#shoot and does that mean she's married??? as in why did we have these vernon dating rumours in the first place

[dykeyeonjun]

feel like i need to make a post because hours after i posted about hating the tour outfits rakta announces she's no longer txt's stylist slkdfjsdlfksdlsdfksdlsdfkdfslk

but anyways people genuinely deranged sending her death threats...fashion is subjective some of us just like complaining like it's a tshirt we'll live if we don't like it. ALSO ppl acting like this tour was her last straw and her getting all this hate made her quit in the last ten hours as if she hasn't been posting recaps of all the styling she's done for txt in the past few weeks......

anyways rakta we'll miss u (kinda). ppl worried about their lollapalooza styling when they were in the most plain and trendy clothes last time. like it's not hard to pick 5 pairs of skinny jeans a few band tees and a sweater. the new stylist will survive i promise u.

[nalgenewhore]

masterlist - ao3 - last chapter - next chapter

+*+*+*+*+*+*

Elide stood underneath the water, her arms crossed over her chest. She stared at the black tiles of the shower wall, wondering how she would even be able to find someone to marry. 

The only viable suitors that would yield any sort of political power had to at least be lords, this she knew. Elide suppressed a shudder as she thought about the lords of Perranth. They were all decades older than her and, as demonstrated when she had to dance with them at her birthday, thought very little about personal boundaries. 

Most of them had spent the time staring at her tits and they weren’t subtle about it either. She panicked, thinking about what would happen if they insisted on her performing her ‘wifely duties’. 

She had voiced this concern with Aelin and Lysandra, her hands shaking when she told them. They had both assured her that there were other options for suitors and none of the bachelors she had danced with on her birthday met the requirements to be her husband. 

Elide turned around and tipped her head back under the shower, washing the shampoo out before lathering her long hair with conditioner. 

She stayed in the shower until the water became cold and wrapped her thick, fleece housecoat around her. The mirror was fogged. Elide sighed, rubbing her eyes, and used her sleeve to wipe a small circle in the middle. 

She frowned at the pallorness of her face, her hair clinging to her scalp like a soaked dog. With a sigh, Elide opened the cabinet and pulled out her haircare, plugging in her hair dryer. She combed through her leave-in conditioner and hair oil, making sure each strand was properly moisturized. 

Then, she sectioned her hair and blow-dried each part. She used her round brush so later, she wouldn’t have to spend so much time straightening it. Someone knocked on the door, a deep voice accompanying it, “El, can I come in?” 

“Yes, the door’s open,” she called back, knowing it was Rowan. He slipped in on near silent feet, the door clicking shut behind him. Elide swilleved on her vanity stool when he stayed at the door, a perfectly manicured brow arched. “What did you do?” 

“Why is that your first question?” 

She shrugged, drying the last section before she clicked the power button and put the tool to the side, letting it cool before she put it away. “You’re being weird. And you look guilty.” 

Rowan sighed, running his hand over his hair, sure to mess it up, “I know her nephew. We’re, uh… friends.” 

Elide blinked, “Friends as in you were classmates and grew apart or friends as in…” 

“Friends as in best friends and he’s my ex?” Rowan said, his voice higher than normal. “We grew up together and had a summer fling that turned into… not a fling and… yeah.” 

Elide frowned, “You grew up in Doranelle. How does someone from Doranelle have any claim over Perranth?” 

Rowan shoved off the door and sat down on the counter, kicking his toe into the floor, “His parents were divorced and shared custody. He spent half the year here and half in Doranelle, until his dad died.” 

Elide felt a pang of empathy for the man. The hurt of losing a parent was something that stayed with one for a while. “So… what’s he like?” 

Rowan let loose a dry chuckle, “He’s, uh, he’s something. Doesn’t talk much. Surprising sense of humour, he’s got a bit of a temper. Very blunt man, doesn’t take being lied to well.” A gentle, friendly sort of fondness washed over Rowan’s face. “I think you two would get along very well under different circumstances.”

Elide hummed, “So he’s a cranky old bastard like you, huh?” 

Rowan’s indignant scowl was answer enough. 

 +*+*+*+*+*+*

Against the polished floors, Elide’s heels clicked sharply as she walked down to the main foyer, where they were to greet Maeve and her nephew. 

She arrived after Aelin, Rowan, and Lysandra, who were all trying to play it cool but failing miserably. “So, is this appropriate to meet him?” she asked, turning around slowly for approval of her sleeveless, powder blue sheath dress. Elide propped her hands on her hips to pose, her hair shifting silkily over her shoulders. 

