eastoncraven-blog

[eastoncraven-blog]

julianacapulets‌:

It was an art form in its own right, one might suppose – the easy manner in which Juliana Capulet didn’t waver; she wouldn’t impose, but she was built to be this, wasn’t she? She had been raised to see what was needed, and to give. It came naturally to her, so much so that even Juliana understood why her cousins worried about the predisposed tendency. Nothing made her inclined to alter it, however. No, it was sacred to the young woman. It was the part of her mother she kept closest, something more vivid than gossamer-flimsy memories; a keepsake as tangible as the Victorian poeticism of a lock of Mia Capulet’s hair braided into a locket’s heart. 

There was no hitch before Juliana tilted the slant of her jaw just so, favouring Easton’s countenance without ever quite looking directly at the man. She accepted the dessert and broke off a piece with her fingers, gleaning that it was more likely to make him more comfortable than her attempting to section a brownie piece with a knife and fork, appearing every inch the untouchable portrait of royalty with Capulet insignia embossed on her bejeweled crown that papa’s soldiers saw her as. “I’m glad to hear you’re alright,” she spoke to him with warmth, without any unnecessary imposition of untrue familiarity. “Claw marks sounds concerning?” It wasn’t a question, yet it came out as one. Though, she wasn’t unaware that it had plenty to do with needing a moment to phrase what Easton asked of her. Of whom he inquired, the he that the Capulet soldier mentioned.

Priam. To Easton Craven, one of the Capulets’ emissary. And the man whose hand Cosimo had placed his daughter’s; to Verona, the princess’ prince. What he was to their eyes had never been his and Juliana’s truth. To Juliana, Priam was a limb. He was her legs when she could not walk, he was her hands when she could not fight. But he wasn’t her heart. His wasn’t the name its beats sang of. “You were,” Juliana agreed with Easton easily. “The night was a haze. Priam was a good choice.”

Inside her mind, Juliana refused to read any deeper into those words. She only took another bite.

Easton watched Juliana with a greedy sort of hunger. Not the kind that befit someone who was attempting to consume her, but there was something about being in her presence that made him want to stand up straighter, and offer more than what he could give. In many ways, Juliana represented the sort of person he could have become. Her kindness, her determination, the way that she carried herself--in another life, that was Easton. Proud, chin up, bejeweled from head to toe. Instead, he was more akin to a shoe polisher, a man-in-waiting. Easton turned away from the good life, and rolled around with the pigs. His skin was marked with the journey. The struggle. The mistakes that haunted every footstep and word. A few claw marks meant nothing to him. They were stones on a mountain.

“Don’t worry about it, I’ve had worse.” He laughed it off, flexing his back as if to prove that he was fine. It would take more than sharp nails to take him down, and it was only a matter of time before he slipped. Easton’s climb to the top wasn’t clean. Every step only grew in scale of catastrophe, and he was truly awaiting the moment when the world would fall from beneath him, reminding him of where he truly belonged. Not sitting next to the would-be Don. In the gutter, his guts spilled out for the world to see, and the vultures circling overhead.

The offering Juliana had brought with her was practically forgotten as he took the time to see her up close and personal. There were few opportunities to get such a glimpse on Verona royalty. She was, in every way, untouchable, intangible. A goddess that he could never dream of possessing, and why should he want to? Easton wanted what was rightfully his own, he didn’t care much for things that never belonged to him in the first place. He wanted fire, destruction, blood, and a title that befit a man who rose from the ashes of his bastard skin, and became something more.

He rubbed his hand through his hair uneasily, a sudden nerve taking hold. “That night was a fucking mess.” There was no point in beating around the bush. Everything about the Northern Grove had replayed in his mind, and Celeste was still there as a reminder of what had happened. Of what still needed to be done. “I’m impressed you don’t have a mark on you from it all. Maybe you’re lucky.”

[eastoncraven-blog]

Not to be a bastard, but, I am 

[eastoncraven-blog]

reginadalys‌:

Easton could say just about anything without Regina really batting an eye at his words. He could insult her or confess some undying love for her, and while she might think it unusual for him, she wouldn’t so much in her expression in response. It’s what made Regina the best and yet worst listener; she could be a neutral ear, better than just venting to a journal or having a conversation with oneself in the mirror, yet at the same time most likely didn’t want to tell her things because she wouldn’t react the way they wanted her to, if at all. Plus, Regina had a habit of filing particularly useful tidbits of information away that she overheard, whether one intended her to hear it or not. Often, her apathy allowed some things to be locked away for some time, but when it felt particularly useful, she would gladly utilize it to her own advantage.

I’m not an assassin. I’m not you. Nobody truly was, and nobody could be, and Regina was well aware of this. It’s why she was given this position, the first Capulet spettro, because nobody could do what she did exactly how she did it. The apathy she holds in life allows her to be efficient, the quietness of her presence allows her to easily fade into the background when it matters most, and the spark she receives only when she kills allows her to excel at her craft. Nobody else could have such a deadly combination, and it is for that exact reason Regina can be so easily molded into a weapon for the Capulets. They saw that deadly potential in her and shaped her, crafting her into the hitman they desired. Easton was one of the only others to see that malleable potential that he could use for himself.

“So you’re looking at poison,” Regina stated plainly, as if the thought of poisoning someone was as casual as conversing about what she was thinking of making for dinner. She began to walk down the hall towards the bedroom, assuming he would follow her to what she intended on showing him. “Depending on what sort of symptoms you’re looking for, I can find something that works. Unless you’re thinking of something more violent,” she suggesting, thinking of how it suited him a bit more than the image of Easton poisoning someone, “in which case you have to be prepared but it must also be spur of the moment. Waiting for a fight to break out on opposing sides so you can blame someone else, or something of the likes.”

Easton swallowed hard, trying to keep himself level at the casual conversation that was being had at the moment. This had been his choice. This was what he had wanted, right? And there was no reason for him to be having any issues with the way in which Regina was so easily discussing the death of Everett. For a large portion of his life, Easton had wanted his father to pay, and while the death of his step-mother had caused irreparable harm, the only thing more damning would be the loss of his true heir. The boy that could do anything. The son that plucked the stars from the night sky, and gladly handed them over to an adoring father. Could Everett truly not see that deep hurt within him? The driving force through all of his decisions?

Regina was everything Easton wasn’t, and it was in her clarity that he was presented with two options. Poison had been an initial thought of his. There was no easier way to make it look like an assassination by an opposing faction than lacing a drink, or putting something in his food. But it did feel a tad too impersonal. Nothing at all like how Easton handled most things, with his face right up against his enemy. His fists wailing into whomever dare fight him next. Nothing with Everett ever made sense, and he had to be sure that he had a plan in place for whatever might come about. Poison was a possibility, it had to be.

“I considered poison. I think it would be the simplest solution, although perhaps not as satisfying.” The word satisfying didn’t sit right in his mouth, and yet it came out anyway. An admittance that a world without Everett was a world he had been thinking of, and dreaming about. A world without his older brother who research who created the first cannoli, who drove him to the cinema, who bought him legos for Christmas. A pang echoed throughout Easton’s heart, and he did his best to quell the thoughts. Now wasn’t the time for regret. Easton was already too much of a product of regret itself. A bad decision. A lifetime of carrying it all around.

“If I went with killing him while a fight broke out, I would need to be sure I had a Montague’s weapon. Halcyon would make sure that any bullet would be tested, and if it comes back to me, there’s no point in any of this.”

