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[maskrvde-blog]

JULIET—

A laugh bubbles out of her when he responds to her quip, and it almost startles her with its clarity. Priam had always had that affect on her, drawing out happiness and pure adoration even when he hadn’t intended to do just as such. Even when they were children, two dark haired ravens flying through the grove of peach trees with sunshine on their shoulders and childhood freedom wild in their hearts, no one else had quite drawn that elation out of her in the same way. Not Cat, nor Meave, not even her sister had ever succeeded in drawing Priam’s brand of happiness forth from her bones. 

It would seem that a part of her had always belonged to him. 

Always would. 

“I think you’re beautiful,” she says, Priam branded mischief and delight clear in her voice, light and wonderful and loving even as she cleans the blood from his wounds. Even in the wake of this violence, even in the wake of her entire world coming crashing down around her, Priam feels like safety, feels like home, feels like the only place on this Earth that she can imagine being. Or maybe it’s because, of this violence, because of this world changing violence that she runs right into familiarity. Maybe this is a life that she could imagine for herself, a life that she could bring herself to be content with living for the rest of her days. Delicately, she steps closer to him and puts her left palm on his shoulder, moving to sit on top of his legs where he rests on the kitchen chair. If he looks at her like she’s crazy, then she’ll blame it on her ability to help him. I needed to get closer to see if it needs to be stitched together, she’d say and look at him despairingly, mock judgement in her eyes, laughter light in her chest. But on her left ring finger rests a gold band with a bright diamond in the center, the mark that she is to spend the rest of her life with him, and when her world has just fallen out from beneath her feet, a part of her sees this safety, this warmth, this proximity to the best person in her world as the only place on Earth that she wants to be. “But you don’t need anyone, much less me, to tell you that.” She says, smiling at him softly.

The feeling of his hand at her waist feels like some kind of shift, some kind of intentional new territory that Juliana isn’t sure if she should explore. She doesn’t love Priam, not in the way a wife might love her husband, has never wanted him to touch her in the way that a lovers would make her tremble, but being here feels safe, feels warm, and when he says You spoil me, my love, her heart latches onto those final words and she has to close her eyes for fear that she is going to give into something she should know better than to give into. 

She doesn’t love him, not like this, but when the Earth has caught aflame and taken its mark on her, it’s hard to remember that fact. 

“Only because you deserve spoiling,” she says, putting the cloth down on the table and reaching for the med kit. She needs something to do with her hands, needs something to distract her from the feelings building in her chest at the thoughts burning in her head. One’s about a life of safety. One’s about a life spent doing just this; taking care of her best friend, laughing with her best friend, loving her best friend. 

and he’s aiming that smile—boyish, dimpled, wicked—right back at her, breathless with the sort of delight that only she could infuse within him. ‘ don’t i? ’ a heady purr that rumbles from the depths of his chest in teasing amusement, regardless of the way his gaze softens into something infinitely fond as she perches upon his lap.

oh, she has made him sun-shattered and he is stitched back whole with the force of her smile. ‘ how could i possibly compare to you, little bird? ’ low and laughing as he tugs her closer, fingers splayed across the small of her back and leaning into her like she is true north and he is merely the compass-edge. ‘ mirror mirror on the wall, ’ a languid descant that hums from his throat, ‘ they say juliana is the prettiest of them all, no? ’ 

as her eyes flicker shut, he catches the gestures as one of conflict, as the war they both fight within themselves. and perhaps love is like icarus, sun-shards underneath his fingernails as he falls from the sky, and he knows like he knows the way he cannot seem to break away from the gnawing hunger in his heart—mouth fixed into the shape of a crescent moon, eyes crinkling with laughter and it’s all fake, he’s all fake, and where does that leave them?—that she deserves something whole and unbroken and true,

and that is something that he cannot give her. age has grown weary in their bones, like trees unrooting themselves from those wide-eyed children they once were—made of laughter, made of dreams, made of anything but the blood on their hands—and he wishes that he could stop this pretending, see, hopes that one day he could finally be himself—if there’s even anything underneath those masks that he glibly dons, if there’s even anything left of himself to offer.

he knows that, no, this isn’t love in the way juliana, il mio tesoro, il mio cielo, tender heart, longs for, but he could try. for her, he could try. 

god, let it be enough. let them be enough.

‘ only from you, ’ gently dropping his head to rest upon her shoulder, forehead barely brushing the nape of her neck as he closes his eyes. priam taravella, whose name is a shackle, who hungers and longs for something that he cannot name, who fosters an ever-present emptiness inside his heart, knows that she is too good for him. yet, he still cannot seem to let her go, regardless of the rings that tie their red strings together.

‘ you’re the only one who would spoil me like this, little bird, ’ even during their childhood when her little fingers braided flowers through his hair and they laughed underneath the shade of the trees. he doesn’t cross the line that they’ve seemingly created for themselves, doesn’t move to press a kiss to the slope of her jaw, doesn’t tighten his grip on her waist, but it’s instinct to drop his defenses and lean into her warmth. 

mm. she’s too good for him. ‘ i’ll take care of you next, ’ languidly raising a hand and framing her face, gently brushing a thumb across the bruises that mar her skin. there’s still that simmering rage that raises its head and opens one eye like some great beast within him, but he pushes it far down enough so that it doesn’t reflect within his gaze. ‘ would you let me? ’

[maskrvde-blog]

OCTOBER 3RD, NEAR MIDNIGHT

the castelvecchio bridge

@heorion

what a pity it is to see the star-flecked sky on a night like tonight. and, oh, it's kinda' like this: he's breathing, dead things rotting in his ribcage, a faint sense of jamais vu nestled in between singular heartbeats, and the curve of his mouth as he stares up into the sky is ruinous. ruined. boy meets God, y'see, promises it he’d do anything, tells it he wants, wants like the tide wants the moon, inexorable. 