“You look wonderful,” Lysandra said, listening to something in her earpiece. “They’re here.” 

Elide curled her hands into fists, trying to quell her nerves. She tossed her glossy locks over her shoulder and flashed a dazzling smile, “Well, then. It’s time.” She sat down in an armchair, crossing her right ankle behind the left. 

Aelin sat in the chair next to hers, reaching over to squeeze Elide’s hand. “It’ll be ok.” 

“I know,” Elide said, her heart rate speeding up as Rowan walked across the hall to greet them. 

He was tall, she could tell that much, but Rowan’s build hid him from her view as they clasped hands and spoke quietly. Maeve walked in after her nephew, and Elide stood, dusting off her skirt. 

Aelin stood as well, wearing a professional smile as she took Maeve’s hands and kissed her cheeks, “Maeve, it’s nice to see you again.” 

“The pleasure is all mine, your Majesty.” Maeve turned to Elide, bowing her head the slightest bit. “Lady Lochan, you look lovely.” 

Elide smiled tightly, shaking Maeve’s hand, “As do you, Ms. Nathair.” As much as she loathed the woman, Elide couldn’t deny she had impeccable taste and she wore the clothes beautifully. 

Maeve nodded primly, half-turning to beckon her nephew to her, “I’d like to introduce my nephew, Lorcan Salvaterre.” 

He stepped up and Elide felt her jaw drop. He held her gaze as he bowed to Aelin, “Your Majesty.”

Aelin recovered from her shock faster than Elide, “Hello, Lorcan.” Elide didn’t hear what else her cousin said. She felt her cheeks burn, a combination of anger and embarrassment. 

She- 

He danced with her, saved her from Lord Bigge. And she had slapped him. Her vision went red as his lips twitched with a small smirk and she regretted ever wishing for the feeling of them on hers. 

Lorcan bowed to her as well, “Sweetheart.”

Without thinking, Elide raised her hand and slapped him hard, across the face. A sick sense of satisfaction raced through her when his head snapped to the side and a bright red handprint was left on his cheek. She turned on her toes, quickly walking towards the kitchens. That fucking asshole. 

Shocked cries left everyone’s mouths. As she turned the corner, Elide glanced back, seeing him wave Rowan off. He worked his jaw, chuckling quietly. Lorcan’s dark gaze flicked to hers, “She always does that.” 

Elide thought she deserved an award for restraining herself and not flipping him off. She fled to the kitchens, slinking around the staff. There was a tray of cookies and she snatched one up, quickly regretting it as she learned just how fresh they were. 

She carried it quickly to the back table and dropped it, blowing on her fingertips. Elide slumped into a seat, not bothering with correct posture as she broke off pieces of the cookie and ate them. 

She glared at the opposite wall of the nook, hoping the palace would catch on fire and Lorcan would be crushed beneath a burning beam. 

Elide savoured her cookie. It wouldn’t be long until someone came to find her. She was embarrassed. He had known who she was the entire time and- and what? Danced to play with her, to toy with her emotions? 

One of the kitchen staff slid a plate her way, piled high with cookies. Elide smiled, her foul mood lifting the slightest. “Thank you.” 

“You’re welcome, miss,” the young boy said, quickly returning to his task. 

Not long after, Aelin burst in, her eyes wide, “Elide! What the fuck was that?”

Elide sulked, muttering, “I’ve met him before.” 

Aelin slid onto the bench across from her, “When?” 

“At the ball,” she whispered, her throat growing tight. “He’s the guy I…” Elide felt so stupid. It must’ve been some joke to him and his aunt. 

“Ah,” Aelin said. “Your mystery man.” 

Elide nodded glumly, crossing her arms petulantly. “Yes.” 

Aelin was silent for a few moments, chewing on her bottom lip in concentration. “As the queen, I can’t condone you physically harming your royal opponent.” 

“But?” 

Aelin grinned wickedly, a feisty gleam in her eyes, “As your cousin, I say beautifully done.” Uncertainty flashed across her face, “What did he mean by ‘she always does that’?” 

Her cheeks flushed and Elide looked down at her lap, “Um, I might’ve accidentally hit him when I was ranting to Lyss?” She nervously glanced up at Aelin. “Please don’t make me apologise.” 

“Never,” Aelin said, “but we do need to return. Maeve has gone mad.” She stood up, her honey-gold ponytail swishing gently. Elide reluctantly stood up and looped her arm through Aelin’s, leaning her head on her cousin’s shoulder. “Personally, I would’ve gone for a kick in the balls, but a slap works just as well.” 

