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What?

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Distorted reality. Everything pointed towards her own manipulation, something that was hidden underneath thick veils and distortion. Derya must've been the reason for her untimely recollection, breaking through what should've been hidden away for good by causing her to sin, work against the intended course of things. Instead, with her eyebrows furrowed together, Sofia knelt in front of Joel, eager to find out herself what had happened and why it happened to begin with. Joel suffered alone, that much she realized. Hidden away from this world, from her. Whatever he wasn't willing to tell her just yet must've left scars, cuts that had taken years to even develop such scar tissue. Maybe that's why she couldn't stay away right now: the past lingering in her heart, her brain not catching up but wanting to, while her body screamed to be relieved of the tension. Fingers trailed along Joel's underarm, the electricity tingling against her fingertips, exciting her even further. After years of uncertainty, feeling loved, adored, but hollow in a way she couldn't describe, Sofia finally breathed again. "My destruction?" it was just one part of her thought process, lips parted to take in some much needed air, "what..." she stopped herself from asking, "please, let me in."

Her fingers stopped immediately, but she wasn't taken aback. Instead, Sofia slightly tilted her head to fully focus on him, her mind now slowly registering the various cues, though her body refused to keep its distance. Fingers now rushed to hold his trembling fingers, caressing them gently in an attempt to soothe him. "I don't know who I was when I did that. But I know who I am right now — and she's grieving the man she's created. If I'm to blame, then please, let me help, don't shut me out."

Leaning in closer, she let his trembling hand move to her throat, resting them against her soft skin as she placed herself a bit more comfortably, dangerously close, in between his feet. "You're right: I don't know anything. The pain, the guilt, but I do sense how I feel about you. You can feel it, can't you? The subtle goosebumps on the nape of my neck, my heart racing uncontrollably, my mind filled with the thought of you," her voice remained low, hushed, knowing that her own declaration could be akin to treason to some. Despite all of that, Sofia didn't stop. "You chose my happiness over your own," it's a sudden realization that forces her closer, her other arm now feeling alongside his chest as she now slightly angled her body over him, "Do you..?" she chocked on those words, "Would a kiss right now feel more like relief than betrayal?

“It’s not hard to feel content when you live in a distorted reality,” he says, almost under his breath. Trying to mask the involuntary shudder at her tiny glimpses of their past. At her unknowingly using a word that was meant for just them so, so long ago. “The utopia collapsed — they always do. This was just another in a long line of destruction through blood and fire.” Because reality always fought its way in. They couldn’t live in a Utopia forever. It had to be dismantled just in part because the world has to keep spinning and never let them remain as they are, in peace and bliss.

His eyes track her every movement. Watches as electricity jolts up his arms at the blazing heat of her touch — impossible to tell if it’s natural or her powers that are the cause of voltage shooting through his veins. “And isn’t that the problem,” he says immediately at her declaration. “When you're somebody’s whole world, you don’t care what happens to other people.” And maybe if either had loved the other a fraction less, their history wouldn’t have come with a body count. It feels like nothing he is saying is hitting any type of nerve, however, as he finds her lowering herself before him. Causing another involuntary twitch in a place he shouldn’t be heated right now; a heat that seemed to be emboldening as she placed his hand on her chest. Letting him hear every thump of her heart, and how rapid it seemed to be right now. Like it was going to burst out of her chest from their proximity. If he were a stronger man, he would have pulled his hand away immediately. But he wasn’t. Even with his brain screaming at him to put an end to this now before it gets worse, he stays in place. “Sofia,” he practically pleads. His hand now visibly trembling against her chest. “Dreams are better than reality. I promise you, you don’t want the reality. You don’t want me.” He briefly meets her eyes. “The minute I give in, all the hurt comes back. And you don’t want that. Trust me.” She would become as hollow and haunted as he — nobody deserved that.

[shadowcrowncd]

How long would he be able to hold on until he'd just do this his way? Not the usual thrill-seeker, Francesco could see himself fall into the rabbit hole called Ryker Voight, casually falling victim to his piercing eyes and charm. He'd mobilize his entourage, his spies, to find all his possible weaknesses and keep them sealed in the darkest, most secluded corner on earth. His heart, as some would argue, not knowing he'd slipped so perfectly into being known. Even now, their closeness revealed too much about himself, too much for his own liking. Eyes darting between the faint silhouette of Ryker's face and the wall behind him, trying to find some sort of point he could focus on in order to feel better about the whole situation. Shadow had made up his mind about going, no matter what, in order to protect the person he loved. It's evident in the way his fingers cramp around Ryker's arm, eager to let him know his Shadow meant every word. A possible weakness, perhaps, but Francesco considered this a nice heads up, so that, if necessary, he could already process any possible bad news, grief or not grief -- or what the hell Ryker would do once he's gone. At last, he asked not to be a weakness to him. Ryker's hot breath so close, brushing against his neck, Francesco remained focused, but he'd be lying if he said he wasn't affect. So, as per usual. Two liars, one, undeniable truth nobody dared to utter.

"That's not a request, Gamemaker," he whispered abruptly, sternly. He could handle being face to face with his demons for long periods of time, but he refused to be the cause of Ryker's pain, if he could help it. At least, this way, he'd be prepared for the worst. "All I'm saying is, if they manage to catch me, don't follow me, spare me your rescue mission that might only get you killed as well." What would be the goal, anyway? Ryker conquering Hell to get his Shadow back, possibly getting killed in the process? Shadow would never recover, especially considering he'd left for Ryker's sake. No matter, they were here for fun, something Francesco had pushed to the side in hopes of keeping his drunk self occupied enough not to kiss Ryker right then and there or to push him into the next bathroom available.

