#you never cared for her romantic feelings and used to frolic with girls left and right

[harrowscore]

so, basically it's a ~I Didn't Know I Loved Her (girl who's had feelings for me that i neglected to notice for years) Until I Lost Her~ thing. until mal saw her "happy with him (the darkling)" - until she didn't belong to him anymore, but to another world. a world where she didn't make herself small, didn't repress her powers, wasn't sickly and plagued by weakness and insomnia. where she thrived.

great! i hate it

oh shut up mal.

[dwellordream]

“Girls’ schools promoted an intense female peer culture which contrasted with the disciplines of moralistic home environments. Evidence from the accounts of girls attending the myriad female seminaries and girls’ boarding schools throughout the Northeast suggests that their academic programs were relatively gentle, and that their peer culture was powerful and often fun. Despite the best efforts of outnumbered teachers, relations with friends tended to overshadow lessons learned. Overwhelmingly when girls wrote home to their parents, they described the girls they had met, and the antics they had shared; in diaries they noted the romantic intimacies they had formed, with academic work generating only occasional mention.

Girls’ peer life at school was high-spirited, collective, and ritualized all at once. Teachers themselves often participated. At Miss Porter’s in Farmington, Connecticut, in 1860, teachers organized a costume party, suggested characters for everyone, and helped sew costumes—perhaps in part a sewing lesson. (For Lily Dana, suggestions included an elf, Mischief, or a witch.) At a Prospect Hill School party in 1882, townspeople came, the girls wore flowers and white dresses, and Margaret Tileston reported that she had done the quadrille with Miss Clarke and the gallop with Miss Tuxbury—concluding that she had had ‘‘a very nice time.’’

Girls remembering their days at convent schools report similar good times. Julia Sloane Spalding recalled elegiacally her years at Nazareth Academy, a school run by the Sisters of Charity in Louisville, Kentucky, in the 1850s. ‘‘The sisters allowed us to romp and play, dance and sing as we pleased and our stage performances were amusing, if they had no greater merit. Musical soirees, concerts, serenades and minstrelsy kept our spirits attuned to gladness. Varied by picnics, lawn parties, hayrides, phantom parties, nutting parties in summer and candy pullings and fancy balls with Nazareth’s colored band to fiddle.’’

Exclaimed Spalding, ‘‘O what fun!’’ in fond reflection on the good times among the sisters who served ‘‘good substantial sandwiches, cakes and fruit’’ from ‘‘great big baskets.’’ She concluded, ‘‘and so, the spice of life conduced to our health and happiness.’’ Mary Anne Murphy arrived at Nazareth Academy with her sister in 1859 during a quadrille, the slave musicians calling out the figures. She and her sister stood in ‘‘wonderment that such fun was tolerated in a convent.’’ Whatever the nostalgia of middle age, certainly these reflections suggest that elite Catholic and Protestant girls’ academies left some of their richest memories in collective fun.

If teachers sponsored some activities, they implicitly sanctioned many more. Wilfrida Hogan attended the Sisters of St. Joseph convent school in St. Paul in the 1870s and remembers fondly her class, which was known for its lively irreverence: ‘‘Each girl seemed to view the other as to who could play the biggest pranks, or have the most fun.’’

Ellen Emerson overflowed with delight in a letter to her mother (significantly, not her father) while at Miss Sedgwick’s School in Lenox, Massachusetts: ‘‘Every night we do things which it seems to me I can never remember without laughing if I should live to be a hundred. The most absurd concerts, ludicrous charades, peculiar battles etc. etc. Then the wildest frolics, the loudest shrieks, the most boisterous rolling and tumbling that eye ever saw, ear ever heard or heart ever imagined. I consider myself greatly privileged that every night I can see and join such delightful romps.’’

When teachers were around, the pranks were more likely to occur upstairs in student bedrooms. Lily Dana and friends joined together to victimize two other girls by putting crumbs in their bed, and cutting off candle wicks. Another evening Dana noted that she ‘‘Had some fun throwing pillows and nightgowns,’’ and though Miss Porter caught her, it did not seem to dampen much her spirits. Teachers at girls’ schools were occasion- ally disciplinarians, clearly.

One teacher told Lily Dana that ‘‘she supposed my mother let me do everything,’’ and the sisters at St. Mary’s Academy in South Bend, Indiana, turned the piano to the wall in order to keep girls from waltzing with each other. Yet students often emerged victorious; at St. Mary’s they played combs for dance music instead. (One participant reported that ‘‘the Sisters had to give up, for they knew not what to do.’’) The ideology of nurture combined with the shared exuberance of age mates overpowered much teacherly remonstrance.

It is sometimes hard to read such tales of schoolgirl exuberance without wondering whether the inmates had taken over the asylum, however, so a corrective is in order. One such account which requires a second look is the spirited account of Agnes Repplier, In Our Convent Days (1906), about her time in the late 1860s at a Pennsylvania school run by the Sisters of the Sacred Heart. Repplier writes of the pranks and passions of her band of seven partners in crime, in an ebulliant account designed to appeal to a readership newly attracted to childhood naughtiness in revolt against Victorian propriety. It is clear in retrospect, though, that she must have concealed or minimized an- other side to her experiences. For the denouement of her story is her expulsion and removal from a school she adored.

Peer cultures could also be cruel and hurtful beyond the control of evangelical teachers, as the practices of hazing in British public schools testify. Some of the most painful memories of inclusion and exclusion in girls’ schools centered around that most primal of media, the sharing of food. Food boxes, customarily sent from home, were the occasion for impromptu parties, a demonstration of wealth and taste, or an opportunity to play favorites.

The elation which greeted such arrivals might well prove a commentary on the regular fare at boarding schools, which sometimes undoubtedly was very poor. (The advice giver Mary Virginia Terhune’s critique of girls’ boarding schools included the accusation that they fed their students from a ‘‘common vat’’ which supplied breakfast, dinner, and supper all together, a practice partially confirmed by one account of eating the same stew at least twice a day at an Ursuline academy in San Antonio in the 1890s.)

At any rate, the arrival of food from home occasioned select gatherings and provided opportunities for discrimination among friends. When one friend’s mother brought good things to eat, Josie Tilton noted that ‘‘we’’ had a feast tonight, explaining for the future who she would always mean when she said ‘‘we’’—‘‘Lizzie, Emma, May and I’’— the groupness secured by inclusion in this select group of diners.

Lily Dana suspected a friend of being miserly and so snuck into her room to inspect. ‘‘There was a box which had been filled with cake, part of a pie and several other things filling her trunk nearly half full. . . . If I had a box sent to me I think I should give my friend more than ‘five or six cookies.’’’ If girls could feel short-changed by each other, relations with parents could also strain over the sending of food boxes, which represented extremely conspicuous con- sumption for girls attempting to ‘‘belong.’’

In an unusually direct letter home in the 1840s, Maria Nellis passed on to her parents her unmediated hurt and sense of disadvantage in the competition for food—and the status that came with it. Elizabeth got her box yesterday and was favoured with six times more things than I was. Her box was so large and heavy the master found it his match to carry it upstairs. She has 4 kinds of cake, nuts, apples, candy, clothing and every thing else, but after all, Dear Poppy, I am not jealous. . . . When you sent that box you did not send half what I asked. I was very disappointed. You said it would be eatables, but it wasn’t. You sent only a few apples, one cake and some clothes. Why didn’t you send me some nuts? I haven’t had a nut yet this winter, and indeed I expected nuts above all things. E. Fox had a box worth speaking of. Now that shows that you don’t care enough for me to even send me a few nuts.

Intermittently, Nellis regained control, but her grievance was palpable. Finally at the end, she acknowledged to her parents that she might be hurting their feelings, reassured them that she loved them all with ‘‘a deep and fervent love,’’ and promised better behavior in the future. Clearly at stake for her was both status in the school world and a primitive sense of deprivation in her own family.

As the correspondence suggests, the emotional atmosphere in girls’ boarding schools was not only intense but more expressive and enacted than that within moralistic, Victorian households. Within private, female, boarding academies, duty-bound Victorian daughters learned languages of sentiment, desire, and emotional excess censored from other parts of their lives. The elaborate conventions accompanying the expression and affirmation of affection among boarding-school girls, sometimes involving teachers as well, was indeed a separate ‘‘female world of love and ritual,’’ as Carroll Smith-Rosenberg affirmed in a classic article about nineteenth-century women’s culture.

In recent years, Smith-Rosenberg’s ‘‘Female World of Love and Ritual’’ has been attacked for its overgeneralizing characterization of an exclusively female emotional sphere in the nineteenth century, but her strongest evidence confirms the significance, the power, and the longevity of girls’ boarding school friendships, which were enacted through elaborate rituals in a range of schools.

The rituals of boarding school life centered around the making and breaking of special friendships, known variously as ‘‘affinities,’’ ‘‘specials,’’ or ‘‘darlings’’ and increasingly as either ‘‘smashes’’ or ‘‘crushes.’’ One way of expressing interest was to ‘‘filipine’’ with someone, to leave her a surprise gift outside her door. (When Lily Dana was caught, she needed to give her gift, a large apple, outright.) Such relationships played out in diaries, letters, and the poetry of autograph books. Girls expected to pair up for many school activities and entertained a variety of ‘‘dates’’ with different girls for walking, going to church, and sleeping.

Sally Dana wrote home to her mother explaining that she was following her father’s advice not to form special friendships too soon, and so had ‘‘slept in eight different beds.’’ During these private moments, girls would share secrets about their own likes and dislikes, each other, their teachers, families, and their school lives. The intricacy of such social calendars opened ample opportunities for misunderstanding and frayed feelings.

These peer relationships characterized elite female seminaries in the North- east, but they also appeared in a range of schools, including the African American Scotia Seminary, founded by the American Missionary Association in Concord, North Carolina, following the Civil War. Scotia had northern roots, which may have influenced its student culture. Glenda Gilmore tells us it was modeled on Mount Holyoke, and was ‘‘calculated to give students the knowledge, social consciousness, and sensibilities of New England ladies, with a strong dose of Boston egalitarianism sprinkled in.’’

Roberta Fitzgerald went to Scotia in the early twentieth century and kept a composition book, likely in 1902, which was filled with the talismans of schoolgirl crushes. A note inside addressed to ‘‘Dear Roberta’’ asked, ‘‘Will you please exchang rings with me today and you may ware mine again,’’ and Roberta herself wrote a sad poem to a friend ‘‘Lu’’ who had thrown her over.

And so you see as I am deemed

Most silently to wait

I cannot but be womanlike

And meekly await my fate.

Ah! sweet it is to love a girl

But truly oh! how bitter

To love a girl with all your heart

And then to hear ‘‘Cant get her.’’

And Lulu dear as I must here

Relinquish with a moan

May your joys be as deep as the ocean

And your sorrow as light as its foam.

On the back of the notebook, which also contained class assignments, was a confidence exchanged with a seatmate. ‘‘I was teasing Bess Hoover about you and she told me she loved you dearly.’’

For those much in demand, this charged atmosphere of flirtation and intimacy in the North and South represented an exhilarating round of fun and sport. For those less secure, diaries and letters presented an obvious outlet for the anguish of the neglected. Agnes Hamilton, a member of a Fort Wayne clan which sent several daughters to boarding school on their way to prominent careers in progressive America, experienced some of both. Sometimes she basked in the glow of family reputation; often she worried over her own inability to keep up with her illustrious cousins. Her unusually detailed accounts document an entire school culture rather than just an individual emotional life.

