#reginadaly

[faronvasiliev-blog]

✧

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).

[castora-aguilar-blog]

✧

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...I think? ✧ 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 murder babes ✧ I want to protect you. ✧ I would have fight by your side. ✧ I consider you an equal. ✧ I want you to see me as 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).

[ofcastora]

SHAKESPEARE’S REGAN + DIVERONA’S REGINA

happy birthday hayley! @reginadalys

INSP. 

FULL PASSAGES UNDER THE CUT

1.

SHAKESPEARE:

LEAR: Of all these bounds, even from this line to this, With shadowy forests and with champains rich'd, With plenteous rivers and wide-skirted meads, We make thee lady. To thine and Albany's issue Be this perpetual.- What says our second daughter, Our dearest Regan, wife to Cornwall? Speak.

REGAN: Sir, I am made Of the selfsame metal that my sister is, And prize me at her worth. In my true heart I find she names my very deed of love; Only she comes too short, that I profess Myself an enemy to all other joys Which the most precious square of sense possesses, And find I am alone felicitate In your dear Highness' love.

CORDELIA: [aside] Then poor Cordelia! And yet not so; since I am sure my love's More richer than my tongue.

LEAR: To thee and thine hereditary ever Remain this ample third of our fair kingdom, No less in space, validity, and pleasure Than that conferr'd on Goneril.- Now, our joy, Although the last, not least; to whose young love85 The vines of France and milk of Burgundy Strive to be interest; what can you say to draw A third more opulent than your sisters? Speak.

REGINA: [in a starter]

She watches the priest baptize the children, as if this water could truly purify their souls, like a casing of holy armor around the intangible thing. Regina believed that everyone was born a blank slate, neither filled with light nor darkness, that these things sought you out later in life. Darkness had found her, a willing and empty vessel. No holy water could chase it away, for no water had magical properties. It only served to purify the mind’s conscience, not the soul, for the mind, like these babies below, is an easily manipulated thing, poised to be shaped however one commands, so long as they believe hard enough. You can trick the mind into thinking almost anything, including that this stuff works. The only thing purified is one’s folly. It’s pathetic, if you ask her.

2.

SHAKESPEARE:

REGAN: What might import my sister's letter to him?

OSWALD: I know not, lady.

REGAN: Faith, he is posted hence on serious matter. It was great ignorance, Gloucester's eyes being out, To let him live. Where he arrives he moves All hearts against us. Edmund, I think, is gone, In pity of his misery, to dispatch His nighted life; moreover, to descry The strength o' th' enemy.

OSWALD: I must needs after him, madam, with my letter.

REGAN: Our troops set forth to-morrow. Stay with us. The ways are dangerous.

REGINA: [in conversation with Vivianne Sloane]

“I was at the bar the target was expected to visit, which he did. However, he was unexpectedly with a Montague — the one called Perdita, to be specific. I wasn’t sure what she wanted with him, but I thought completing the assignment was more important.” Regina spoke of murder so clinically, as if it were another thing on their laundry list. “However, somehow, they’d anticipated my presence — or the presence of some obstacle, if they did not know specifically that I was assigned to this target.” It was all speculation, of course, but the thought had surprisingly stayed itching in Regina’s mind since that day: someone had gotten word that this man had too much knowledge. Someone had gotten word that the Capulets wanted him gone. Someone may have even gotten word that it was Regina who was assigned to take him out. The question was: how?

“They had Celia waiting to attack. Because of this, I was unable to get to the mark, and he left with Perdita. It was an organized ordeal from them.” While their expression remained neutral when they said that, there was a flash of something more underneath, something rare. Regina might not have even had the words to describe it, but it was almost angry in nature, perhaps more hungry than anything else. It was thus: the Montagues had stolen the pleasure of the kill from Regina, and they craved it still. They had some sort of organized front, something new, something to keep an eye on — something to destroy. The beginnings of something that looked opposite of apathy simmered. The transparent steam rose in green curls of jealousy

3.

SHAKESPEARE:

SERVANT 1: Hold your hand, my lord! I have serv'd you ever since I was a child; But better service have I never done you Than now to bid you hold.

REGAN: How now, you dog?

SERVANT 1: If you did wear a beard upon your chin, I'ld shake it on this quarrel.

REGAN: What do you mean?