With a slight smirk, Francesco drank the last bit of booze left in his cup, completely ignoring the obvious goosebumps forming in between his neck and shoulder, right where Ryker touched him. Stretching his neck while drinking, Francesco subtly let him in. His heartbeat fast and unapologetic, Shadow eventually leaned back to fully watch Ryker. "You won tonight. What's your prize?" A loaded question which caused Francesco to sink into his seat once uttered, defeated, at his mercy. "I might be gone for a while after tonight. They cannot know. We should at least make the most of tonight, right?" Standing up, he reached into his pocket and placed some money onto the table next to the dice, just to pay for the drinks and service. "We cannot expose ourselves mentally, that'd be a serious mistake." He stood straight, with only his hand reaching over the small table to reach Ryker's hair, almost softly pulling it so he'd completely look up, "no attachments, but I'm afraid we're in too deep, are we not?"

He nods at the sentiment. Quietly agreeing. He couldn’t escape it; and it was continuously proven often as he still found himself looking for the shadows in every room he occupied. Relishing in it when he found it, and savoring every taste of the darkness he could get. Even when he shouldn’t. And, really, he never should. But what’s life without a little risk? Without a little game of life or death?

His eyes can’t follow the movement as he remains at Francesco’s ear, but he feels it. Feels the hotness of his grip on Ryker’s arm and the strength of it — so solid and rough against his forearm. It has him involuntarily flexing his hand once before tightening into a fist to control himself from making any other tempting movements in this keyed up moment. “And they just keep getting more blurry,” he murmurs along his ear while keeping his eyes on other occupants of the bar who were completely oblivious to the man toying with his shadow. “Despite the blurriness,” he continues. “You’ve always had my trust. I know all five of those truths will be hidden to your utmost capability.” He knew it down to his bones; knew that the shadows would retain their secrets until its dying breath. Something Francesco confirms in their next deadly request. It causes his breath to stutter, just once, as Francesco’s grip tightens on him. His affection, he could handle. Even though they both buried their shared affection beneath a shipping container load of dirt; it still managed to resurface from time to time. It was a demanding beast and it could never be considered undeniable. But letting him go? He’d deny that again and again. Til his own dying breath. He rears back just slightly. Enough that his lips weren’t at his ear but now inches from his face again. Allowing him to look at his Shadow freely again. See the seriousness in his gaze. It has Ryker adopting his own seriousness as his hand not currently gripped by Francesco settles where his shoulder meets the neck, thumb brushing along the collarbone. “Letting you go will never be a part of my game plan.” 

It has to be minutes before he lets his hand drop to grab his last drink. “We are well beyond complicated, but I’ll take one last drink. This is the annual summer festival, after all. We are supposed to be celebrating.” The alcohol was the only way for them to get any sort of warmth that resembled summer in this frozen country.

[shadowcrowncd]

"Pity, it's not like my kind has been pretty much fighting internally for months now. With my siblings dead and all," he dropped that information as if it didn't open another can of worms he wasn't really ready to set free just yet. "Clearly he doesn't sound as charming as you do." Blaze possibly represented everything Varek warned him about: a vampire ready to take risks, battle for territory and even more power. He considered himself to be extremely lucky to have stumbled upon Sterling tonight given her own critic about her family's practices. Two outcasts, in a way, meeting under unfortunate circumstances, meant to be enemies. Comical, he thought, how blood had been the answer to both of their prayers. "Thank you," he murmured then, "not a beast, more a creature perfectly blending in." Damon grinned knowing his own disguise often lacked the needed sensitivity to pass as a complete human. He considered himself to be more beast than human these days, ironically. "'Don't think that's really necessary for me. You could've just watched me bleed out and spiced up your night, but..." realization hit, causing his fingers to tense up against his shirt, grabbing it instinctively, "...you didn't."

When his blood trickled down his skin, Damon dragged his finger along its wetness, picking it up and letting it drink off his finger. With one eyebrow raised, Damon nodded towards his finger, clearly excited and eager to have her taste him as a sign of respect, an offering if you will. To worship at her altar, to give something from him to her... he could barely keep his eyes off of her. "A full on charmer? Who would've guessed?" he asked, sarcasm lacing his voice in an instant, though he didn't mean to insult her. Quite the opposite. Standing here with her, possibly surrounded by Betas doing his father's bidding, Damon had to rely on his own instincts for now and having Sterling nearby wasn't exactly a danger to himself despite his reluctance.

"Well," his finger was still dripping, "you might not want to kill someone now, but maybe I can still give you something in return. As a peace offering, Sterling." Saying her name sounded like a prayer out of his mouth. Despite the howl and distinct smell of werewolf intensifying by the minute, Damon focused completely on her, unable to look away. Taking her hand with his dry one, Damon pressed a slight kiss against the back of her velvet, cold skin, his own eyes glowing red at the mere intense smell of her. "Don't you trust me? I can be pretty convincing myself. Vamps do love blood, don't they?" he asked, innocently, in a dumb, fake way while moving closer. "I owe you one. Offering my blood to you," he purposely nicked his own finger to let more drip out, "we could easily find each other. I've got your scent memorized and all." He let out a loud, deep exhale as he grinned at her, "I'm Damon, by the way. Prince of Lupercalia, next in line. Pretty much the only hope for Lupercalia these days given the Alpha's shit attitude and rules."

“Oh yeah, suuuper chill. Not at all a clear danger to your kind.” She returns with equal sarcasm. And with his next comment along with the princess remark made twice now, she scoffs. Indecently. She doesn’t halt her tongue like she had earlier from biting back this time. “Do I look like a beast to you? Because I can assure you, I am not. Not even a hidden one. I like my meals served in a crystal glass while reclined.” At least, she does now. The newborn version of her would have begged to differ if she were still around. “And you’re welcome. I like to be brutally honest when I can. I don’t often get the chance as I’m usually just there to charm the pants off someone.” 

