoy me. ✧ You scare me. ✧ You intimidate me. ✧ I hope I intimidate you. ✧ I pity you. ✧ You disgust me. ✧ I hate you. ✧ I’m indifferent toward you. ✧ I’d like to get to know you better. ✧   I’d like to spend more time with you. ✧ I’d like to be friends with you. ✧  I’m unsure what to think of you. ✧ I’m unsure how I feel about you. ✧ You are my friend. ✧ You are my best friend. ✧ You are my mentor. ✧ I look up to you. ✧ I respect you. ✧ You are my hero. ✧ You inspire me. ✧ You are my enemy. ✧ You make me happy. ✧ I want to protect you. ✧ I would fight by your side. ✧ I consider you an equal. ✧ I think you are beneath me. ✧ I think you are above me. ✧ I would lie for you. ✧ I would lie to you. ✧ I would sleep with you.✧ I would sleep by your side. ✧ I would hug you. ✧ I would kiss you. ✧ You are family to me. ✧ I would die for you. ✧ I would kill for you. ✧ I would trust you with my life. ✧ I would trust you with my most precious belonging. ✧ I would trust you with a secret. ✧ I would trust you with my biggest / darkest secret. ✧ I love you (platonically). ✧ I love you (romantically). 

[lorettadelluci-blog]

When: February 8th, 2019 Where: Twelfth Night & Tempest Who: Closed for @ivanrahal

Loretta stands in the shadow of the goddess Diana and watches as a woman breaks up with her boyfriend in the Twelfth Night’s garden. They’ve been coming here on bi-weekly dates since Loretta started working with Rafaella to better project the museum’s image. In the beginning she’d originally thought the two deeply in love, but... things change. (She thinks this as if she’s been working here for long, in any meaningful way. It’s only been a month or so.) They’re both holding hot beverages. Hopefully nothing will be thrown this way or that.

Her phone buzzes -- a text from Rafaella. It tells her to proceed with the advertisements she’s been teetering back-and-forth on for a while. She taps out a quick reply. When she looks up again, back at the couple, the gentleman’s brow is pinched tight in the middle, like he’s thinking very hard on just what it is he’s going to say to win back the adoration of a girl who very much feels the opposite right now. Her body language screams flight rather than fight. Even from the second floor through the window she can see it happening, right before her very eyes.

The woman spits out words.

The man throws his hands up in frustration, and oh, yes -- there goes the drink. It soars across the greenery and into a shrub. Loretta notes in her agenda to let the groundskeeper know that he might come across an errant coffee cup on top of his magnolia plants. Oh, dear. Then: the sound of foot-steps coming up the stairs, stopping at the landing. Not the characteristic high heels Rafaella might wear, or the Witches --- she keeps forgetting they’re dead, expects them to show up and banish her in some dramatic manner any day, now --- but a stranger. She turns her head.

Oh, she thinks, I know you. By name and face but not characteristic interaction. This is the one and only Ivan Rahal. The Plague. A cunt, Orion Massetti had said. The most self-serving person alive. Loretta finds herself delighted. She smiles with her teeth, and it’s genuine, but only for the half-second it sits on her face. “Can I help you?”

[diveronarpg]

In fair Verona, our tale begins with DELILAH BELLO, who is THIRTY years old. She is often called DESDEMONA by the CAPULETS and works as their SOLDIER. She uses SHE/HER pronouns.

A woman who lets her HEART lead her can’t possibly hope to keep it beating, but that’s exactly what she did: she fell in love with a man with her eyes wide open and dared to believe that she could survive it. She’d led a sheltered life as a girl, the consequence of being the only child of two parents who thought her fragile as glass and worth more than gold, so it came as no surprise when she was swept off her feet by a man who had seen the world—had held it in the palm of the same hand with which he held hers. Her father swore they’d never get his blessing, but Delilah didn’t give him much of a choice; she married the man she couldn’t imagine her life without and asked permission later—a bold move for a woman who’d never known much else, but as far as she was concerned, it was always HIM. Her strength, her courage, her thirst for adventure—everything came back to him in the end, and if anything ever tore them asunder, she, too, would return. Her FAITH in him was unrivaled; even God Himself couldn’t hope for such devotion.

But false gods have heresies, too, and the longer they were married, the more the cracks in his visage began to show. His words, once her favorite thing about him, took on a BITE; his gentle caress began to STING. The man she’d fallen in love with became a man she hardly knew, and the pain of his loss—and the loss of the trust she’d had in him—was two-fold. But blinded by the hope that one day he might wake up from his stupor, she stayed. Desperate to see a glimpse of the man she married in the man she shared a bed with every night, she stayed. She stayed, and it was the worst mistake she’s ever made, for the bloody, ugly truth of the matter is that Delilah Bello spent too many precious years of her life worshiping a man who made her feel like a burden when all along, she was the cure—a man who made her feel like nothing, even though she was everything. Her first love was a man with blades for words and eyes for anyone and everyone but the woman that worshiped at his altar.