Hamilton’s first impressions of school social life at Miss Porter’s School were favorable, but even these revealed insecurities to come. In an entry from November 1886, when she was seventeen, Hamilton noted that ‘‘Farmington is just as perfect as they all said it would be, the girls, Miss Porter, and all.’’ Her reservation had to do with her own imperfections: ‘‘But I don���t think I am the right sort of a Farmington girl.’’ Even so, Agnes was in demand, describing a flurry of close attentions from numerous girls. A week later, in her cousin’s absence, she received displaced attentions:

Yesterday Mannie was very nice to me. I suppose she thinks I am lonely without Alice. We walked past the fill around by the river to the graveyard. Then she came in and we talked for an hour. All evening we were together. This afternoon we walked together too for Tuesday is her day with Alice. We went down to the green house where Mannie gave me some lovely roses. I would give anything to know what she thinks of me. . . . Will I ever be able to talk and be jolly as other girls? Some girls are frightfully stupid and yet they can make themselves somewhat agreeable. I have struck up a sudden friendship with Lena Farnam. We were together Saturday afternoon and evening and Sunday I asked her to be my church girl in Alice’s place.

Agnes was still in a position to be picky, noting one drawback: Lena ‘‘seems very nice indeed but I wish she were not only fifteen.’’ Lena was far from the only prospect. Agnes noted another new friend: ‘‘I have seen a great deal lately of Edith Trowbridge too. When she overcomes her shyness she will be exceedingly nice.’’ Not surprisingly, with all the intensity of the socializing, Agnes mentioned with no comment that only three out of thirteen in the class were prepared for their lessons that Tuesday. In those early weeks, Agnes Hamilton’s enthusiasm for this exciting life of emotional intrigue was palpable. The next week (she seems to have written on Tuesdays), Agnes announced to her diary ‘‘the jolliest crush in school’’ involving one of her very own intimates of the week before.

‘‘I walked with Edith Trowbridge this afternoon, on purpose to have her tell me about Lena. I hinted and hinted in vain. I told her about every other crush in school but she never said a word about Lena’s, so at last I told her that I knew all about it but even then she would not say a word about the subject. I hope she will tell Lena so that she will speak to me about it next Saturday when we are driving.’’ The triangulation of such relationships increased the possibilities for intrigue. Agnes wearied a bit of the uncooperative Edith, though, observing that though ‘‘very nice . . . she did not get over her stiffness.’’

Agnes Hamilton seemed to be trying to do her schoolwork, but her roller- coaster social life intervened. One day when she was preparing for class, a friend came by to teach her a dance step, from which she was interrupted by the arrival of a buggy she had rented to take another friend for a ride, the same girl whose ‘‘jolly’’ crush had amused her the week before. (‘‘The more I see of her the better I like,’’ she now reported. ‘‘Her face is rather attractive at first and then it grows on one.’’) When she returned, she found another visitor who stayed till it was time for tea.

The result: ‘‘I have not looked at my Mental since Thursday.’’ By the end of the same day, yet a new ‘‘crush’’ had taken over when Agnes got word of someone’s interest in her, and Agnes wondered ‘‘if I have ever been as actively happy.’’ The frenzy had settled down a week later, when Agnes announced that she had all her walking days ‘‘just as I want them.’’ Each day of the week was assigned a different companion, with whom Agnes would exchange intimacies and gossip, using the rituals of girls’ school life to structure its emotional extravagance.

One must conclude that the intensity of the social life was seen to serve some purpose, for evidence suggests that it was allowed to flourish until the turn of the century. (Lily Dana noted that Miss Porter’s permission had been sought for at least one and probably more sleeping dates.) At that time, new sexualized interpretations of girls’ and women’s friendships brought a crackdown on such friendships. At the time, though, they appear to have received official sanction. In fact, one of the first of Ladies’ Home Journal ’s ‘‘Side Talks with Girls’’ took up the question of ‘‘School Girl Friendships.’’ The Journal endorsed such girlish relationships for their innocence and energy and their precious brevity, saluting ‘‘the giddy, gushing period’’ as one which ‘‘never comes to some and to most it soon passes.’’

In particular, it contrasted this girlish spontaneity with the superficiality of the jaded young lady. Its contrast of ‘‘young girls, lively, radiant, energetic, spirited, loving girls’’ with ‘‘young ladies who talk of their beaux, dresses and the surface shows of society’’ represented another version of a conventional warning against precociousness. Girls’ crushes on other girls were still perceived as innocent and healthy—and would be well after doctors first began to cast suspicion over such relationships in the 1880s and 1890s.”

- Jane H. Hunter, “Competitive Practices: Sentiment and Scholarship in Secondary Schools.” in How Young Ladies Became Girls: The Victorian Origins of American Girlhood

[superhero--imagines]

<--- Part 3 Here!  /  Part 5 Here! (Last Part)--->

A/N: I’m going to do one more part, and then a Light + Dark ending. 

To my usual followers who didn’t come here for star wars content, I’m so sorry. Usually I make separate blogs for different content, but then when I lose interest/get busy, I neglect the blog, and then I realize I haven’t made content in a while, and then I get anxiety and keep pushing it off, and then I feel bad because I put all this effort into this project, and didn’t carry out. It’s just a whole negative feedback loop. So from now on I’ll make a separate tab for different fandom imagines, and keep a separate master list. I refuse to change my username though because I’ve had it for 4 years, and I refuse to let it go (lol). 

Anyway hope you’re having a good day :)

* “That’s so rad!” 

*Ben can’t help but smile, it’s nothing all that impressive, he just made a few flowers bloom for you

* But your smile as you walk though the garden, leaning over to smell the perfume of the hibiscus flowers:

* It’s like he hung the moon for you

* It’s well worth the trade off of his life force

* “Rad? Is that a new word from back home”

* He doesn’t miss how you freeze when he brings it up

* He hadn’t meant anything when he said it, he certainly didn’t mean to make your smile constrict like that

* “Yeah, it is”

* You get that look on your face again, the one he’s seen since childhood

* You’re eyebrows are strung together, and your hands tremble slightly

* Your eyes remained fixed on the flower in front of you

* Ben has always wondered what it is you think about when you get like this

* What he can do to ease your mind

* He rests a hand on your shoulder, his hand is so big against your shoulder, it’s three times larger at least

* Just like that you spark back to life

* “Shall I guide you to the Queen’s rose garden, Ambassador?”

* “Yes,” a gentle smile curling on to your lips “that sounds lovely”

* A part of him was worried that you had changed, five years is a long time after all

* But watching you frolic in the meadow, carefully threading small white flowers together in a crown;

* You’re still the girl he remembers

* “There!” You say, placing the flower crown on his head

* “Now you look like a prince”

* Ben feels his face grow warm, he’s sure his face is practically red by now

* “I’m a Jedi Knight, not a prince” he tells you, and you grin

* “You’re my prince and I’m your knight, remember?”

* If he wasn’t sure of his blush before, he certainly is now

* Why would you bring that up?

* But Ben isn’t one to back down

* “No, you’re my Princess and I’m your knight.”

* Your cheeks bloom with color, almost as red as the roses that surround you

* That’s an awfully pleasing expression

* “I’m not a princess, just an Ambassador” you mumble, Ben’s ego continues to swell

* It’s almost as big as his head, before promptly deflating when he see’s Poe waiting for you in your suite

* “Ambassador, I’m going to the bazaar to look for parts, would you like to join?”

* So the boy wasn’t just apart of his imagination

* He’s not quite sure how to feel, but he knows he does not feel good

* You eyes light up as soon as you hear the word ‘bazaar’

* Well, it’s not as if he can monopolize all your time

* “You’ll come with us, won’t you Ben?”

* You look up at him with stars in your eyes, and he feels that nostalgic warmth bloom inside his chest

* Then, as if you just realized he might not know who this man is, your eyes light up

* “Ben, this is Poe” you gesture to the handsome boy, with hazel eyes, and the strong nose, who’s made Ben feel bile in his throat for years now “and Poe, this is my best friend Ben!”

* He should be happy you called him your best friend, but in this situation, it just makes him feel empty

* They share a handshake, but he can feel the tension in the air

* “So did you make that light saber on your own?” Poe nods to his weapon of choice attached to his hip

* “Yeah, Lu- Master Skywalker makes us all make our own”

* Poe’s eyes are practically sparkling

* “Can you show me how?”

* Poe is actually a very nice person. Ben understands why you would want to be his friend

* “You know, it’s all about getting to that sweet spot when you’re piloting”

* “I agree, the feeling as you’re just about to leave the planet’s atmosphere-“

* “Oh, man” Poe claps a hand on Ben’s shoulder “I know”

* Ben wants to hate him, but he’s such a cool guy

* They laugh and joke all the way to the bazaar

* Ben feels a chill, and notices he hasn’t heard you say anything for a while

* You must be annoyed, you probably feel left out of the conversation

*It adds up, you probably didn’t expect to be the third wheel in this situation

*He looks over, and the slight tremor from before, becomes a blizzard in his chest

* You’re wearing a cloak, but he can still make out your expression

* Eyes dead set on the ground, your hand trembling

* You’re not annoyed, it’s worse than that

* It’s that face again

* He isn’t quite sure what to do, he can’t call out to you in this situation

* He can’t attract attention

* frosty white teeth dip into the tender flesh of your bottom lip, your hands clenched so tight, Ben’s sure there will be crescents left on your palm

*But he can’t just watch you tormented like this either

* He catches the glimmer of gold, and an idea strikes him

* His hand rests on your arm

* “Do you like it?” He motions towards the pale pink gemstone ring in front of you

*  It’s slow, but you relax under his touch

* And just as slowly the chill begins to subside, left with a comforting warmth

* Oh

* These are your emotions

* He’s felt this way around you since childhood, so he never noticed

* All along he’s been feeling your emotions

* Those times when he felt lonely, and you were a galaxy apart, when he felt this warmth

* It was you

* It was always you

* He’s tosses a gold coin to the shopkeeper, and slides the ring on to your finger

* “Ben, it’s not even my size!” Your face blooms with color, as red and lovely as the rose’s you love so much 

* He just smiles

* “We’ll get it adjusted then” he leans down to whisper in your ear, and your flush only darkens

* That expression looks good on you

* He can’t help but grin

* He slides the ring down your ring finger

* “Seems to fit fine to me”

* “Ben do you-“ you look up at him with wide earnest eyes

* “I think I got all the parts I need!” Poe interrupts, carrying a crate full of various parts

* “Let’s head back then” you mumble, wrapping the clock around you just a big tighter

* “Did I interrupt something?” Poe asks, and Ben can see from his aura he’s genuinely clueless 

* Well that makes two then

* The walk back is silent, with Poe trying to break the tension, only to recieve a one word response

* “Did you have fun?”

* “Yes”

* “What was your favorite part?”

* “All of it”

* Poe decides to head to the ship, either to give you some space, or to avoid the awkward situation

* Ben walks you back to your quarters in complete silence

* “Well, see you tomorrow morning” You tell him

* He moves to turn away, but stops

* “She hates you now”

* He doesn’t want to leave like this

* Before you can open the door, he places a large hand in front of you, smack dab on the middle of the door

* “Have I upset you in some way?”

