everettcraven-blog

[everettcraven-blog]

pandoraxrhee:

Pandora paused for a moment when she heard the voice. It was too familiar a voice to ignore, one belonging to an equally familiar person sitting at the other side of the bar. She shouldn’t have been surprised to see him seeing as the Lounge was one of the few havens of neutrality in Verona, but yet his voice still managed to startle her. With a lifted eyebrow, she turned to face him, appearing as unfazed as one could be after such an incident.

“Well then, why don’t you be a dear and make yourself useful. Pass me that, will you?” Pandora drawled, with a slight smirk toying at her lips as she motioned to the salt shaker sitting on one of the empty tables right behind him. “So, what brings you here tonight? Long day?” she pondered outloud, although not directly addressing the question towards him.

The low lights of the lounge did nothing to obscure the woman’s features as she turned to face him with carefully placed indifference. It was an expression that mirrored his own, well-placed with years of practiced apathy. Everett watched her with a curious gaze, wondering if her expression would give way to any form of authenticity. And if she managed to embrace a genuine emotion, Everett did not know whether his company would be met with kindness or hostility, or which he would prefer.

Her words provided a combination of both, the teasing slight tainted with a sharp edge most likely unintended when paired with curled smirk. Despite the childish urge to ignore her demand disguised as a question, Everett reached to grasp salt shaker sitting on the empty table behind him and place it in her delicate hand. Although her question could easily go ignored, he thought of the entertainment such a conversation could provide on this dull night.

“Something like that,” he said, his voice easily carrying over to reach her ears. “And you?”

[everettcraven-blog]

compunctiious:

Vivianne couldn’t stay at the Hotel bar any longer - not after she had been found, by another, not after their conversation had made things worse. She had thought, she had hoped that alcohol would quiet what raged within her head. But she had been so, so wrong. It hadn’t done a damn thing for her, it had only made her feel even less in control.

Yet, the idea of returning to a quiet apartment was appalling; the idea of being alone in a quiet apartment was appalling. Aware that it was somewhat late, there was only one person, one that she could even fathom going to at this hour while alcohol coursed through her veins, as guilt licked at her heart and soul, as ugly vehemence twisted her thoughts into things dark - Everett. Everett, who had seen her in dresses with a polite smile pasted to her face and eyes carefully downcast as she was shown off, who knew just how dramatically her world had fallen apart, who had watched her make something lethal of herself and done the same for himself, who, once she settled upon him, she realized she hadn’t personally seen or heard from all day. Worry, deep, irrational and true speared through her - how had she forgotten to personally check on him? How had she forgotten when she knew his almost fastidious avoidance of doctors, when she knew how he was loathe to show weakness in any form?

And so, with this suddenly weighing on her, choking her further, she set course for his apartment, arriving it short order, banging on the door with little care for the time.

“Everett, please. God, please, please open the door,” she mumbled, words slightly slurred (as the rest would be), as fist moved to pound on the door for a second time, this time more urgently, more impatiently than the first when he hadn’t answered. She hadn’t the slightest idea why she had convinced herself that she needed confirmation now that he was okay, but she had. 

As the door opened, eyes fixed upon his face for a moment, expression clearly betraying her relief that he had answered at all. “Ev.” The name slipped from lips wrapped around a sigh, grateful that Everett hadn’t managed to find such ruination that he couldn’t answer. “I didn’t know… I needed…” she said, struggling to articulate care. “I didn’t see you earlier,” she finally said settling on blunt as she often did, drunk or sober, “And I didn’t want to go home.” She paused for a moment, shrugging, as if neither of these admissions were a big deal.

Then, eyes swept across him, as she took her measure of what she found, the sight oddly sobering, clearing some of the alcohol-induced fog away as adrenaline and concern came to the forefront. The black eye and bruised features weren’t a true cause for concern - they might have made her smile for the sheer visibility in them was counter to everything their childhoods had stood for, but eyes widened instead, fixed upon his abdomen for a moment at what he’s left for her to witness. Even not truly sober or entirely herself, she could process that some of them were bad. “Everett,” she hissed, eyes snapping from his abdomen and the wounds that were still weeping blood to his face, as anger played across hers - though it was born of concern rather than something ugly. “What the fuck? Why do you insist on doing this?” 