She tries to ignore him while she digs into his wound. But he makes it quite difficult. He makes brazen statements in between grunts of pain that almost has her wanting to delay the relief from his pain. But she doesn’t. She can’t ignore the softening of her own dead heart as he snarls and digs his nails into the bark of the tree as a measure of distraction. So, she offers more of her own. “Meaning I don’t have to mind. They could catch me right now with you, and I wouldn’t bat an eye because the rules have never applied for me. With a few words I’ll have convinced them this was all a dream and nobody would be the wiser.” She finds his eyes for a second in the midst of it all. “SO, no wounded Yearwood. No princess caught red-handed. This never happened. We never met. Nobody looks at me any differently.” She had taken this moment to fully pluck the bullet from his insides. In the thick of her response to him. Watching as the wound rapidly began to heal underneath her hand that still lingered on his abdomen where blood was still slowly drying. She had to catch herself from watching it trickle down his skin. She finally pulled away instead and placed the bullet with her suture kit. “It’s not that I’m not invested,” she says on a sigh, her mind half-preoccupied by her medical equipment and his lingering scent. She didn’t have anything to clean the tools with right now. She settled with just zipping it all back into its kit and tucking it away again in her purse. Even the blood-caked gloves. She didn’t have anywhere to dispose of them right now that wouldn’t draw the attention of others of her kind. 

“I only get included when they need me,” she finally continues. Supplying a half answer. It seemed too difficult or intricate to try to explain further — to discuss how family, politics, and dynamics between conflicting species affected everything on top of her ability to charm being the most vital part of who she was to her coven. She tries to barrel past this by focusing on him then. “You do owe me.” That’s it. It’s all she says for the moment. Retaining the ‘I owe you’ as if she were a kid again who could just pocket it and maybe call him up at any time in the future to cash it in. He sure seemed willing to let her cash it in for just about anything; if his ramblings were any indication. “Woah there, beast boy,” she says, pushing her hands off her knees and standing up from her crouched position. “If helping you wasn’t any sort of indication — I’m not exactly trying to kill someone right now. Or inherit the throne. Besides, you're seriously underestimating how far my mother is willing to go to keep her power.” She adjusts her jacket and smooths any misplaced pieces of hair. Seeking several minor distractions from his very blood-stained body that still looked so fragile from the wolfsbane. “How about this,” she holds out her hand in offering. Blood-free and perfectly manicured. “Hi, wounded guy I met in the woods. I’m Sterling! And I'm not looking to continue the centuries-long feud between wolves and vampires.” Then, with a shrug and wry smile, “if you want that. I could give my family a ring. They’d happily chase you and put you down like a dog.” 

[shadowcrowncd]

Damon shrugged, the corners of his lips pointing downward as he outweighed the cost of such security in exchange for his life. "He sounds like a chill guy," Damon commented with a clear tone of sarcasm lacing his voice. Blaze did sound like someone he potentially needed in his life, if they weren't mortal enemies before they even had a chance to properly meet. He'd only heard bits and pieces about him, but even less about Sterling, so seeing her now, seeing her compassion, did surprise the werewolf. While he didn't trust easily and still remained somewhat suspicious, Damon didn't flinch when Sterling kept her distance, shocked at Damon's beastly nature, as she so called it. Instead, the werewolf grinned while his fingers burned from the intense feeling of wolfsbane coating his skin. Blood shouldn't be so scandalous to her, but apparently Damon had been quick to form an opinion about the stardust heir. "A different kind of beast, princess; a wild beast to your hidden one." They could so easily hunt through Rome, drain tourists and others of their blood without ever getting caught while they ruled over politics and others methods to dispose of bodies in no time. She was the one to talk about beasts. With him bent over backwards against the tree, Damon huffed loudly to get rid of the pain. Smelling her then, unapologetically, the werewolf quickly figured she actually didn't smell bad at all. Different, but pleasant, exciting to say the least. "Thanks for the compliment, I'm glad we've skipped right past exchanging pleasantries," Damon murmured in a hushed tone while biting down onto his teeth.

It intensified after feeling her ice cold fingers against his skin. Of course, he should've known beforehand, but given his.. predicament, Damon forgot about such things and rather focused on his wound. The cold did help in numbing the pain ever so slightly, he almost wanted to pull her closer. "Right, meaning you wouldn't mind any of your bloodsuckers to see us together. I mean you helping me seems like such a red flag, 'probably breaking a few rules and all that. The rebel daughter, I quite like that." He grinned through the pain, groaning and snarling as it intensified. His eyes darted from star to star above them, hoping to find one he could properly focus on. Then, almost ironically, he focused on her face. Wasn't she made of stardust as well? In a poetic sense, for sure, just as beautiful, just as mythical and otherworldly. Sweat dripped down on the side of his forehead while nails dug deep into the bark behind him. Then, nothing. His wound healed almost immediately while his mind finally caught up and further processed all her words. "And you're not invested in business? Or just bored of it all? Because, same," he didn't mind her knowing more about him despite outer influences probably advising him against it. She just helped him recover, get that damned bullet out of his body -- a bullet his father might as well have fired himself. "I owe you one," Damon nodded towards her after once again pulling his bloodstained shirt over his head, covering his body, "though I guess there's nothing I can truly provide you with. As you may have realized, I'm just an outcast myself," his voice returned to some bitterness, anger, as he pushed himself completely off the tree and into the gardens. Luckily they'd decided to hunt him at night, this way he wasn't at risk of having to kill any tourists or Romans. Still, Sterling had been a witness.

Looking back and locking eyes with her, he wondered, for just a moment, how useful she could be to him and how useful he could be to her. Pathetic, clearly, a last resort. "So, what do you seek in all of this? Our families hate each other, that's some Romeo and Juliet bullshit." Despite his healing, Damon still felt somewhat weak. Probably the remaining wolfsbane coursing through his veins. "If you want me to kill for you: gladly, take your pick. I got enemies galore, we might just find one we both want dead. Daddy fangs, perhaps? Promote you to Vampire Queen real quick?"