God laughs.

boy’s never forgotten the feeling of the rawness that chafes at his soul whenever he remembers his childhood, all skinned soul and bruised heart, both carrying duty and heartbreak in the skies on his shoulders. chains, y’know, leave grasping marks. and this one—wryness twists against his lips as a languid descant hums from his throat—is a more strangling mark than most.

see, he's tilting his head back, the line of his throat bared to the glittering stars, something like prayer effusing the slant of his mouth, tugging over that aching smile like smoke. moonlight falls upon the darkness of his hair and lingers in the hollows of his eyes. and he's pulled again, earth to sun, compass-edge to true north, as footsteps sound out, striking against the infinite quietude of dusklight. 

immediately, that livewire bundle of tangled emotions shoots up from the small of his spine and radiates outward like an atomic explosion. if he were a lesser man, the expression that would currently be occupying his features would be nothing short of denial. the fact is, however, the boy that he once was—ground to dust underneath the heels of a brighter reality, honor and duty taking its place as were their wont—is no longer found in the set of his shoulders and in the slant of his dark-eyed gaze. ‘ orion, ’ he greets carefully. 

something about this man makes him feel like that weak, impulsive boy again, and he abhors the very sensation. nevertheless, the placement of each feature—the smile curving at his mouth, the widening of his eyes, the slope of his back—is set to a perfect emulation of the emotion he’d like to express: polite interest.

never mind the thoughts that are circling in his mind, he’d just like to get away from this encounter unscathed. ‘ it’s late, ’ careful, careful, ‘ what are you doing here? ’ and maybe something more raw finds its way into his voice, but it’s very quickly soothed over with that bland expression.

what an unfortunate encounter.

[maskrvde-blog]

OCTOBER 1ST, AROUND 8PM

the opera

@kingfisherisms

it’s that time of the year again and priam’s leaning against the velvet-laced wall, flicking through the brochure like someone who’s got nothing to do—and maybe he doesn’t, boy watching fantasies like dream cycles—before looking up from the booklet he has in his hands. 20.26. fifteen more minutes until the doors open.

there’s a sigh that slips from his throat as he nods and smiles at one of the older couples—the owners of some company or the other—good humor tugging over the slant of his mouth like something livewire. and, certainly, he could mosey on over and engage the couple in some quality conversation, but y’see, he’s tired. 

therefore, there’s nothing that he really feels inclined to do at the moment, no matter how out of character it might seem for priam taravella to not immediately turn on his host-smile, put on those host-lenses of his, and speak in that positively sparkling demeanor. 

he spies someone rather familiar, however, as he turns on his heel. halcyon santos, fellow connoisseur of the arts. a pleased grin flickers over the curve of his mouth as he raises a hand, the one not holding the mass of brochures. ‘ i’d offer my hand right now, ’ faintly guiltily as he draws forth, wrist flopping back and forth, ‘ but, ’ a sheepish gesture to the tens of booklets that he’s currently carrying.

‘ a pleasure to see you here again. ’

[maskrvde-blog]

MACBETH—

CELIA—

“Felicity Jones?” She is stunned, equally confused by the new nickname and the umbrella, vaguely offended, and frustrated (not sexually, thank you very much, fuck you Priam). If anything, calm your tits surprised her more than being called out for resembling an…actress? Castora vaguely remembered her as the girl in that Star Wars movie. “Fuck you,” she spat, addressing Mikael. “He wants to punch me. I want to punch him. We’re two consenting adults and this is none of your business, Capulet.”

She rolls her eyes, and goes back to addressing Priam, as if the other Capulet was never there. “Also - fuck - what are you, twelve? Tsk, tsk, Paris. I expected more of you than the average schoolyard taunt.”

Castora doesn’t want better taunts – she just wants to get dry and take a nap, but since there’s no chance in hell of getting that, why fight it? – but come on. She’s an Aguilar. She’s Castora fucking Aguilar, ice queen with an infamous father, and it doesn’t take a lot of digging if a person knows her world to find the right words to rub salt into a wound. 

She notices him biting at his thumb, a quick glance as the lights start losing it, almost as if feeding of the dangerous energy brewing between the Capulet and the Montague. Castora throws a wayward glance towards Mikael, their accidental self-proclaimed babysitter, a wolf’s grin marring her features, daring him to try to stop her now. 

The lights finally give out. 

“Fuck me.” 

Mikael turns to the Taravella boy, narrowing his eyes into a stern glare as he catches the kid’s wrist. “It doesn’t work as an umbrella, but it will work as a blunt object if you don’t stop provoking this woman into killing you.” He supposes Cosimo will punish him for that, too, but having Priam injured the name of peace is a lesser evil than having Priam injured in the name of broken umbrellas.

Mikael releases Priam and moves to the Montague before them. “Sorry. It’s my business if it’s my boss’s business.” He places his hands on her shoulders, genuine desperation in his eyes. “Listen, Celia. Celia, is it? You’re a beautiful woman. You can get laid without a gigolo. Don’t let any man demean your value as a person. But please, please, for the sake of my fucking job security, do not kill my boss’ fiance.”

He supposes it’s a weak offer. She has no real reason to listen to him, and he has no real reason to keep fighting her other than the looming threat of hypothetical Cosimo hanging over his head. So he sinks back and approaches one of the escorts and whispers to her, out of earshot from the bickering teenagers, “Do you happen to have any handcuffs? I need two pairs.”

She nods, and leaves, returning shortly with two pairs of fuzzy pink restraints. “Grazie,” he tells her, a genuinely grateful smile spreading as he places each on the pockets of either side of his slacks.“These will do.”

He returns to the scene and smacks his palm into his face when Priam bites his thumb. This is stupid and childish. It’s frustrating, being relegated to the role of Benvolio, drawing his umbrella up for the sake of peace. Right now, he hates the word. As he hates hell, all Capulets, and this. 

Everything went black.

there’s this feral grin that crosses his features—tugs over the slant of his mouth and leaks into his eyes—as he pointedly ignores mikael’s grasping of his wrist. he, of course, directs the expression towards celia, seething with blood and promise, before subsiding with a low laugh. and even this is feigned. ‘ your expectations of a twelve-year-old are rather high, ’ an arch remark, ‘ i suppose i’d be a genius twelve-year-old, if i were that age. ’ and then macbeth cuts in, the ever-present babysitter, and priam can only—seemingly—heed his request.