Confusion and caution furrowed his brow in an expression of concern as Everett analyzed every aspect of the tanned skin stretched across her relieved expression. Her inability to articulate even the most basic of worries paired with the telltale looseness of limbs betrayed her lack of sobriety, but that was not a cause for concern. The hunched shoulders and desperate eyes, flooded with uneasy loneliness and violent distress, obvious in her every action urged him forward with the need to reassure her; yet he remained stationary. Calloused fingers, previously soft with the absence of such outward violence of this war, maintained a gentle grip on the smooth oak of the door if only to resist the furious need gather his friend into a hug. 

The sudden anger painting her tone morphed his pervious concern into annoyance. Determination, foolish when considering the severity of the wounds inflicted upon his form, hardened his gaze until it was filled with irritation. She had no right to chastise him for avoiding the undoubtedly overwhelmed hospitals when her concern manifested hours after the event, a dull reminder of obligations served to satisfy her own emotions. 

“Leave it be, Viv." Voice aching with the cumbersome defeat the day had brought, Everett knew he did not possess the energy to argue with her angry expression. He would not hesitate to slam the door in her face at the first mention of seeking some type of aid outside the four walls of this building.

Before she was even granted a chance to argue, Everett was already moving back into his apartment. He was conscious of every movement, making sure the sudden absence of his grip did not provide any pressure to swing the door shut; instead, leaving it open for Vivianne to enter at a time of her own choosing. With his back turned and attention occupied, he hoped to grant her a moment of privacy to gather the emotions previously dancing across her features.

Hardwood gave way to cool tiles as he moved into the kitchen, visible from the door due to the open layout of the space. Fatigued hands moved with muscle memory as he opened the cabinet to grab one of the many glasses lining the cupboard. Everett choked back a hiss of pain as his healing skin pulled against the fresh stitches with his reach. Unwilling to admit any weakness into even his closest of friends, Everett simply carried on with the task at hand. Cup grasped firmly in his hand, he moved to the sink to fill the glass with cool water before setting it on the granite peninsula separating the kitchen from the rest of the apartment. Looking up to address his unexpected houseguest, Everett motioned to the glass with nothing more than a “Drink that. You’ll feel better.” 

Without the energy to spare her a second glance, Everett walked back to the still lit bathroom settled to the side of the living room. The bottle of scotch sat unmoved on the bathroom counter where he had left it. The unpleasant taste of alcohol sat heavy on his tongue for only a moment as he took another swig from the bottle. Peeling away the gauze from the still bleeding wound marring his abdomen, Everett resisted the urge to study the still-bleeding wound further in a desperate attempt to delay the inevitable pain that came from clumsy finger attempting to stitch flesh back together. It wasn’t the first time - in his life and even in tonight - that he had been forced to repair his own broken body. Scars already healed welcomed the latest addition to the crude painting of past violence marring his flesh. 

Fumbling fingers moved across the counter until they grasped the suture. Stuttered puffs of breath covering grunts of pain echoed through the stagnant air of the confined room as Everett carefully stitched the wound closed. Tying off the final stitch, Everett allowed himself to feel the slightest feeling of relief before taping down the dressing. Finally finished, Everett made his way back to the company still in attendance in his apartment with an apology already falling from his lips. "I'm sorry, Viv. I didn't mean treat you with hostility, I was just... distracted."

[everettcraven-blog]

pandoraxrhee:

DATE: January 19th TIME: 10:43 pm LOCATION: The Tempest Lounge STATUS: Open

Pandora had just finished a rather grueling debriefing and was feeling rather exhausted as she stepped into the lounge and ordered a drink. As she took a seat opting to observe her surroundings rather than participate in the chaos of dancing, she bit back a hiss as a glass of red wine slipped from the bartender’s hands and the cold liquid dispersed all over her shirt, “Fucking hell…” Pandora groaned as she looked down, “You know, this is why I hate wearing white shirts,” she grumbled as she attempted to dab at the stain with the napkins the bartender had hurriedly and apologetically handed her.