[eastoncraven-blog]

celesteduvals‌:

Latch onto something with all conviction, with unparalleled focus, and you don’t even notice time passing. Celeste had learnt that already, time & time again. What was she, if not a study in survival? She centred her being around a goal; it was Easton Craven’s demise that the woman latched onto, clinging, talons dug into purpose like gathering fistfuls of pounds of flesh to exact. His end would come, she was sure of it. Would she go down with him when it did? Perhaps. Would it be directly at her hand? She could only hope. The semantics could leave something to be desired, and still, Celeste would sleep soundly.

The way she had not done in months, tossing and turning until Isabella tucked her to their chest and stroked ink-stained fingers through a cluster of red curls, until Celeste relaxed into the only peace there was to be found in this world of theirs. 

Play nice, Easton told her – and she smirked nastily. Oh, she would; she would play the game and she would play until he lost. This will be over soon, he said, and Celeste wanted to laugh at the stupidity of it. Did he even know what over meant? Had he any true idea of the ending he wanted? He had not found her outside her lover’s apartment on purpose. He only seized an opportunity, he was only desperate, only starving for validation, for power, for recognition. Celeste could recognise it. She had been there too many times herself, and perhaps she always was. You’re no good to me dead, and we both know that. She did. She was banking on it.

She looked him in the eye when she obeyed him. She said nothing, gave him nothing. She gave him her wrists, let him think she could shackle her and cage her in. Let him think he could control her. The boys never learnt, did they? That the dragons could breathe fire in their sleep.

In an instant, Easton had Celeste’s wrists bound, and tied a piece of cloth around her eyes. He shoved her in the back seat, pulled himself into the driver’s seat, and turned the keys that were already in the ignition. There was no point in lingering at the scene any longer, not when he could hear the bustling of people coming towards the burning building. Sirens were carrying throughout the night sky, and the smoke still clung to Easton like a shroud. This was the path he had set for himself. The journey that he had taken. All roads led back to Verona. All roads led back to a future that consisted of more sin, more regrets, and a world bathed in blood and flame.

He drove quickly through the streets, grateful that it was late enough at night that there were only so few vehicles to obstruct him from his mission. Taking her back to his flat wasn’t an option, so he did the only thing he could think of, he would have to bring her back to a Capulet owned building, and jail her away until the time was right. Easton hoped the process of ransoming her wouldn’t take long, as his patience waned more quickly than the moon. Only so much time could be spent keeping her alive and breathing before he was sure he would very well snap.

Time continued to fly, and before he knew it, he was dragging Celeste out of the vehicle, and pushing her into a world unknown. No one asked questions, no one glanced his way, they all knew this was just a part of the life they signed their lives away for. An empty cell was in front of Easton before he knew it, and he walked in, Celeste in hand, and dragged off the blindfold. “Welcome home.”

Easton was tired, he didn’t have the energy to continue to taunt the wild-haired Montague. All he had left to offer was unbinding her, and throwing an extra blanket towards her. Everything else would have to wait until tomorrow when the real job would begin. For his entire life, other people had taken care of him, or he took care of himself. Others were not his responsibility. There were no instincts that screamed out at him to act paternally. All of that was enhanced dramatically when faced with the proposition of keeping Celeste in speaking order.

He walked out of the cell, closing the door behind him with a finality, and locking it. “I’ll be back in the morning. Until then, there’s a bed behind you, a few bottles of water, and a toilet. I’ll ask about bathing, and we’ll look you over to address any burns you might have endured.”

[eastoncraven-blog]

reginadalys‌:

Regina didn’t really have to consider his answer too hard. Some might take it as an insult, that they did care, despite the walls they put up. Others might try and take it too much as a compliment, that the walls they put up were stronger than they really were. Regina took it as a statement of fact. “That’s one way of putting it, yes.” They couldn’t disagree, not when it was so obvious. She didn’t give a shit. She didn’t care. She was apathetic. Any way you could describe it, from the blunt statement that Easton gave to the exaggerated claim that she was heartless (she had a heart, but it only served to pump blood), was correct. Everett had never said such things to her, in comparison. He was much too kind, but Regina was not offended by such true statements. Pointing out she didn’t care was like pointing out that the sky was blue, obvious to anyone able to observe it. Though, if people wanted to falsely assume that she cared, Regina wouldn’t exactly correct them. It was their incorrect assumptions that would be their downfall, anyway.

I want to kill Everett. Regina can’t say she was expecting those words to leave Easton’s lips while he stood in her apartment, but she couldn’t say it appalled her. She was unsuspecting of Easton’s plan, but she was not taken aback by it. Perhaps he had wished he held his tongue, and Regina could easily see the emotions that crossed his face, something conflicting she could not relate to, that combination of regret and the desire to stand his ground. But her own expression did not change, neutral as she studied Easton’s features. He wanted to kill his brother. “Okay,” she answered. He wanted her to help. Her four-lettered acknowledgement applied to that, as well. Okay. I will help.

“How do you plan to do it?” asked Regina, knowing that any assignment required some form of details known on her part to be successful. “Specifically, what do you want me to do?” After all, things would get messy if she pulled the trigger when she wasn’t supposed to, especially because, in part, Vivianne was the one who was supposed to be giving her the orders to do so. But if Easton made such a big announcement to Regina, and so many emotions stirred in him because of it, then Regina assumed he wouldn’t want her pulling the trigger. If he wanted it to be a clean, efficient, quick job, he would have said I want you to kill Everett. He didn’t. This was personal, something Regina could not understand.

Easton had never been concerned about hurting anyone’s feelings, especially not Regina’s. She had always been seemingly immune to both insults and compliments, and he liked it better that way. There was no use in buttering her up, nor tearing her down. The world revolved around her, and Regina only did what she seemed fit, or what she was ordered to do. In every way, Regina had turned into the perfect soldier, while Easton was still trying to grapple with his new position. Anyone with eyes could understand why Regina had risen through the ranks so quickly. They would see her talents. The ability to remain unaffected was something Easton wanted desperately. Something he would never achieve. It was that very line of thinking that brought him there. Those same emotions that drove him. Had he not harbored so much hate and pain in his heart, maybe he would have just come to visit an old friend. To reform that connection.

None of that happened. Especially when Regina offered herself up for help. That unaffected voice, the kind that might drive some mad, gave Easton the push he need to speak more freely. This was dangerous. Trusting anyone was dangerous. But Regina was almost a statue. A statue that killed. He pressed on at her questioning, understanding that to be a willing participant wondering how they could lend their assistance. Easton wanted to kill Everett, but he still didn’t know the details of how it would come to be. Murder, while he had commited it multiple times, wasn’t his specialty. He killed when he had to, not because he simply wanted to.

“That’s where I need your help. You kill for a living, Regina. I kill to stay alive, or to protect one of my soldiers, but I’m not assassin. I’m not you.” His marksmanship isn’t horrible, his hand-to-hand combat is impeccable, and his planning isn’t the worst. But Regina is the very best. She offers a potential for talent that no one else can give. The perfect killer who feels no remorse at all, even for an old family friend. “I want you to help me plan it. To give me the ins and outs. I want to make it look like an accident.” There was no point in killing Everett if everyone in Verona knew it was him. Fellow Capulets would turn on him, and suddenly the Montagues would be shouting his name in joy. No, this had to look like an outsider had come upon Everett and killed him. Not his younger, bastard brother.

