#juliana capulet

[diveronarpg]

IN FAIR VERONA, OUR TALE BEGINS WITH JULIANA CAPULET, WHO IS TWENTY-FIVE YEARS OLD. SHE IS OFTEN CALLED JULIET BY THE CAPULETS AND WORKS AS THEIR BOSS. SHE USES SHE/HER PRONOUNS.

Our heroine’s story, at one time, may have been based upon something essential, the question that plagues both the living and the dead: what is worse than living without love? Juliana Capulet, heiress to a throne fit for the gods, had finally found her answer. Worse than living without love — living without strength. Her father had not built their legacies through love, or adoration, accompanied by the stroke of a gentle hand to one’s cheek. The Capulet legacy had been built through sheer power of will, bringing to heel those who had once refused to obey. Once, she had BATHED in the light of Cosimo Capulet’s love, and before her ugly death, her mother’s, her little sister’s. All she had ever known was love, and the war ripping the city entirely in two had taken that from her without remorse. Like daylily flowers, Juliana was determined to bloom into something great, something strong, something that would lead Verona back to a new age of peace, whether love warmed her to her core or not. She would not wither away like her mother or sister, pallid and sickly. She would not fall to dust like her father. She would rise to the call that she had turned her cheek from her entire life, and pray that the GODS themselves would forgive her for answering their question without their aid. No more GHOSTS. No more ONLOOKING NARRATORS. Juliana’s power would be hers.

She would embody her mother’s memory most of all. She would become the woman who could throw Aphrodite into a fury and put Hera in a jealous rage. With the guidance of her Underboss and her newfound Advisor, her two faithful devotees, she would keep vigil over Verona and end this war once and for all. Before, she’d been helpless to stop it. Put up on a pedestal, hair brushed away from her face, bound to a feeling of WEAKNESS. She was determined to never feel it again, even with the memory of it clinging to her like the silken threads of a crafty spiderweb. She knew, now, that this was the work of her father, determined to keep her as close to him and at arm’s length at the same time. He would’ve had her look at their future as something gilded, golden, just out of reach. He would’ve had her see his NARCISSUS-LIKE obsession as a boon instead of a curse. He showered Juliana with gifts, both exotic and quaint, in hopes that she would sit in her ruby-crusted cage and keep her head low, her mouth shut. He had deemed the birdcage necessary, and never noticed when his daughter refused to sing him any more tunes. Others revelled in his success, his savvy, even with RAFAELLA CAPULET whisked away to pick up the pieces all on her own. Even with his flippant disregard for VIVIANNE SLOANE and TIBERIUS CAPULET, both denied their true wishes without so much as a second glance. They shouted his name with joy as he ruined his soldiers, his Captains, and his Emissaries, and all their prospects. They wept for him even as he struck the match that would burn the great House of Capulet down. No more.

With all this sitting atop her shoulders, filling her hands, Juliana made her choice. Rather than stay by his side faithfully, adhering to his rules like a SAINT, she broke away from her father, and with the aid of Vivianne, finally stepped down from the tower of Babylon that he had built for her with his own two hands. They’d brought her into the business in increments, at first, and had not seen how far and how quickly she had progressed since poor Alvise Vernon’s death nigh over a year ago. BLOOD, now bedecking her finery, would be another accessory to be worn, as did other tools of the trade — knives, guns, bullets, blades. She would not allow her father to hide from the consequences of his own sins any longer. She would do as he had once done, and embody the SYMBOL of the violent elite. No longer would she be just a girl. She’d be more than that. How quickly this angel could bring ruination to those who stood in the way of the Capulets — her father being the first among them. How quickly this angel could bring down the spear of the Gods and wipe the blood from her cheek in a smear. Maybe this was the way it was always meant to be. Maybe this is what she’d always been meant to become. Someone had to take the throne, sooner or later. Her father’s actions and quickly dwindling sanity have proven more than ever the time for her ascension had come. 