Despite the reassurance of neutrality the Tempest Lounge so proudly flaunted, the air of the club was charged with an electric current of high tension. Of course, that did not inhibit the patrons’ ability to forget the woes of war in favor of embracing an ignorance only alcohol could provide. Content to maintain his own rationality, Everett sat at the bar as a simple observer. He had never been one to engage in the frivolous activities the liquor stocking the shelves could provide, and an increase in the intensity blanketing the city would not drive him to break such behavior. 

A sudden commotion drew his sober gaze, watching as the woman he recognized the Montague’s counterpart to his own position dabbed at her ruined blouse.  “It may do you good to use some of the salt they undoubtably have,” he said, his voice light and eyes cautious. 

[everettcraven-blog]

Date: 9 January 

Time: 4:40pm 

Location: Colosseum 

Closed: @celesteduval

Sharp pain shot through every limb as Everett pushed himself from the ground. The persistent ringing echoing through his head with the relentless vengeance of a scorned lover made it difficult to reorient himself in the chaos of the crowd. Bodies crashed and collided on all sides, threatening to unbalance his already unsteady feet and push him back to the ground to join those who had succumbed to the devastating attack. 

Despite the stilted steps and frequent fumbles that inflicted every patron desperate to escape the disorder that had enveloped the Colosseum, Everett was able to move through the crowd with relative ease. Harsh hands, caked with dirt and drying blood, forced those caught up in the chaos from his path. Everett ignored the cries for help and shrieks of fear echoing through the crowd in a thunderous roar. Those who were dead were gone, those who were hurt were useless, and those who could not think beyond their own panic were incompetent. He refused to exhaust his own energy for an unavailing attempt at compassion.

Escaping the restrictive structure of the Colosseum provided a sudden reprieve. People scattered in all directions, desperate for help and escape. Critical eyes, reddened from the earlier invasion of dust and debris, scanned the blurring faces of strangers for any familiar features.  Recognition shot through him at the sudden appearance of the Capulet's captive, spurring him forward with a determined pace. A tight grip settled on the soft flesh of Celeste's bicep as Everett pulled her toward him, uncaring and absent of the caution he would normally take. 

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" he spat, his words and tone uncharacteristic in their severity.

[everettcraven-blog]

Date: 10 January  Time: 1:00 am  Location: Everett’s apartment  Closed: @compunctiious

tw: blood

The bright lights illuminating the small bathroom made the lines seem sharper, ugly and jagged across what had never held the accomplishment of perfection. Harsh breaths of denied pain fell from chapped lips as Everett poked and prodded at the still bleeding cuts marring his vulnerable flesh; the most recent addition to a collection of scars. Many would need stitches, he observed as tired irises settled on the thin trail of blood lazily creeping down the defined muscle of his exposed abdomen. 

The sharp stench of hydrogen peroxide clung to the tiled floor and painted walls of the washroom, suffocating him with the sterilized fumes of a necessary precaution. It would do him little good to stitch up an infected wound. Teeth ground together in anticipation for the inevitable pain, Everett slowly picked up the cloth soaked in disinfectant. Trembling fingers pressed the stinging rag, quick and efficient, against the cut as a small whimper escaped his throat. Even in the privacy of an empty apartment, Everett loathed to show any type of weakness. 

Everett reluctantly peeled the stained cloth from the wound, brow furrowed and eyes squeezed shut against the pain radiating through his abdomen. Reaching blindly for a rare bottle perched next to the sink, Everett took a quick swig of scotch. The crude taste of alcohol assaulted every taste bud; a necessary evil to stop his shaking hands. Swallowing the burning liquid with a grimace, Everett set the bottle back to its previous place and allowed his eyelids to part from their crushing embrace. And that was the easy part. 