“Yes, Blaze. That Blaze guy who is a war vet and a natural soother. He’d lull you into a false sense of security before you could blink so please, try to help it next time.” She responds earnestly, but not without a slight lifting of the corner of her mouth at his somewhat pathetic joke. And she might have made a snarky comment in return like ‘ do I look undead to you? Cause right now, I think I’m looking more alive than you  ‘. But the words are quickly replaced by a gasp as he digs back into his wound for the bullet. Her hands partly want to go to cover her mouth, and partly want to reach out to stop him. They do neither. They stay somewhere in between — half raised to her mouth and half outstretched towards him as she looks to his wound, his face, and then back to the wound. “O-oh… that is so unsanitary. You wolves really are beastly.” She isn’t appalled long, though, before her medical training kicks in when he finally relents and lifts up his shirt to reveal the wound. Something that wouldn’t be considered too awful if it weren’t for the wolfsbane. She is quick to action then. 

“Oh please,” she huffs out a laugh. “You wolves do not smell or taste good to us. Which is probably why we don’t like being around you — you reek.” Which isn’t a lie. Normally. But there was something about his scent that wasn’t unpleasant to her. It was rather alluring, and she found herself having to roughly swallow as she got near enough to drop her purse on the ground before digging through it quickly looking for what she needed. Which took less than five seconds as she pulled out her suture kit. “Don’t have to get anything on my nails since I always come prepared. Or worry about what others might think,” she says, holding up her Foerster Forceps and disposable Nitrile gloves. “I might even keep you from getting an infection while this wolfsbane runs through your system… if you're lucky. Now you might want to find something to bite down on or hold onto.” She doesn’t wait to see if he does that. She pulls on her gloves and carefully presses against his skin. Doing her best to suppress the reflexive shiver at the heat that radiates from his skin onto her own ice-cold skin. It’s been so long since she’s felt something so warm, though, that she has to force herself to focus on the task at hand. 

She continues to press until she finds what she is looking for. An oddity. An unknown mass. The bullet. Smiling to herself, she doesn’t waste a second before peeling open the wound with one hand and sticking the Forceps in with the other to extract the bullet. “As for what I was doing out here,” she says, calling back to his earlier question she had pointedly ignored until now. A good distraction as she worked — for her more than him as she wasn’t expecting him to smell so appetizing. Her tongue darts along her lip for a half second before she presses her lips together in concentration. “No, I wasn’t out celebrating. I was out with my fiance and some of the Stardust members who he finds tolerable.” Then, more softly. “Or rather I was just there to be seen while they all discussed business over breakfast.” Seen but not heard, she doesn’t add. She’s already said too much while trying to not focus on his scent. Then she lets out a final “A-ha” as she gets a good grasp on the bullet and pulls it out easily without damaging anything vital. “I’m not just a pretty face, though, am I?” Not really a question. A statement made as she holds up the bullet for him to see, or take if he wanted to.

[shadowcrowncd]

Sofia couldn't believe her own thoughts at the moment while they were spinning into one, decisive direction. Betrayal, to sin, to actually go after that high Derya must've uncovered with her powers, unbeknownst to Sofia. Instead, she simply considered the possibility of having uncovered something of the past, long hidden, that now tethered them together, made her want him in ways she would've never expected. All this secrecy bled into her decisions. From the secret room, to the nightly visit, the trusted lady-in-waiting standing guard while Sofia herself hid with the king's. Of course she'd heard about the rumors at court, that some were against her as Queen or others preferred her to rise above all else. Her future, however, wasn't as important right now. Coming to terms with her, possible, new responsibilities and position, being married, just wasn't on her mind for the past days, weeks. Not while other rumors spread about the first seal breaking, possibly releasing the four horsemen. "You'll be compensated for your troubles, I promise." Maybe that would be a better incentive than being heard, surely.

Sitting uncomfortably, anxiously, Sofia's eyes remained fixed on him as her focus point, ignoring everything else in the room. The fact that nobody but him, apparently, knew more, just didn't sit right with Sofia. Like a stranger in her own skin, the Saint desired to know about what happened, why his mere existence caused her to react like this. This wasn't just her wanting to push her own boundaries, but more or less another part of her struggling to stay away, quite literally. Fully consumed by the past, Sofia softly smiled at Joel in an attempt not to scare him off. Luckily, he stayed, pushing past the boundaries set in place before, grabbing her hand. Sofia froze. Trying to rationalize her own behavior. "Pain?" she chocked on that word. "I feel content," she whispered back, "like in a state of bliss. A dream. Utopia." Clear as night -- this wasn't her anymore, but her past self, the sinful past, remembering the tiniest pieces of memory that had been ingrained into her brain. Sof. Her name, whispered in the night, between them, broke through the carefully placed barrier, cracking it enough to reveal information of her past self next to her emotions.

With his head tilted downward, their hands on top of one another, Sofia eventually followed through, silently taking in what he saw and his reaction to it. Instead, Sofia's breathing intensified, breasts raising and lowering in her dress while her fingers moved underneath his arm, turning them around to let her fingertips glide alongside his skin. Electrifying, exciting, Sofia let out a shaky breath of complete bliss, with herself moving closer, lower and away from the couch, appraising him from a lower level. "I just know you meant the world to me," she breathed heavily, exclaiming a stifled giggle, almost as if she wasn't sure whether to laugh or to be amazed at that fact, "I feel..," there wasn't a word fit to describe her own state of mind. Ecstatic, perhaps, in awe of a world beyond reality. She placed his hand against her chest, hoping he'd feel her heartbeat rapidly drumming against her rib cage. Sinful, she ached for his hands to relearn every curve of her body. Instead of saying anything, Sofia observed him longingly, her fingers tingling due to the sensation of touching him. The tension remained palpable as thunder clashed outside and rain hit the windows nearby. "Whatever we were, please don't let it be just a dream." Sofia got closer then, her breath hitched as she now held her breath, her heart racing while her free hand pressed his hand deeper against her chest, "Let's not pretend this is just a dream we're both afraid to wake from."