[eastoncraven-blog]

valentinasgallo‌:

It was strange how similar they were despite their different paths. Both built on anger and the pain of being abandoned, yet both came from completely different circumstances. Valentina had her parents for ten years, had been loved and lost, yet Easton had practically been abandoned from the start. It wasn’t a fact that Valentina knew, for she didn’t know the whole past of the male that sat next to her, but it was an interesting fact when brought into the light. It was interesting how the war had managed to attract such complementary souls– how two opposing sides that managed to gather people who were arguably more alike than anyone had realized. 

She could’ve told him all about her past under the knowledge that they would be well past drunk when the night ended, but she didn’t. she didn’t share the full vulnerability of her past with anyone other than Santino who had experienced it alongside her. She didn’t talk about her lashing out, about the nights spent wondering if she would wake up the next day, or about how she truly did see the mob as a way to break out of that cycle. She didn’t say any of it but instead downed another shot.

Valentina’s eyebrows shot up at the mention of university. She couldn’t picture either one of them going down that route. She didn’t know what he was like in his school years, but if it were anything like her then that paid that been blocked for a long time. She was taking mental notes about his confession. She wanted to pry into his bad news, wanted to see what it was that drove him into the Capulet’s arms, but it wasn’t her turn to ask a question. She’d have to save her inquiries for later.

She nodded along to his assessment. She did understand. “It’s a way to channel that anger– to give it purpose.” She knew that part well. It had been one of the reasons she longed for a spot in the war— to find a purpose other than conning people or stealing watches from distracted tourists. She didn’t want to be bound to the fallen legacy her parents left behind– she wanted to forge her own.

Purpose. What a laughably twisted word. Something that seemingly held no meaning at all to most people, and yet it was the crux at which everyone lived their lives. Everything had to have some purpose, otherwise, what was the point in even being alive? Every action, every inaction, without a direct cause or necessity, it was just complete and utter chaos. The void was just a walk away, but no one wanted to pretend that it existed. They spent their lives inching their way closer to that dark pit, their faux drives edging them into the abyss. Verona must have been close to hitting that mark. Every fire that burned, and every street that was peppered with bullets, that was just another inch closer to irrevocable damage that could never been undone. Would they all be able to fully reflect on themselves then? Would the darkness just be a mirror of their own makings?

Easton didn’t know if it was truly a purpose that sent him on this path of destruction and hate. He remembered the days that he would watch Star Wars until it felt like his eyes were going to bleed. He could hear Emperor Palpatine talk about channeling hate into power, and as a child he thought it foolish, but now he saw the truth of it all. There was something to be learned from the dark side. In the end it was defeated, yet, when looking at its reign of terror, could that last minute turn really be enough to rid the world of all of that hate-filled energy. Easton didn’t think so, not with Verona at least.

They were spinning around on that Death Star, waiting for someone to blow them all up. For now they would simply fight amongst themselves, every gun turned on their closest ally, every suit of armor built up until they were more machine than man. It wouldn’t be long now before Verona would belong to men turned clones.

That was half of the point of the mob. To turn men into soldiers who did the bidding of their master. Easton was just in training, and every day he was closer to being able to kneel closer to the person in power. Not take his seat. Not join him by his side. Just kiss his rings for a moment longer than the rest. The thought made him rage. It made him look at Valentina with a strange look that no one could ever have been able to decipher. Easton was burning inside, and it was only a matter of time before someone would take off his human helmet and reveal the desecrated soul beneath it all.

“There’s no purpose to anything,” Easton stated at last as he grabbed the nearest drink and threw it to the back of his throat. He didn’t feel anything as it slid down his esophagus. Why the fuck couldn’t he feel anything?

[eastoncraven-blog]

evcravens‌:

“Allora, not by much. Only by a few months, right?” Whatever age Grace is, she’s a right terror, and Everett’s been fervently praying for the past few weeks that when the Craven Christmas Gala rolls around this year, he’ll be exempt from looking after the Daly sisters now that he’s in university. Three-year-old Catia has effectively stolen Everett’s heart, and Gina is always obedient and easy to manage, but ever since Grace hit Everett with his crutch after his surgery in secondary school, she’s only gotten progressively worse, and he’s not sure she’s ever going to become more well-behaved no matter what his godfather likes to pretend. He’d much rather spend the party with Simon — and maybe, if she’s back for the holidays, Naijing.

But if the gala on Christmas Eve is for spending time with friends, Christmas morning is specifically for family. Papà, Mamma, and Easton. Everett’s already got a gift in mind for his fratellino. It’s not Legos ( he learnt his lesson from that bloody Millennium Falcon debacle two Christmases ago ) but he’s sure it’s something his little brother would like — especially considering how over the moon Easton seems to be about Harry Potter at the moment. He’ll have to find a better hiding place for it than last year. Easton’s getting too smart, and Everett’s almost certain he was watching all of the packages coming in to determine which ones were the Christmas gifts.

His eyes flicker to the rearview mirror. “Yeah, sure.” Even now, he doesn’t realize the spell his words cast over Easton or see the pedestal his fratellino has built for him. He knows the nine-year-old is especially fond of him, more than their father and Everett’s mother, but that’s the bond of brothers, isn’t it? That Easton looks at him with such fierce fondness is something that he treasures. But that Everett is his home, not Villa Santarossa, not the space between his parents — that is a fact that he, at nineteen, is oblivious to. 

It’s an oversight that will come to ruin them later, when leaving Verona is taken to mean leaving Easton behind. But for now, the Craven brothers are shielded by the cradle of youth, blissfully unaware of the heartache that will riddle their relationship in the future. For now, the fierce love burning in Everett’s heart for his brother is enough. 

Everett’s lips split into a grin, warm and fond. “I promise.”

                                                      MARCH 29th, 2002

The day had finally arrived. Everett was coming home for Easter break, and Easton was positive that his heart would burst when he finally got to see his brother again. The months in between visits had dragged on at a pace that had been brutal. Week after week Easton felt himself shrinking further and further away from the light and other people around him. He had begun hiding throughout the house. Every day he’d keep to a new spot, hoping, that just for a moment, he’d be let alone in peace without being yelled at. Without a scolding. Margherita wasn’t brutal. She didn’t hit him. She didn’t need to. A single look from her, and Easton could feel his bottom lip quiver. Nothing ever seemed to be good enough.

That was why Easton had been so excited for a change of pace. Everett had arrived through the door, placed his things in his room, dinner had been served, and now it was finally just the two of them. The inseparable brothers. A match made in heaven. Easton knew that his older brother had plenty to deal with, things that he might not ever fully understand. But he also trusted him. He trusted him implicitly, without hesitation, without fear of getting into trouble. Wasn’t that what brothers were for? They were for keeping secrets from parents, and divulging details as to what had been missed.

A nine year old Easton looked up to his brother, and spoke. “Are you happy that you’re home?” Are you happy to see me? Do you feel what I feel? The other questions were left unsaid, but they were there in his brain. They bumped against his frontal cortex, begging to be released, but he knew, even then, that it was better to start big. At nine, Easton was far too concerned with being a heavy weight on the shoulders of others than he should have been. Every thought, every emotion--he felt it keenly and harshly. It was if there was an extra sense that could reach out into the air around him and immediately read the room.

Easton considered it a curse. He so desperately wished he didn’t have such a bad taste in his mouth. An unspoken nervous energy. He wanted to keep playing with his legos, running around outside, climbing trees until it was dark, and exploring every hidden passage of his home. Home. The word was supposed to mean more than it did to him. When he was a few years younger, he remembered feeling that familiar warmth. The giddiness that followed when, after a long trip, they’d be back into their comfort zone.