Juliana laid her sacrifices before him, hands shaking and eyes upturned – hoping against hope for a miracle. She had once thought that she could slip into her father’s life and pry him away from the business that had enraptured him for as long as she could remember. Maybe he would step away, admit defeat with his head bowed, and return to her. Return to her and the ghosts of her mother, her sister, gaps in their family that were too big to fill. She had underestimated, at one time, the strength of the thrall that it had him under, even as her own blood succumbed to the call that her ancestors before her had answered to. It had become clear, now, that LOVE would not do Juliana Capulet any good. It hadn’t served her, or Rafaella, or her mother, her cousin, her sister, her father. Love had failed her, ruined her, left scorched earth in its wake. Love had failed her people. Her father had pressed the knife to cut Valentina Gallo’s throat into her hands, and she’d done it without hesitation. Before, love would have made her weep with the pain of it. Now — JULIET would not fail anyone, especially not her legacy.

RAFAELLA CAPULET & TIBERIUS CAPULET: Cousins. The three of them at one time might have been compared to planets, their gravitational pull. Infinitely different but relentlessly routine in the way they were drawn to one another. Now, with Rafaella gone and seemingly doomed to never return, shattered into a thousand little pieces neither Rafaella or Tiberius can help her to pick up, things are… different. Things feel off-kilter, unbalanced. The tension that sat between all three of them has now come to rest entirely on Juliana and Tiberius, a fraying wire that could shoot sparks at any time. Before, she’d never doubted Tiberius, or his loyalty to her, and she can’t say even now that she actually does. But the weight of the Capulet title has become her burden and her burden alone, an unwelcome cross. With the shifting power dynamics and no Rafaella to complete their balancing act, she worries it may be Tiberius that places the crown of thorns atop her brow.

VIVIANNE SLOANE: Pseudo-Mother. “You can never be her,” she had hissed as she slammed the door to her room shut, but Vivianne, ever-patient with Juliana, had taken her time. She’d pried the door open with her own two hands, and it’s a wonder that she’d never quite made the connection before. She’d snapped and seethed and raged in her youth, entrenched in the ocean of her own sorrow, and through sheer will, Vivianne had soothed her. Dulled her pain. Held her head and stroked her hair when all Juliana could do was cry for the sheer loss of love she’d once possessed. Taught her how to rule when her own father -- her own supposed teacher -- fell short. It had been Vivianne to bring her into the way of things. She knows that, and she owes her a great debt for it. But she sees the way Vivianne’s eyes drift, now, settle in the middle distance, after dethroning her father. Unspoken agreement of guidance or comfort aside, mother-figure or not, things have changed. They are not the way they were before. The dynamic of the Capulets has shifted, and so, too, it seems, have they.

ROMAN MONTAGUE: Enemy. She should hate him. By all means, by every predisposed legacy of their birthright, she should want to rip him limb from limb. But she doesn’t. She doesn’t have the capacity to hate someone without good reason -- it’s not in her nature. Juliana understands, now more than ever, that he wishes the Capulets ill will and nothing more. That should be enough, but she was never equipped with Tiberius’ natural brutality or Rafaella’s fury. Now, with the crown sitting atop her head, sword and scepter in each hand, she wonders further still if he struggles with bearing the title of his father. If he will ever truly rise to the occasion of his bloodline as she had hers and continue this war or crumble to pieces before getting the chance. Maybe she pities him. It would be a better word than hate. Her path was always illuminated -- she’d simply sped the process up, a little bit, with the aid of those she now knows to be hers. Roman, on the other hand, must fend himself among the Montagues, men and women more likely to cannibalize themselves before putting another Montague on the throne. She wishes she could hate him. If only it were that easy.

PRIAM TARAVELLA: Betrothed. She looks at him and can only think of them in the context of Zeus and Hera. Ending up here, with engagement rings and bright futures to look forward to, well. It was only a matter of time, wasn’t it? Cosimo Capulet had chosen Priam for his daughter. They’d grown up together. They’d seen each other shattered, built each other back up again. This is a love that is supposed to make sense, and to Juliana, it does, in many ways. She loves him. Could love him more, if the weight of the Capulet legacy were not so heavy, if she felt she could share the burden with him. What if she can’t? She’d made the difficult choice in dethroning her father. She’s put the Capulets first in every regard, in every way, by ascending and taking the throne. He’s a good man. Certainly not a bad one. Knows just how deeply entrenched he is, now that she moves the pieces on the chess board and has to strategize at every turn. What if there are choices to be... made with Priam, too?