You practically are, he wants to say. Bitterly, too. The kingdom plastered it directly in his face, often, showing how the King and her were a united front. Invincible together. But he just brushes it off for now. Content to let her say whatever she wants on the situation, even if he doesn’t believe her. Instead he simply shrugs in a form of acceptance. Not agreement. “Yeah, I’m sure he will… Believe you.” It wouldn’t matter much what he said in the end. He wasn’t substantial to the king. He didn’t hold weight. She did. “He only needs to believe one of us. And I’m just the bodyguard to him. Just the one who drove and watched over you. What I say won’t matter nearly as much.” Joel would just give more minuscule detail. Leave the heftier recount to her. The less he said, the better. Honestly. 

He swallows at her next shameless admission. One bold as brass. And if it were brighter in here, he swears the involuntary blush that creeps up his neck would be on display for anyone with eyes. It’s been so long since someone has said that to him. That someone couldn’t get him out of their thoughts. Couldn’t stay away from him. It felt like a lifetime. Like it couldn’t be possible because the world had only been him, and his hidden wants for so long. His urges were buried down so far they had bled into resentment and avoidance. But here it was again. Creeping up. Zipping up his spine as he forcibly straightened, cleared his throat, and looked towards the floor as she continued confessing until she invited him to sit with her. That wasn’t a good idea. He knew it down to his bones. If he sat there while she was in this state… Nothing good would come of it. And yet — 

When she talks about crossing the line, he can’t help but find his own traitorous feet crossing the lines on their own accord. Having him sit opposite her while she fidgets with her sleeve. “Sof,” her name. Shortened. An old familiarity. It feels wrong to say it now, but also… right. He clears his throat, again. “Sofia,” he tries again. More confident and contained — careful to not let any feelings continue to slip through. “You should keep hating it. My nearness. I do. Because …” and he slowly let his hand find hers. Stopping her fidgeting by wrapping his hand around her wrist and carefully tugging it down to her lap. “This,” he whispers, his hand lowering to cover the top of hers now. His fingertips just barely grazed her thigh, where his hand continued and her smaller one ended. “This never ended well.” Staring down at their hands, he can only smile for the briefest of seconds before he flinches. Gazing back at the floor but keeping his hand on hers as fiery tingles electrocuted up his arm. “There was too much pain. And there shouldn’t be pain.”

[shadowcrowncd]

&. BASICS 

Full Name: Marek Daranis

Nicknames: The Storm King, The Tempest-Blooded (derogative), Shadow of the Sanctified Flame

Age: 30 (at death)

Sexuality: Bisexual

Date of Birth: October 17th 1489

Place of Birth: Southern Athos

Gender & Species: Male & sanctified, first lightning wielder

Current Location: Deceased; exists in spiritual echoes and memory fragments (sometimes appears in Sofia's visions)

&. MORE BASIC INFO

Religion: formerly devoted to the Sanctified Pantheon, Catholic

Education: trained in combat, basic education, Catholic education

Occupation: former Saint-Templar, later turned deserter and rebel leader

Drinks, Smokes, & Drugs: occasionally, never smoked nor did drugs

&. PERSONALITY

Zodiac Sign: Libra

MBTI: INFJ - the advocate

Likes: thunderstorms, quiet places outside the city, dueling with someone who can keep up, poetry, people who question authority, music

Dislikes: blind loyalty, being used by the system he once served, being caged, Sanctified who forget they were once human, his legacy being misused

Bad Habits: self-isolating when overwhelmed, easy to react once provoked

Secret Talent: was a skilled poet of his time

Hobbies: lead people, writing/reading poetry, enjoying art, dueling, going out for a bit of fun, attending catholic mass

Fears: losing control, that he died before he could truly make things right, (later on) that their powers eventually corrupted Sofia rather than empower her

Five Positive Traits: Loyal, Passionate, Heroic, Protective, Emotionally intelligent

Five Negative Traits: Self-destructive, Stubborn, Prone to secrecy, Obsessive, Assertive

Other Mentionable Details: Often appears in lightning-fueled visions Sofia has when under emotional duress (later in the story)

&. APPEARANCE

Tattoos Scars: a lightning bolt shaped scar across his spine from one of his first attempts to wield lightning

Piercings: none

Reference Picture: ( x ), ( x )

&. FAMILY INFORMATION

Parent Names: Leona Daranis (mother), housewife, Silvio Daranis (father), merchant

Parent Relationship: difficult to say the least, they never understood Marek's love for Bellamy or his views, which ended up with Marek severing his ties to them. After Marek's own betrayal regarding Bellamy, he regretted not having talked to them again before they were both killed in the war.

Sibling Names: none

Sibling Relationship: N/A

Children: none

&. BIOGRAPHY

Marek Daranis was once one of the most promising Sanctified—gifted with lightning manipulation, favored by high priests, and paraded as a future leader, he quickly adapted to his new role and powers by continuingly testing his limits and helping others whenever needed, in Bellamy's name. But the more he saw behind the curtain, the more he questioned Bellamy and his methods, especially after more and more Sanctified rebelled and were quickly killed. War crimes justified by holiness, innocents executed for "order" and the hollowing of the Sanctified led him to abandon his rank and become a fugitive.

His death was never officially recorded—only rumors whispered of a final mission to pass on his powers before the Sanctified Order (aka Bellamy) could erase him. Sofia was the one he chose, believing she could carry the lightning better than he ever did. Whether his decision was a blessing or curse remains to be seen.