DUKE OF CORNWALL: My villain! Draw and fight.

SERVANT 1: Nay, then, come on, and take the chance of anger.

REGAN: Give me thy sword. A peasant stand up thus? [She takes a sword and runs at him behind]

SERVANT 1: O, I am slain! My lord, you have one eye left To see some mischief on him. O! [He dies.]

REGINA: [in conversation with Boris Kovrov]

Wait, he now says. Regina had heard plenty of others beg for their lives; the sound was nothing new. And yet, he does not beg. He does not say a word beyond that, and she takes a step closer, still shadowed, to get a better look. He is not special for being before her gun. But his expression is amusing, and so, she entertains it for a moment.

“For what, exactly, am I supposed to wait for? I am not here to waste my time.” That much was apparent by the swiftness she took in shooting the woman who now lie in a sea of her own blood (and perhaps piss, she couldn’t be certain from this distance). Regina once thought she had plenty of time to spare, and now, Verona had made her worry that she may have been mistaken. But she would not hesitate. She would not allow opportunity to slip through her fingers again. If she must make up for it with another body, she would. Her gun remained pointed in Boris’s direction as she took another step closer, out of the shadows.

[brutuskovrov]

when: june 2nd, evening where: a warehouse, neutral territory status: closed for @reginadalys

He’s having a difficult week.

Well. Difficult might be an understatement, but this was supposed to be the cherry on top of the cake, something bright and shiny to talk himself out of a bad mood. This was supposed to be a victory, of a personal sort, both for the Montagues and for Boris, a way to eke himself back into the good graces of his kith slowly but surely.

This is Renata Gelli, and she is currently hemorrhaging her way to the end from a bullet in her body, if not already dead. He watches with a little tug of regret as red ichor bubbling from past her teeth and lips and gracelessly onto her chin, her neck, her pristine pressed shirt with flowers on the collar. She smells very suddenly of piss -- Boris isn’t sure if that’s because a bullet struck her in the bladder or if she was so terrified of death her body reacted without realizing. Or it’s the biological function of dying. He’s never looked into it. He knows it happens, sometimes.

Boris is also praying to God that he’s not next, which is why he has two hands up in a hold on gesture, staring at the woman on the other side of the warehouse, holding what very well may be a smoking gun. Ah, cherry on top.

Difficult week.

“Wait,” he says, and nothing else. No I can explain. No please. No I have a lot to live for, I’m very handsome, look at my cheekbones, I’ll make it up to you. Just a soft wait, as if that will make any real difference. At his feet, where Renata has crumpled to the ground like someone smashed her into pieces with a sledgehammer, her body makes a little gurgling noise. Spittle now joins bubbling blood. Her eyes twitch. Boris casts his gaze down. Maybe she isn’t dead. Huh. One’s thing for certain: no one is calling for help, at least not for her. If he were to call for assistance on his behalf, Boris doesn’t think anyone would come.

[igagliano]

date: 15 may 2019 location: the phoenix and the turtle cafe status: closed to @reginadalys

The Phoenix and the Turtle is an unexpected hit. Isabella has spent most of her evening working on articles and absentmindedly listening to police scanners, attention all but snatched as chatter about attacks near the Cathedral and Twelfth Night spurs her to action. She listens devoutly as she gathers her belongings and stuffs them in a purse. Her knife remains sheathed against her hip.

She can never be over-prepared when walking into mob dealings, after all.

Isa drives, running through the list of Capulet-aligned territories: Measure by Measure, the Cathedral, the museum, the Phoenix and the Turtle. Were she a betting woman, she’d have assumed the Montagues would vie for a warehouse or something far more profitable than a cozy cafe in the heart of Cosimo’s domain—but she pulls up to the cafe anyway having heard that both the Dark Lady and Multisala Rivoli were terse but unharmed, so far as the police were concerned. Adrenaline roars in her ears as she takes in the scene.

She knows, without a doubt, she’s just missed a pivotal moment in the war. Smoke pours idly from the cafe, bulletholes striking the windows and leaving them irreparably cracked in their wake. There’s blood on the streets and, without so much as a second thought, Isabella ventures deeper into the lion’s den while everyone else clamors away.