Juliana is portrayed by ASHLEY MOORE and was written by JULIE. She is currently OPEN TO CURRENT MEMBERS.

[orpheus-vault-blog]

date: 14 january 2017 time: 11:30 location: piazza erbe market (a known underworld haunt) closed to @julianacapulet 

“I have to say I’m surprised to see you here, principessa.” The nickname was said slowly, drawn out, each syllable enunciated as much as it can be, an implicit declaration that he was aware of her status, that it meant nothing to him. “And without a bodyguard. What brings you to my neck of the woods?”

Welcome, Little Red Riding Hood, and beware -- there are wolves in this forest.

[ofcastora]

@lavolumnia replied to your post: i wanna read more from this AU

In which I continue the DiVerona Regency AU // Part 1 of me transforming Castora and Vivianne’s baking class into a Regency women’s archery club, inspired by this historical club and these outfits ft. Bridgerton-level historical accuracy

MENTIONED/APPEAR: @lavolumnia, @priam-taravella, Damiano Montague, Cosimo Capulet, Tiberius Capulet, Rafaella Capulet, Juliana Capulet, @ofaguilar, @deadvalentinagallo

Miss Castora Aguilar learned that young ladies should hold their tongue at a young age, but she quickly disregarded the lesson. She was a poorer, scandal-tainted relation; not quite an orphan, but just as good as. If she did not speak for herself, then who would? The world was unkind on a good day, and outright cruel on another, and there is no shame in surviving.

She had been permitted to be sharp-tongued by society because she had titled and/or well-connected friends who would vouch for her, and while she toed the line of what was appropriate or not, the only truly unforgivable thing she had done was be the daughter of a scoundrel. It is, unsurprisingly, difficult to find a match on the marriage mart when your father may or may not have stolen great deals of money from your potential suitor’s fathers, and perhaps something of more value from their mothers.

Alas, the Season practically thrived on such awkward encounters.

--

It had started out a day like any other – a quiet breakfast with her cousin that became quite rowdy when Miss Valentina Gallo came by to call on Ramona. The two went off on their own “adventure” to “buy some new ribbon,” which meant Castora would discover what they actually did in two weeks time. They used to invite her to their outings, but Castora learned it was better for all them if Castora had other plans during that time.

To achieve that purpose, she had recently taken up with a women’s archery club that practiced every Thursday in Hyde Park: the Hyde Park Amazons, a name that Castora had thought wonderful until she met the club’s captain, Mrs. Silviana, and realized she was more of a meddlesome matron than a ferocious warrior, although were the two not the same? 

It took Castora about five minutes about joining Silviana’s group to realize that she was awful at archery. By all accounts, she should have been good by it. She was an active young woman and her temperament was certainly suited to the activity. In fact, she was the worst.

Well, second-to-worst.

Well, she and Lady Vivianne Sloane were about equally matched. It was quite lucky that their practices were in a rather empty area of the park

The two women had started around the same time; since they were both new and awful, they were often paired up during practice. Castora didn’t dislike Lady Vivianne – she just did not like her very much. During their time with the Hyde Park Amazons, the two had barely exchanged two words, and those words have been teetering on the edge of civility. 

It made perfect sense to Castora. Lady Vivianne, daughter of an Earl, was engaged to Lord Capulet, a Duke who had never gotten along with Lord Montague, Castora’s benefactor. Lord Capulet was also in the unfortunate possession of a reckless nephew who had started a feud with Castora’s oldest friend and the most wretched woman in the whole of England as his ward. He also had a sweet-tempered daughter, who had nothing wrong in Castora’s eyes except to have the misfortune of being engaged to Priam Taravella, whom Castora had strongly disliked and had “accidentally” hit with a pall-mall ball during a game at a garden party. 

She imagined it was the same way for Vivianne. Here she was with a known associate of her husband-to-be’s enemy...and someone who caused bodily harm to her future son-in-law.