Eyes focusing on the glistening needle, Everett brought a hesitant hand to reach for the tool. Fumbling fingers closed around the delicate metal just as a loud knock echoed through the silent apartment. Staring at the needle still clasped in his grasp, Everett contemplated who would bother disturbing him at such a late hour. The Capulets had taken enough of his time under the reassurance that he was fine; now he was under the impression he was free to return home without the threat of further company. 

The pounding sounded again, this time more impatient behind the thick wood of a locked door.  Sighing in resignation and annoyance, Everett pressed the coarse cloth of a generic bandage to the harshest of wounds before making the short journey to his front door. Mind still rattling with the sharp pain echoing through his form, Everett paid no mind to the sight he would provide for his unwanted guest: bare feet, flannel pajama pants, exposed and torn up chest, all pulled together with a blackened eye and bruised features. His father would loathe to see him take on such degrading appearance. 

The cold indifference that so frequently painted his features gave way to surprise as he opened the door, his unwanted guest suddenly becoming an unexpected friend. “Viv? What are you doing here?”

[everettcraven-blog]

horaetiyo:

Date: 30 December Time: evening Location: bar; Capulet side of Castelvecchio Closed: @everettcraven

Hector had been making the rounds — looking in the bars for his dear friend. The night had come far too fast, soft blues reflected off cold surfaces, while being chased away by the warm golds of the interior light spilling through the windows to the uneven streets.

Hector wasn’t sure which side of Castelvecchio he was on anymore, having crossed it so many times in the evening, and, given what had happened in the week prior, wasn’t exactly a safe or smart decision on his part.

Ducking into the first bar that popped up on the street he was on, Hector shivered from the sudden warmth. He liked winter, but sometimes it was nice to chase the cold out of your bones.

Carefully navigating around the crowded tables to the bar — hoping for something warm and not alcoholic — Hector recognized one of the people in the crowd.

— is that Easton?

Hector made his way to who he thought was Easton, and tapped the other man on the shoulder before realizing his mistake. “Oh- oh, sorry,” he stammered out, “I thought you were someone else. You both look quite alike.”

Narrowing his eyes just a little, Hector chanced, “You’re not Easton, so you must be the other Craven, am I right?”

There was a subtle intimacy that could be found in the loneliness that persisted even when surrounded by a crowd of people begging for potential friendships. Everett rarely engaged in the conversations thrown his way by a stranger in a bar, finding the entire experience tedious for a far too sober mind. Perhaps if he were to lower himself to the same drunkenness that allowed for their limbs to fall loose and their mouths to run wild, Everett would manage to find a friend in the crowd of strangers surrounding him. But he knew he would never do such a thing; it was unbecoming. Instead, Everett would be content to remain an observer in the careful chaos that surrounded the drunken actions taking place around him.

The soft tap on his shoulder flooded him with an unintended annoyance. Knowing it was better to entertain whatever fool yearned for conversation than start a fight, Everett turned to address the offending limb's owner. Facing the familiar voice but unfamiliar face, Everett narrowed his eyes in a considerate glare. He knew the man before him, but he could not find a memory to assign such recognition.

You’re not Easton.

A flash of gold, lost in a recollection Everett would rather forget, brought a realization as to why he knew this man. This man was the reason Everett’s body was littered with bruises, remnants of an anger only Easton was allowed to inflict. It was under this stranger’s drunken insult that Everett had felt his defenses rise with unforgivable offense and caused the rift between him and his brother to grow tenfold.

“Yes, you would be correct,” he said. “However, you might consider learning someone’s name before you attempt to address them in… unfriendly territory.”

[everettcraven-blog]

rafaella ⇾ everett | december 31

Rafaella: Want to grab a un poco caffe with me? In an hour?

Rafaella: I know it's a bit sudden, but as you might know things are a bit tight schedule-wise.

Rafaella: I'd be eternally grateful.

Everett: It's no problem. I'll see you in an hour.

[everettcraven-blog]

rafaella ⇾ everett | december 31

Rafaella: I would prefer not to.

Rafaella: What is it, Everett, can't abide my face because it's so unbecoming?