* His hand is planted firmly on the door, a few inches above your head

* You’re so small now, he hasn’t noticed before. You’re almost a whole foot shorter than him

* When you were kids, you were taller than him

* You look up at him, with large expressive eyes, bashfully glancing down

* “N-no, it’s just, I’m just-“ you cut your own words off, toying with the ring he bought you

* He’s never seen you like this before, face flushed, shuffling anxiously

* “I’m embarrassed” you mumble, looking away from him

* “Because of the ring?” His hand moves to hold yours without even thinking, and your blush only deepens

* You really are as lovely as a rose

* “A man shouldn’t buy jewelry for a woman unless he’s in love”

* Is that all?

* “That’s fine, because I do love you” the words tumble out of his mouth before he can process what he’s saying

* He’s a bit embarrassed, but he doesn’t regret it

* He loves you, he’s loved you since he was a child and you would follow after him like a hatched newborn

* When you would throw rocks at his window in the middle of the night

* Even when you would stick your nose into all of his business

* He’s awfully fond of you, you should know that by now

* Instead you sigh, slipping your hand out of his

* “Not like that Ben,” the flush is gone, you look older when you look at him now, tired

* “Romantic love”

* What the hell has romantic love got to do with it? Love is love isn’t it?

* Noticing his puzzled expression you add:

* “You know, when you love someone so much it almost hurts you. You think about them all the time, and you miss them when you’re apart, even if it’s just for a day. And whenever something happens, they’re the first person you want to tell”

* “Have you ever felt that way about someone?” The question leaves him without restraint 

* You smile, but it’s without joy, and look at him with those same, tired, eyes.

* “Maybe once or twice”

* Ben feels his heart drop to the pit of his stomach

* He doesn’t know why but the thought that you had loved someone, loved them like that, before

* It makes him so sad

* “You’re not the only person who has her heart”

* “Keep the ring” he rushes to put on a smile, but he’s sure it looks forced “consider it payment for all those years you were my knight”

* At that you laugh, and the feeling on Ben’s stomach gets a bit better

* Against his better judgment, he reaches for you hand once more, careful not to hurt you

* And presses his lips to your ring finger

* “I’ll see you tomorrow Princess”

* Ben doesn’t remember how he gets back to his living quarters, or even how he ends up in his bed

* What he does remember is the dream he had that night

* You were in a pair of lacy red panties and a bra, and nothing else

* Hair falling in wild waves over your shoulders

* You held him so well, wrapped yourself around him so well

* He rested his hands on your hips, you felt so soft

* Then, all at once, you crumble against his chest

* You’re so small, your head buried in his neck

* “Ben, please”

* He wakes up with a start, groaning when he checks under his blanket

* The perfect start to a perfect day

* Elsewhere you wake up in quite the same manner, awkward and embarrassed

* You have the soul of a 40 year old at this point, yet you’re still at the mercy of this hormone laden body

* “This is going to be a long week”

Tags: @ohmygoditsanthonyedwardstark​ @treestarrrrrrrr​ @treblebeth​ @crazynocturnalkiki​  @lokilover-39​

[atlas-of-a-human-soul]

Awake (Captain America AU)

Summary: Grayson wakes up from the ice only to find his world has changed significantly. Love is the last thing on his mind, but once he meets the agent assigned to him all of that changes.

Warnings: violence, fluff

Word count: ~ 1600

When Grayson went into the ice, the world was very different than what he knows it to be today. It used to be about family and principles, the right thing to do and now...there's a thing called hookup culture where he doesn't fit in with that romantic heart of his, the internet which is very useful but very complicated and confusing and people who use ships in terms of relationships and not transportation.

A very different world indeed.

However, some things remained the same. Men fighting wars over things that don't matter at all, people dying because they look different or love differently than some consider norm, and beautiful women he still can't seem to win over because he turns into a blabbermouth a second into the conversation.

It's what his best friend, his brother, Ethan used to make fun of him for. He knew Ethan would have a field day with the way he was rejected by his nurse before he could even ask her out due to him being too old for her....too old? He might be nearing his nineties according to the calendar, but he's far from old. He's still in his early twenties and very much in shape, still perfectly toned from his serum and then some.

"What did that punching bag do to you?" He stopped the punches, grabbing the bag with both hands, feeling the sweat roll down his entire body and his heavy breathing come in short puffs.

He completely lost himself in his mind, losing focus on the real world. He didn't even feel himself punching the bag or the soreness of his muscles and definitely missed the moment she walked in.

Y/N is a very skilled individual, she made sure he knew it the very day they met when she took him down in less than five seconds. Needless to say, Grayson was shocked. In all his time as Captain America, he never once lost a fight so fast and never to a girl.

She's also the agent SHIELD assigned to keep an eye on him and bring him in if he creates trouble.

Usually, Grayson would laugh at that notion, but he knew she could. No doubt about it.

And he absolutely loved that about her.

"Kissed my girl in high school." He pants out, turning around with a crooked smile reserved only for her.

Y/N is also the only girl who never made fun of his lame attempts to flirt, but she also never responded to them the way he hoped her to.

"Ooh, capital offense. Should I eliminate the target, Captain?" Y/N makeshifts a gun with her hands pressed together and the pointers targeted at the bag over his left shoulder.

"Stand down, agent." Grayson says, chuckling at her. He places his bandaged hands on his hips, blowing out some air down his chest to stop the oncoming river of sweat.

"Yes, sir." She quickly salutes him, her technique rusty and not at all proper, but appreciated.

"What brings you here, agent? I told Fury I'm done with fighting." Grayson states, starting to pull at his bandages to take them off. He keeps his eyes on the alluring woman before him, unable to deprive himself of such a breathtaking view. He's been stuck in the ice for seventy years and the last woman he cared about never got to know just how badly he wished there was another way.

He promised himself he won't make the same mistakes, but he's already running down a path of regret with Y/N. But if he were to spend more time with her, he'd have to return to his olden ways and face the blood on his hands.

Some day that didn’t seem like such a bad trade, others - it was unimaginable.

"You told Fury that, but not me. I am here to convince you, so what's it going to take?" She folds her arms over her chest and quirks an eyebrow, leaning on a column with her right shoulder.

"What's the mission about?" Grayson grabs a towel, wiping the sweat off his forehead and down to his neck as she tries to hide the lust his moves evoke. She'd love nothing more than to wrap her arms around his sweaty self and claims his lips as hers. She always found him to be devilishly handsome, but his disheveled sweaty look made it that much harder to keep her hands to herself.

"Saving a bunch of hostages and a couple of our own...I know the agents and they have families waiting for their safe return." Grayson noticed the subtle crease between her eyebrows and the almost quiver her lips made once they parted for a heavy sigh. This truly meant something to her.

"Personal experience?" He speaks his mind inadvertently, mentally face palming once she nods.

"Five years ago I had a husband and they killed him in cold blood two days after we got married. These are the same people and I'm going in there, with or without back up." She made it very clear and Grayson knew he wanted to help her. It wasn't so he could get a date nor to have her affection for him grow...he just wanted her to smile again for the lack of her smile felt colder than the ice he slept in.

He thought her to be glass, but glass is only brittle until it breaks. Once that happens, it becomes sharp and she's most definitely ready to cut and bleed.

"I'm in." And he kept his promise, picking up his shield once more and fighting the bad guys by her side.

He had trouble not staring at her as she tore her way through their enemies, all but tearing them to shreds. She's deadly as larkspur and just as beautiful.

"You think you're so special." One of the men coughed, blood spluttering from his mouth.

"So what makes you so special?" Y/N quirked her eyebrow at Grayson, taking a glass in her hand as she leaned on the wall calmly to catch her breath. She smiled, swirling the whiskey in her glass before downing it in one sip.

Grayson shrugs, shaking his head slightly with a faint, uneven smile on his lips as he admires the girl before him. She's unlike anyone he's ever met - in this life and the life he left behind after waking up from the icy death he was meant to find his end in.

"Nothing. I'm just a kid from New Jersey." His reply is simple and humble as he was brought up to be, but Y/N giggles, slamming the glass on the counter and throwing a shard at the man's throat. It hit the mark in seconds, drawing out the man's misery.

"Well, I am special. I'm special because I get to watch the life drain from your eyes and still have time to make a date with the handsome fella behind me."

Grayson shuddered in a mix of fear and admiration, but the words just now resonated with him. Even with all he knows about her, her obviously cruel tactics to take lives, but effective way of fighting, he still wants her - longs for her even.

"How about a dinner this Friday?" She smirks, glancing over her shoulder.

"You pick me up on that motorcycle of yours and take me dancing afterwards?" She adds, sweetening the pot.

"I, uh, can't dance." Grayson clears his throat awkwardly, realizing Margaret..Peggy never taught him as he never made it to their date.

"Neither can I, but we'll learn together." And with that, she pulled out the shard of glass and let the man bleed out, ending their mission.

"So, does this make you want to join the team? Saving people is hell of a lot better than wasting away in some old, dusty gym." She throws the glass to the floor, shattering it in the process.

Grayson swallows thickly, cocking his head to the side.

"Does it earn me a kiss from a beautiful gal as yourself?" He almost gasped at his own bravery in his advances, but he contained himself. He had to be confident to keep up with her.

She giggles, sauntering toward him. Placing her palms on his shoulders delicately, she leans in at a whisper distance from his lips. Even the smallest of moves would connect their lips and Grayson found it hard to catch a breath as her intoxicating perfume invaded his system.

This is far from what he’s used to considering this would have worked only on loose ladies in the past. It used to be all about words and charm, big romantic gestures, but he’s learning to accept his time had passed and a new age has long risen and he needs to adapt or wither.

She moves by his lips and to his left ear, reaching on her tiptoes.

"Not without a dinner. What do you take me for? A frolic?" She teased, enjoying seeing Captain America flustered.

"C'mon loverboy, time to go." She laced their fingers, clasping their hands together before tugging him after her.

She's going to be a lot of work, but worth it, he thinks.

If there's a reason to fight in this world, it is her, he's certain.

Maybe he can't live without war, but life with regret is far worse. So, in hope of changing his path, Grayson picks up his shield once more and the heavy burden that comes with it, willing to do whatever is necessary.

He's been out of the ice for month, but this is the first time he's ever truly felt warm and comfortable in his own skin in this day and age. And it's all thanks to her.