‘ of course, mother, ’ he drawls, taking a perfunctory step back, ‘ i’ll try to resist the siren-call of my fist meeting her face. ’ and it’s spoken like a normal thing, all honey-sweet and golden smiles. and, yeah, he turns towards the montague with barely-leashed violence cast across his shoulders. ‘ i’ll have to cease and desist for now, celia-love, for as much as you want me to be touching you, ’ turning his gaze towards the window with this slow sigh as if it were a chore, ‘ i’ve much better things to be doing with my time. ’  

and, yeah, there’s this major side-eye coming from priam at the mere thought of celia being able to gut him, much less kill him—no, the two were not mutually dependent—but he, nevertheless, waves a hand with a low hum of amusement that slicks from deep within his throat.

he’s rocking back on his heels, hands tucked within his pockets and that ever-present smile tilted across his mouth when mikael comes back from talking to the escort with suspiciously bulging pockets. and, no, that was not a ‘are you just happy to see me or are those handcuffs’ joke.

and then, oh, then the lights flicker off and there are two things that priam taravella can do right now: wait patiently for the storm to end, sipping tea and admiring the hookers, or lunge forward, heart beating a staccato rhythm of violence and promise and—

okay, you would think he’d do the latter (he would never), but aha. man’s got an image to uphold, so he merely flicks a coin in celia’s direction. maybe it’ll hit her. maybe it won’t. whatever the outcome, the almost-purple flashes of lightning almost make the day worth it—something about gods and corporeality, something about electric fervor—and he’s waiting for someone to make the next move.

[maskrvde-blog]

MACBETH—

CELIA—

Castora slinks into The Dark Lady, soaked to the bone, looking more like wraith than woman. Where did this storm even come from? she wants to ask, but none of the establishment’s occupants pay much attention to her, and well - there’s no point to asking. Rain is rain, and a storm is a storm. 

She slides her hood off, taking a hard look at the room. Castora recognizes the other man in the room - a Capulet. Macbeth - but can’t remember his name. When she lands on a more familiar face, belonging to someone better referred to as a son of a bitch than by name, her eyes narrow.

 “Of all the gin joints, Capulet,” she smirks, matching his feral grin. “In all the towns in all the world, I walk into yours.” She takes a look around, tipping her head in acknowledgment to one of the ladies of the night.

Despite the cold, her blood runs hot in her veins. The honey in his voice does a poor job masking the venom - at least in her eyes. This is their game - spewing poison, circling like vultures - and it’s almost kind in its familiarity.

Castora finishes crossing the threshold until she is only a few feet away from Priam. “Funny - I took you as a betrothed man.”

A pause as the lights begin to flicker, and the wildfire ignites in Castora’s eyes. “Anyone ever tell you that you’ve got a punchable face, Paris?” She balls her hands into a fist, her knuckles white, and shows him her left hook. 

He hasn’t paid his surroundings much mind, his attention devoted solely on getting the particularly stubborn folding umbrella he’d brought with him to close, only stopping to give half-hearted middle fingers to the occassional men and women whose questions range from are you lost? to do you want a lap dance? They’re just doing their jobs, probably, but he’s not here for that.  

He hears his name called by a not-so-familiar voice, and it’s instinct to spit out a dry remark. Palms pressed against the base of the object’s handle, Mikael rams the folding umbrella against the wall, saying, “I saw you two enter and fell under the impression that this was a daycare center. My bad.” Now that that’s out of the way, he gives the umbrella one last push until he hears the click of a spring. Just as he thinks he’s finally gotten it to close, the it bursts back open and hits him on the chest, spattering droplets of water all over his Armani polo. 

Mikael buries his face in his hand. This is bullshit. He’s — He’s what? He’s in a brothel, battling an umbrella, thirdwheeling a fucking rivalry. Worse, it’s Priam Taravella’s rivalry. He’d give less of a shit if it were anyone else, but this is his heiress’s betrothed, someone important and worth protecting, someone whose safety Mikael could be held liable for. The worst that could happen would be Cosimo Capulet himself calling him to his office to admonish him. Macbeth, hypothetical Cosimo would say. Explain to me why you failed to intervene when a Montague soldier assaulted my future son-in-law.

I don’t know, Signore Capulet, hypothetical Mikael would reply stupidly. I was trying to close my fucking umbrella.

Fuck this.

“Hey,” he snaps, pointing the broken umbrella at the Montague as if he were holding a sword. “Calm your fucking tits, Felicity Jones. I get that teen hormones make it so easy to conflate uncontrollable horniness with bloodlust, but can you please have the fucking maturity to know when to act on it?” He closes his grip around the handle harder, trying to stifle the surge of frustration from becoming something worse. Mikael lowers the umbrella, slows his voice down until his tone sounds closer to something civil. “Look. We don’t have to get violent. I can buy you an hour and a half with one or two of the gigolos if you promise not to lay a finger on the kid. Sound fair?”

this isn’t a daycare center, it’s a war zone, he’d spit out more petulantly if they weren’t in front of one (1) montague. nevertheless, his fingers curl upon the fold of his sleeves as inch-by-inch, he drags the fabric up and buttons them at the edges of his elbow, teeth bared into something that doesn’t resemble a smile. 

‘ at least my umbrella still works, ’ flippantly charming. he’s throwing one’a those smug-ass looks—think knife pointed at a cat—at mikael, offering his pristine umbrella to a hooker with a flirtatious grin. and, as the barely-dressed man takes the offer with the flick of a wrist, all call-me-later smile and hooded eyes, priam drags his gaze—with feigned reluctance—back to celia. 

‘ though my person might be here, my heart’s still in the right place, ’ low and drawled and laced with the threat of imminent violence as he stalks forward, eyes flashing, ‘ which is more than what i could say for yours, ’ and maybe his mouth is an open wound tonight, but the montague shouldn’t have mentioned his betrothed. 

( god knows he doesn’t deserve her. )

and just as he was about to strike back, watching the montague’s hand fist into something white-knuckled, he’s stopped by mikael’s caustic barrage of comments.

there’s a low whistle that comes from him as he eyes the two with a faintly amused expression that’s twisting up against his mouth, as if the heat of the moment was torn away by the mere existence of the broken umbrella that’s currently pointing at the montague after priam had casually dodged the woman’s left hook.

there’s a pause and then ‘ wow, macbeth, ’ and goddamn but he never knew the guy could be such a good babysitter, all salt and fire and god, just look at the take no shits expression mikael has on right now—he’s so tired, look at him—and priam kinda’ just dips his head down to hide his snickers behind the fold of his collar. he’s totally getting the guy a ‘world’s best [insert whatever here]’ card, later.

calm your tits, felicity jones, mikael had said. priam turns his gaze—yeah, he made sure it was all starry and shit, all shining eyes and faux-awe, y’know, expression number 420—towards the man. ‘ wow, ’ an echo, and he doesn’t say you’re so... hip, but he does say, while drawing his glance back towards the (The™) montague, ‘ you should take the offer, celia. god knows you wouldn’t be able to get laid without it, ’ and if he’s saying this while biting at his thumb—yeah, fight him—he very clearly does not add something like i dare you to burn down this joint.