Everett: You know how much I adore your presence, Ella. I was merely considering the convenience of a phone call.

Everett: Just give me a time and place.

[everettcraven-blog]

Date: December 26 Time: 8:50 pm Location: Museum  Closed: @maevepetre

It only took a moment for pandemonium to break out. Whispers and shouts alike filled the museum with a deafening din, adding to the chaos and confusion surrounding the crowd. Bodies clashed together with stilted steps, each of the party’s patrons searching for some kind of defense or safety from the fights breaking out within the crowd. Everett had made his own contribution, adding to the disarray that had enveloped the ballroom by retaliating against his brother. Blood stained his own well-worn knuckles, clinging in the cracks and crevices of skin so often split, as evidence of the offense he had committed.

A moment of peace was welcomed with the familiar sight of kind eyes peaking through the chaotic crowd. Any relief felt, however, was quickly overtaken by rage as Maeve moved closer. Black and blue were colors worn well against the delicate olive skin when painted on soft silks and comfortable cotton, not stained beneath flesh too fragile for violence of war.

The aches and pains echoing through every movement were easily ignored as he pushed through the throng of bodies to meet her approaching form. Hands, painted with the emerging hues of bruises soon to come and blood already spilled, moved up to cup her cheeks. His grip was soft, caressing the vulnerable flesh with a careful consideration for the injuries littering her features. Green irises calculated every injury, fueling the rage still thrumming through his veins with no repreive for reassurance.

“Who did this to you?” he demanded, voice deathly quiet among the din of the crowd.

[everettcraven-blog]

rafaella ⇾ everett | december 31

Rafaella: Everett, I think we should talk.

Everett: Alright. Is this a matter that can be spoken about over the phone?

[everettcraven-blog]

Date: December 31 Time: Evening Location: some shady bar; Capulet side of Castelvecchio Closed: @compunctiious

The dull stench of stagnant cigarettes clung to the air lingering outside the door of the bar. The crooked and crinkled butts of those already burned out sat on the ground, providing evidence for the offensive smell slowly fading into the night. Everett had no doubt that more would join the fallen rolls of tobacco once the bar’s patrons had their fill of alcohol and stumbled into the night to let more death fill their lungs. It was New Year's Eve, after all. Heavy brass sent the icy tendrils of winter through his gloved hands as he gripped the door handle. Worn oak slide through the unforgiving air with nothing more than a whispered swoosh, allowing the noise of a party to spill into the street as he entered the pub.

The interior of the bar provided little reprieve from the strong smells still permeating the air; but instead of the cancerous stink of cigarettes, the bar held the overwhelming aroma of stale beer and sweat. It provided an intimacy seldom felt in the typically lonely pub. Making his way through the crowd, Everett didn’t allow his eyes to linger for signs of a familiar face – only an empty seat.

Hard to come by in the late hour on a popular night, Everett let out a small sigh of relief when he could finally let himself fall into one of the few empty bar seats. His gaze lingered on the intricate design of the wood before turning the crowd before him. Still hands lingered on the wooden surface of the bar in a phantom melody of fidgeting fingers, unable to be occupied by the appearance of a drink still stubbornly absent. The bartender, instead, seemed focused on entertaining a group of women dressed to draw eyes.

The sudden appearance of familiar, dark hair cascading over worn leather was a welcome sight. “Well, I didn’t think I’d ever find you in a place like this, Viv.” His voice could barely be heard over the raucous laughter and rowdy conversations gaining volume and adding to the din of the bar.

[everettcraven-blog]

Show me a hero, and I’ll write you a tragedy.

F. Scott Fitzgerald (via thequotejournals)

[everettcraven-blog]

what does everett think of his father?

Everett knows the perilous precautions a man will go to achieve perfection. It’s rather ironic then that it was his father’s dire need for perfection that allowed Everett to see all of his faults.

Some parents nurture their children, coddling them to grow into beautiful things better placed on a high shelf. Gabriel was not one of them. From the moment he was born, Everett was tasked with meeting every expectation that accompanied the Craven name. It was a challenge he welcomed. The problem with taking on an impossible task, however, is that one never knows when to give up.