Tags: @xalayx @fallinginlove-16 @heyits-claire @accalialionheart

[1albumaday]

2019

2019

Deerhunter - Why hasn’t everything already disappeared Quelle Chris - Guns James Blake - Assume Form Panda Bear - Buoys Self Esteem - Compliments please PUP - Morbid Stuff Pixvae - Cali Fat White Family - Serfs up! The comet is coming - Trust in the lifeforce of the deep mystery Malihini - Hopefully, again Great Dad - Great Dad Public Body - EP Public Body Chris Cohen - Chris Cohen Miley Cyrus - She is coming Karen O - Lux Prima The Mauskovic Dance Band - The Mauskovic Dance Band Potsu - Ivy League Bill Callahan - Shepherd in a sheepskin vest Why?- AOKOHIO Metronomy - Metronomy Forever Cashmere Cat - Princess Catgirl Drake - Care Package Kanye West - JESUS IS KING Clark - Kiri Variations Benjamin Francis Leftwich - Elephant Shamir - Be the yee, here comes the haw Skinny Pelembe - Dreaming is dead now Cate Le Bone - Reward Vagabon - Vagabon SAULT - 7 SAULT - 5 Toro y Moi - Outer Space Tyler, the creator - IGOR FKA Twigs - MAGDALENE Pleasure System - Terraform Charlotte Adigéry - Zandoli 2018 SOPHIE - Oil Of Every Pearl’s Un-Insides Hen Ogledd - Mogic BC Camplight - Deportation Blues Shamir - Resolution Daughters - You Won't Get What You Want IDLES - Joy As An Act Of Resistance Wei Zhongle - The Operators Elza Soares - Deus É Mulher JID - DiCaprio 2 Christian Fitness - Nuance - The Musical Devi McCallion & Katie Dey - Some New Form Of Life Palm - Rock Island Pusha T - DAYTONA Lithics - Mating Surfaces Paul Williams - Surf Music serpentwithfeet - soil quest?onmarc - ? : ID Noname - Room 25 Jean Grae & Quelle Chris - Everything's Fine The Beths - Future me hates me Teleman - Family of Aliens U.S. Girls - In A Poem Unlimited LUMP - LUMP BUSDRIVER - Electricity Is On Our Side Heather Leigh - Throne Guerrilla Toss - Twisted Crystal Vessel - Queen of Golden Dogs Amen Dunes - Freedom Baxter Dury, Etienne de Crécy, Delilah Holliday - B.E.D Insecure Men - Insecure Men Soccer Mommy - Clean Kamaal Williams - The Return SUPERTEEN - Over Everything LICE - It All Worked out Great, Vol 1 & 2 Material Girls - Leather Ask Carol - Ask Carol The Mauskovic Dance Band - Down in the basement Potsu - Just Friends A L E X - Hollow Moon Kamasi Washington - Heaven and Heart CD1 + CD2 Gruff Rhys - Babelsberg Gwenno - Le Kov Aisha Devi - DNA Feelings Channel Tres - Black Moses Holly Herndon - Proto Rezzett- Rezzett The Ophelias - Almost Pan Amsterdam, thatmanmonkz - The Pocket Watch Oh papa - Papa Les Loners - Be Happy Against all logic -  2012 - 2017 2017 Curtis Harding - Face your fear Protomartyr - Relatives In Descent JFDR - Brazil Soccer Mommy - Collection Alessandro cortini - avanti Miley Cyrus - Younger now Beach House - B-Sides and Rarities Silvia Kastel - Air Lows Why? - Moh Lhean Mildlife - Phase 2016 Kevin Abstract - American Boyfriend: A suburban love story Ela & PomPom - My New Music Elizabeta Lāce - Songs About D Elizabete Balčus - Conarium The comet is coming - Channel the Spirits Duchess Says - Sciences Nouvelles Nina Ryser - I Hope All Of Your Dreams Come True SUPERTEEN - Isn’t A Person Bestial Mouths- Heartless The Sooper Swag Project - Badd Timing Rozi Plain - Friend of a friend Khompa - The Shape Of Drums To Come Subrosa - For This We Fought The Battle Of Ages Comfort food - Waffle Frolic LICE - Nulmilk: The Basement Demo Skinny girl diet - Heavy Flow The Octopus Project - Memory Mirror Porridge Radio - Rise, Pasta and other fillers Big thief  - Masterpiece Injury Reserve - Floss DRAM - Big Baby DRAM Miike Snow - iii Will wood and the tapeworms - Self-ish Opposite sex - Hamlet David Bowie - Blackstar Orkesta mendoza - !Vamos a Guarachar! No genre  - Don’t call it a Christmas album The avalanches - Wildflower Sleigh Bells - Jessical Rabbit TEEN - Love Yes Beyonce - Lemonade Olga Bell - Tempo Clipping - Splendor & Misery Show me the body - Body War Elza Soares - A mulher do fim do mundo Esperanza Spalding - Emily’s D+Evolution Nico Muhly & Teitur - Confessions Claire Cronin - Came Down a Storm Horse Jumper Of Love - Horse Jumper Of Love NAILS - You Will Never Be One Of Us The Cult Of Dom Keller - Goodbye To The Light The Ophelias - Creature Native Magnolian - Famous Men Ukandanz- Awo The I.L.Y’s - Scum With Boundaries Drugdealer - The End Of Comedy Greys - Outer Heaven Saul Williams - MartyrLoserKing CC Mose - Beat Me Sturgill Simpson - A Sailor’s Guide To Earth Montaigne - Glorious Heights So Laid Back Country China - Sin Cristales Lemon Demon - Spirit Phone Mitski - Puberty 2Moor Mother - Fetish Bones Yussef Kamaal - Black Focus Susumu Yokota - Laputan Mr Oizo - All Wet Skeletons -Am I Home? Lee Fields & The Expressions - Special Night Flock of Dimes - If You See Me, Say Yes Lee Hazlewood - 13 Childish Gambino - Awaken, My Love! Modern Baseball - Holy Ghosts Oddisse - Alwasta Ryley Walker - Golden Sings That Have Been SungHalf Japanese - Perfect AJ Cornell & Tim Darcy - Too significant to ignore Jaimeo Brown Transcendence - Work Songs Kamaiyah - A Good Night In The Ghetto 2015 BC Camplight - How To Die In The North Kefaya - Radio International Other Lives - Rituals Viegli - Loks paliek vala SUPERTEEN - Stay Creepy Miley Cyrus - Miley Cyrus & Her Dead Petz EL VY - Return to the Moon Dakha brakha - wnrx The I.L.Y’s - I’ve always been good at true love 2014 Keaton Henson - Romantic Works The dø - Shake Shook Shoken 2013 DARKSIDE - Golden Arrow SUPERTEEN - Exponential Superteen Why? - Golden Tickets 2012 Allah-Las - Allah-las Why? - Mumps, etc Why? - Sod in the Seed 2011 Viegli - Viegli 2010 The Books - The Way Out Johnny Flynn - Been Listening 2009 Peter Doherty - Last of English Roses Bill Callahan - Sometimes I wish we were an eagle Why? - Eskimo Snow 2008 Why? - Alopecia Johnny Flynn - A Larum 2007 BC Camplight - Blink of a Nihilist Subtle - Yell and Ice Akron/Family - Love is simple John Maus - Love is Real 2006 The Forest & The Sea - Leafcutter John Subtle - For Hero: For Fool The Books - Music for a french elevator and other oddities Why? - Rubber Traits 2005 BC Camplight  - Hide, Run Away The Books - Lost and Safe Akron/Family - Akron/Family Why? - Elephant Eyelash Why? - Sanddollars 2004 The Fiery Furnaces - Blueberry Boat 2003 Matmos - wide open spaces Hymie’s Basement - Hymie’s Basement The Books - The Lemon of Pink Why? - Oaklandazulasylum Why? - The Early Whitney Parsley Sound - Parsley Sound 2002 Broken Social Scene - You Forgot It in People The Books - Thought for food 2001 The Avalanches - Since I left you 1998 The Sugarcubes - Life’s too good 1997 The Sea And Cake- The Fawn Stereolab - Dots and Loops 1996 Squarepusher - Feed Me Weird Things 1984 Art of Noise - Who’s afraid of the art of noise? 1981 This Heat - Deceit 1977 Fleetwood Mac - Rumors 1973 Perigeo - abbiamo tutti un blues da piangere 1971 Jethro Tull - Aqualung

[koganeirou]

Ikemen Revolution - Sirius’s Route

aka me graduating from being a wannabe livebloggering and becoming a wannabe otome reviewer HAHA.

I have a bunch of left over screenshots from Sirius’s route that I never posted so I decided to compile them all into one post + add in my own awful commentary/review. It’s mostly going to be the latter. So yeah enjoy experiencing Sirius’s route filtered through my terribad commentary and me dragging the poor man more than he deserves.

Honestly Sirius’s route is a blur to me at this point. The one thing that stuck out like a sore thumb that I didn’t like was Alice pinning over how ~cool~ and ~mature~ Sirius is while Sirius kept beating around the bushes about his feelings smh. What was even more annoying is that for the first half of the route it’s just Alice trying to help out with the war and Sirius just giving her menial tasks all day to keep Alice busy and avoid her pestering (╬ಠ益ಠ). 

Seth is a real bro in this route and actually gives some GOOD ASS ADVICE, TOO BAD NOBODY MAINLY SIRIUS TAKES HIM SERIOUSLY.

Gee I’m trying to romance you; how utterly elated it makes me to know that I remind you of your siblings. 

He fucking KISSES HER ON THE FOREHEAD and is all like “it’s just friendly affection!” BITCH WHAT PART OF THAT IS FRIENDLY AFFECTION?

The funniest thing is is that while this disastrous k-drama high school romance is going on as the supposed main focus, THE FLAMES OF WAR ARE RAGING ON IN THE BACKGROUND. Out of the routes I’ve played so far this route is the only route where the armies actually go in an all out war which I thought was pretty cool.

Okay this is less of a war between Red vs Black and more like Edgar vs Black because Lancelot is out of commission while Kyle is pulling his hair out like an old nanny tending to him and idk what the hell the rest of the Red Army dudes are doing. I am not exaggerating when I say that Edgar is the actual backbone of this army. It’s hard to really take this war seriously considering how no one is dying, only “injured” and these battles seem to have minuscule impacts or consequences and the fact that Sirius and Alice have time to be frolicking off with their less than smooth romance.

As usual Seth is the bro of the war too as he runs around spreading underground rumors. Tbh idk how the hell Seth managed to pose as a “reliable source” but I can just imagine him being like V and just knocking some poor Red Army sap tf out and stealing his clothes and running around spreading rumors like a character in Mean Girls spreading rumors about who the heroine is dating.

BIG YIKES AND BIG SWEAT. I think Sirius’s route is the first route to drop Seth’s connection to the Magic Tower, something I’d definitely never suspect. Maybe he’s a mole?? who knows.

But obviously who cares about that mumbo jumbo! We cut back to Sirius and Alice where Alice is drunk mumbling about how much she loves this sexy man, conveniently just while Sirius is in front of her and hears everything! But like the smooth operator he is he....................... doesn’t do anything. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ He just completely wipes the love confession clean from his memory and continues on his merry way as if it never happened. Great. A+ romantic development there, game.

Hell even the other boys are lowkey sick of Sirius “what is this feeling in my chest?! Definitely not love!” Oswald so they decide to all be MC’s wingmen because clearly that war you guys are fighting that is potentially killing all your men isn’t important! Sirius, OF COURSE, overhears the entire conversation where Alice admits she loves him and as usual.... HE DOESN’T DO ANYTHING.

Is it a sin if I actually agreed with Seth. I MEAN NO OFFENSE TO SIRIUS BUT............ 

Seth, can I romance you instead? Promise not to sell me out to the Magic Cult in exchange for Amon’s weed stash though.

Oh jesus christ can you just confess your undying love for each other already this is starting to become infuriating. You guys have a GOD DAMN WAR being fought in the background and instead I’m forced to sit through this cat and mouse game between these two mofos. Sirius, I love you, but. god dammit.

Oh right, were we fighting a war? I think we were fighting a war hahaha oops I completely forgot about that! But thank god that King No Fun is here to ruin everyone’s day! As we know, Lancelot has been pretty much incapacitated the entire route due to using too much magic, but nothing stops the King of Hearts. The man deadass drags his delirious corpse out of his bed (cue Kyle screaming in the background) and waltz into the Black Army HQ like he pays rent to whisk our princess away like the friendly neighborhood kidnapper that he is. He knocks her tf out and frolics into the sunset on his horse with Alice’s passed out body.