[maskrvde-blog]

SEPTEMBER 29TH, MIDDLE OF THE STORM

the dark lady

@regicidios // @ofcastora

fuck. priam leans against the window, arms crossed and something very close to a disgruntled pout tipping over at his mouth. outside, the lightning looks vaguely purple and the clouds are gathering even more thickly above verona—he’s not very surprised by the sheer ferocity of the storm, not when he could have felt the dissatisfaction from the three witches—and he turns his head, gaze not slipping away from where the rain’s pounding at the glass. 

‘ mikael, ’ he starts, ‘ ... don’t you have a wife? ’ ah, yes, the two of them were cornered at the other end of the dark lady, with an invisible divide between the capulets and the montagues. the line, you see, rested with the various hookers that milled about in the middle of the room. ‘ not that i’m judging you, ’ a bit more flippantly, a bit more casually than he might have been, considering the circumstances. seems like the onset of the storm—witch-weather, he calls it, with a bit more irony than he’d intended—took more out of him than he had expected it to.

sure enough, as he turns from the enchanting view outside—lovely weather, really, makes one just ecstatic to prance about in the rain, doesn’t it—to focus a mild smirk of a glance towards his older companion, the storm howls even louder. why’s that?

priam might have a guess. the beginnings of a feral grin, all mocking and wild with whatever’s outside, tugs at his lips as his gaze catches upon castora’s bristling figure. ‘ oh, yes, montague, ’ he drawls, stepping from the window, ‘ how nice to see you here, as well. ’ as if they hadn’t tried to bar the opposing members from the entrance, as if the wind wasn’t practically howling at his back. ‘ say, ’ all honey dripping from his tongue, an expression like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth settling onto his features, ‘ what’re you doing here? the view’s lovely, ’ a dark rumble that seeps from his throat like velvet as he spares a charming grin towards one of the ‘ladies of the night’, ‘ but i didn’t take you for someone who knew how to, ah, relax. ’

and yeah, he’s itching for another fight. call it the weather that’s breathing its antediluvian madness into his veins, call it the sound of the wind and rain and what have you, but maybe he just wants to see a little more blood on the floor tonight.

[maskrvde-blog]

JULIET—

The weight of Priam’s hand in her own helps, in a heartbreakingly human kind of way, to ground her. She knew too many people in their line of life who survived on violence, who survived on the spilling of blood and the glory and the gore, and as much as she knows that her cousins and her soldiers have shielded her from this fact, there’s no real hiding of it. The truth will out, or so the poets said, and Juliana’s truth has always been that her golden heart was destined to be broken and reshaped a hundred times over. It would break with every fallen soldier, and soar again when a new one joined ranks. It would shatter each time someone committed unholy acts in her honor, the same way those very acts would make her feel more loved than anything else on this planet ever could. She’s learning this fact about herself, trying to get used to it the way she knows that she has to. 

She even knows that Priam, her blue sky, her source of comfort in the darkest of times, the boy who always showed her the light in the darkness, knows that he will break her heart time and again the way her other soldiers will. He will wear a button down and push his glasses up his nose the way he always has, but there’s violence in his fists the same way there’s violence in her cousin’s–her Priam is just better about hiding it. 

But his hand in hers, oh it grounds her, but not to the Earth–it ties her to the clouds. It ties her to her imaginings, to her ideals and her fantasies. It ties her to all of the good things that she has ever thought about him, all the delusions that she has about there being softness in this cold world of hers, and where he’s given her this inch, his hand gentle in hers, she will take a mile. She needs this from him, though she’s not sure how much he realizes it and how much of it is just habit for him at this point. As she reaches into his cupboard and removes the first aid kit from its usual hiding place, she wonders if he realizes how much his kindness has allowed her to believe in the goodness of this world. She wonders if he realizes that his hand on the small of her back lets her dream up days where they can both lay in a field, just laughing and dancing in the sun, no body guards, no fear of repercussions from an army on the other side of the bridge. She wonders if he realizes that his pressing a cup of Chamomile tea into her hands in the very definition of the softness their world would seek to strip from her, and that he is making himself a part of her inability to let go of it. 

No, she thinks. He must realize. 

Or maybe she’s deluding herself into think he loves her for her softness, not in spite of it. Either way, she takes her mile. 

As soon as that damned who is uttered from his mouth, she purses her own lips and sets her mug to the side and motions for him to sit down in one of his dining chairs. Setting the first aid box on the edge of his table, she rifles through it quickly, looking for what she needs. “That’s not important right now,” she says when she finds the tiny bandages that she needs and the bottle of hydrogen peroxide. Before moving to the gash on his cheekbone though she slips away from him and wets a cloth with warm water in his kitchen. Coming to stand in front of him, she presses the cloth against his cheek without any warning, knowing it might hurt but that it’s better to just get it done. “What’s important is making sure whoever did this to you doesn’t get the satisfaction of leaving a scar.” 

She smiles down at him, soft.  

“We can’t have that pretty face of yours all marred up, now can we?”

‘ oh, so now you think i’m pretty? ’ still soft, still as lovely as ever, as if the monster in him had never existed. the tilt of his head is a teasing, languid thing as he leans into her touch, the curve of his mouth not even twitching at the sensation of stinging pain. ‘fter all, even if she were to fit a knife to his ribs, he’d probably still smile at her. and if this wasn’t the closest thing to love that he could scrounge up from the depths of his heart, then he doesn’t know what would be. 

he turns his head, lashes lowering in mischief, and presses a quick kiss to her wrist, though he almost catches the soaked cloth instead for his efforts. ‘ will you tell me later, little bird? ’ low and hushed and tender as he once again fits his cheek to her hand holding the towel. leans into her like something soft, something gentle, all boyish grins and adoration that lingers in the hollows of his eyes like moonlight. 