He was hardly comfortable these days. Easton had become restless in his pursuits for something else, an escape. His energy didn’t help the matters. They only made him an easier target.

[eastoncraven-blog]

ofcastora‌:

She knows he’s not telling her something – go figure. Castora didn’t expect the truth from him now, for all the reasons they both laid out. There was a time when, aside from her wealth of cynicism, she didn’t think he would lie to her. Would anyone believe there was a time when I almost thought you’d never hurt me? Maybe after the accusations of treason, people would laugh. Castora Aguilar and Easton Craven. Easton Craven and Castora Aguilar. The people behind the names didn’t matter – the only thing that would is that she is a Montague and he is a Capulet. 

When Castora pulls out the gun, she catches his smile and wonders what the hell the man is getting at. She liked that he could surprise her – and she usually hates surprises.  Easton was capable of cruelty, infinitely capable of being horrible – she knew this, his reputation succeeding her recollection – but he was damnably easy to care about and soft and warm, as much an Apollo as a Hades.

“It wouldn’t be an intstant death. But it would be quick.”

But she can’t see the poetry in this. If he is going to see his life flash before her eyes in the next few moments, then Castora sees how this would play out for her. Killing a Capulet captain would look good for her, but was Easton important enough? He has friends in high places – friends that would put her head on a stick for taking him away in the dead of the night. 

“God, you’re so weird,” she says, almost fondly. That was the other thing about Easton: when push came to shove, or in this case, when the barrel of the gun came to your chest, he became the king he strove to be. “Why are you giving me reasons to kill you?” 

When he grabs hold of the gun, Castora instinctively follows the trajectory. Her finger is steady on the trigger. Right here, right now, and with nothing but the gun between them, this is the closest they’ve been all night. She stands on her tiptoes. Their foreheads are almost touching. If she’s going to kill him, she’s going to look him in the eyes. 

If – she’s been bothering with that word a lot tonight. Castora knows what she is going to do, even if she hasn’t decided on it. 

“You don’t care? Of course you don’t.” Her gun clatters to the ground, leaving only Castora and Easton, Montague and Capulet. “I won’t make this mistake again,” she says softly. Her voice doesn’t shake, but the hand that held the gun trembles, almost like it regrets the decision. 

 “That’s a promise.” And it’s a promise she means. She’s decided that too. 

“Why am I giving you reasons?” It was a good question, one that he really didn’t want to have to contemplate, but she would force him to. That was what Castora was best at. She looked at him, found the weakest point, and pressed her finger in until he lashed out. What he really wanted to say was that he was reminding her about what he was, and what she was. This game was dangerous, and the more either of them gave to the other, the less they had to offer themselves. Verona was no place for softness, not in oneself, or in anyone else. “I’m reminding you.” But he didn’t elaborate. Castora was smart, she didn’t need him giving her a rundown of everything horrible that he had ever done.

And just as quickly as the showdown begun, it was over with the clattering of the gun to the ground. Easton sucked in a deep breath, the world spinning for a moment. Had he really been that ready to die? Was he truly going to go out of this violent world without a fight in him? As Easton stared at Castora, he realized just how much he would like to go out that way. Peacefully. An atonement of sorts for all of the vitriol he had spilled upon the ground he walked on.

“A promise? Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Cas.” Easton reaches out, grabbing the hand that had been holding the gun, squeezing hard. He doesn’t know why he does it. The action alone has so many small details to it that he’s sure he’ll go home and reflect on later. In that moment, Easton is just, relieved. He’s almost fucking shocked. There were a handful of people in the world that would have dropped the gun that was held into him. For most of the time, he hadn’t ever included Castora in that grouping.

How strange it was to be someone’s weak point instead of the other way around. Hell, most of the time Easton was just waiting for someone close to him to take a knife out and slit his throat, just to be rid of him, once and for all. But for Castora to drop the gun entirely, leaving herself open and vulnerable--an emotion found itself choked in his throat. One that he couldn’t describe and never wanted to bother trying. She let him live, and he hadn’t even tried to tell her to stop. Easton and urged her, made it easier for her, and yet, the gun was at his feat, her hand was being crushed in Easton’s, and he wondered if humans were far more complicated than anyone ever wanted to believe.

Easton’s other hand came around, clutching the back of Castora’s head, her soft hair throwing him off balance. “I’ll see you in hell.” And then he kissed her, and he wasn’t sure why the fuck he did. Maybe it was gratitude. Maybe it was a drudged up feeling that he had been repressing. Either way, Easton kissed Castora, and he knew that he was a person made of mistakes. Mistakes that were slowly building up until one day he would be crushed under the weight of them all.

He hoped that day would come soon.

[eastoncraven-blog]

tomassabello‌:

“True enough,” Tomas agrees with a whistle. “Everyone told me it’d be small compared to what I was used to in Rome, but I didn’t realize how small until I actually got here. Definitely took some… Adjusting.” He adds, glancing at the people milling around them. Although Verona has its own distinctive charm, the fact that it’s so small presents a problem for the already familiar Italian celebrity. It means that he’s under near-constant scrutiny in the tiny city, and that he can get away with far less, where public appearances are concerned. 

Some days it’s daunting.

“Bored??” The incredulity in his tone melts into a rich laugh. “My gut says no, but memory tells me that a year or two ago, I would’ve thought the same thing. Still, it isn’t… Like that. “ He concludes, scrunching up his face as he tries to think up a better way to describe it. In the almost-year that has elapsed since they married, Tomas hasn’t gotten tired of Celeste. Hasn’t even come close. Does that make monogamy an easy venture? No, not by a long-shot. But that’s through no fault of Celeste’s, but perhaps a flaw in his own code; one that has him almost instinctively reaching out to other alluring souls in his vicinity at any given moment. Sometimes, reaching too far. Or not remembering soon enough to be mindful of some invisible lines that weren’t supposed to be crossed when one was married. Certainly, it isn’t something he can explain to stranger. “You haven’t had any relationships?” Tomas asks curiously, but off-handedly. He wonders if the young man’s just avoided them on principle, or whether his cynicism is borne of having been burnt by one in the past. “Is it the one-partner thing that doesn’t appeal to you? ‘Cause if so, you could always try a more open arrangement. Some people are down for it.” He babbles, as they exit the theatre for slightly less populated territory. Tomas relaxes as a result, tone reanimating cheerfully. 

“Nice to meet you, Easton.” The man smiles before ducking his head to dial his wife’s cell-number. “I’m sure Celeste will be thrilled to speak to you. Let’s see if I can get her on the line…” He trails off as the ringing starts and presses the phone to his ear. “Ciao Bella… Si, si... I’ll be home soon but I ran into an old friend of yours and he wants to say hi! I’m gonna hand him the phone, okay?” Eager to hear her reaction and without giving her the time to ask who it was, Tomas handed Easton the phone.

“Well, you see, most of my relationships are just more--visits than anything else, you know?” Easton kept him the game, more than happy to spill some emotional baggage in order to continue drawing Tomas in. This was more fun than he had had in ages, and he wasn’t about to let it all slip away from him so easily. If he had to talk, he’d talk. “They’re mostly about sex, which keeps it pretty easy to have some distance about it all. Although it does mean that there are a lot of people wandering about who I’ve seen naked, which can definitely cause some issues.” Except, most of the people Easton had seemed drawn to were Montagues. He wasn’t sure why he had to keep going back to the same sort of people, but he did. Dangerous, reckless, stupid.