 +*+*+*+*+*+*

Bright, pealing laughter echoed throughout the hall and Lorcan tensed. Rowan shot him a warning look, telling him to keep his shit together and not antagonise Elide any further. 

His aunt was muttering something about Elide’s impropriety and how she would be having a talk with Vernon for accosting her nephew like this. Lorcan decided it probably wouldn’t be a good idea to tell his aunt Elide slapping him was the highlight of the trip so far. 

He hadn’t meant to dance with her on her birthday, but she had looked like she needed help. Lorcan hadn’t missed the way that sweating lordling had pawed at her. And he hadn’t meant for it to feel like… that. 

He hadn’t meant a lot of things. 

Aelin and Elide appeared, the former shooting him a halfway apologetic smile. He could see right through it, knowing Aelin was bursting with pride for Elide. 

When his eyes slid to Elide, she turned her head, but her cheeks pinked when he continued to stare at her. She finally snapped and sent him a glare that could freeze Hellas’ fiery realm. Anger acted a veneer to shield the humiliation shining in her eyes, but Lorcan read it easily, a slight note of shame tightening his chest. 

He really was a bastard. 

“Please excuse us for the mishap,” Aelin said, patting Elide’s hand. Lorcan stifled the urge to roll his eyes, the look on Elide’s face confirming it was anything but a mishap. “Lorcan, we’d like to invite you to stay with us at the palace.” 

Elide’s eyes widened and she stiffened, shooting him another dirty look. Just because he could, just for that rush he got when she paid him any attention, Lorcan winked at her, “I’d love to, your Majesty.” 

Aelin smiled innocently, “Wonderful. We’ll send our staff to help you with your bags.” 

 +*+*+*+*+*+*

Elide stewed silently in the foyer as Aelin and Rowan saw their guests out. The minute the door closed, Elide cried, “Why would you do that?” 

Aelin placated her, “Ellie-Boo, it’s to our advantage. We could never keep tabs on him if he was staying over in Maeve’s manor. This way, we can figure out their plan and stop it.” 

Feeling like she had gotten worked up over nothing, Elide mumbled something rude, “Fine. I guess that makes sense.” 

The queen scoffed, “Of course it does. I make the best plans.”

+*+*+*+*+*+*

an: aha ! he’s here and wasn’t it fun ?

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[diveronarpg]

Congratulations, KITA! You’ve been accepted for the role of CORIOLANUS. Admin Minnie: Kita, I genuinely don’t think we’ve had a Cyrus like yours join us in Verona. The way you capture both Cyrus’s beauty and his ugliness both. All that entitlement, all that arrogance, all that charm — you’ve grasped it masterfully. You understand Cyrus on a deep, personal level; but that’s not why I was so excited to accept your application. Ultimately, it was this line that really won me over: “But mostly, I am here because of this: if I do not stand witness to a falling star, if I do not love him as he is–, then I fear no one ever will.” I’m already in love with your Cyrus for who he is, and all the potential he has to ruin my life! Please read over the checklist and send in your blog within 24 hours.

WELCOME TO THE MOB.

OUT OF CHARACTER Alias | kita Age | 20 Preferred Pronouns | she/her Activity Level | I think I can be fairly active. I am a full-time student, so my priority will always be there, but I always aim to get my replies done within a week. 6/10 or more? Hopefully more. Timezone | EST 

(also English is not my first language so pls be kind)

IN CHARACTER Character |

Cyrus Vicente Sloane ; CORIOLANUS FC: Lorenzo Zurzolo

Alt fc: Wolfgang Novogratz

What drew you to this character? |

oh Gods, where do I begin? Of all Verona’s monsters, Cyrus Sloane has to be one of the worst. At once, spoiled rotten, cruel and innately duplicitous, Cyrus is an arrogant princeling whose tyranny knows no bounds. And yet, as soon as I finished reading his biography, I knew it was over. He materialized in my mind like some sort of phantom, flashed that winning smile at me and visions of him haunted me ever after.

I saw his head across Brigette’s lap on a lazy summer afternoon. Sipping champagne out of long-stemmed glasses, wearing filigreed gold masks to cover their ugliness inside, the two of them are tyrants, fickle and fiendish things about to wreak terror on a city that has only known it.

———— “do you love me, cyrus?” she pouts. he smiles. when he kisses the petulance from her lips, there is no answer needed.

I saw his lips tilt upward into a smug grin as he and Lawrence meet up in a dingy bar. When the time comes, he throws his head back with laughter, he leans in, whispers something just loud enough for the other man to hear. This is a dangerous game to play, Lawrence knows. Nothing, after all, is ever given freely. But one look at Cyrus, at that indigent boy who seems not at all concerned with his traitorous tongue nor the consequences of it, and his fears are momentarily assuaged.