It’s Regina who catches her attention—Regan, Capulet-aligned and assuredly reeling after the loss of the beloved cafe. She thinks back to the Anniversary, to the pride with which the Capulets buzzed; now they’re left to pick up the pieces shattered in the wake of the Montagues. She hopes the Daly woman will be easier to deal with than emissaries, that she’ll slip up and divulge some information that should never grace la justicia’s ears, if it should remain hidden. Isa exits the car, steps leading her to Regina.

“Dios mío,” Isa breathes, brown hues skimming Regina just barely; there’s blood, but not enough to warrant immense worry and call for the immediate contact between person and hospital. Good, she thinks. It makes her feel less bad for the way in which she intends to spin Regan in a web of double-ended questions to force out answers. “Are you okay?” the journalist asks, voice wavering as though she’s a common Veronesi that’s not yet seen the atrocities caused by the warring families. “You’re hurt! What happened?”

[ofhoratio]

Chicago, Cairo, Amsterdam

Chicago: What do you ache for?

Love. Not love so cruel it hurt, not love so blinding he could not see- he knew of that kind of love, he lived it every day, the kind that matched itself to the thud of his heart in his chest, a compound in the oxygen he breathed in the light of day. It was the same kind that made his fingers dig into his arms in the dark of night, the filth and the blood and it clung as dust to his skin, clotted under his nails and tried to carve his heart from his ribs, hollow him out from the inside. A hollowness that hurt. And maybe the point of loving was to die. To love was to kill yourself slowly, tenderly, in all the ways that mattered until you found yourself with nothing left to give.

Love and- he was selfish, he did not want that kind of love–

          (selfishness, for this was how to be Hector Sawiris, to know that to want was to sin)

                   –he wanted the kind of love to be read in poetry books. The kind of love that did not chafe. The kind that gave, that was as birdsong in the morning, sweet and innocent and the taste of it fragrant on your tongue. Low laughter and romance, hands held on the street and kisses in the morning. Love and the kind you lived for, not the kind you sacrificed for.

( he had the indistinct thought that this was the sort of love he was given, the sort of love he should have felt. he wondered, then, why he could not feel it. )

Cairo: Whats your favourite quote?

L'homme est la seule créature qui refuse d'être ce qu'elle est.

                      –Man is the only creature who refuses to be what he is.

Amsterdam: What is your ideal night out?

Having inspiration- to have paints, oil paints, red and blue and yellow and in every bright shade- to have a canvas, to spend the night with his brush and his palette. To have pulled down the blinds and turned on all the lights, to paint until he could not lift the brush for exhaustion. Pulling back and being happy, content with his creation- to have his canvas be a brightly lit thing, vivid in its colour, unabashed in its boldness. To fall asleep at 2 in the afternoon, smile still on his lips, temazepam unattended on the side of a table.

[valentina-rising]

Tel Aviv, Stockholm, Mumbai

TEL AVIV: What is your favorite thing about your family? 

“That despite half of it deciding it no longer felt the urge to play the part, we survived. They say you can’t choose your family, but I choose him every day without a second thought. Something I can’t say I inherited from my birth parents, clearly.

STOCKHOLM: What scares you?

 answered here!

MUMBAI: What is your favorite scent?

“Bourbon & Honey. Teakwood. Cigarette smoke. Burning fires.”

[catherinedaly]

date: april 2nd time: 11 am location: catherine’s studio status: closed for @reginadalys

[from CATHERINE] hey, i really need your opinion on something [from CATHERINE] can you meet me in my studio asap? door’s unlocked, i have pastries and maybe a bit of wine around here somewhere [from CATHERINE] i’m .4 seconds away from completely scrapping this piece for tigre and his tour, but i’m due to unveil it in a couple weeks

If there’s one person she can rely on for brutal honesty towards her artwork, it’s Regina Daly. The impartial middle daughter has a knack for delivering news--regardless of if the parties involved wish to hear--and Catherine needs her judgement, for there’s nothing she detests more than showcasing pieces with which she is unhappy. Luckily for Catherine, her sister’s agreement comes relatively quick; her frustration isn’t erased, but it abates in anticipation for Regina’s arrival.  

She paces back and forth in front of the fledgling sculpture--an installation regarding Tigre’s attitudes, his lyrics--until she hears her studio door open. 