Easton continued. “Maybe I’ve just never experienced how you feel about Celeste. Maybe when that happens, I’ll know.” If only Celeste felt the same about you, Easton wanted to add. He wanted to put the knife in and twisted it as hard as he could, be he refrained. Now wasn’t the time to be laying his hand out on the table for the world to see. He had to be cold and calculating about his secrets, especially ones involving married Montagues.

Finally they were outside, and without further prompting, Tomas naively dialed Celeste’s phone number. Easton wished he could properly describe how he felt, and he just settled on anticipation. How would dear Celeste react when she realized that the person standing next to her beloved husband was the monster hiding under her bed? There couldn’t have been a more perfect situation than this one. Celeste wouldn’t have been able to react too much, and the more she was questioned about how she knew Easton, the more dangerous things would become for her. Hell, maybe Tomas would even start to think that Celeste was trying to hide Easton away for more nefarious purposes.

He took the phone, and immediately pressed it to his ear. “Celeste? Long time! It’s Easton, you remember me, right? I’m just standing here with Tomas. I heard plenty about him, but I didn’t expect him to be so kind. You picked a good one.”

Easton just kept smiling at Tomas, one that seemed heartfelt, as if grateful that he had been given this opportunity to speak with an old friend. The poor bastard. He had practically just signed his life away to the butcher house, and soon all of Verona would know his humiliation.

@celesteduvals​

[eastoncraven-blog]

pandora-phan‌:

Reckless adventure is the fool’s hazard. A quote written by Tacitus, and one seemingly fitting for Easton, in this very moment. 

If the two of them were just ordinary people hanging out at some party, Pandora could have gotten behind his sentiment; possibly even stop to wonder whether she was being a bit too uptight or on edge but… That was the thing— they were anything but ordinary. 

They might have looked the part, sure, but no ordinary person would have had a weapon of some sort holstered somewhere on their body. No ordinary person would gaze at their own hands and constantly see the color red instead of their own skin. No… That wasn’t ordinary in the slightest. And so, though it was indeed a party, and most shouldn’t have cared who they spoke to, he should have known better that they were the exception. And that being arrested would be the least of his worries should anyone say something.

“Perhaps. But from your previous comments, it sounds like you’ve been having a bit too much fun,” she said, watching him. “I’d rather be on the side that’s dull and solemn than the one that’s too relaxed… Too careless, even.” There was a slight edge to her voice as she looked at him— brief flashbacks of what had recently transpired crossing her mind. A part of her wanted to bring it up, wanted to say the name of that blood-stained place, but she ultimately decided against it. There were some people she didn’t mind making enemies out of, but there were others like Easton who were better off as possible prospects. Possible allies, even. 

“Thanks to a certain someone, I think my curiosity has been satiated in some ways, yes.” Turning her attention to the crowd, Pandora’s mouth curved into a small smile, “And you? Anything satiating your desires tonight?”

Easton was too far gone to truly try and outwit anyone. His brain was operating on a higher plane of existence, which really just meant that he had no idea what the fuck was actually happening. All he was aware of was that he was talking to someone he shouldn’t have been, and he didn’t care. Lines be damned. The river be damned. Easton’s entire life had only gotten smaller as he grew older, and now, as the year was about to tick over into something fresh and new, Easton knew he could never rid himself of the past.

In his inebriated state he was bold, brash, and far too sloppy for his sober self to agree with. But at least he was having fun. That alone felt like a damn miracle after the year he had just had, and with a large future looming before him, it felt like the last change he had to let loose before the world exploded before him. Maybe Pandora didn’t understand that need, and why should she have? They only knew each other through stories and word of mouth. They weren’t friends. They were whispers in one another’s ears.

Easton cocked his head. “I’m already satiating a few of my desires, but I’m sure something else will come to me.” If he was going this far down this road, then there was no reason to turn back. The night was his for the taking. Mistakes were just a part of that plan, and Easton accepted them gladly. There was a time when he might have pretended to be perfect. He would have pushed his shoulders back, raised his chin, and followed all of the proper etiquette. But he learned. Perfect wasn’t even near the realm of possibility where he was concerned, so what was the harm in being destructive?

“You think I’m being careless, but what if, all along this has just been a ploy for me to catch you unaware?” He laughed as soon as he spoke. “No, you’re right, you could do whatever you wanted with me and I wouldn’t have a clue.”

He made a move to get something more to drink, as if he hadn’t had enough already. “If you’re not going to join in on all of the fun, Pandora, then I’ll just have to find someone who will.”

[eastoncraven-blog]

ofcastora‌:

The gods were cruel but so were they. Wasn’t it the cruelty of the gods they aspired to? They were born to be ambitious, to want more than the cards the universe had given them. People like Castora and Easton were created covetous. And there were gods that created and there were gods that destroyed, and people like them were made for the divinity of chaos, not the purity of the light. It was only a matter of time until something like this happened. 

It doesn’t make it hurt any less. Even though it was she who had dared him to escalate, his barbs cut her like a wire. To her credit, she hides it well. He knew she was lying, and she knew he was telling the truth – unfortunately, once upon a damned time, she was sentimental for him – it felt hideous not to able to be honest would with the only other person who knows the truth about that moment.

“Bastard,” Castora hisses, “You don’t get to tell me how it works.” It’s a trap and she knows it – if she challenges Easton on his assertions about her alleged sentimentality it would be an acknowledgment that they weren’t nothing – they were a bitter almost, two aspiring gods who had each other at the right place but at the wrong time, and in the wrong universe. 

“I’m sorry – I didn’t realize I had broken your heart. What do you want me to say, Easton? That I can’t stop thinking you? There’s no one better you? I’ve been in love with you all this time? Because for someone who insists that I was the sentimental one, you seem to have a rough time hearing that our little strangers-with-benefits routine didn’t mean that much to me.”  It’s such a cruel lie – his heartbeat was once her lullaby and when they stopped whatever they were, she had to get used to falling asleep without him, and the night they met, she bought him a drink because he was beautiful, and he knew that her father abandoned her. 

“I didn’t think I’d need to remind you,” she says, lowering her voice so he won’t hear how it trembles. “When we met, I didn’t know who you were. I didn’t know what you were.” 

She doesn’t know why it stings that Easton makes the distinction between kissing her and fucking her. It’s almost a worse taunt than sentimental. It seems to say – I know your body. I know you have a heart and I’ve proven I know your mind. “Neither am I.” She pulls out her gun and points it at his heart, where her hand touched only moments ago. The safety is still on. “Fine then – do you want me to shoot you?”

They’re both at an impasse. There’s no way in hell Easton is going to tell Castora that the reason why he’s there is so he can infiltrate the festival and start stealing from underneath the Montagues noses. He can’t tell her that he’ll be in disguise, hand-in-hand with Maeve, something the pair of them were never able to do, and would never have done. There was no room for truth in this relationship. Not when he could see through her, and all of her bravado, and she could look at him and know just how to touch him. Just how to make his eyes roll back in pleasure. That was the danger of being known.

Castora pulled out her gun at last, and Easton smiled at it. That was why he had always liked her. She was brutal, and rough, and despite all of that, she was oddly gentle and kind. He wondered for a brief moment if she might actually do it. If she would point the gun at him and pull the trigger. Would that be the worst thing in the world? One less Capulet, one less murderous brother, and one less would-be lover. No. Easton decided, there were worse things than to die by Castora’s hand. There was poetry in that circle. The hands that made him feel held would also be the ones that threw him deep within the Earth.