the beating of his heart slows and this, the barely-leashed sensation of rage and hurt that wraps itself around his soul like something wild, rumbles and turns over. he knows like he knows the meaning of his name—something to do with atlas, nothing to do with freedom—that the thing he calls monster would rear its head back up with fury and rage leaking out of its seams later, as if it were filled to the brim with the thing called hunger and if he were a lesser man, he’d rage with it- but that is a luxury he cannot afford in this very moment. so he smiles up at her, something very close to devastation etched in the curve of his mouth. if only she could stay like this, soft and tender and very much all the light in his world. and, yet, the weight of her skies may be more than his.

and it’s enough for his monster to succumb to sleep, for the ever-present hunger to lie dormant if even for a moment. the sensation of the cloth framing his face, her hand and her warmth so very close, makes this into his act of perfect piety. witness this: a monster coming to heel underneath the gentle touch of a princess. 

and if what he next exhales is a sigh, it can only be named something like ruination. ‘ you spoil me, my love, ’ he breathes out as inch by inch, his fingers unfurl from their gentle grasp upon her shoulder, dragging slowly downward to fit his palms to the curve of her waist. swear that the skies themselves shiver when he melts against her, becomes pliable, leans into her warmth like she is the goddamn sun and he a devout believer.

swear that not even the moon would be coquettishly offended should he call juliana il mio tesoro, treasure, my light, my sun.

it’s not love, not quite, but it’s enough.

[maskrvde-blog]

VOLUMNIA—‌

“No?” She questions wryly, mouth tugging over the single vowel, as green eyes play at innocent disbelief. Her gaze travels over the room in its disarray. “Strange, could’ve had me fooled. But, if you were merely renovating, caro principe, I would suggest a colour brighter and in greater supply than your own blood.” 

Vivianne steps forward then, reaching for her purse.“Tell me whose face you rearranged, Priam. You know I never begrudge you a good fight.” They’d spied each other enough times at Measure for Measure to stand on such pretenses of civility. She rummages in in her purse until she finds the pressed handkerchief she’s looking for. Impractical things, handkerchiefs. She’s never quite understood them, especially in a business such as the mob. But they reek of class, of the I-have-employees-who-do-my-laundry-every-three-hours sort of wealth the Capulet sovereignty is made of. For that alone, she keeps one or two with her at all times. “And, when I tell you you look like hell,” Vivianne continues, reaching for Priam’s jaw with a vice-grip, before he has time to pull away.

 “- Per l'amore di dio, tell me that ‘I should’ve seen the other guy’.” 

He’s a handsome thing up close, when his face isn’t marred by the bloody scrapes that make them all resemble wolves moreso than men. And she’s more tender as she traces his cheekbones than she’ll ever be with her words. “There…” She hums, as satisfied with her handiwork as her present canvas will allow. The cuts and the bruises will take their time to heal, if he doesn’t aggravate them first in fresh fights. “Now be a good boy and get me a drink and I’ll answer any question you’d like. But first,” The underboss drops the matted handkerchief in his palms with a pointed nod, and steps back. “… Pulire.” Clean up. “I don’t generally prefer the extra iron in my whiskey.”

‘ oh, what ever do you have against blood? ’ and he’s grinning at her with that bladed expression, dragging his hands across the mutilated table and leaving bright streaks of red behind. lashes lower across the slant of his eyes as he regards her actions, remaining unmoving even as she pinches his chin. ‘ oh, of course, ’ he drawls, the seething rage never really leaving the set of his shoulders even as he allows her to turn his head this way and that. 

there’s this hesitant pause, as hesitant as a feral thing like him could make it, before he acquiesces to her demand, all but gritting out the name from a clenched jaw. ‘ the montague crown jewel, ’ he offers, looking as if merely speaking the title would cost him some money. and, god, but does he hate losing. 

especially when it was to his rival in all but name, the heir apparent to the montague throne, and the rage in him never does truly die down, even as he leashes back his brutality with the slight tilt of his mouth into a more civilized smile. ‘ you should have seen the other guy, ’ he quips with a boyish grin, dimpling cheekily at her. 

ah, but if he were to be a wolf, he’d be one that was absolutely ravenous. ‘ thank you, ’ folding his fingers over the bloody handkerchief with a huff of laughter that rumbles deep in his chest, ‘ but i do think that red is a good color on me. what, you don’t like my artistic sensibilities? ’ but, oh, even now he’s pretty in the way wild things are, all barely leashed violence and wrath.  he carelessly swipes the cloth over his hands, streaking red all over the place, and flutters his bloody fingers at her. ‘ yes, yes, ’ heeding her request and making his way to his undamaged liquor cabinet, light fingers taking out a crystal bottle and glass and moving back to one of the untouched tables. he gestures for her to take a seat, something offhanded as he flicks his wrist and pours the amber liquid. 

‘ as you’ve requested, my lady. no extra iron involved. ’

[maskrvde-blog]

VOLUMNIA—

Whereas most of her social visits have been a formality, Priam’s is an afterthought; an inclination she can’t explain and doesn’t particularly care to. As time goes on, she sees more and more of the young man, and, if time or circumstance don’t allow for such fortuitous run-ins, Vivianne is more than happy to arrange one herself. 

It doesn’t matter that she is still bruised and bone-sore. It doesn’t matter that she is out of kind words and courtesies or even that she stands on his doorstep, his implied denial barring entry. She enjoys the unabashed honesty in Priam’s grumbling tone, just as she enjoys it in Tiberius, or, in those rare occasions when she isn’t plying her for information - Regina. Still, it’s an inconvenience when there’s a door between them, one she isn’t above pushing in order to see the man within. Luck is on her side when it gives. 

“Oops.” She hums, trying for his sake to sound both surprised and apologetic. “You left your door unlocked, silly boy. But I’ll just see myself out if I’m so unwelcome.” Vivianne begins, turning her back to the room, although not before taking a good look at its occupant and his surroundings. The fire had done a number on many of them, but that’s no excuse for the state of things in his home, or, for Paris’ knuckles, marred with fresh blood. And so, just as quick, Vivianne turns back around to face him.

“Oh yes, that’s right. I don’t recall asking.” She informs him breezily, marching deeper into the apartment with little thought as to his personal preferences. “Levarsi, Priam.” Get up. “And stop feeling sorry for yourself, it ill-becomes you. What happened here?”