Everett allowed his entire life to become consumed with obtaining his father’s acceptance, pride, and even admiration. Born with the innate talent and intelligence that flourished under the nurturing care of wealth and status, Everett found success to be of little challenge. Yet no matter the amount of trophies lining the wall, the impressive acceptances to countless universities, or the singing praises of those around him; Everett had never heard the words, “I’m proud of you, son.” The emergence of his baby brother, despised by their father for the simple act of existing, brought the expectation that perhaps impressing his father would become somewhat easier. If anything, it made the task harder.

Everett had never considered the tension between him and his brother as something akin to sibling rivalry. Sibling rivalry came from a place of equal footing, and the Craven house had never been anything other than a stacked deck. Cruelty became commonplace in the presence of his baby brother, and Everett quickly found himself developing a protective streak. But how could one shelter another from a hate so easily endorsed?  It pained him to remain motionless when faced with the stark reality of his father’s faults. It was under this violence, directed toward his brother, that Everett’s admiration turned into hesitant pity. He no longer wished to grow into the man his father was; desire had become fear in the face of what he may become.  

Yet despite the realization of the vile cruelty that possessed his father, Everett still finds himself seeking out his acceptance. Even after lowering him into the ground, sheltered from the dirt by the crafted wood of a far too ornate coffin, Everett aches for his father’s pride-filled smile. Manifested in nothing more than a legacy, Everett only has the memory of his father to measure up to. He is constantly caught in a battle between his need to disavow the same cruelty running through his veins and the desperate need to achieve the impossible task still lying before him.

[everettcraven-blog]

maevepetre:

Poor Maeve, she could hear them all saying, The girl has such dreams and fails to see that they are just that: dreams. But it was not some passing wish that would fall away like the moon; she would not stop fighting for it. For in any other part of her life, Maeve treasured softness and tenderness, but in this — in this, she was resolute. She was iron and steel, she was a stone wall that would not be touched by thorns. And at times, she tired of being belittled and condescended, of having people push back with what they thought was gentleness when it was, at its core, cruelty — and worse, cynicism. But Maeve had taught herself long ago not to take herself too seriously; it was okay, if they saw her as a child. She was not, and if she was the only one who knew herself so well, then that was alright. Maeve needed no one’s approval; she only needed her own.

She had to admit, though — Everett’s acceptance would have been nice. He was merciful and good, and she trusted him deeply; but he remained a Capulet captain, and he accepted the war so easily; as if he had no choice. “Oh, Everett, when will you believe me when I tell you that hope isn’t so futile?” Maeve sighed. “You accept it too easily, as if there is nothing to be done. Do you concede defeat without a fight?” It seemed simple, to her; there had been years without war between the Montagues and Capulets before. Was it so difficult to cross the burning bridge to a land of peace?

Apparently so.

Her arm fell to her side as Everett loosened himself away from her, and Maeve watched him bend down curiously to pluck a flower from the earth. Part of her wanted to cry out — no, Everett, just let it stay there forever so I might look at it. But then he was holding it out towards her, with the softest smile she had ever seen on him before, and her heart was filled with light and love for him. She shook her head at him with a fondness that negated any show of disapproval she might have. “Sweet man, you spoil me so,” she said warmly, taking the flower and putting it in her hair.

“It matches, doesn’t it?” she asked, curtsying playfully with a laugh on her lips.

Oh, how she loved to hear his laugh, and how she loved to be the reason for his laughter. Maeve’s brows arched skeptically, for she could hardly imagine any woman not wanting to dance with Everett in the ballroom. He seemed, to her, an ideal man to have and to hold. “You might,” she quipped, “if it meant you could hide from her with me in the gardens. You ought not to be so scared of women, Everett; they are as harmless as you are, if you only placate them with a waltz.”