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CARMUEL in Élite Short Stories: Carla & Samuel

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DON'T WORRY DARLING, dir. Olivia Wilde (2022)

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#you tried

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Francesco knew exactly what he had to do in order to protect Ryker from the sidelines. Their closeness wasn't for show nor something beneficial to Ryker in the slightest. They knew each other, the shell they both represented, while simultaneously hiding the darkness within. In order to protect him, Francesco swore himself to find the true meaning of Ryker's powers and that of everybody else. Their true origin, their meaning, how to weaken or strengthen them if needed. He'd gotten reckless, too obsessed with the idea of being close to the Gamemaker. The Spymaster's gaze didn't move an inch from his previous target. Too focused, no -- trained, on Ryker, he could barely make out the other voices within the bar. Luckily they'd been seated in the far back, unfortunately for him, giving the Spymaster even more reason to break his own codex. He'd revealed himself too much, his own heart of all things, his true desire. A mad man, starving for his touch. The booze really got to him, but so did his own guilt at betraying his own values of keeping himself hidden.

"You cannot escape what you are within," a nice, simple allegory which could still be interpreted into various directions. Seeing, feeling him, getting closer, Francesco immediately tensed up, only his own grin revealing some sort of relaxation and ease. Grabbing the man's arm, Francesco leaned in closer, his head slightly tilted to the opposite side so Ryker could reach his ear more easily. "The line between truth, lies, reality and fictions are blurry. I'm only aware of five truths in my life. Five truths, none of which are fully known to the Reapers, or twisted in some shape or form" His love for Ryker, for Raven, his own ambitions, his skills and lastly, what he'd do to get ahead. The way he commanded his own network of spies all over Revda had yet to be discovered and Francesco did everything in his power to fully hide what he had in store for his enemies. "My affection for you isn't a liability. If they use me as bait," he let his grip tighten around his Gamemaker's arm, "do not hesitate to let me go." He owed the Scarlet Angels his humanity, his first glimpses of normalcy after a lifetime of Machiavellianism. "One last drink before we give them Hell, what do you say? Or else I might feel compelled to make us even more complicated than it already is."

It wasn’t a mercy when Ryker let the self-deprecating remark slip between them without pause or scorn. It was pocketed. Extricated from their current hushed conversation to fester in the recesses of his mind later when he wasn’t being suddenly, brazenly, assaulted by the Shadow’s presence. He couldn’t begin to unpack the meaning behind Shadow’s mistrust towards himself when their breath brushes along Ryker’s lips on a murmured promise given to his ears alone — a breathless devotion to Ryker given like a kiss. One that erupts pinpricks of heat along his curved spine as he finds himself incapable… of stringing together a response. Of adopting one of his careless smirks. Of meeting those eyes filled with such heavy promise.  

He adjusts instead. Straightens his spine without pulling too far back, or at all, while the heel of his boot presses into the edge of the booth where wood meets floor. His fingers twitch if only to push the empty shot glass near him further away. He didn’t need any more. Didn’t want any more. He was using all of his lingering sobriety to digest the intimacy of those words; wondering if he could pick at the threads of his words until it was too split to mean much of anything anymore. And almost forget that his Shadow’s thoughts could mirror his own exactly — to the hilt. But these were dangerous revelations to have. To even say. So, he releases a heavy breath. His hand clenched and unclenched; not daring to reach out despite the closeness between them. “You know, Mata has always said I belonged to the Shadows. That it could be found in every corner of my world; shadows clutching my twisted heart.” Ryker looks up then. Eyes meeting his. Holding them.  “I see what she means by that now.” He can see how the shadows sat within his heart. It might have made him smile; if it hadn’t been too dangerous of a risk. If he didn’t need to dismantle it. Biting his lip, he let himself lean forward an inch. Or three. Until he moves past his lips, his cheek, and murmurs in his left ear “... but you should choose to lie more instead. It would be less of a high-risk. My… happiness as you call it… that is something Reapers would happily snuff out.” No one would hesitate to take his Shadow from him, if they knew.

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"Exactly your style, is it not?" Helena raised one eyebrow. She really wanted to play this game forever if she could. His way of maneuvering through social gatherings and duties had to be studied. He was... elusive, cunning, selfish. A God in his own right, unwilling to bend his rules for anyone or anything. A man had such power by birth - an easy way out once they've fathered a few children and stayed mostly out of scandal. Helena had seen such behavior with Lysander Selwyn who'd so easily abandoned his wife once pregnant yet again. Mrs. Selwyn stayed at home while Lysander bet 200 galleons on black and got himself a Ministry secretary to keep him company afterward. Shameless, brutal, horrendous. "They're trying to be perfectly clear about their own alliance." Helena carefully pushed her pelvis against his touch, clearly dancing too close for her father's liking. Luckily they were just hidden out of view most of the time, so whenever the veil lifted enough, Helena returned to her former position. Her father had grown slightly restless at the edge of the dancefloor, taking a sip from his drink and eyeing Rabastan carefully. Nothing on earth could spoil that day.

Spinning around, Helena gasped while the black and golden veils followed along. Return to him, the Avery heiress locked eyes with Evan first. He looked almost out of touch, too composed, surrounded by those who wished to get closer to the Dark Lord. With his own fiance dancing so close to his best friend, so.. perfectly, Helena wondered what he really thought. "And I much prefer my freedom, no matter the price. If I can't have my freedom, then no one shall have my body nor soul for their own, grotesque games. Running would not end the years of torment, just pause them. The goal's my own power, first and foremost." She wouldn't back down for nothing. Years upon years of being Jasper's, and the family's, scapegoat while reaching through the ranks of Hogwarts through hard work and ambition. "Oh, I'm sure Ireland inhabits enough witches that will do your bidding, no questions asked, just like England, apparently. The great Rabastan Lestrange, the star beater, far away from home." Helena smirked. A perfect playground for a man like him. Letting her fingers glide upward towards his arm, Helena spun them around one more time before the last violin silenced its last note. A bow of respect followed, with Helena keeping her distance once again. "If I'm to burn, I might as well be the one to light the match." She clearly wasn't afraid of death nor betraying her father like this. They'd abandoned her a long time ago, fed her to the wolves. "Wouldn't you do the same if Rodolphus decides to not let you go? To have you take the mark?"