Easton stepped into the gun, the barrel now digging into his chest. A dare. “Shoot me, Cas. Fucking do it.” Next to him, his hands remained still, and not a single part of his body shook. Death was supposed to be something that equalized men. An experience that humbled even the wealthiest and most powerful kings--a time that would come for them all. But Easton was not scared, not as he looked directly into Castora’s eyes and awaited his fate. Could she, after all this time, silence him?

His hand grabbed hold of the gun, further burying it in his shirt. “I’m a Capulet. I’m a Captain. Killing me would solve problems for a few people that I could name. Killing me would make your Don respect you. Hell, maybe you’d even get another promotion, Cas.” Easton wasn’t sure why he found it prudent to convince Cas to shoot him, but he continued in every manner except for begging. Easton would never beg.

“I don’t have all night. Kiss me. Kill me. I don’t care what you do.”

[eastoncraven-blog]

celesteduvals‌:

He yanked her along like a rag-doll: lifeless, her only worth that which he decided she was. Yes, just a rag-doll. Wasn’t that what he took her for? Only a puppet for his ploy; a stepping-stone to his delusional aspirations of greatness. The fire inside of her was stoked, and the possibility of Easton Craven’s potential oversight was the tinder-wood – and oh, how Celeste burned through it, all spark & ravage. She would rather attribute to the cough that wracked through her to it, lungs squealing about billowing smoke, than admit to human frailty. 

Celeste hated to think of herself as anything but mighty. 

Perhaps it was the hubris she experienced no shortage of… but perhaps it was a lifetime of being dug into, callously, like thumbs into the tender flesh of an overripe peach, too. A lifetime of being underestimated, and deemed less and defective and foolish. A lifetime’s worth of being used, of having to prove herself, of yearning for some measure of respect, if nothing else. It wasn’t merely Easton’s gall that riled her so. And loathe though she would be to admit it, it wasn’t what hung on the line for her that roused the emissary’s ire, either, not entirely. There was something about the entrapment—the dark corner he’d backed her into—that made the demons Celeste hated to know sing, so loud and shrill. It shattered something inside of her.

Left unhinged, she considered it a personal victory that the cage of ground-down teeth kept vehement agreement with his pointless assessment. Don’t, she hissed to heart. Don’t give him the satisfaction.

Dragged along, she was sure he thought her subdued. What more was he than a little boy playing at being a man? How heavy was the armour he donned? Celeste didn’t care; she would find the chink in it. They all had one, didn’t they? It was where he had placed his weapon, wasn’t it – right where he’d come across hers? It was only fair. Easton Craven underestimated her. Right through his heart would be too kind. It would be too merciful, and all the kindest parts of her, anything that would consider mercy, were tied up in the heart she’d given away to Isabella Gagliano. He had threatened that. She would make him bleed for it. She would make him beg for an ending so sweet as a pierced heart.  

mentioned: @isabellagagliano

Outside, as smoke billowed from behind them, the heat continuing to turn his skin red, Easton finally took a breath. One that wasn’t filled with relief, but an understanding that the job wasn’t done just yet. It had only just begun. If he had intended on keeping Celeste for a long period of time, he would have to bring her somewhere that wouldn’t be easily  found, or at least known to the Montagues. For now he was just concerned with getting her away from the scene and away from prying eyes that might try and take her from him. Easton turned in a few directions, and was thankful that he spotted the car he had driven here. While he wasn’t one to keep a kit filled with supplies he might need, he figured there was a chance of at least getting duct tape.

Easton continued dragging Celeste, not bothering to see how she was faring, his own heart was too busy thumping against his chest with every decision he had to make. He was just a soldier. There was no power to his name expect for the horrible acts that he had committed, and most of them were thanks to Celeste herself. She had been the key to his sudden propulsion to the top, and had she not managed to get herself in these predicaments, he might have attempted to thank her for all of her generosity.

He got to the car, his hand still with a vice like grip around Celeste’s arm. “Play nice, and this will be over soon. You’re no good to me dead, and we both know that.” Celeste had to know that by now. In a world where a Capulet usually wanted every Montague dead, Celeste was different. Easton needed her more than he would ever want to admit, and it was about time he started being honest with himself and his desires.

Easton dragged both of them into the back seat, his hand fishing for the roll of tape that he swore had been there earlier. And then, just like that, he grabbed it. “Hold your hands out.” He ordered, not wanting to bother trying to wrestle with her any further. Celeste had always been a fighter, despite the ironclad grip he held on her life. Just one squeeze and she’d explode.

[eastoncraven-blog]

ofcastora‌:

She hates that it hurts when he wrenches her hand from his – it’s a dull pang in her chest, not unlike a burn from touching a hot pot. Castora knows it was wrong that he both made her feel like that, but it was worse that she reacted to it.  She flexes the fingers from the hand like she was trying to shake off the last sensation from his touches and grits her teeth. 

“And I’m just doing my job. I don’t want you to do anything,” Castora says plainly, “I want you to get the hell out of Montague territory. I want you to leave our business the hell alone.”

Arms cross over her chest, curling into her body as if refusing to accept another touch. “Fuck you,” the woman seethes. “We both know we never meant much to each other. Don’t you dare accuse me of that sentimental shit. The only reason I’m asking questions I already know the answer to is because I want to hear you say it.” Don’t I deserve an honest answer from you?  

“I want you to tell me what you’ve been doing so I can fix it.” She was unmistakably pissed off, a glacial sort of rage instead of the burning fire. He was right – he knew that she wanted to strike – and she supposed that he would get some satisfaction out of getting her to snap first. Castora could read him, sure, but never as well as he was able to read her. 

This isn’t personal. This is just business. They really were more of the same – really, how many jaded one-time lovers had argued in the dark corners of this city? But if he wanted something – anything – from her, he would have to give her more.

Easton laughs bitterly. “Nothing?” This was a cruel game to play, one that wasn’t going to end with any sort of actual reconciliation. That wasn’t a possibility. These were the undermining variables that always came into play when two familiar souls greeted one another. An inability to announce pain, and an even harder time at admitting to anything positive. Easton and Cas were circling the same drain, and there was nothing either of them could do about it. “You used to seem pretty sentimental to me, Cas. Let me guess. You found someone better. Someone who wasn’t a Capulet. Or--that’s the problem. You haven’t been able to shake me at all.”

While Cas curls herself up, Easton only extends his reach, not creating any additional space between them, even as he danced around of the feeling of her hand on him. “I’m doing my fucking job. Just like you. So here’s how this is going to work. You can either fucking shoot me, or you can stop asking questions that you know I’m not allowed to answer. I’m not a traitor. Just because I kissed you and fucked you, that doesn’t make me a traitor willing to spill my guts out for you.” He was gritting his teeth now, his body practically shaking.

How cruel were the gods that watched them. That played their games of chess and waiting for the outcome to be reached. A pawn here, a pawn there. All willing to be sacrificed for some greater sort of good. Cas and Easton stood like Knights. Their movements mimicking one another, but always in the opposite direction. They were never on the same space, never working towards the same goal. All they had was a connection. A moment when the stars aligned, and the heavens reminded them that they could be just humans. They could be soft and gentle.

There was no humanity left in Verona. It had been burned away with the death of the Witches. At every corner and ever rundown building, rodents would scatter, cockroaches would flee, and all that would be left would be the echoes of a far distant past. One where Easton might have reached out to Cas. One where Cas might have accepted the gesture as more than just a threat.