“I dare say a day will never come in which I believe in love and hope to the same extent you are so fond of, little dove.” His words were soft with subtle sorrow. It would be simple to see the world with such innocence, to be so naive as to believe that even peace would be absent of consequence. Peace could be as cruel as war, demanding bloodshed and sacrifice of those brave enough to seek such a solution. After all, those willing to die for peace first needed a war. And Everett refused to allow Maeve to join the ranks of those with the title of martyr, foolish in their quest to preserve the character of a factious reality.

“Yes, I suppose it does.” Another laugh rumbled through his throat at her antics. No one had ever managed to make him smile quite as much. Laugh lines, seldom used in the stressed state of unmet expectations, appeared with alarming frequency whenever he found himself in Maeve’s company. It was refreshing, a breath of fresh air after spending far too much time content beneath the suffocating pressure of his own pessimism. It was also dangerous. Everett longed for the joy she provided like a drug addict desperate for one more drag, one more hit, one more moment of euphoria; but such indulgences could never be sustained under the guise of anything other than what it was: blissful ignorance.

It took so little to shatter such optimistic illusions. Reality would not spare him even the smallest of intermissions, already confirming the despondent nature of his thoughts with words spitting unintended cruelty.

You ought not to be so scared of women.

It was a quip meant to continue the harmless banter that had become commonplace on their tongues, yet the resounding implications that followed the mirrored words of disappointment echoing in his father’s voice were not easily ignored. It was not fear or distaste but merely indifference that urged the abnormality Everett would never accept as part of himself. The insecurity manifested in the sudden strain of his smile was the only sign of his discomfort, an action easily disguised under the attention of unfamiliar eyes. Maeve, he worried, would not practice the same ignorance when spotting the subtle shift.

“Perhaps,” he said, proud that his voice did not acquire any of the briefly felt anxiety. With shaky confidence unseen beneath another mask of well-practiced charm, Everett allowed his fingers to trail down her the delicate skin of her wrist before grasping her hand. “But a waltz can be terribly difficult with an ill-suited partner.”

Everett pulled her close then, allowing his other hand to move to the small of her back while he brought their clasped hands out to the side. It was a well-known stance, one frequently practiced by the dance lessons forced upon him in childhood. He waited for her to adjust to their sudden position before moving his left foot forward in the beginning of a basic box step.

[everettcraven-blog]

horaetiyo:

Hector rolled his eyes at ‘Not-Easton’’s tone, and he shook his head. “Because of your tone, but sure, okay, whatever. IF you won’t admit it now you’re not gonna admit it ever.”

A deep breath. A long sigh.

Looking up at the other man again, Hector mulled over the words spoken to him.

“—yes, caution is needed,” Hector said, “And I’d hate to start a fight with someone I just met.”

Another deep breath.

“If I may…,” Hector trailed off, his mouth twitching to the side — he didn’t want to apologize even though he knew it was the proper course of action. “If I may be excused for my behaviour,” his words were slow and measured, not an ounce of slurring was on them, “I don’t usually drink this much, and I’m certainly not in the habit of picking fights.”

Everett’s brows rose at the boldness of the stranger, surprised that even masked the man would continue to push the issue until it morphed into something beyond offense. Perhaps he felt secure in his own anonymity, awarding him the courage to cause conflict on a night of peace.

Before he could retort with his exasperation of his own, the man let out a long sigh and expressed reluctant regret. Unexpected by not unwelcome, Everett simply shrugged and offered an olive branch of his own. “Consider it forgotten.”

[everettcraven-blog]

rafaellacapulet:

    There was a moment where she paused to allow him to process the suddenness of her presence, since it usually took others a bit longer to do so than she. Her brows rose in amusement as his lips pressed against the back of her hand – the surprise that was painted across her features quite literally masked. Dark brown hues skimmed over his features as he did so, her trust in him much less sure than that which she had placed in Easton. Although to have trust in the Craven brothers at was, perhaps, as foolhardy as Icarus’ journey to the sun. Belatedly, she wondered whether Icarus’ graceful fall was worth it for a moment in the sun’s warm embrace. 

    Assuming, of course, that the embrace was warm at all and not something that left the seraphic boy scorched. 