“Oh, is that only it? No chains? Just a plaything.” His laugh is genuine then. Matching her own amusement for a brief second. Enticed by the pieces of her, her spark, that are all steadily being given to him in the public eyes as much as in the private. Pieces of her that are fierce, unwilling to bend, and determined to hit the society like a tidal wave for the sake of herself. All for her freedom. And these were all pieces he knew, without her saying, that she wasn’t telling anyone else. It was nearly endearing. A beguiling way about her that kept him around, if only to see her flourish. To keep being fed the secrets she doesn’t give to anyone else but him. Kept in the recesses of his ribcage and pounding against him to relent something of his own from time to time. To even consider shirking his ‘androcentric world’, as she politely put it, and bask in the chaos of what may come from her brazen plans. But not enough. Ireland would win out in the end. He wasn’t the kind of man to choose someone over himself. 

As he watched the darkening light swirl around them, his hands loosened their perfected hold. Slipping downward. One resting lower on the curve of her ass and the other curling around to her hip bone. His thumb ran along the bone, almost on instinct, as they picked up their pace together with the elevated music. “Your father has loose lips, and of course my brother does.” It was the biggest reason why he was leaving as soon as possible. He couldn’t chance many more days. “These are bold plans with a lot of room for screw up, Helena. One mistake and it’s your head. Not your father's.” His lips tug into a smirk before, “and I quite prefer yours.” Then he spins her. Lets her twist all the way out and return to him with her back pressed to his chest for a moment. “And you also risk your betrothed, when you could just run. Are you sure the risk is worth it?” He murmurs along her ear as his gaze briefly flickers to Evan’s. Meeting it. Waiting for a challenge, but never finding anything but careful compliance. And then he is spinning her back into place as the dance called for. When she mentions she’d do it without him, he almost finds himself saying good girl. Too much pride leaking into his veins. But he holds back. Just this once. Because they already have too many strings and feelings tying them together. 

His hands find their place on her hips for now with a small tug to pull her against him again, he shrugs. “Promises aren’t really my thing. They hold too much weight.” His thumb slides along her hip bone again, though, as he winks. “But I’ll send you one or two when you don’t see my face plastered on the tabloids you enjoy so much. And maybe,” he starts to whisper almost conspiratorially. “You can convince your betrothed to let you take a couple of trips out to Ireland to escape your cage for… more pleasurable purposes than marriage, as you said.”

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She almost forgot how to breathe, her own body aching towards him, then away, unsure whether she wanted to give in or not. A dangerous game to play with someone who obviously knew how to play and how to avoid playing by the rules entirely. Truth be told, Helena herself had be the one to lead them into this mess in the first place, so she immediately pushed the guilt aside to let lust take over for now. As their lips crashed together, Helena took another, deep breath, her tongue threatening to glide into his mouth, though she stopped herself while halfway through. Good, pureblood heiresses just didn't use their tongue, or did they? At least not with a man that wasn't their husband. Instead, she leaned deeply into the kiss, her breath heavy and her upper body pressed against him, his own length pressed against her hand, rubbing and massaging him. The alleys around them began to get crowded, with their own just being used to navigate towards the other busy alley. They'd been forced into this corner, hidden away, with the pureblood heiress almost climaxing, her breath growing more impatient, heavy.

Only for him to stop.

"Oh, please," Helena grinned, "you might just enjoy some dominance. Pureblood men are known to prefer just that." Or any powerful man for that matter, something Helena wasn't willing to share with him in order to not call Rabastan... powerful. He was. In a way, extremely powerful. More powerful than she'd hoped. Watching him go down, Helena locked eyes with him in an instant, never once looking away or changing her stern gaze into even the faintest display of pleasure from seeing him like this. Not even him ripping her panties could fully break her out of it. However, she truly considered this an unholy experience. Some might see God, Merlin, whoever they worshipped, while Helena thought the same about Rabastan. Not having been touched before, pristine and new to such games, it was almost impossible for Helena to not enjoy his... determination. Moaning at the mere sight of her thighs on top of his shoulders, Helena pushed her own dress further to the back, fingers now practically clawing into the fabric. The goosebumps on her arms were evidence enough to signalize how much she liked his control, his determination to serve, in a way, at least in her mind. The hand around her throat immediately caused her to moan get again. Her entire body got hotter with each second, her heart racing at the mere thought of his tongue against her. With her own fingers gliding up his hand and towards his fingers around her throat, Helena continued to push further as one leg began to shake ever so slightly. The sensation of being pleasured, worshipped in a way she had yet to experience, drove her wild. "Be careful," she couldn't allow herself to bleed now, lose her virginity like this, recklessly, accidentally, to a man she wasn't intended to marry. Yet, as she almost climaxed yet again, she pressed his head further against her midst. Instead of begging, Helena had another proposition: "Don't stop and I'll return the favor." This wasn't her speaking, but rather that annoying, desperate voice in the back of her head demanding to be set free, to finally feel the sort of ecstasy her body hadn't experienced before. "Mh, yes I'll, Rabastan," there's a hint of worship in her voice, that sultry whisper spoken in the corner of a dirty alley, hidden away from the world. No one must know.

He groans, low and appreciative, at her commanding tone. It ignites him; heat pulsing down below as his rebellious nature rages beneath his ribcage and has him pressing her harder into the stone wall. Expelling a yelp from her lips before he silences it by crushing her lips with his own. Swallowing her pain as equally as her desire while he rubs slow, incessant circles on her heat through the fabric of her panties. “So demanding now, huh,baby? You're getting that fiery spark back,” he murmurs against her lips. Breathing heavily as he continues to rub her, only to bring her just to the brink before pulling his hand away. “And you're eager to dominate,” his grin is wolfish now. And it’s greedy. Enough to have him willing to let her look down at him. But not with him on his knees. That would feel like giving up too much of himself — thoroughly neutered in a way he wasn’t ready for. 