‘ oh, it’s you, ’ mouth still tight, jaw clenched and shoulders barely holding himself together in the realm of man and not monster. ( something in him whispers that he could be both, and yet. ) ‘ and i’m not feeling sorry for myself, ’ somehow petulant. 

he makes to stand at her behest, heedless of the red streaking across his pristine walls, heedless of the way his mouth splits into a bloody grin towards the woman he deemed as close to being his mother-in-law. a hand rises, thumb swiping against the cut on his cheekbone and painting blood across his lower lip as he leans against some broken chair. 

‘ nothing happened, ’ he drawls out, a sort of glacial apathy seeping through the mask he once again dons, though the cracks within his demeanor show him to be raging. ‘ nothing but a mere few scratches and, ’ gesturing towards the destruction in his room, knuckles stinging as blood seeps from his wounds and drips in rivulets across his forearms, ‘ my own frustration. ’ more than what he’d say to many others, for sure.

‘ thought my room was in need of some, ah, ’ and oh, the smile that curls against his mouth is nothing short of ruinous, ‘ redecoration. ’ 

he shakes his hands, blood splattering across the floor and broken objects. after all, god is dead on sundays. ‘ i’ll have to toss these out, ’ mild again as he surveys his room. gaze once again flickers to the woman in his apartment. ‘ what brings you here? not that your presence isn’t as welcome as ever, ’ with that charming grin, though the blood in his mouth kinda’ ruins his whole gentleman image. 

[maskrvde-blog]

🚶

theodore, his name was. he’d always thought the name not fragile enough for the man it named, but the meaning still stood. god’s gift. the man’s face is all but blurred in his memories, now, and all he can really remember are a pair of starry irises and a crimson mouth, accented with a single beauty mark near the corner of his eyes.

( to this day, in moments of intoxication, he still wonders sometimes if the man was truly a fae-creature, prone to flights of fancy and to twisting the truth until even the man himself couldn’t seem to discern between reality and lies. and, oh, priam fed him such pretty lies. )

he remembers this, clearly: the man, with his red red mouth curved into a burst of sweet laughter, languid and lovely and almost-lonely, silhouetted against the moonlight filtering in from the french windows.

remembers this, too: the way the man grasped at the bedsheets, twisted his fingers into priam’s hair, murmured words of adoration between gasping breaths. 

but in the end, the most vivid memory he has of the man is of this: theodore—and not once did priam call him theo—with his eyes like stars and mouth tilting into that lovely, loving thing, shattering in the face of a truth. priam remembers saying something like an apology and perhaps he did truly like this slip of a boy, with his soft dreams and sweet laughter, but it was all for naught. 

and perhaps that was the first time priam ever learned to cherish lies. ( oh, he hadn’t wanted to see the stars fall from the boy’s gaze, had expected the truth to be named honor rather than monster, but he calls himself the latter too, sometimes. )

[maskrvde-blog]

Iconic Lines From Modern Media That Are Raw As Fuck

“ Bold of you to assume I still have a soul. ”

“ I am a monument to all your sins. “

“ I’ll do whatever you want. ”

“ Then perish. ”

“ Violence for violence is the rule of beasts. ”

“ To become god is the loneliest achievement of all. ”

“ I survived because the fire inside me burned brighter than the fire around me. ”

“ If the world chooses to become my enemy, I will fight like I always have. ”

“ I will face god and walk backwards into hell. ”

“ Everything that we know and love is reducible to the absurd acts of chemicals. ”

“ There is therefore no intrinsic value in this material universe. ”

“ All knowledge is ultimately based on that which we cannot prove. ”

“ Will you fight? Or will you perish like a dog? ”

“ Do you think God stays in heaven because he too, lives in fear of what he created? ”

“ Tell me the name of God. ”

“ Can you feel your heart burning? ”

“ Can you feel the struggle within? ”

“ The fear within me in beyond anything your soul can make. ”

“ You cannot kill me in any way that matters. ”

“ You kneel before my throne unaware that it was born of lies. ”

“ Violence in an art. Your body, the Louvre. ”

“ Even the godless end up worshiping something. ”

“ God wishes he were me. ”

“ One day, you will be face to face with whatever saw fit to let you exist in the universe, and you will have to justify the space you’ve filled. ”

“ Take this gift, for the gods surely won’t. ”

“ Impudent of you to assume I will meet a mortal end. ”

“ This is hell’s territory and I am beholden to no gods. ”

“ Bury me shallow, I’ll be back. ”

“ There are no gods here. ”

“ Do I look like the kind of person who dies? ”

“ God’s dead and soon we will be too. ”

“ I thought there were no heroes left in this world. ”

“ I’ve been through hell and came out singing. ”

“ Pick a god and pray. ”

“ Too many people have opinions of things they know nothing about. ”

“ Too many people have opinions of things they know nothing about. The more ignorant they are, the more opinions they have. ”

“ The more ignorant they are, the more opinions they have. ”

“ What is better? To be born good, or to overcome your evil nature through great effort? ”

“ Bold of you to assume I can die. “

[maskrvde-blog]

TYBALT —

Tiberius wonders when exactly the universe had deemed the pair spent too much time together. When exactly Priam had grown so used to his antics, so used to to his erratic mannerisms that he grew to anticipate them. But not only anticipate them, regard them without so much as a glance or hum of acknowledgement, not even sparing the energy to lift his eyes from behind his wire-rimmed glasses to look at him. Lips forming an intrigued slant, Tiberius juts his chin towards the now-caught bags of coffee, maneuvering further into the office, “Have you been practicing? Impressive.” 

He sighs, the sound long and drawn out, far too tired of being scolded with the same patronizing string of words time after time by a man years his junior. “How many times have I told you, I don’t like rules – or listening.” His left leg kicks out, an awkward jolt of a motion as he attempts to dodge the massive paperweight aimed at his shins. “Aye – my manager would have your head if I couldn’t walk,” he warns, finger pointed in the other’s direction. Though, he can’t help but think of exactly how he’d explain a near-fracture to his shin to his team should he have hobbled into the ring after this. My friend hit me with a paperweight because I was being a dick, didn’t seem good enough. “Fine – I’ll just give a big ol’ growl when I arrive. Good enough for you? Dio forbid I interrupt your ever so important paperwork.” Though, Priam’s implication makes him snort with just how ridiculous of an idea it was. “You? Doing something sordid? As if you’re capable…”

Priam’s fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, and as he’s tugged a step closer, Tiberius can’t help but crane his neck back. The wrinkle to his nose is one of distaste, not fond of the way he’s being spoken to, so much so that he roughly shoves at the other’s hands. A disgruntled huff escapes him, as he brushes a hand over his shirt. Only then is he hit with the words his friend had said, eyes widening in slight alarm, “With as much meals that we’ve had together we’re practically fucking married….gross.” 