    “Mmmm…” she hummed in consideration, a clear indicator that she was left rather unimpressed with the flattery. Had she been feeling cheeky, she would have recommended that the Capulet captain take a leaf or two out of Orion’s or Orpheus’ book. The way that those men knew words was akin to how they were able to traverse their numerous lovers’ bodies and make them sing. She cocked her head to the side as she entertained the musing of the eldest Craven brother having such victories in the night – not with the intent of fulfilling lustful desires but merely because she did not pay him much attention and was a curious creature. The Capulet adviser much preferred his younger brother’s company the way a person preferred the harshness of fire to the frostiness of ice. “Your flattery is adequate, but if you think it impresses me, you’re sadly mistake. You forget who I keep company with.” The corner of her lips quirked up into a roguish smile, a sign that she meant no harm in her words. Had she wanted to verbally strip him, she was more than capable.

    The curly haired woman adorned in feathers considered her new-found partner at her side, looking at the crowd to see where her next mark may lay. As Everett continued talking, she steadily led him to drift over to a forlorn waiter who wasn’t surrounded by a pack of opulently clad vultures. “As if I would disrespect the witches in such a manner,” she said reproachfully, grabbing the whole tray from the masked waiter and placing it in Everett’s hand before he could realize what she had down. Disentangling her arm from his, she picked at the array of treats before finally choosing one. Shifting her mask slightly, she allowed herself to truly indulge in the food – a task made quite tenuous because of the witches’ choice of accessory.

    “So tell me, Everett, are you enjoying yourself?” Rafaella queried, canting her head to the side as she picked another treat from the tray he involuntarily held. 

“I would never attempt to compete with those you keep by your side,” he said humbly. Everett knew the type of men skilled enough to keep Rafaella’s attention; those with the innate ability to craft words into a beautiful art, twisting and bending their elegance to fit any intention. It was not a skill he longed to acquire, for the exhausting effort it required rarely reaped rewards valuable to him. The soft syllables of seduction had never found comfort in the deep timbre of his voice. Instead, it often left the lingering taste of something seldom wanted in the back of his throat, relentless in its inability to be cleansed by even the harshest of purging. He only engaged in such flattery out of obedience to his own reputation.

He allowed himself to be led by his feather-clad companion, watching as the crowd parted for her like Moses and the Red Sea. The aura of power exuded by her mere presence was admirable; as not many, even masked, could obtain such authority in posture and poise alone. It was refreshing to see the cold indifference so often felt but seldom shown mirrored back in the cold calculation of her detached gaze. Rafaella did not fear the offense that accompanied her disregard, and Everett envied the freedom she had obtained by embracing the absence of such trivial concerns.

Accepting the tray with little more than surprised annoyance, Everett resisted the urge to roll his eyes at Rafaella’s arrogant actions. He knew better than to object. Any expression of dissent would be rendered into nothing more than whisper under the din of the party and the apathy she so frequently practiced. And so Everett was compelled to remain content until Rafaella’s hovering hand plucked one of the opulent treats from its place on the shining tray. Bringing his attention from the tray to once again focus on the woman before him, Everett’s broad shoulders lifted in subtle affirmation. “Immensely,” he said, allowing his tone to invite doubt and speculation to invade the single word. He was not foolish enough to believe that anything would be gained from the party. No proposals of peace would be drafted as a result of a masquerade. And with nothing to be gained, Everett could not help but perceive the entire night as little more than a waste of time.

“And I assume that you have been enjoying yourself, with the exception of the complications your mask provided.” He gestured to the mask inhibiting any attempt to eat the delicious food she held.

It was only once her manicured fingers found occupation in fiddling with the mask still covering her features that Everett dared to pass the tray back to the floundering waiter. “Stay,” he commanded, pinning the man in place with a glare. “Until the lady has had her fill.”

[everettcraven-blog]

cage me like an  a n i m a l                   a  [ crown ] with gems and gold     eat me like a  c a n n i b a l                     chasing the neon [ throne ]