“You made it just in time,” the blonde murmurs by way of greeting. She offers a smile that doesn’t come close to reaching her eyes before continuing, “I was about to go wine hunting in preparation for trashing this.” She makes a gesture towards her work.

[brotherpriest-blog]

when: december 7th, 2018 who: closed @reginadalys​ where: verona hospital time: 10am

Hugo took a drag and blew. Leaning outside the hospital sliding doors, one leg propped up against the wall for support, he looked up at the blue, blue sky. Smoking was too much of a habit and comparatively, too small a one at that, to generate any kind of guilt. Moreover, he was sure that he already got the irony of smoking outside a hospital, maybe even the crime of it, and that he didn’t need the nurses to punctuate it for him, with their dirty looks flashed sideways as they hurried past, starting or ending their shifts. He’d gotten the lectures. Even a few statutory fines. But he wasn’t about to use the designated smoking shelter, with its tight vice space like a death-coming.

He’d gotten his mission. He was grappling with it. It wasn’t going to stop him from doing his job. As the ouroboros city of Verona attacked itself like every street was a wound to be reopened, more brutally than ever over the last few weeks, Hugo had respectively been taking more and more shifts as hospital chaplain, both his Capulet and Montague parishioners more likely to be found there than at any church. But instead of devoting all his time to the divided ruling class, Hugo found himself at the bedsides of their unwitting victims, the collateral damage. He found his hands clasped tightly in the hands of others, mouths moving in synchronous prayer — rites that he never wanted to do he did with frequency, anointing the sick and final blessings, prayers for the dead — and he did not feel better when he went home again, to say his own whispers for the city that didn’t just bleed where it bit.

Hugo despaired for a second, letting his fingers tremble, unintentionally ashing his cigarette, and took another calming smoke. Focusing the fear-blurred world back into discernible shape, he recognized the unmistakable shoulder-length dark of a figure.

“Ms. Daly!” Hugo appraised her cast. He flicked his cigarette towards his heel and crushed it. “You look glowing. Allow me to walk you wherever you’re going?”

[graceydaly]

📱

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[ 20/10/18 13:30 ]  →  so i hear you’re letting tony the tiger bone you[ 20/10/18 13:30 ]  →  tiberius, obviously[ 20/10/18 13:33 ]  →  i’ll admit i’m fucking surprised. he clearly just jumps on anything that breathes, but i thought you were more like a plant and would just? idk? reproduce with yourself if the need ever arose rather than ever have sex[ 20/10/18 13:34 ]  →  i bet he watches himself in the mirror the whole time[ 20/10/18 13:34 ]  →  i’m gonna tell everyone that he does

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[ 20/10/18 13:31 ]  →  if you were a normal person you would have told me it yourself[ 20/10/18 13:31 ]  →  if you were a normal sister you would have fucking told me already[ 20/10/18 13:31 ]  →  if you and cat knew how to gossip like literally everyone else does[ 20/10/18 13:32 ]  →  why am i cursed with two sisters that have rocks for brains[ 20/10/18 13:32 ]  →  why am i cursed with two sisters

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[regicidios-blog1]

matthias and mikael vampire hunter au

continued from the twilight au

Right as the words constant suffering leave his lips, something shatters his window, shards of glass flying across the room as a familiar face somersaults into the dining room.With a silver bazooka pointed at Mikael, Matthias says, “You called?”Mikael’s face contorts into an affronted frown as he rips an arm off and flings it at the intruder — “That was Venetian stained glass, you fucking psycho!” —  his newly detached limb landing by the elbow on Matthias’ head, killing him instantly.

[sonoilbastardo]

؟ ϟ

ϟ for a plot I think would be fun for your muse/our muses

Easton has always been curious about the middle Daly woman. Goneril must have been forged from the fires of hell, the Devil himself cackling in glee when she came into the world; Cordelia was birthed by the serenity of the heavens, angels gathering to sing their ethereal songs. It must mean Regan is from the vast, unending void of the purgatory, borne of limbo. But why is she this way? How is it possible that someone is able to not feel anything? People think it’s so admirable about her, always being calm and grounded. Silent, at times – invisible. But to Easton, she is never invisible. His eyes are drawn to her darkness, and a growing itch to know why she is this way keeps his gaze on her. What the hell is wrong with you? Why can’t you feel anything? What would make you?