Sirius being the knight in shining armor that he is catches up to Lance on his horse and demands Lance return Alice, which Lance is like “nah son”. Sirius then proceeds to BEAT THE SHIT OUT OF LANCELOT (╬⁽⁽ ⁰ ⁾⁾ Д ⁽⁽ ⁰ ⁾⁾) I THOUGHT THIS MAN DIDN’T KNOW HOW TO FIGHT! and starts screaming in Lancelot’s face about how much pain his kokoro is in ever since Lancelot started being a piece of shit. Lancelot’s reaction pretty much just amounts to  ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ and he gives up on the girl and saunters off. 

Sirius proceeds to spill his token tragic backstory to Alice, about how he, Harr and Lance used to be best friends but ever since Harr was exiled and Lance took the title of King of Hearts, their friendship had been strained broken to smithereens considering how Harr LITERALLY tries to kill Lance. Honestly as much as I roast the terribad romance between Alice and Sirius, I really enjoyed learning about Sirius’s history with Harr and Lance and it was by far the most enjoyable part of the route. I appreciate how much Sirius cares about Lance and Harr and it’s definitely the thing I like most about his character.

Anyhoo they return to find the Black Army Headquarters ABSOLUTELY DECIMATED. The magic cult goons completely smashed their headquarters but considering how all the boys have plot armor, no one is hurt so it’s all okay! （‐＾▽＾‐）

Alice realizes that Lancelot kidnapped her to protect her from the attack and that he is most likely being manipulated by someone in the shadows. She convinces Sirius to take her onto the battle field to confront Lancelot once and for all for answers. FINALLY THE PLOT IS GOING SOMEWHERE, and this is like what, part 20 at least?!

The moment they confront Lancelot on the battle field, the real King No Fun aka Amon crashes the party and he’s not a happy camper. He’s sick of Lancelot buying time so decides to just whisk Alice away himself!

aaaaand finally Lancelot’s “I’m the Worst” facade drops as he loses his shit. I find it interesting how it’s the first time he refers to the MC by her name and not Alice. He dives into Amon’s teleportation spell and gets whisked away with them.

Alice awakens to find herself in Amon’s creepy sex dungeon and Amon is like... your stereotypical evil cackling maniac cartoon villain that you’d expect.

He’s even a misogynistic twat as the icing on the cake.

Unfortunately Amon only wanted Alice but he accidentally brought Sirius and Lancelot too as carry on luggage. He leaves Lancelot be since he needs him but Sirius is just a fly in his plan so LIKE THE EVIL CACKLING TOTALLY NOT RIKA VILLAIN THAT HE IS HE PULLS OUT A FUCKING GUN 

and shoots Lancelot.

Amon shits bricks over Lancelot protecting Sirius but is ultimately Monokuma level “lmao idgaf” and proceeds to try and kill Sirius but they’re rescued by Harr and Loki who whisks them away back to Red Army Headquarters.

Kyle REALLY FUCKING SHITS BRICKS THIS TIME POOR BOY CAN’T GET A BREAK after seeing Lancelot’s condition and somehow miraculously brings Lance back from the brink of death. Sirius and Alice talk with Lancelot and he finally comes clean with the truth about how Amon’s threatening to destroy Cradle with his weed stash unless Lancelot cooperates. Sirius is all like “aight then let’s go destroy his weed stash” and both armies begin working together to defeat Amon. Great, the climax of the plot is finally here, I’m so excited!

THAT IS UNTIL Alice realizes that the full moon is finally here and thus she must go home! She highkey wants to stay but Sirius is like “nah son you going home”. and proceeds to SHOVE HER ASS DOWN THE GATES OF HELL. But not before making out with her like his life depended on it. What the fuck, he doesn’t even confess his love for her! He just makes out with her and is all like “lul bye” and shoves her down the garden portal. 

Welp great, the final battle with Amon is finally starting and I’M NOT EVEN THERE TO SEE IT LMAO! It’s like the writers got too lazy at the end and pulled this bs to avoid showing the climax of the story. Wtf let me kick ass with my man, what is this weak ass underwhelming development. 

Alice waits around in Reason for about 3 months before going like “yeah you know what fuck it” and decides to go back to Cradle because a hoe got better things to do then just sitting on her ass waiting for her man who may never come for her!

She goes to the park just in time to see Sirius, who, surprise surprise, actually did come to get her! He tells her how they finally defeated Amon and that Cradle is finally safe! Amazing, it took you three months to find that weed stash; it took Alice and Jonah one evening in Jonah’s route.

She goes back to Cradle with Sirius but it’s already night so they decided to pitch a tent at a nearby inn with only one bed!

just go to sleep...................... just go to fucking sleep.

The next day they return to the Black Army Headquarters, which is now peaceful since Amon is defeated and the war is over. I got Sirius’s dramatic end; Alice and Sirius decide to go over to Sirius’s flower shop, where they run into Lancelot whose finally chilled out with his “I’m the Worst” act now that Amon isn’t breathing down his neck every second like a creepy evil Santa Clause.  Lancelot buys an iris flower and proceeds to give it to Alice.

I’M FUCKING CRY HE’S SO SOFT.......... HE SO SOFT...... PLEASE PROTECT HIM AND HIS PRECIOUS SMILE.

The route ends with Alice planting the flower Lancelot gave her in the garden of the Black Army HQ, promising to live her life with Sirius and protect the little things that are important to them (´へωへ`*). and finally, FUCKING FINALLY, SIRIUS FINALLY TELLS HER HE LOVES HER. THAT TOOK YOU LIKE WHAT, THE ENTIRE ROUTE?

but no seriously imagine how awkward it’d be for Alice, after making out and sleeping with him only to be like “oh wait does he even actually love me, he never said he did” derp.

-----

Anyway that was a rundown of my own thoughts of his route + awful commentary. I definitely think his route was one of the weaker ones and it just didn’t feel like Sirius or Alice had any chemistry (｡-人-｡). I hate to admit being disappointed, especially because I was really looking forward to Sirius’s route but alas it is what it is. There were some nice scenes and I liked the friendship dynamic between him, Lance, and Harr but overall it definitely paled in comparison to Jonah’s or even Lancelot’s route. Ohwell, sorry Sirius lmao.

[princessofthedarkrealm]

Stroke of Midnight- Chapter 12 ~part 2~ (Pennywise x reader)

((Got this finished a lot sooner then I thought I would. Hope you all enjoy! Lots of lovely, yummy SMUT up ahead, but it’s something that a lot of you did ask for.))

After Pennywise had tongue fucked you into oblivion, the two of you had snuggled together for a bit on the mattress. Then you had told him that you had promised your mom after the play that you would meet her and your step dad for brunch the next day. Surprisingly, Pennywise let you go, and he ended up leaving you alone for the rest of the day to spend with your family.

Now it was Monday. Your Cinderella days were officially over, which you felt kind of sad about. But for once you had something to feel excited about. You thought about Pennywise and his sweet, goofy smile. He was so gentle and caring, yet super protective. And then there was Roman, who had a romantic, old fashioned, yet daring charm about him. Same person. And they were both yours. Your stomach flip-flopped.

“And what are you so happy about?” Mrs. Stout asked.

You blushed. Apparently you had been staring into space, grinning like an idiot. You shrugged, but your grin still remained. “Nothing.”

“It wouldn’t be that boy that was in here the other day, would it?”

You started twirling the braid that was hanging over your shoulder. “Yeah. I guess.”

“Sweetheart, just because I’m old and divorced, doesn’t mean I don’t know first love when I see it.”

You felt your heart swell at her words. Could you really be in love with Pennywise?

Later that morning, you were shelving. You had your back turned. Suddenly you felt something touch your neck and you jumped, startled. You whirled around. Roman stood behind you, laughing softly.

"You!" You playfully slapped him. "You scared the hell out of me."

Roman touched your temple. He was still laughing. "I'm so sorry, sweetie."

You shook your head. "What are you doing here?"

"I came to see you. I missed you."

You gave him a look. "You just saw me yesterday morning."

"I know. But still." He leaned forward and gave you a peck on the lips. "So I was thinking..."

"You better be careful. I hear that's dangerous."

Roman smirked at you. "Cute. So I was wondering, why don't you go home after work, put on your bathing suit, and come meet me at the cliffs."

You raised your eyebrows at him. "The cliffs?"

“Sure. We can get nice and wet. Splash around a bit. It’ll be fun.”

“You do know there’s only one way down there, right?”

He grabbed your braid and started playing with it. “This coming from the same girl who brought me behind the Neibolt house, of all places, to seduce me.”

You laughed. “Seduce you? Last I remember, you kissed me first.”

He folded in his lips, a thoughtful look on his face. “True. So will you come with me?”

You shifted the pile of books in your arms. “I would do anything with you.”

He winked at you. “Good. See you this afternoon, princess.”

Your heart lept. After you were sure Roman had left out of sight, you did a little dance of joy.

**********

“We have to warn Y/N about Roman,” said Bill.

“Fuck yeah we have to warn her,” said Eddie. “I mean, did you see his shadow? Talk about a fucking creepfest.”

“I wonder why she couldn’t see it,” said Ben.

“Probably for the same reason none of the other adults can,” Mike added.

The Losers’ Club sat at a picnic table at the park, discussing on whether or not they should warn Bill’s cousin about their suspicions about her new beau.

“Poor Y/N. She seemed so nice the other night. I wonder if she knows,” said Beverly, her pretty face in a pout.

“I hope not. I mean, what if she’s boning him?” said Richie.

Bill punched him lightly in the shoulder. “Richie! That’s my c-cousin you’re talking about.”

Richie put his hands up. “Just saying.”

“So what are we going to do?” Stan asked.

“We go to the l-library,” said Bill. “Pennywise won’t be l-lurking around over there. And we can tell her what we saw at the p-play.”

“But what if she doesn’t believe us?” Ben asked. “What if she thinks we’re crazy?”

“Better for her if she thinks we are,” Bev admitted.

*********

You were at the circulation desk that afternoon. A group of kids walked in the door. You did a double take. It was Bill and his friends, his usual ones plus the two kids you had met Saturday night at the play, Ben and Beverly. There was also a dark skinned kid with them that you hadn’t seen before. You gave them a suspicious look as they hastened towards you.

“Hey, guys. What’s up?”

“Y/N, we need to talk to you,” said Bill.

You glanced around, but didn’t see Mrs. Stout anywhere. You figured whatever it was must be important for their whole gang to show up like that. Especially Richie. He avoided the library like the plague.

“Let’s go find a back table,” you said.

"And why didn't you come to my play, Eddie?" you asked him in a mockingly accusing voice as you brought them to a nice quiet spot. Luckily the day had been slow.

"Really? You know how my mother is. All those people all close to each other."

You tried not to roll your eyes. "True." Mrs, Kaspbrak was one of the main reasons why her son was so paranoid of everything. You were surprised she had even let Eddie go to school. You waited until the kids had made themselves comfortable. "Okay. Talk.”

Ten minutes later, you were numbly listening to what they had come to tell you. “So you’re saying that Pennywise is real and that he’s been doing things to scare you.”

“Yeah, like bad stuff. Really h-horrific things. It’s like he knows what we’re s-scared of.”

You sighed. A cold feeling had seeped into your chest. “And you’re saying that Roman is Pennywise.”