The gods were cruel.

[eastoncraven-blog]

evcravens‌:

“Pshaw. You definitely could,” Everett attests, glancing towards the rearview mirror. His little brother, against that sniveling brat? No contest. Easton could take him, easily. Or, he could annoy him to death, which would be just as effective. “If you can beat Grace in a game of chicken, you’ve already got twice the guts of the average nine-year-old.” For a moment, he lapses into silence, blissfully recalling his godsister’s affronted, drenched expression as she splashed into the water the previous July. “She’d eat Draco alive. Wouldn’t even stand a chance.”

The yellow light of street lamps slips in and out of the interior of the car, bright pools of honey amidst the dark of winter. It’s snowing, now, just a little, just enough that Everett has to turn the wipers on to sweep dreamy flecks from the windshield. It’s peaceful. Soothing. A midnight clear, one could say, save for the low hum of the radio playing Christmas music and the smooth rumble of the Maserati’s engine. Green eyes slip to the rearview mirror. Easton’s daydreaming again with that far-off look, the same thoughtful brow he has whenever he inevitably begins fantasizing about Star Wars or those pirate games they’d play when he’d just arrived at the Craven Estate. Fondness splits across Everett’s lips. What a nerd. 

He pulls on to Statale 12, and just as they’ve slipped out of Verona, past the snow-dusted Porta Nuova, past the drowsy financial district where their father’s company headquarters sits at the edge of the canal and into the frosty night, Easton’s boyish voice pipes up from the back seat. Everett blinks. “Um,” he replies eloquently, wracking his brain for an answer. “I don’t think I’ve ever thought of that before.” Cannoli were the sort of thing he’d always taken for granted and just assumed had always indefinitely existed since… since…

“…that’s a good question. Who did make the first cannoli?” Everett chews on the question, trying to imagine Garibaldi eating one, or Vivaldi, or Dante Alighieri, and the only conclusion he comes to is that Padre Vernacchia would be very disappointed at how little history knowledge Everett remembers only six months after he’d graduated from San Tommasso. “I suppose we’ll have to go to the library and look it up when I’m back for the holidays.”

Easton kept a bright smile on his face, imagining what it might feel like to take Draco on, and to prove once and for all that being a bully didn’t make him special. There was no reason to dislike someone for being different, in fact, Easton found in his young age, that people who were a bit different were more fun to be around anyway. They had funny stories and even better ideas. “She’s younger than me,” Easton replied, although well aware, even at that age, that beating Grace was a true rarity. She had something about her that would sometimes scare him. A certain look. A set determination that would make him freeze if he wasn’t so determined to be better than anyone he could.

The world grew wider in Easton’s eyes as the drive moved forward. He stared out the window in pure wonder, enjoying the lights as they flashed by, and the brief pockets of music that came blaring from the windows of other people’s cars. As a child he was unnaturally perceptive about most things, and knew that the car he was in wasn’t average. Too many people stared a little too long as the car drove by, and he knew there was no way it was because he was in it. Would they keep staring if the car wasn’t so loud every time it started? His eyes creased in the middle, thinking long and hard about the implications of being a little more well off than most. Just a little.

“Oh,” Easton replied to his brother, somewhat shocked in this turn of events. He had assumed Everett knew everything. Didn’t adults know everything? Wasn’t that what school taught them? He couldn’t help but hide his disappointment at the realization, but his mood drastically increased at the idea of more time spent with Everett in the library. A promise. These moments always felt so few and far between, and there were times when he considered packing himself up in Everett’s suitcase and making him take him wherever he went. At least then he wouldn’t hear all of the fighting. The slammed doors. The awkward pauses that greeted him when he shuffled into a room.

“Do you promise?” His voice feels small, but he so desperately home that Everett promises. That when he’s home he can spend time, just with him. Just together. All of his favorite memories are about his big brother. The treats that are sneaked under the table. The affectionate touching of the top of his head. Easton wonders how many of Everett’s good memories surround him. If he looks forward to these nights just as much as Easton does. Or if he realizes that it’s practically Christmas morning when he realizes that Everett arrives home that day.

[eastoncraven-blog]

julianacapulets‌:

What, did no one in the mob have manners? Juliana wondered, idling in a room she refused to be impolite about after barging in. She absolutely refused to let her gaze wander, no matter the way curiosity clawed at the nape of her neck, itching. If how thrown the poor man was by her thoroughly unexpected materialisation at his doorstep was anything to go by, it was an imposition in every sense of the word. Though—and at this, the young woman nearly let the sigh pent-up in her chest slip out of her mouth—it wasn’t as if he would tell her if it was. She was Juliana CAPULET; there were many things that name would earn her, but candor was no longer one of those things.

“Of course,” her head bowed, a sign of respect. To return his words with a much more systematic you’re welcome would have been to accept the ludicrous idea that it was him who owed her any sort of thanks – and that she was not prepared to do. What she could do, though, was accept his attempt at hospitality and linger for as long was polite, before they could part ways, still as close to strangers as they’d always been. That was all she could have anymore, wasn’t it? Soldiers, or enemies. There weren’t many left in Verona for her to call friend.

She pursed her lips against that thought, shook her head free of it as she followed behind him. “Bene,” she agrees, accepting one of the plates before seating herself in the nearest available option, still careful not to allow her eyes to stray past the man she’d come to thank. His awkwardness was palpable to her. Juliana cants her head—chin up, she orders—and smiled, deeply uninterested in letting it seep in through her pores and coat her words. It simply wouldn’t do to impose on him her company, and also, along with it, the weight of what to do about it.

Sucking air in through her nose, Juliana places stacked hands atop the crossed knees. She takes the reins of the conversation to make it easier on both of them. “Are you doing alright? It was all quite a frenzied cluster of violence there, was it not? I hope you didn’t sustain any serious injuries.”

Easton almost audibly sighed in relief when Juliana took the offering, happy that he was fucking doing something right. Manners and hospitality had been the number one thing he pointedly ignored while growing up. He could pretend at them well enough, but actually dealing with it while surprised? Easton was good at pretending, and now he just felt like the biggest fool in the world. It wasn’t his fault that seeing Juliana was a shock. Most of the time, after he had joined the mob, he wasn’t used to getting any praise or thanks at all. He had gotten through life by the skin of his teeth and his father’s money, and now he had none of that to go off of. All he had was his hands, a gun, and a slick amount of determination that kept him moving.

Saving Juliana, or at least attempting to save her, had been a no-brainer. The easier decision he had made in the last few years. No one wanted the burden of being the person that was responsible for the death of the Don’s daughter. Especially not Easton. He could play hero if that meant a lack of disciplinary actions that only ever left him felt like an 8 year old once more, trying desperately to get his father’s attention the only way he knew how.

Easton sat down beside her, treat in hand. “Huh? Oh, yeah I’m fine. Probably a few singe marks here and there, and a few claw marks, but that’s just more of the same.” He looks at her, realizing he should probably ask her the same. Or maybe he should just ask her what the hell happened after he left her with Priam. “How about you? What happened the rest of the night?”

In an ideal world he would have just run with her outside and gotten her to safety, but instead, he left her with someone else who he thought she might be more prone to trust. Meanwhile he had his sights set on something else entirely. A trophy to bring home from a battle that seemed lost. “I figured he was a safer bet to get you out of there, and apparently I was right.” They both knew who the he was, but all Easton could ever do was speculate. Being someone’s betrothed had to mean something, but what the fuck did he knoew about any of that? Easton would have rather not bothered to think about that sort of thing at all.