؟ for a random thought my muse has about yours

“Does she even feel it when Tiberius slams that salami into her? Bet she doesn’t. That woman doesn’t feel anything.” 

[ofcastora]

regina and cas o:

@ofrosso​ asked: cas + regina

@reginadalys

kills the spider - they are both proud spider murderers and make a silly little game of it over who catches and kills the spider first. castora takes it too seriously. regina is almost amused. either way, those eight-legged nuisances are dead. 

proposed - castora. please. she’s always been the one in the relationship to ask “so what are we” and “where are we going?” but it’s probably not like a romantic proposal?? like her heart’s in it, but probably just puts the ringbox on regina’s nightstand and waits for her to notice. the engagement ring is black, ofc. 

kissed the other first - regina canonically kissed castora first when they boned at the dark lady, so regina. 

initiates things - also regina. 

would leave the other - regina. and it’d hurt more than cas would ever let herself admit, but on some level, they’d both how that one of them leaving was inevitable. 

is more jealous - castora, castora, castora, a thousand times castora. 

is lazier - regina??

sends weird texts at 3 AM - castora, and regina leaves her on read. but then shows up at her apartment and they go skinny dipping or 

is more experienced - probably similar experience levels, but i’m going to say regina. 

said i love you first - castora!! emotionally? she’s always been a little bit in love with regina, and regina’s perpetual apathy is so strong that it makes the depth of castora’s feelings more apparent, and when she says it, admitting it out loud to both herself and to regina, it’s a bit like admitting a shameful secret. an “if i love you, is that a fact or a weapon?” moment, if you will. 

[principessacapulet-blog]

⊗ ؟

One thing my muse dislikes about yours.

It’s the very thing she loves most about Regina that she loathes about her, for girls’ cloaked in darkness have no business living in the heart’s of those blessed by the light. “Sometimes I wish she would be kinder,” she says, her mouth betraying her mind. She never wished to speak ill of her soldiers, especially in a manner that was so childish, so petulant. But she cannot deny her heart, and sometimes the Daly girl makes it break.

A random thought my muse has about yours.

I wonder if she’s any good in bed. Surely someone so out of touch can’t be any good at the greatest of human connections, right? 

[dalygrace]

DIVERONA + @shittyhoroscopeszine (1/?)

LEAR SQUAD featuring @reginadalys @catherinedaly @evcravens@eastonmcraven

[heloisem]

date: may 23rd, 2019 time: early afternoon location: regina’s apartment status: closed to @reginadalys

The sun radiates a golden glow and loops itself through the window, like climbing roses that flock against a windowpane. Heloise hunches over and the dull ache in her right shoulder pulsates a vicious rhythm. She flinches as unshed tears well in her eyes. For once, it isn’t a result of sorrow. Perhaps if she were able to remove the cap from the bottle, her pain would decrease and the throbbing would subside, but Brielle has been avoiding her and in some twisted way, the pain brings comfort. It reminds her that she isn’t completely alone.  

With her right arm cradled to her chest, Heloise loads the paintbrush with heaps of yellow and sweeps it across the wall with a shaky hand, edges smudged and unclean, and as she saturates the walls that border her, it’s as if golden daffodils are fluttering along with her. It’s almost therapeutic, and her worries seem to melt away, though a jumble of queries still occupy her mind. Heloise doesn’t know if she classifies Regina as an open book––in truth, Heloise doesn’t know if Regina can be classified as any one thing. They’re a motionless shadow, hazy like winter fog.

But Regina has never obscured her from the truth, not even when she knows Heloise won’t like the answer, so she plucks the apple from the poison tree and takes a bite.

“What is it about my sister that makes you want to punch her all the time?” She strangles the paintbrush by its handle as they stand in silence, words woven in confusion. It isn’t as though Heloise has never wanted to wring Brielle’s neck herself, but her mother always said that a true lady never uses her fists to tussle, that words hurt just as much if you knew where to strike. It’s why she goes for the jugular when it comes to Brielle, it’s why she hits below the belt, but these days, Heloise has nothing to use against her.

She wishes to gather Brielle’s secrets, to dissect her piece by piece, for her to present her with an open heart, eager to unlock the chains. Not to use against her, but to understand her, though if the need for verbal retaliation were to arise.... “I have my reasons, but that’s what sisters do, isn’t it? May I ask yours?”