"See. I told you she'd believe us. She's known us long enough to know bullshit when she sees it," said Richie.

You thought carefully. There was no way you could tell them that you already knew about Roman. Or the extent of how deep your relationship was with Pennywise. One thing was for sure. You were going to have to have a good talk with your clown lover.

Apparently Stan had noticed the strained look on your face. He gestured at you. "You see, guys. We've totally freaked her out. I mean, what if we're wrong about Roman. What if it was just a trick of the lights making his shadow look like that?"

Richie clapped his hand on Stan's shoulder. "And did you see Y/N's shadow looking like it was about five feet taller than her?"

Stan gave him a sheepish look.

“It’s alright, Stan. I’m having a hard time believing all this too. But none of you have any reason to lie to me.”

You stood up and pushed your chair back in. “Look, I need to get back to work. Thank you guys so much for telling me all this. I promise I will be really careful and keep my eyes open.”

“P-please be careful, Y/N,” said Bill.

The look of desperation on his face broke your heart. “I will,” you told him even though you knew it was a lie. You had thrown careful out the window weeks ago.

**********

"Roman!"

You were almost to the edge of the cliffs. Roman was nowhere to be found. You were supposed to meet him there. You put your hands on your hips and called him again. You found a large rock to sit on. You started thinking about everything that Bill and his friends had told you.

After they had left, your spirits had been down. You were still upset that Pennywise had been targeting the kids like that. You heard a rustling sound behind you. You turned and saw Roman saunter out of the trees.

You put a smile back on your face and stood. "Hey."

"Hey, beautiful."

Roman came up to you and pulled you into a hug. You put your head against his chest and sighed.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing. Just... rough day." You pulled away from him.

He reached out to twirl a strand of your hair. "You mean after I left?"

You nodded.

"Well I am here now. And we are going to have some fun."

You smiled, a genuine smile this time.

Roman took off his shirt. "So what do you say? Ready for a swim?"

A few minutes later, the two of you were standing at the edge of the cliffs, you in your bikini and him in his swim trunks.

"I cannot believe we are about to do this," you said.

"Relax. This will be a piece of cotton candy."

You raised an eyebrow at him? "Cotton candy?"

He shrugged. "Or cake. Whichever you prefer." He grabbed your hand. "Ready?"

"No," you squeaked.

"Well then we're jumping anyway. One, two, three."

You and Roman jumped. You felt like a bullet as you plummeted, the water rushing up towards you. It stung when you hit. You went under. You could hear the water rushing in your ears, filling your nose. You broke the surface and instantly started sputtering. Roman had just popped up next to you.

"Whoo!" he hollered. "We did it."

"Yeah!" You called out.

He floated towards you. "You did it, Y/N. I'm proud of you."

You felt yourself grinning from ear to ear. Your heart pounded from the adrenaline rush.

“That’s my girl.”

He leaned in to kiss you, but you splashed him. His face took on a surprised expression. He splashed you back. You splashed him again and yelped when he rushed at you and threw his arms around you. You tried to bite his arm and laughed because you knew you couldn’t reach.

“Oh no you don’t, “Roman said.

Before you knew it, the two of you were wrestling and throwing water at each other. You started coughing when some flew in your mouth.

Roman started hitting you on the back. “You alright?”

You nodded.

“Next time, don’t start something you can’t finish.”

You rolled your eyes at him. “Yes, dear.”

You were kind of tired after your aquatic frolic, so Roman suggested that you swim over to the shallows. It was nice having your feet touch bottom. You laid on you back to show Roman how you could float.

“You do that pretty well,” he said. Of course his words sounded muffled. You stared at the blue sky above you. It was so peaceful out here, just you and Roman. But there were things you needed to ask him, and now was as good a time as any. You placed yourself upright. Water ran down your body in rivulets.

"Why have you never been with me as Pennywise?”

Roman looked at you sideways, a lazy smile on his face. "Where did that come from?"

"Well, I was just thinking..."

"That's dangerous, you know."

You stuck your tongue out at him. "I was thinking, Pennywise has pleasured me three times now, but he's still never made love to me. You have."

"Y/N, when I'm Pennywise..." he sighed, an uneasy, almost sad look came across his handsome face.  "I have to be so careful when I'm with you. I'm a lot bigger; I'm stronger. Look, you've seen me kill someone. And you know I would never do anything like that to you, right?"

"Right," you replied without any doubt in your mind.

“I’m not a flowers and sunshine kind of person, Y/N. I’m sure you’ve at least figured that part out.”

You sighed. No, you’re the kind of person who goes around scaring the daylights out of innocent kids, you thought.

You placed your hands on his chest. “Penny, I need to ask you something. I’ve heard things about you. Things that kind of…worry me.”

You could feel his chest muscles tense up under your hands. “Alright.”

“I’ve heard you’ve been going around scaring some of the kids in town. Is that true? 

He heaved a sigh and you could feel him relax again.

“Intense emotions get me… over excited. That’s one of the reasons why I love pleasing you so much. When I feel you start writhing underneath me, knowing that it’s from pleasure that I’m giving you…” He exhaled loudly and shook his head. “Y/N, you don’t know what that does to me. That’s why I’m so scared to be with you as Pennywise. You don’t know what kind of damage I could do if I let myself get too carried away.”

You saw in your head the first night that he had come in your room. Was that why he had really ripped your shirt? Because he had been so over-excited by your desire?

You ran your hands up Roman’s chest and over his shoulders. You really didn’t want to break up with him over something like this. And that’s exactly what you would be doing. Even though you hadn’t actually made anything official yet, you considered Pennywise your boyfriend.

“Can I ask you to do something, please?”

He rubbed your shoulder. “Anything.”

“Please stop scaring the kids.”

He smiled. And with the bits of sunlight reflecting off the water on his skin, you could truly understand how he could be from another world. “You got it.”

He started kissing you. You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer. You could feel his hands on your waist. As the kiss deepened, he started dragging his hands downwards. You felt him start to pull down your bikini bottom. You started throbbing. He slid his hand down the front of your bikini and found your clit. He started rubbing. You took a deep breath. You didn’t know what it was about water, but for some reason it heightened the sensation of his hand against your already sensitive flesh. He brought his hand further into your folds. Your legs grew weak. 

Roman pulled his mouth away from yours and let out a dark chuckle. “Does that mean we’re done swimming?”

“What do you think?”

You smashed your lips against his, but he pulled back. “Why don’t we go back to shore? It’ll be easier.”

“I don’t care where we do it at. So long as you make love to me.”

Roman pulled you full force against him. He kissed you so hard, it literally took your breath away. He broke the kiss and grabbed your arm. “Come on.”

The two of you splashed through the water. Your feet were already touching bottom, so it didn’t take long for you to reach land. Your legs felt wobbly as you stepped on shore. He pulled you over to where the dirt met grass. Roman’s green eyes were filled with desire as he crouched down, pulling down your bikini bottom as he went. You stepped out of them and he put them aside.

In one swift move, his mouth was on you. Your mouth fell open in a silent moan and your legs turned to jelly. You put your hands on his shoulders as his tongue swirled around and around your clit. You wanted him so badly. You spread your legs wider to give him easier access. As a second thought, you reached behind you and took off your bikini top.

He started sucking on your nub. You dug your nails into his shoulders and let out a gasp that was more like a squeak. You closed your eyes as you let the delectable sensation of his tongue take over you. You let your head fall back. When you opened your eyes, the blue sky was above you. You felt wild, untamed. Like an Amazon warrior goddess from the days of Greek mythology.

You climaxed with much less force than usual, and lasted much longer. Roman grasped your thighs to support you as you moaned softly, your cum dripping into his mouth.

Your legs shook badly. Roman laid you down on the grass. He took off his swim trunks. He didn’t waste any time.  In two quick thrusts, he was inside you. He started moving with a velocity that both shocked and excited you at the same time.

"Oh, kitten. Yes," he said as he fucked you. "You feel so good."

He started pumping faster, jolting your body with each thrust. The sound of your love making could be heard clearly in the still air. You were starting to set up for your second orgasm when Roman's voice broke through the moment.

"Oh. Y/N. I can't... I can't hold it."

"Let go, Penny. Let go," you told him.

Roman snarled. You cried out as, with an inhuman strength, he flipped you over on all fours. He pushed himself back into you and started thrusting again.

"Why did you have to call me that?" His voice was a growl.

"Wha-" was all that you could mutter.

You felt yourself start to stretch, like Roman’s cock was growing inside you in both length and width. A spiral of hard bumps formed along it. Your mouth fell open. You bent forward and pulled ahold of the grass. Your legs started shaking and your stomach muscles tightened. Something was happening to Roman. Something was changing.

And you liked it.

You could hear him making guttural grunting noises. But his voice sounded different, more high pitched. He thrusted again and this time you noticed fabric instead of flesh against your rear. You felt a hand on your back. A gloved hand.

Pennywise.

You orgasmed. Hard. Your back arched and you threw your head to the sky. Cum spurted out of you. Pennywise was fucking you. You came over and over.

You started to sag as soon as you finished. Pennywise's hands shot out to grab your waist. There was no way that he wasn't almost finished. He let out an inhuman sound and stilled. You felt an explosion as his cum shot into you. You could feel it squelching around his cock, running down your core. 

He finally pulled out of you. He let go of your waist and you dropped like a sack of flour. You were in the dirt, naked and covered in sweat. Semen dropped from your spent pussy. You had just had sex with technically not one, but two men.

Pennywise grabbed you by the waist and turned you over on your side. You rolled over the rest of the way, your torso resting against his legs as he knelt next to you. His gold eyes bore into yours and his full lips turned up into his usual impish grin.

“Did you enjoy that, my sweet?”

You nodded your head, a weary but satisfied grin on your face. “I have never experienced anything like that.”

Pennywise giggled. “Well you better get used to it, my dear. You are my mate now. We can do a lot of things like that.”

You glanced up at him, an odd feeling settling in your stomach that had nothing to do with sore muscles.

“Mate?”

Pennywise nodded his head eagerly, making the ruffle around his neck flounce. “Yes. You and I have mated. That means you are mine.”

You placed your hand on your temple, your heart pounding. You were his? What exactly did that mean? And why did you have a feeling there was no turning back from it?

@fuck-the-clown  @honk-honk-bitches  @wtf-it  @hoe-for-daddywise  @dallonweaksme  @floatingwithpennywise  @lesteefightme  @penny-trash  @guttinqteeth  @booklover2929  @red-balloons-and-popcorn  @unidash  @bill-istvan  @smileysam13579  @daddywiseskarsgard  @animelover130901

[siwoolf]

first snow

b.a.p bang yongguk/reader.

You were not a superstitious person by all means, but you were quite the romantic. And you knew that spending the first snow with a loved one was important. You were determined to spend the day with your beloved boyfriend in your favorite time of the year.

word count: 1317 notes: merry christmas! i was supposed to write this ages ago. gender neutral. msg me if there are any mistakes, i never proofread or get my writings beta read. ^^ please enjoy!

The first snow is always enough to make you excited. To see everything covered in the pretty white was something you looked forward to every year, and it was no different this time around. Everything was brighter, and for a moment, you could forget all your troubles and revel in the wintery beauty of a snow covered city.