———— “all of this is just talk between friends, signor vernon,” cyrus says, waving off worries with an unconcerned shrug. lawrence pauses, raises an eyebrow, “is that what we are?”

I could wax poetic about why Cyrus is the way he is, why he plays at being charming, demands to be worshipped. But, in the end, it boils down to this: the rot in Cyrus Sloane is that he could not find it in himself to be forgiven. The anger he has in his heart, the revenge he plots– it is all because he cannot find anyone to blame but himself.

In Capetown, he learned to make weapons out of fleeting sweet-faced grins and honeyed lies. Barely into manhood, he won the hearts of his countrymen, had the ear of a kingpin, sat poised for an easy throne. But, though he had everything one could ever dream of, he still gave it all up in order to return to the place of his first and most terrible failure. Look, I have no doubt that he tells himself that he hates his mother. I have no doubt that he even believes that. However, I know that if you cut him open, you would see that he only hates that he does not hate her, not really. He hates that he cannot fault her for anything that she has ever done.

He had always idolized her, had always thought her the paragon of perfection, of stoic and unbending strength. He had never even blamed her for being cold to him– after all, his mother was never anything but pragmatic. She must have had her own reasons to toss him to the wolves. He blames her only for this: for propping up a mirror to his nature, for casting a light on a part of him that he would rather have never acknowledged… for reminding him that he was weak enough to be unwanted, that no matter how hard he tried to be beloved—he would only ever be left behind.

Yes, he is a sharp and cutting thing, hard to look at. He burns so bright, my icarian boy. He fashions himself so easy to be loved and flies so close to the sun, taunting it to shoot him down. He will ruin Verona, if he has his way. He will almost certainly burn himself up to do it. And I suppose I have applied— in part, to try and stop him, to save him from himself. But mostly, I am here because of this: if I do not stand witness to a falling star, if I do not love him as he is–, then I fear no one ever will.

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

1— Nothing short of a prodigy in politics + war, this princeling figures some form of leadership to be the most natural application for his talents, and, as it seems, he seems destined for it. Impressed by Cyrus’ verve and natural aptitude for diplomacy, Cosimo has promoted the young man to an emissary and holds Cyrus in high regard. But, while Cyrus seems content in his position and its upwards mobility, he does not intend to take orders forever.

In his biography, there are inklings of a betrayal from Cyrus to the Capulets written throughout his biography. His position to Lawrence as an informant is an obvious clue of lack of loyalty, but it definitely goes far beyond that. Cyrus pays no mind to any man (nor God). He is only concerned with his own interest.

While the possibility of Cyrus becoming a Montague is tantalizing, I think Cyrus hates the Capulets for what they have done to him, but he hates all of Verona the same way. Trading loyalties to the Montagues, to another mob family with a rigid hierarchy isn’t how Cyrus sees himself. He wants to be King, not just a soldier with a different perspective of the Castelvecchio Bridge. Right now, Cyrus does his best to play at peace. But, as the war in Verona streets escalates, the number of neutral sanctuaries decreases, I intend to make Cyrus prove himself loyal to a side, once and for all— whichever one that may be.

———— “Do you not trust me?” Cyrus grins. With his teeth bared and the whites of his eyes glittering in the dark, he looks like the Cheshire cat. You think you have never trusted him less.

2— Earnestly, I think that Cyrus probably wouldn’t betray the Capulets for the Montagues. However, I didn’t say Cyrus wouldn’t betray the Capulets altogether. In fact, for his goal (just like… enacting revenge on all of Verona), I think it’s more likely than not that he will betray them at some point. A thread I’ve been following through the biographies is Cassian’s ties to certain neutral parties (olivia + mona in particular). I could be misreading, but Olivia has her eyes on him. Mona knows his secrets. Like snakes, they cut through the grass, wrap themselves around the prey and they squeeze. Pressure mounting, Cassian might crack sometime soon. And Cyrus— well, he’s nothing if not an opportunist.

In the biography, it is explicitly stated that Cyrus seeks to overtake Cassian. Though Cyrus plays the part of being his dutiful student, he has no real affection for his mentor. Ever since he has been in Verona, he has tried to get closer to his mentor. However, when he spots Olivia’s watchful gaze on the man, I think Cyrus will jump at the chance to act– to finally show that he is not someone to be underestimated. I think this is a perfect opportunity for him to stumble.