“Don’t mind if I fucking do,” Tiberius grumbles, but the way his lips flick up at the corners tells that he doesn’t mean it at all. Though, Priam has known him far too long to already know such a thing, more importantly, be able to take it. The boy reaches for a pastry, but Tiberius knows he must indulge his sweet tooth last, instead reaching for a bacon strip, breaking some off with his teeth. With the not-so-subtle prompt, his eyes slide along the table to the tiny pile of napkins in the corner. He can’t help but wonder if his friend knew just how futile making such suggestions would be. “You mean…” and bacon transfers from his left hand to his right, “…this paperwork?” A greasy finger leaves it’s mark right on the dotted line that the other’s signature should go, only to press and press and press to other stacks that littered the desk, “Or this paperwork?” 

his sharp gaze immediately cuts to the way tiberius rips at the bacon, eyes narrowing and mouth tilting into a slight frown. ‘ tigris, ’ a warning, low and soft and threaded through with tension, ‘ don’t- ’ and of course he fucking does it. 

there’s an audible anger mark, as if in slow motion, when the goddamn asshole of verona, venerated pain in the ass and noble annoyance, drags his bacon-covered fingers across the pristine paper.

immediately in retaliation, priam takes out another paperweight and tosses it at the other man, just to get him to leave his paperwork alone. he breathes in, lungs expanding in an effort to calm himself down when he catches the grease stains upon the contract he’d been working on for the past hour, and breathes out, taking a small bite from the muffin.

( when they were younger, priam’d often cram muffins into his mouth. he learned from those nights of stomachaches. )

‘ how childish, wifey, ’ he says sweetly, looking like butter wouldn’t melt on his tongue, ‘ maybe this is why our marriage was doomed from the beginning. maybe we should find you a marriage therapist. ’ here, there’s the slightest twitch of his fingers, as if he’d wanted to snatch away all of the papers on his desk, but refrained from doing so.

‘ juliana can be our marriage counselor, ’ drawled out as a wicked grin slants across his mouth. ‘ i’ll tell her you’ve been ruining the contracts. she’d side with me. ’

[maskrvde-blog]

AUGUST 27TH, NEAR MIDNIGHT

priam’s apartment

@lavolumnia

he slumps against the wall, palm against his forehead and fingers digging into his scalp as his eyes flash, half-feral, from underneath the feathering of his lashes, all barely-leashed violence and smothered rage. his hands drip blood, knuckles bruised and bared to the elements as the punching bag in the corner sways, streaks of red painted across its dark surface.

in the moments since juliana left, in the moments since she patched him back up, both literally and metaphorically with the tenderness in her voice and the gentle touch of her fingers, priam once again lost himself to seething rage, barely-leashed violence laced in the set of his shoulders and in the slant of his gaze. it was a close call, between the montague heir and himself, close enough for his loss to strike him deeply in a way that not even blades could reach. if he was just a bit faster, just a bit more prone to flipping knives across his knuckles, then the one that limped home wouldn’t have been him.

( and maybe, just maybe, he could’ve protected the few he cared about. )

something in him causes him to sneer at his own complacency, an ugly emotion welling up from the depths of his chest and taking root in his mind. there wouldn’t be a next time.

a knock sounds on his door and priam only grimaces, hands tightening around a roll of bandages as he disdains to raise his head. ‘ who is it, ’ flat and dispassionate. contrary to his tone, his eyes flash with veiled fury, even as he tucks the emotion back from where it’d seeped from his expression. ‘ now’s not a good time, ’ voice low and harsh and dangerous, one leg drawn up and an arm draped against his knee, all predatory indolence and masked agitation.

[maskrvde-blog]

Send me a 🚶 and I’ll introduce you to an NPC in my muse’s life.

[maskrvde-blog]

the curve of his mouth is a slow, charming thing as he tilts his head and laughs, perfunctorily, at something the chairman murmurs to him. thick lashes feather across the slant of his eyes as the angle of his jaw catches the glittering lights, and he is all moon and fae-tinted gold, charming in the way of the elite. ‘ of course, ’ having listened to the man’s droning on and on and on about some business venture or another, ‘ i shall see what i can do, ’ clasping the man’s sweaty hand and allowing an earnest grin to cross his lips, ‘ you have my word. ’ 

he raises the flute of champagne in his hand, tilting his mouth into a smile around the mouth of the glass, and takes a small sip of the bubbly liquid. from the corner of his eye, he spies the montague captain excusing herself from her own conversation companions and a barely-there huff of amusement slicks from his throat at the sight of her moving towards him and the GICO chairman. 

‘ it seems that we’ll soon have another companion, ’ a cheerful murmur to the chairman as he slants a smile towards the approaching woman, all good-natured laughter and polite interest. the lowering of his lashes hides the knife-edge of his eyes as his mouth curves into a grin. 

after she speaks, he extends a hand. ‘ signorina phan, ’ in greeting. ‘ is it? ’ glib and feigning slight surprise, though the widening of his eyes speaks of nothing but genuine emotion, ‘ you look lovely, as always, ’ and kissing the back of her hand should she accept his gesture. regardless, his hand is tucked into his pocket. ‘ is there something you need? ’ voice low and light, ‘ we had just about finished our conversation, ’ a barely-veiled dig at her interruption, though the set of his shoulders speaks of only soft amusement and earnest curiosity. 

09.15.18       // eleven pm.                 la casa di banachi, just outside verona proper. → closed to @maskrvde

The air is fresh at Giudice Banachi’s estate, flavored by the cloying sweetness of just-ripe grapes and punctuated by the fairy lights woven through the trees. It’s almost too cold for an outdoor party, the sort of weather that all but forces you to drink, to warm your bones.

The flute of champagne in Pandora’s hands has been sipped exactly once, perfunctorily. 