So, he keeps her pressed to the wall with his body instead as he slightly lowers himself only so long as to rip her panties and lift her, one leg at a time until her thighs rest on his shoulders. Just to stand up straight again. One hand squeezed her thigh in a grasp that would leave light bruises of his fingertips as the other snaked past her now sensitive heat to brush along her sternum until his hand clasped her throat. He wants to feel it. Feel each rumble of her throat as he devours her. “Don’t you dare hold back,” he growls. And that’s the only warning she gets before his lips kiss and nip along her thighs until he reaches her center. Something you swear you can feel his lips smile against before his tongue runs the length of her while his hand at her neck squeezes slightly, and his one at her thigh releases only for him to push two fingers into her without forewarning. Then it’s just the sound of his own heady grunts of arousal as he thrusts his fingers in and out while his tongue rubs her center again and again, just to bite at it one or twice, bringing her close over and over again. Not quite letting her release because he wants to hear it: her beg. And he wants to feel her release entirely once she does beg for it.

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He wasn't exactly too eager to reveal himself to an enemy like this. To be easily wounded, to practically hide in the dead of night to escape his own pack. The best defense nowadays was offense, with more and more creatures occupying the ancient city of Rome to call them their own. While the werewolves have been part of Rome's community for millennia, they also considered themselves the originators of civilization as they knew it today. Romulus and Remus, the wolves of Rome, founders of a community that would be known for its rich history and compelling rulers. Vampires were new, foreign, a threat to the Alpha. Maybe the source of Varek's sudden insecurities didn't stem from his own children posing as a threat, with his own mortality slowly creeping up on him, but, instead, the ever powerful vampire family that just climbed the ranks with little opposition.

Damon remained calm, trying to focus on her and his injuries to not be too loud. Varek's loyalists were vicious, ready to strike down the last child of his if he so asked. "That Blaze guy? I'll keep an eye out for him, then. Avoiding his fangs and bleeding out in front of the undead. Sorry, I can't help it," he joked while still panting. All this running made him weak, only contributed to him spreading the wolsbane in his body. Grunting and, with a snarl, Damon once again poked for the bullet. Two heirs, both runaways in their own way, alas, Damon wasn't at all ready to meet someone like Sterling. He couldn't fully control himself right now, wasn't at the height of his power, not by a long shot, so when she offered to help, Damon's eyebrows furrowed together in confusion. Waiting, calculating, for just a moment, Damon eventually lifted his bloodstained shirt yet again, revealing the gushing wound. "Just don't try and take a sip or something," Damon stopped and sighed which quickly turned into another snarl. "Thank you. What are you doing here, anyway? Got something to celebrate?" He could feel himself weaken, either through the wolfsbane or her, he wasn't quite sure. "Don't you think you having wolf's blood on your manicured fingers will raise some questions? I wouldn't want you to be considered...someone who dances with wolves. Or fucks them, who the hell knows what you guys are into."

outfit.

If anyone thought it was odd to see the Stardust heir wandering in heels by the park near midnight, they didn’t dare remark on it. It was quickly glossed over in favor of finding their next drink, or fuck. Besides, it wasn’t as if they could stop her even if they wanted to. Her charm had a way of allowing her to do as she pleased, whenever she pleased. Though she did try to use it as little as possible — not entirely enjoying the forced compulsion she had over everyone. Except tonight. Tonight it was necessary. She couldn’t be stopped. Wouldn’t be. She had slipped out of the nearest restaurant, excusing herself from the table with some of her coven members and Kaito, claiming to need fresh air as she felt suffocated by their presence and not even remotely suffocated by Kaito’s, who barely passed a wandering glance in her direction. They let her go without a single objection — all thanks to her gift. Kaito didn’t even bother acknowledging her departure. Not a scrape of his chair against the floor to escort her out, or a whispered goodbye. Just silence as she stood and pulled on her blue jean jacket with its sheer back that did little to cover the cropped black tank top and tight black jeans. 

That’s how she eventually found herself wandering near the park. As when she walked a few blocks from the restaurant, there was a thick scent of blood in the air. Blood that wasn’t human but a werewolf’s. It practically assaulted her nostrils. Which strangely didn’t have her gagging upon impact as was typical from the scent of a werewolf. Instead she found herself almost allured. Enough so that she couldn’t find herself doing anything else but briskly walking towards it. Until she was away from enough peering eyes to run at her full vampiric speed only to find herself directly in front of one of the Yearwood’s tugging on their shirt after ripping out a bullet. She can’t help the involuntary gasp at stumbling upon a Yearwood. Which was quickly followed by the slight wrinkling of her nose at his nickname. Princess. She wanted to scoff. She hardly liked being called that, and it sounded like an insult coming from him. 

“One of… ?” Her brows furrowed as she tilted her head to the side. Her confusion was written across her face. “You have the wrong Stardust heir.” She quickly supplied. “I’m not the kind to chase down werewolves, or anyone for that matter, without good reason. In fact, consider yourself lucky I’m not my brother. Don’t you know how indecent it is to be running around here with a gallon of blood spilling out of your side?” Honestly! He should be thanking the vampire lords it was her out here right now. Not accosting her. The only plan she had was to help. An instinct she hadn’t been able to dismantle since medical school. Not even for Damon Yearwood. “Now,” she says, stepping closer to him with ease despite her heels on the uneven ground and raising her arms in a sign of amity. “Are you going to let me help? Because that smells like Wolfsbane, which means you aren’t doing so hot. OR…” She motions behind her towards the city not too far away. “You gonna chance it with another vampire sniffing you out?”