It was not personal. It was all personal-adjacent. It was awkward. In fact, if not for her unfortunate connection to Lord Capulet, Castora would have felt rather confident in publicly asserting that she rather liked Lady Vivianne. The older woman was poised, gracious, charming, biting, and powerful. No visible rough edges. 

She was everything Castora would like to be. 

“I cannot imagine why Silviana thinks it’s wise to pair the two of us together with weapons,” Castora had muttered under her breath. She could have sworn the corners of Lady Vivianne’s lips turned up.

They both drew their arrows and released them. Neither hit their the target. “Oh, I do imagine that’s why,” Castora said dryly, “We probably would never be able to hit each other.” In addition, the more time they spent bickering and failing together, the less they would be rolling their eyes at Silviana’s teaching metaphors. 

“Don’t be ridiculous, Miss Aguilar. We are close enough range to one another that anything is possible.”

“Shall we play a game of William Tell to test your theory?”

The two shared a look. Too risky.

Castora took another shot, putting all of her might into her aim. She hit the bottom of the target. “Do you think we will get better one day, Lady Vivianne?” Castora sighed, unable to hide her exasperation.

“We better.” 

-- A few more Thursdays came and went. Castora and Vivianne displayed marginal improvement, and she was beginning to appreciate the other woman’s company. The more time she spent with Vivianne, the less she had to look at the other show-off members of the group.

They understood the virtue of leaving one another to the soul-crushing frustration of slow progress with minimal interruptions. Castora thought it would be nice to have such a companion; she loved Ramona and Valentina, but there was only so much she could take of being number three; Pandora was her dearest friend, but she was married. There was power in a bond that existed only in their silence. 

Prior to their meeting at the archery club, Castora had little idea of who Lady Vivianne was, outside of her association with the Capulet family. She did not know if the universe threw some crumbs of gossip her way because of this or if she simply paid attention to it now, but over the course of the past month or so, Castora had come to learn that Lady Vivianne herself knew something of scandal; perhaps that was why they shared a quiet understanding.

First of all, she was a spinster who managed to nab a duke. Second, there was something about her coming out postponed for a year in favor of a nine-month stay in seclusion at the Sloane’s country estate, her parents sudden death, and something about them not leaving her as much money as expected. And there had been something about a broken engagement many years ago, but Castora had stopped listening by that point. 

Even though there was often some truth to such rumors, Castora would never bring them up to Vivianne’s face, lest she take Castora up on her offer of a game of William Tell. 

At the end of practice one day, Silviana gathered all the ladies and passed around a piece of paper, which Castora instantly recognized as an invitation.

The elegant and beauteous assemblace of Ladies Archers established three Summers ago at Hyde Park under the name HYDE PARK AMAZONS courteously invites you to a supper and Ball at the Liston Hall on the 31st of August. To all interested parties, the Amazons will host their annual showcase at a luncheon before the evening’s festivities.

Castora and Vivianne shared a horrified look. 

“Is this not exciting, Lady Vivianne?” Silviana crooned. “You and Miss Aguilar’s first showcase.”

Castora cleared her throat. “Excuse me, Mrs. Silviana, but do all Amazons have to perform at this showcase?”

“But of course, my dear.” She brought her voice down to a whisper so that only Castora and Vivianne could hear. “This is quite an opportunity for you, Miss Castora. This sport quite shows off your figure and there will be plenty of eligible young men in attendance. There always are.”

“Nothing really demonstrates how eligible a bride a girl is like demonstrating your expertise with a weapon.”

“Exactly!” 

“And how many people received this invitation, Mrs. Silviana?” Vivianne asked cooly. Castora could tell by the arch in her brow that she was not pleased by this situation either. 

“Liston Hall is my brother’s estate, so quite a few. Most of the ton is usually in attendance. Usually some family from the neighboring estates come as well. Aubrey Park, Kellnych, Hall, Campden Court, the like. Do not worry Lady Vivianne, I have ensured that Lord Capulet receives an invitation as well.” 

“Did you say Campden Court?” Castora asked. Both Silviana and Vivianne’s heads snapped to her.