Pandora is a slip of a thing in a Celine gown, understated amidst a sea of glittering jewels and even more sparkling personalities. This isn’t her normal type of work, not anymore; she’s never truly had the temperament for high society, has never quite been able to swallow the blades on her tongue. However, the Phan family has ties to Verona’s institutions of justice spanning generations, and years of virtually identical soirees has honed her ability to politic her way through a room. She flirts her way between various members of Verona’s polizia locale, passably feigning something akin to interest as the wife of a giudice prattles on about her dogs or her children or something equally as dull. Throughout this exercise, however, Pandora keeps her final goal in the corner of her eye: the GICO chairman. The man had been asking questions about To Tame A Soup, intrusive enough to warrant notice from the Montagues. Fortunately for him, Pandora has answers. And a few questions of her own, naturally.

The chairman isn’t an associate of the Phans or the Montagues, but he’s apparently acquainted with the Capulets, if his current conversation partner is anything to go off of. Pandora’s eyes narrow at the sight of the Capulet emissario, and she gracefully excuses herself from the dog-children-whatever discussion to approach the two men. “Signore Taravella,” she greets, sweet as sugar and sharp as a knife, “Chairman. What a…surprise, seeing you two together here.”

[maskrvde-blog]

there’s a part of him that revels in the aftermath of ruination and he can still feel the phantom flames licking across his skin like something divine, something holy. the grin that splits his mouth is knife-sharp and cutting and as he draws his thumb across the cut on his cheek, blood seeping through and painting a mirror of his current state of being—bruised and bloody and flicking a low, mocking glance at the montague heir who was the cause of the blood in his mouth—and he has never before felt so alive.

there’s a saying to war, something that acknowledges the innate being of a fight. of close enough to slide a knife through ribs, fist meeting heart with a bestial sort of violence, and this boy gone half-feral has always known that nothing can be hidden underneath his masks at moments like those. 

he has always gone to lick his own wounds after fights. especially fights in which he was the one to have come out the worse for wear, dyed in purpling bruises and bleeding cuts and something in him howls, half-wild with the thought of imprinting these self-same bruises on his opponent the next time they meet. 

but, oh, he turns and he sees his little bird—mio tesoro, this heart of mine, his sun and stars—with her bruised cheekbones and eyes aching with things left unsaid. he softens, immediately, striding towards her even as she moves towards him, hand touching hers on his cheek, and this time, the smile that crosses his mouth is blooming, tender thing. ‘ of course, ’  he says immediately, voice coming out in a way that speaks of infinite fondness as he leans forward and presses his mouth to her forehead, hand moving to frame her face gently, as if any more pressure would cause them both to break. 

whatever you need from me, something that doesn’t quite manage to leave his throat but manifests in the way he gently slides his hand down and tangles their fingers together, soft in a way that he thought he had forgotten as he begins to lead her away from the remnants of the fire.

on the way, he’s quiet in a way that is reminiscent of the moon, all silver glory and languid softness, and the way he ushers juliana in is almost wry, especially when he winces as he bends slightly over. ‘ first-aid box’s where it’s usually at, ’ nodding his head at the closet as he brings her usual mug over, tea steeping within its depths. 

‘ little bird, ’ gaze lightly worried as he looks her over, his own misshapen mug between his hands, ‘ who-? ’ as his glance alights upon her bruises. he stops himself from smothering her with care, for he knew she’d only feel more trapped should he direct all attention to her, first and foremost. it’s a hard struggle, but somehow he manages.

date: august 27th location: northern grove time: nearing 5am availability: @maskrvde

A tremble that she doesn’t see coming shudders through her, one that she should have known would come and pushed away because the sky has just fallen and it feels like the rivers are running dry with how her lungs ache. She is standing, stark still, staring up at a building caught aflame, can still feel the place where Vivianne had wrapped her long arms around her shoulders so tightly Juliana almost thinks they might bruise, add to the collection that Marcelo Rosso left behind. She finds some comfort in that, in a twisted and silly way that she thinks only she can ever truly understand. That a person can love another and break them, can love so sharply it’s like bringing a blade to flesh, that another person can love so hard it leaves its mark on their skin. 

She hopes she can do that. Leave her mark. 

She doesn’t have time for shuddering though, doesn’t have time to be weak the way that she so desperately needs to be, doesn’t think that she deserves to be such when she is surrounded so by others who are far worse for wear. She doesn’t have time, doesn’t have the energy, doesn’t have enough pieces of herself left at the moment to feel the pain she knows she’ll feel in the morning. She notes with a careful glance the way Rafaella stubbornly refuses to care for her own flesh, stares determinedly at her cousin and the marks across his skin. She sees Roman with blood on his cheeks, wonders how much of it is his and how much of it belongs to the girl cradled in his arms. Her hands shake and she feels tears welling in her eyes, can’t figure out if they fall because of the anger taking a home in her bones or for the bone-deep exhaustion that she feels coming as adrenaline leaves her. 

Looking around, she is consumed by a single thought: she wants her best friend. 

She’s never felt it so viscerally before, this need to be with him. She could go to her cousin’s, she thinks, could cross the space between them with ease and put her own hands on Rafaella to make her pay credence the pain she needs to feel. She could go to any one of her soldiers, could use this fire to make herself stronger, could take the parts of herself that the fire has scorched and mold them into diamonds sharp enough to lead her people to seeing her as glorious. But she doesn’t want Rafaella to see her with her burns, doesn’t want Tib to see the bruises she knows must be blossoming across her cheekbones and forget about the split skin on his own. She doesn’t want to go to anyone who will see her and forget about themselves.

She doesn’t think she deserves that, not after she was so unable to help anyone.

All she wants is to help someone else. 

So she goes to the person she knows will take care of her without forgetting to let her take care of him in return. She searches the grove, almost desperately, for the sight of her fiancée, casts her gaze around at all of the people who are huddled together, and when she sees him something like a weight lifts from her lungs and she feels like she can take a breath, doesn’t feel so guilty when she shudders and goes to him, walks right up to him and puts her palm to his cheek. 

“We need to get you cleaned up,” she says. She doesn’t hesitate when she goes on. “We should get out of here. Why don’t we go, just leave. Let’s go to your apartment.”

Her lip trembles, giving her away. She ignores it.

“Please.”

She can’t be here a moment longer.  

[maskrvde-blog]

What god criminalizes creation? Mine                                              

divine. Mine of my own hands. Mine of a prayer arrowheaded in silence, my body a steed I ride to sabotage

— Kristin Chang, from “Etymology of butch,” published in BOAAT