He cried INFIDELITY long before she thought to shout for absolution of their holy union, hellbent on destroying the marriage she’d tried so hard to save. He called her a HARLOT, swore he’d caught her in another man’s arms when all she’d ever been was faithful, and despite the fact that they both knew there was no truth to his claims, no one thought to believe the mysterious wife of a man who’d convinced his peers he could move mountains. He left the city in disgust days later, leaving the woman who’d loved him like RELIGION to the shame she’d done nothing to deserve. She’d married into the mob; she hadn’t joined it of her own accord, and that made it all the more easy for them to shun her—and shun her they did. Many of the friends she’d made turned their back on her, and her superiors, for all that they could’ve cleared her name simply by acknowledging her, looked the other way.

The crime he’s accused her of has damned her in the eyes of those who once loved her—supported her, and no degree of pleading her innocence can save her now, for she picked herPOISON well. Those around her think she’s a liar; they doubt her loyalty to the mob like they doubt her loyalty to her husband, but even if it kills her, she’ll prove them—and him—WRONG. The only person she’s ever been unfaithful to is herself, and luckily, she’s forgiven herself for it—but no one else has. It’s an uphill battle, trying to find your voice with one hand wrapped around your throat, but she’ll SCREAM it until her throat goes raw; she’ll scream it until someone finally listens. I have told the truth. I have told the truth. I have told the truth.

ODIN BELLO: Ex-husband. She loved him once; or, rather, she loved the man he once was. A man of honor, valor, and nobility – built of virtue and goodness. But that man was lost to her sometime between the day they said their vows and the door slammed in her face, and she hasn’t heard from him since. The monster conjured by the rumors that slipped from his lips has made itself at home in his absence, has stopped at nothing to ruin her life and her name—the only thing he didn’t give her. But though she was loath to think so when they were married, she was a woman worth loving before him, and she will be a woman worth loving after him, even if the only one willing to love her is herself. LUCREZIA FALCO: Confidante. The emissary has always had a certain way about her—a blatant disregard for the opinions of others and a ruthless dedication to her own success—that’s drawn Delilah to her side, not for her empathy, but for her lack of judgment. A woman willing to do whatever it takes to get ahead thinks little of a woman trying to fly with her wings clipped, and if she believes Delilah is deserving of the punishment she’s received, Lucrezia hasn’t bothered to make it known. She’s one of the few people who will even look the Vogel woman in the eye these days, the only one who let her testify on her own behalf. The Falco woman is too self-serving to publicly defend her, but refusing to condemn her might just be enough. ORION MASSETTI: Uncertainty. His loyalties have never been as simple as black or white, but she’s never truly had to wonder where they stand with each other until now. They met through her husband and grew to be friends of their own volition, but he was just as much Odin’s companion as he was hers, and to make matters worse, he’s far from an open book; he won’t be read unless he wants to be, and she’s always known him to be stubborn and self-absorbed. Delilah isn’t sure whether she’s got an ally in him—or if he cared enough for either of them to pick a side—but at a time when she’s struggling to prove her innocence, any witnesses are welcome, and he’s always prided himself on being honest.

ISABELLA GAGLIANO: Project. Her lips have been sewn shut, her voice stripped away from her – but so long as she is able to wield the power of the pen, they will never silence her. It was Isabella who had taught her this, a once former-classmate that had somehow kept her hands clean of all mob activity, instead choosing to report on it. She knows what Isabella wants from her, the Bello name is one painted in Capulet colors and stained with Montague blood, but information is something that she has ever given easily. Which is why she writes it instead, sparing information to vindicate the Montagues while painting the Capulets as protectors. It’s certainly not the whole truth, but part of it is better than nothing – the rest is for the public of Verona to figure out.

Delilah is portrayed by NATHALIE EMMANUEL and was written by BREE. She is currently OPEN.

[orionmassetti]

[theodoramoreaus]

WHEN: December 11th, 5:27PM WHERE: Capulet Territory WHO: Closed @dukemassetti​

Dusk was already enchanting the city of Verona with dark hues and foggy skies illuminated a pale yellow by the old street lamps. The temperatures were only getting colder, and as the thermometer dropped, so did Theodora’s stock. Faerie’s Blood was in as high demand as ever, but with Measure by Measure in the hands of the Montagues, their production had slowed as a precaution. They knew they would figure out a better solution soon, but for now, they decided not to risk what they’d spent years building. Small-scale production did, however, allow them to tamper with the mechanism in ways that were a bit risky on a larger productive scale, and so they spent time in another location tampering with the mechanism using the few pieces of glassware they’d managed to sneak out. The result? A more potent version of what they’d already made, though they weren’t entirely sure whether the analog was more attractive to the brain’s receptors just yet, not without a test subject.

The one most convenient in this moment was Orion Massetti. They knew his curiosity towards them and their product, and while Mikael had been a longer-term project of theirs, Orion was good for quick results and uncertain tests. After all, they wouldn’t treat him so fairly after all that had gone down between him and Orpheus; even after the latter’s death, it felt unfair to imagine it all as water under the bridge. It was for that reason they’d also given him placebos in the past – they wouldn’t anger their favorite subject by promising to take away pain and then giving him nothing to do so, but towards Orion, they harbored no bad feelings about doing such. Besides, it was helpful to know that the product actually worked and that the users weren’t just good at convincing themselves that it did. It was why they sought him out. It was why they asked, “What did you think?” when they saw him.