I would love to see him team up with Mona and Olivia to amp up the pressure on Cassian. And moreover, I would love to see Cyrus’ loyalties be swayed to them entirely. In my eyes, Mona Chen is someone who thrives in duplicity, whose mother (and father) has not been kind to her and someone who Cyrus knows- will never bow to anyone. It is those things that Cyrus respects. It is those things that will make Cyrus vulnerable to her.

Perhaps Cyrus just passes information about Cassian to Mona and Olivia at first. he offers his assistance from time to time. But maybe things go deeper. Maybe he sees Mona as the coming storm, as someone who will brings the winds of change. Maybe Cyrus can be even convinced to follow her entirely. In any case, this is a perfect opportunity for Cyrus to make a misstep, for him to reveal too much about himself and having that be his undoing. Mona is a woman who deals with secrets and has no problem weaponizing that. It would be awful for him, if she had some dirt of him.

———— “You cannot think that I will let you crush my mentor,” he says, “at least, not without my help.”

3— What is Cyrus without his mother? What is a list of plots without Cyrus and Vivianne on it?. Honestly, I don’t even know where this is going to go. I just know that it’s going to hurt so exquisitely. If you asked Cyrus about his mother, he would laugh. I have your love, he would say, why do I need hers? There is no hard feelings between the two of them, he says. What she did gave him a better life. I mean, just look at him. He was spoiled in Capetown, given everything he ever wanted. And now that he is back in Verona, his good fortune has only followed. Right?

In the years since Cyrus left Capetown, Vivianne has only thrived. She has married Cosimo, become the underboss of the city’s best crime family (fuck u, montagues). She has even found a surrogate daughter to replace him, one that she loves in ways that she never could with him. It is clear that the problem was never with her. To a layman’s eye, Cyrus is nothing but an indigent boy who aims to make Verona his playground. Reveling in every waking moment in the city, he’s a reckless and terrible thing, content to leave caution to the wind so long as he conquers these streets. But the truth is– he has no appetite for ambition without her as an audience, no desire to prove his happiness and success if the news will not travel somehow to her ears.

He hates Vivianne. But what he hates most about her is that—while he would have done anything for her attention, she never seemed to care for him. ———— “You have the world, Cyrus,” she says, calm as ever. He laughs. ”Does it matter? I would have given it all up if you had just been there.”

Are you comfortable with killing off your character? | not yet.

IN DEPTH In-Character Para Sample:

//// I WROTE THIS LITERALLY ALL TODAY BC I WANTED TO GET MY APP IN PLS DONT JUDGE TOO HARSHLY

Mass had only ended an hour or so ago. The candles lit for the service still smoldered from having been snuffed out. But Cyrus held no pretensions—sanctity had left this house of worship far before that.

There was nothing holy about this place, he ascertained.  

Perhaps there never had been.

Of course—he would not deny that, as a child, Cyrus had found the Cattedrale di Verona impossibly beautiful. A feat of architecture like no other, it had filled his chest with wonder to see the golden mural that arched across the vaulted ceiling, the reverential way sunlight passed through the stained glass. However, he had long since learned that the spectacle was only a clever ruse. Just like most things in Verona, beauty existed only to hide the rot that so often lurked beneath.

As he walked through the empty pews now, he felt a visceral disgust with himself. How had he not seen it? While he sat in these very seats, knelt on this very floor, sought out something bigger than himself, looked in every corner to find out why the room always felt so empty, he had been blind to the cracks in walls, the chips in the paint. The priest had said once to him that “in god, he would find all answers”—but there was no salvation to be found here.

Even when he had needed it the most, he had never found any salvation here.

Yes, you see he understood now. There was only one reason why he came to the Cathedral now: to drink in his bitterness, to remind himself of the debt he was owed.

The Cathedral was his, just like this city was. Not in that he believed in it or that he loved it more than anyone else, but because he had paid for it ten times over. It had promised him mercy and benevolence and safety, but, when every alley had looked like fear and every corner had held another terrible surprise, it had denied him of all of it. When he was weak, they had cast him aside, and he still remembered that casual cruelty, still felt the sting of rejection and could not bear it.

With no one around to stop him, Cyrus clambered atop an empty pew and went to light a cigarette. While the puff of smoke rose ever upwards, caressed the faces of Abaddon and John, St. Michael and Magog, he laughed. How prescient of them, he thought to himself, to paint a picture of their own reckoning.

He stubs his cigarette out on the pew. It leaves a scorch mark, but he does not seem to care. He offers a rakish smile to no one in particular. He laughs.

“You would forgive me,” he says to the empty air.

(And look- look at that winsome smile, at that careless leer. You could try to fault him for something. He would dare you to. But you would still forgive him anyways.)