[eastoncraven-blog]

reginadalys‌:

Easton was the Craven she favored, but that statement did not hold as much weight as it would have had anyone else claimed it. Regina’s preferences were simple logic, aligned with her very brief list of things she even somewhat seemed to enjoy. Easton held a darkness that she knew well, for it was her home and she was its. She could see it in him plain as day, only this was the absence of light, not the overwhelming presence of it. Everett was too moral for her liking. She did not care much for those obstacles to the pleasures she sought that she did not much understand. She didn’t care about the lives she took. She didn’t feel anything for them. She figured Easton could relate to that better than Everett. Plus, he was nicer to look at. “I would have,” she replied monotonously.

Though she favored Easton of the two Craven boys, she did not expect to hear anything that may have indicated he had any sort of favor towards her of her two sisters. Though she did not care about her sisters, she knew them well and knew her place among them. Grace demanded attention, loudly and without a moment’s pause. Catherine courted it with a demure and light personality. Regina effortlessly faded into a background of indifference, not often noticed, let alone favored. “Did you?” asked Regina. “Why would you do such a thing?”

She could keep a secret, so long as it benefited her or it had no use being spoken of. Regina’s head was filled with information and observations she never felt important enough to voice, and eventually, they were all lost to the black hole swirling at the pit of her. She assumed whatever Easton had to say would be important, considering he didn’t often come visit her. Zola certainly knew this as she curiously sniffed at the stranger’s hand. “If you so desire to spill blood in my presence, you can get a knife from the kitchen.” She knew it was a joke. This was the closest she would come to joking back, though her tone implied more seriousness. She also didn’t care if he truly wished to spill blood before her. Regina would not deny something as desirable as blood. “What secrets do you have to share?”

“Because you don’t give a shit.” Liking Regina was easy, as she expected nothing in return and gave nothing back. So many people in the world took, and took, and took. And Easton had nothing to offer. No sacrifice. No words of affirmation or love. He wasn’t digging around for someone to love him right, he just wanted an ally. A person he could rely on who was emotionally far enough from most situations to not be a problem. Regina fit the bill so easily he hated himself for not having thought of it all sooner. The only reason he hadn’t was his own blind thought process that everyone loved Everett. That even Regina, with her lack of seemingly loving anyone, was under the spell of his perfect brother.

He walked further into Regina’s lair, the thumping inside his chest getting louder the closer he came to revealing why he was there. Saying it out loud was much harder than all of the thoughts that were constantly swirling through his mind. How was he supposed to say it? How was he supposed to look someone in the eye and admit, for all of the air to hear, that he was planning on killing his brother. Easton looked Regina straight in the eye, trying to figure out if even she might give some sort of reaction. If this statue before him could be moved by such a turn of events.

“I want to kill Everett.” The words hung heavy in the air, and just as he said them, he wanted to take them back and hide them deep within his subconscious. There, Easton could bury them, he could place them behind other thoughts, and distract himself fully from the darkness that seeped through every pore in his skin. He felt dirty. Wrong. Inhuman. And yet so desperately, as he peered back at Regina, he wanted her to want to learn more. To ask him, not why, but how. Easton needed someone to understand. Anyone. But oddly enough, especially Regina, especially someone who truly did know Everett. At least then he could commiserate with someone, he could plan, and speak freely about how he felt with no issue of feeling judged.

He kept moving forward, realizing he should have stated why he was involving Regina in any of this at all. “I want you to help me.” She had no reason to say yes to any of this, or to even keep herself from flying out the apartment and into the night with Everett on the other side of a hastily dialed phone. But Easton knew that the only person that Regina was loyal to was herself and what could get her further ahead in life. They were similar that way. Two sharks surrounded by goldfish.

[eastoncraven-blog]

valentinasgallo‌:

Valentina took a bit to soak in his questions. If she wanted, she would argue that he went over his one question limit, but she knew that it just gave her free reign to do the same when her time came. The questions he asked were valid. From the outside looking in, Valentina didn’t seem to have a need for the mob. She had a place to call home, a job that paid her well enough, and plenty of people to keep her entertained. Someone just meeting her now would not understand that the mob brought her all of those things. They got her to the place where she could afford an apartment. She joined the police force as a way to sneak into the Capulet’s defenses. She made friends through the mob. To fully understand Valentina, one would need to take a step back in time and learn about her rough upbringing and how that forged her into the steel trap she was today.

She tried to think about what she could say that was both true and fake. She couldn’t quite admit that she got put into the mob because her brother had helped out a Montague soldier that decided he wanted to fuck over his side. She didn’t know if she could admit that she had been longing to join the war long before that fateful night. She sighed and tried to pick bits and pieces of her story that answer his question.

“I didn’t grow up rich. My parents left me when I was ten, so I spent my teenage years living on the streets. I watched the war between the two sides, and a part of me always wanted to fight in the war. I wanted a purpose.” She shrugged, not trying to make her companion feel sympathetic towards her. She didn’t need someone’s pity. “Now I got plenty of them, and some money to burn on top of it all. It’s a win-win.”

She tried to figure out what question to ask Easton. She had loads she wanted to learn about him, but she had to be patient to get all of her answers. It was difficult to pick a question that would give her valuable information and not be too telling. She finally settled on one that would give a little insight into her project.

“Why did you join the Capulets? Why not the Montagues or just remain neutral?” She didn’t think the question was suspicious. It could’ve easily been asked why she chose one side over the other, and truthfully hers was the circumstance. She didn’t care which side she joined all those years ago— only that she’d be able to get involved in the fight. 

Easton took in what Valentina was saying, and suddenly the picture started to become clearer. She was someone who built herself up in the world. Abandoned. Toughened up on the streets. Hell, the mob must have felt like her ticket to the better life. A chance to control her anger and put it into something that could be described as useful. Meanwhile, Easton was on the other side of the equation. If he wanted, he could have had money. He had a brother who was more than willing to help him out, but he denied himself that sort of luxury. Easton vaguely wondered what sort of response Valentina would give him if she knew that. That sitting before her was just another rich brat with a sob story.

“Makes sense,” he replied, and he meant it. War was a language in and of itself. It gave people the opportunity to remake themselves into something that they might like more. None of that was guaranteed, but it was a shot that not many other things in the world actually offered. The brutality of being willing to kill changed people. Many for the worse. But many for the better. They learned discipline, teamwork, and connections that could possibly extend beyond the business sort. People in the mob gained a family.

Easton laughed. “I was 18, I didn’t want to go to University, I had just gotten some bad news, and I think I just wanted to do something destructive. I wanted to piss my brother off, but I didn’t want to fight against him. And by then, I already knew Vivianne, I had connected the dots. Becoming a Capulet just made more sense. There wasn’t a single Montague I knew, or liked.” That changed. After Easton joined he made a few peculiar connections with the Montagues, but none of them were important enough to ever have him turn. Loyalty wasn’t his most defining trait. And yet? Easton enjoyed the game he was playing far more.

“I think I ended up being better at all of this than I could have ever thought. But it’s easy--I’m sure you understand. When you’ve been angry for so long, doing all of this? It feels almost natural.” He had spent most of his life with a tightness in his chest that was only ever released once he entered primary school. The fights he got into then were stress relievers. A chance to think clearly for the first time in ages. Valentina struck him as someone that could understand that sort of thing. The blind rage of being forgotten.