The snow began to fall late after midnight, but you still roused yourself from your slumber to hazily shove on a coat and gloves and bound out of your apartment to frolic in the snow. Your boyfriend worriedly followed after you, sleep hanging on to his bones, but cold seeping into his skin. He fussed over the snow in your hair with woolen gloves and wrapped a scarf around your neck so you wouldn’t be bedridden with a dreadful cold later. And as he worried over your health, you grinned and pecked him on the lips under the dark sky as it continued to snow.

He dragged you back to bed and you complied. The apartment was warm with love and happiness and you drifted off in his arms and in a thick blanket. When you awoke, the excitement was back and you were glad you had nothing to worry about that day.

This time, Yongguk made sure that you were properly bundled up. You rolled your eyes, but you were glad that he cared so much. You smiled softly as he busied himself with stuffing his pockets with hot packs to use later, and you knew you loved every bit of him that worried for you and chased after you in the middle of the night.

“It’s the first snow, Yongguk! We have to spend the day together!”

You were not a superstitious person by all means, but you were quite the romantic. And you knew that spending the first snow with a loved one was important. You were determined to spend the day with your beloved boyfriend in your favorite time of the year.

“Can’t we spend it in bed? It’s so cold and the bed is warm,” he softly complains. Yongguk doesn’t mean it, you know so. But it makes you laugh.

“We can spend the day in bed tomorrow! But we have to enjoy the snow today.” You fail to see the fondness in Yongguk’s dark eyes as you throw open your front door and hurry out of the apartment. He trails after you, closing and locking the door.

The cold is bitter, but the view is beautiful. It’s more than you can ever imagine on hot nights where you miss the winter. The snow is still falling, but very lightly. It drifts down lazily and you want to close your eyes and just take it all in. But Yongguk is tugging at your hand to keep moving so you don’t end up freezing on the sidewalk or something. And you follow him anyway because this is your day together.

“It’s so beautiful, Yongguk,” you sigh.

“It’s pretty,” he agrees, looking around. There are other couples strolling about and children playing in the cold snow. For the short moment, in this tiny little bubble, this tiny world you lived in, everything was alright. Everyone was happy and enjoying themselves.

“Inseong! Don’t lick that pole!”

You giggle as a young girl desperately tugs at her brother’s arm to prevent him from licking the metal pole that was frigidly cold. Maybe it wasn’t a good idea to just watch a young boy lick a dirty, cold pole, yet you couldn’t help but find it funny.

In the end, the girl tugs her complaining brother away from the pole and drags him back to their worried mother. And as you watch them fondly, you feel Yongguk take his gloved hand in yours.

“I was worried you forgot your gloves,” he sighs in relief. You glance back at him.

“I can take care of myself, too,” you fire back, a teasing smile on your lips.

“I know you can. But you’re also the same person who ran out in pajamas and a coat last night to see the snow fall,” he points out. You stick out your bottom lip slightly at his retort.

“I just don’t want you to get sick.” He kisses your forehead with the affirmation, and you’re suddenly sure that you wouldn’t be needing any of the hot packs he’d brought with him. Your face was warm enough from his display of affection. Yongguk was a quiet man who didn’t really express himself through displays of affection very often. He showed his love through subtle ways that made your heart melt when you would find them. His love was descriptive and symbolic in an unsaid manner, but you understood just the same.

“I won’t,” you assure him. “Thank you.”

“You’re all red. Is it from the cold or is from me?” He asks, low voice teasing. His mouth breaks out into a wide grin, teeth showing and you roll your eyes, hitting his arm and turning away. So much for a romantic moment.

“Never mind. I take it back.”

“I’m only joking~ If you’re cold, we can head to a cafe and get some hot cocoa or tea.” He sweetly coos. You can hear the grin in his voice still and you have to smile.

“Fine. I’m getting cold anyway.” With a smile and a press of his lips against yours, he takes your hand again and takes you to a nearby cafe. It’s packed with people, much to your disappointment, and all the seats are taken with shivering patrons attempting to warm up with their hot drinks. Nevertheless, Yongguk orders two hot cocoas and hands you yours once the order is finished. It takes a while, since there was a long line, but you didn’t mind. The cafe was warm and bustling with the chatter of people. No one could hear the whispers of “I love you” that was exchanged between a pair of cold lovers waiting for their hot cocoa.

You stepped back out into the cold, and the chill hit your face. You scrunched up your face, nose already feeling frozen once again. You wanted nothing more than to go back into the warm, heated cafe, but you had to continue walking in the snow with your boyfriend.

“Ah, it’s so cold. We’re gonna get sick at this rate.” He sighs, sipping his drink.

“Mm. But it’s nice to see everyone. There’s so many children playing in the snow, it’s cute. And it’s nice to be out here with you.”

The smile that Yongguk gives is softer. Not a full grin that displayed his gums (but that smile was still your number one favorite). It’s a smile that a fool would have, looking down at the person he loved so much. He kisses the side of your head, and you smile to yourself before looking up at him.

“Thank you for going out into the snow with me,” you whisper. You press your lips against his again and you’re 100% sure that the hot packs in his pockets are useless because the love you have for Bang Yongguk is enough to keep you warm through even the coldest of winters.

“Let’s go home now,” you giggle. “You’re right. It’s too cold.”

“Finally,” he laughs, and he holds your hands the entire way.

(Once you get home, the drained cups of hot chocolate are discarded and the damp coats and scarves and hats and gloves were shed. They were left on the back of the couch and tired bodies, cold from the snow, dragged themselves to bed. They huddled under the blankets, smiling at each other, before drifting off to a warm slumber filled with dreams of each other. It might have been 11 in the morning, but the white snow wiped away all of their worries as they reveled in each others’ presence.)

[temptation-narnia-chronicles]

From Upon the Golden Thrones

Episode 14: Workaholic

      Sludge caked the ground as the winter's snow began to melt and mix with the dirt. Lucy ran through the garden with wild abandon, not caring if she dirtied her skirts, as she indulged in the warmer weather and the tiny buds sprouting on branches. A hint of spring, pastel and dainty and precious, lingered in the air. Soon cherry blossoms would line the trails and the sweet aroma of fresh blooms would coat the country in a sugary haze. As much as Lucy loved winter and all of it's offerings, she absolutely delighted in spring.

     "Lucy, please be careful!" Susan called, contemplating running after her at the risk of muddying her dress. She didn't want to look completely unpresentable, even if they weren't expecting guests any time soon.       "Why should I? It's so beautiful out!" the valiant called back, weaving through rows of labyrinthine shrubberies.       "Calm down, Susan. Let Lu have a bit of fun" Edmund replied, sidling up to his sister. A soft chuckle escaped his lips as he watched his baby sister frolic and play. She was as carefree as they came and it warmed his heart to see her enjoy herself so much. He wished he hadn't taken advantage of her optimistic innocence in the past.       "You ought to be telling Peter that" the gentle replied tiredly, shaking her head. She looked up at the window to his office, slightly creaked ajar so that the cool breeze swept into the room. She could just see him now, hunched over his desk reading and rereading every single paper ten times over as if he was certain he wasn't fully comprehending any of it. He signed every document slowly, cautiously, like the entire planet might explode if he didn't take his time. Thus was the way of the past two months. Peter never took a break. "It's like he went from one extreme to the other" Susan added disdainfully. "I hate seeing him do these sorts of things to himself. If only he'd just listen..."       "I think by now he might be beyond saving" Edmund remarked, slightly joking. Susan didn't think he was very funny. "Listen, all I'm saying is that maybe this is what Peter needs. You saw how he was with Eilonwy. He put her before his work. Now that she's gone, he's been doing nothing but work to deal with her absence and that might not be the worst thing. This is the most productive we've been all year thanks to him."       The young queen shook her head. "No, Edmund, this is not what Peter needs. What he needs is help" she argued. "Can't we speak with Aesop about this and ask for some sort of potion to cure him of this?"       "I'd say go for it but that's the thing: Peter's not sick, he's productive" Edmund said. "And you should be grateful for that. He's doing good work, Su, whether he knows it or not. He's signing treaties. He's making alliances and setting up a real import and export system. He's even pushed for construction on your orphanage. If nothing else, you have to be happy about that!"       Edmund had a point, that was undeniable. Still, Susan found it hard to believe that all this hard work was without consequence. Sooner or later, Peter was bound to burn out. And when he did, absolutely everything would come crashing down in a cataclysmic explosion that nobody really wanted to see. There wasn't much they could do, though. Peter was stubborn and perseverant. No matter what they tried, they knew he wouldn't budge. Even a game of cricket was refused in the stead of more work. All that was left to do was wait in hushed tensity until he broke so they could clean up the leftover pieces and patch him back together again.       "I know it's rather treasonous to speak ill of your king behind his back" Tumnus whispered one afternoon, "But I must say, I'm growing rather concerned about King Peter!"       "He's a sorry bloke, he is" Mr. Beaver replied. "Ever since Ellie left, things haven't been quite the same."       "Oh, I do wish she had at least told us where she was off to" Mrs. Beaver said, pacing back and forth as she wrung her hands together. "Why does she always do this?!"       "Because she's an inconsiderate little wench who deserves a right smacking!" Mr. Beaver said. He loved Eilonwy like a daughter, he really did, but he was never fond of her random disappearances. He felt he and his wife had a right to know when and where she was running off to all the time. Especially now, after all they had been through and all the changes that had come their way. It's far easier to come and go from a little dam as it is a heavily guarded castle. Sooner or later, she wouldn't be allowed back.       Mr. Beaver rose from his seat and rubbed his wife's back. He hated seeing her so distraught. It wasn't right for Eilonwy to worry her so. However, it was unfortunately very characteristic.       "I'm sure Eilonwy had her reasons" Tumnus said with a wag of his finger. He was far more forgiving of the girl, perhaps a little too much. He cared for Eilonwy deeply, not in a romantic sort of way but as deeply as you love your long-time best friend. In many ways, that was what Eilonwy was to him. They didn't always get along but he still treasured her companionship deeply and unconditionally, which said a lot considering the way she had treated him during their last encounter before his imprisonment.       "She doesn't think!" Mr. Beaver exclaimed. "She thinks about no one but herself. She's hurting us. She's hurting the country. And she's especially hurting Peter!"       "I know why she did what she did" Mrs. Beaver then spoke, shaking her head as if she had a terrible migraine. "She spoke to me in confidence that night in Allies Enclave. She told me of her uncertainties, of her fear that Peter was to ask for her hand. She said she didn't feel she was ready for something like that, that she wasn't even sure if she was happy here. I suppose Peter's plans scared her off and that's why she left." Her paws were shaking at her sides, she was so overwhelmed with emotion. "To think, I could've stopped this if I had only...if I had only spoken to her just a little while longer!"       "Don't blame yourself, love" Mr. Beaver comforted. "None of this was your fault. Eilonwy's the only one to blame. I just hope that while she's gone, she learns to grow up and take responsibility for her actions, or else."       "I guess all we can do now is hope King Peter will be alright" Tumnus spoke. The Beavers nodded sadly, intertwining their paws in an act of support and reassurance. They would simply have to wait out the storm in quiet unity.       Peter was not alright. Dark circles highlighted bloodshot eyes and there was a pallor to his face that his siblings knew couldn't be healthy. All he ever wanted to do was work. Even at breakfast, he leaned over a stack of papers his eyes scanned once, twice, three times over while mindlessly snacking on a pastry.       "Peter, don't you think you ought to put that away, at least while you eat?" Susan asked as cautiously as possible. She couldn't stand to see him do this to himself, but she didn't want to trouble the waters anymore than they already were, either. The High King acted as if he hadn't even heard her, going about his business and taking another bite of his food. "Peter, I'm sure whatever that is can wait until you're finished eating" she continued, a bit more stern this time. Now he replied with a soft grunt, but his eyes remained locked on his work. Susan was beginning to lose her cool, fists gradually clenching at her sides. "Peter..." she said, attempting to remain as soft as possible. Edmund and Lucy could tell something was brewing deep inside of her. "For the love of all that is holy, Peter William Pevensie will you please just for once stop working?!"       The entire room fell into an uncomfortable silence. Edmund and Lucy glanced to each other frantically, as if they wanted to escape but had no means to. The pair tensed in their chairs, awaiting the ensuing reaction. Both of them knew it wouldn't be pretty.       Peter's eyes slowly lifted from his work, hand tightening it's grip around the quill. There was an anger in his eyes they had only ever seen the likes of at Beruna, something raw and violent and real. Susan straightened her back and stood her ground, tilting her chin slightly upward in dominance. "How dare you presume I don't know what I'm doing" he growled. "How dare you order your king to stop his work!"       "How dare you talk back to your queen!" Susan shouted back.       "My queen?! I am superior to you, Susan, and I will do as I please! If I want to work during breakfast, I damn will!" Peter said. His face was starting to grow red with rage, his knuckles whitening as he tightened his grip. "I can do whatever the hell I please, Susan! I can do whatever I want!" he then began to shout, growing louder and louder with every reiteration. "I can declare war on Calormen if I wanted! I can sail to Galma without any notice! I can ride to Ettinsmoor and search for Eilonwy if I wanted! And I can certainly sit and sign papers while I eat this stupid little pastry!" he screamed, taking a violent bite of his food at the end of it all. Tears welled in his eyes for as he shouted, something within him began to snap. He did his best to hold himself together but he had to face facts: he was finally crumbling.       The moment Susan noticed this emotional shift, she softened her gaze immediately. "Peter, I..." she began but Peter interrupted her.       "Don't even bother! I don't want to hear it!" he shouted. Slamming his leftovers onto the plate, he swiped his hand across the table with a mighty yell and sent all of his paperwork flying. Lucy gasped and clapped a hand to her mouth, instinctively gripping Edmund's with the other. "I don't want to hear any of it!" Peter screamed, tears rolling down his cheeks now. He stalked to the door and with one rough motion, slammed it shut behind him with such vigor the entire castle shook.       Susan buried her face in her trembling hands, holding back tears of her own. A part of her wanted to just rush after him and try to comfort him but she knew that was the worst thing she could've done. It was evident now that Peter was utterly inconsolable. There was nothing anyone could do to heal his wounds. The High King would have no other choice but to heal himself.       Barrelling down the hallways, Peter burst through the double doors and darted straight to the stables. It had been weeks since he had visited Besnik, terrified of the thought of returning after he and Eilonwy's tearful goodbye. Now that he was back, all the memories flooded back in vivid technicolor, a million daggers stabbing at his chest. A wail broke past his lips as he kicked at the ground, drew his sword, and began hacking at the wooden post of his steed's pen. Besnik reared with a fearful neigh, recoiling and shaking his head in distaste.       "Easy there, your highness! You'll hack a limb off if you're not careful" Phillip retorted.       "I'm not in the mood for scolding, Phil!" Peter remarked, taking another rather large swing at the post.       "Well, if anything, be careful not to spook the horse" Phillip whinnied, tilting his head toward the unicorn. Not that Phil's words made much difference: Besnik was already pretty psyched out.       Once Peter had released the bulk of his anger, his eyes fell upon his steed apologetically. Gasping for breath, he sheathed his sword and trudged forward, extending a hand to calm the creature. "I'm sorry, Bes. I didn't mean to scare you" he cooed.       "Then what did you mean to do, if I may ask?" Phillip interjected. Peter didn't really want to have this conversation right now, but he had no idea how to reject a horse's conversational advances.       "I just needed a bit of a release, is all" he mumbled, averting his eyes. Phillip nodded knowingly.       "You miss Eilonwy, I know" he said. His voice seemed much softer now than before. "I miss her, too."       At this, Peter finally met the horse's friendly brown eyes. There was a sadness in them that was very familiar to the young king. "You do...?" he asked. The steed nodded.       "She'd always give me some extra oats every time she came down to visit Everlast" he replied fondly. "I miss Everlast a great deal, as well. She was a dear friend, a true blue ally. I dream of the day she may someday return."       Phillip spoke with such affection for the mare that Peter began to wonder whether there was something deeper between the two of them. The thought of an equine romance was both overwhelmingly bizarre and mildly heartbreaking to him. To think, Phillip and Everlast in love, only for the mare to be pulled away unwillingly by a rider whose heart was in the wrong place. A pang of anger coursed through Peter at the idea. Nothing about this was fair. For anyone. He leaned against Besnik's stall and sighed. "I feel the same way, Phil. I feel exactly the same way."       While Peter was gone, Lucy sat upon the balcony inhaling the fresh air and reveling in how beautiful the sea looked. It had been so long since they had ventured off someplace, she felt, that perhaps a good voyage abroad was in order. The more she thought about it, however, the more an idea began to form in her mind until...       "Susan! Susan!" the littlest Pevensie called as she rushed down the hallway. She assumed she'd find her big sister in the library, per usual, hard at work on her orphanage plans. As expected, the gentle stood before a long table filled with blueprints and sketches and design notes.       "What is it now, Lucy?" she asked, slightly frustrated. There was still so much to be done, and Susan was determined to make this place perfect. Lucy didn't give a care how important this was right now, her idea was the most important.       Skidding to a halt at her sister's side, Lucy grasped Susan's arm and stared at her with stars in her eyes, brilliant and brimming with excitement. "I have an idea for curing Peter."       As night fell across Narnia, Peter rode through the woods on the back of his loyal steed. There was something bizarre about returning to the forests, especially as winter was beginning to melt and make way for spring. He thought back to their journey just a year before, to the cherry tree and Aslan's camp. To Eilonwy standing by his side and fighting against his wishes at Beruna. A tightness filled his chest at the thought of her. A part of him desperately wished he'd somehow run into her out here polishing her sword beneath a tree or making camp near Allies Enclave. Anything so long as he could see her one last time, and perhaps even attempt to convince her to come back home.       But no, he knew that was impossible. She was gone and she was never coming back. He needed to make peace with that. As much as it hurt to say it, he couldn't possibly go on constantly thinking that at any moment, she may return. If she wanted to come back, she would've by now.       He continued to ride all the way until he reached a clearing where a lamppost shone brightly. A tinge of familiarity crossed his mind: this was where it had all began. For a moment, his heart leapt into his throat. Everything seemed so different now coming from the other direction, and he wasn't sure he liked what he saw. A thick tangle of trees lay on the other side and for a moment-- just a moment-- he wondered if the wardrobe was still there. I wonder what would happen if maybe, just maybe, I went back, he thought to himself, but then shoved the idea away as quickly as it came. That was absurd. There was no way he could leave, even if he wanted to. He was far too kind to leave his siblings behind, to let them wonder what the hell had happened to him. Plus, he realized, once you walk out, whose to say you're ever guaranteed to return? Dismounting Besnik, he stepped lightly toward the branches in an effort to at least take a peek. Much to his surprise, there was nothing but foliage. The wardrobe was completely gone. A surge of panic coursed through him at the realization. It was one thing to leave and never come back, but another matter entirely to enter and never escape. He recoiled uneasily, clinging to the lamppost as he caught his breath and calmed his gut. Nobody said they were ever bound to leave, anyways. But nobody ever said they were bound to stay, either. The uncertainty began to overwhelm Peter until his head was spinning and he felt like he was going to throw up. He didn't like not knowing, but at the same time had realized he had spent a great deal of time that way so this shouldn't have been such a surprise.       Blue eyes lifted up to the moon and stars overhead, accompanied by a defeated sigh. Wherever Eilonwy was in the world, he began to wonder if she was staring up at the same sky, too. If only he knew. He supposed that was as close as he'd ever get to her, even if that wasn't enough for him. If only she would just come home already. Without her, he was certain he was nothing.       Susan flitted over to the grand hall as the sun broke past the horizon, joining her brother and sister in hopeful excitement. "He should be here any minute now" she whispered frantically. Lucy nodded with great delight.       "Did you see him at all on the way here?" Edmund asked.       Susan shook her head. "No, I didn't. I haven't seen him since yesterday morning, truthfully. I hope he's alright."       "Well, he better be!" Lucy exclaimed. Just as she spoke, the sound of heavy footsteps rang from down the hall. Susan shushed the others and motioned for them to stand up straight and look presentable. Peter entered the room shortly after.       The High King glanced to his siblings suspiciously as he slowly stepped inside, immediately sensing something was up. "Are you three alright...?" They all nodded. "Well, what's going on...?"       "We have something we'd like to show you!" Lucy exclaimed. She bounded forward, taking her big brother's hand in hers, and guiding him toward the large window draped shut. Susan slowly pulled the tasseled drawstring back to reveal the Splendor Hyaline docked and ready for departure. The magnificent's eyes widened in a panic, trying to speak but producing no sound. "Don't you love it, Peter? A week long trip to the isles all for you!"       "B-but...why?" he finally asked.       "You've been working really hard, Pete, and we decided you deserved a bit of a vacation" Edmund stepped forward to explain.       "But I have so much work to do still..." Peter argued, dazed and confused.       "Nonsense, Peter. You've done enough already. Now it's time for you to simply sit back and relax for once" Susan replied, resting her hands on his shoulders from behind. "Just trust us on this, please. We really think you deserve it."       "Well, a-are you all coming, too?" he asked. The three of them nodded.       "I mean, unless you don't want us to. You could sail alone, but I don't see much of the fun in that" Edmund remarked.       "But what about the orphanage? And the spy corporation?" the magnificent asked.       "All taken care of" Susan replied. "Sallowpad is more than prepared to man the spy corporation, and the Beavers are taking over the orphanage project while I'm gone. They're far more suited for matters of construction and design than I am, anyways, so I'm putting my full trust in them."       By now, Peter couldn't help but laugh. All of this felt so surreal, as if he was trapped in some sort of hazy summer dream that he would wake up from at any moment. A nagging portion of him whispered to refuse, that he had far too much work left to do at the Cair, but the looks on his sibling's faces made it hard not to accept. Sighing in defeat, he shook his head and replied, "Alright. A trip to the isles it is, I suppose." Lucy cheered with absolute joy at her brother's decision, leaping up to wrap her arms around him excitedly. As they all rejoiced in the voyage ahead, Peter looked out across the sea in hope that this was just the sort of reprieve he needed. Perhaps it wasn't such a bad idea, after all.

[thickasthievesrpg-hidden]

WELCOME TO THE HEIST, HAYDEN!

YOU’VE BEEN ACCEPTED FOR THE ROLE OF CIRO CAPECCHI

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

I. INTRODUCTION

Name/Alias + Pronouns:

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

Age:

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

Timezone + Activity:

I. BASICS

Desired Role:

Ciro Maurizio Capecchi

Analysis:

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

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

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

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

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

Four Characteristics:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Expansion:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

II. WRITING

Para Sample(s):

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Starter Example:

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

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

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

III. FREESTYLE/EXTRA

Headcanons:

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

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

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

Mock Blog:

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

Playlist:

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