“Do you know the family?”

“No, not really.”

Silviana soon left Castora and Vivianne to mingle with the other ladies of the club. As soon as the woman’s meddlesome gaze was no longer upon them, Castora turned to Vivianne. “Will you be attending?”

“I quite think Mrs. Silviana will have my head if I do not.”

“I think I might catch a chill that day and be too sick to attend.”

“In August?” 

“You are right. Mrs. Silviana may be a fool, but she will never believe that.” 

“And mine. I must confess, I do not have any desire to embarrass myself in front of the ton.”  Castora had oft said she would never to marry unless it was for love, and she had vowed that she would never love, but she had no desire to publicly humiliate herself. 

“Nor I.”

Castora picked up an arrow from a nearby quiver. “That leaves us with one option.”

“It does,” Vivianne nodded in agreement.

“We must ––” Castora started, before Vivianne interrupted, fishing her sentence.

“–– Practice.”

-- 

The next day, the pair met in Hyde Park. Vivianne handed Castora a bow and arrow.

“How did you manage to procure these in one day?”

Vivianne smiled, “I have my ways.”

“I do believe I am quite glad to know you, Lady Vivianne Sloane.”

“And I, you, Miss Castora Aguilar.” 

[priam-taravella]

Date: May 21st Time: Late afternoon Place: Some upscale restaurant in Verona Status: Open to all

The purple hues of the evening had painted Verona as a more presentable version of itself – like a morticians hand applying make-up on a corpse. The city had been just as morbid lately, the street gutters carrying to blood of the those gone far too soon.

Still, through all gore and violence the beauty of Verona shone through.

Priam never thought himself bound to something as trivial as homesickness, but even he had to admin there was a special feeling penetrating his soul after a long period of absence. For a past few months, he’d been based in New York, opening up a new office – and strengthening some of the old Capulet contacts overseas at the same time.

After a quick catch-up with Juliana, Priam sat at one of Verona’s finest, upscale restaurants, head buried in a latest status report he needed to sign off on, when the noise from a neighbouring table grabbed his attention. They were Montagues, no doubt, Priam had seen them before – certainly hadn’t bothered to remember names, though. In hindsight, choosing a restaurant on a heavily Montague populated are was uncharacteristically reckless of Taravella, but the restaurant served the best damn oysters in the city and he wouldn’t let Montagues deprive him of the pleasure.

Hell, maybe he’d even buy this restaurant on his way out.

“Do you mind keeping it down?” He addressed the group with an eye roll, “Whilst I know being civil is too much to ask from the likes of you, at least try to act like you weren’t raised on a hyena farm. My ears are sensitive to so much idiocy.”

[diveronaevents]

AUTHOR: Rogue

MENTIONED: ORSINO, ROSALINE, JULIET

TRIGGERS: Discussions of past torture/bodily injury, PTSD

SUMMARY: After taking some time to reflect, ROSALINE and ORSINO make a plan to leave Verona. As of MAY 23rd, ROSALINE and ORSINO are permanently in Amsterdam in order to take the city for the Capulets. Rosey will no longer be writing Rafaella in any capacity, but Rogue will continue to write Orion in an extremely limited one (occasional phone calls, emergency visits from characters to Amsterdam should you wish it, etc).

The positions of SPETTRO and ADVISOR are now open. Currently, Cosimo and VOLUMNIA are reviewing candidates for the ADVISOR position. If your character is interested in the SPETTRO position, you are welcome to think about their development, and also to send those thoughts to the main so we can discuss them! Thank you for bearing with us as we figured this out! 

The sounds of the city below are a low hum he’s learned to tune out. It’s calm tonight, very few sirens, no drunken raucous to be found as he listens to Rafaella’s quiet breaths, feeling them as her chest rises and falls beneath his head.

He used to hold her like this often. Orion has no issue in the switching of position; it’s the why that trips him up, stealing one of the rare nights of peace until the quiet buzzes like a wasp’s nest in his mind.

She runs her hands through his hair and it feels different. The long nails she used to wear haven’t yet grown back, the foundation slow if they want her hands to eventually be strong and healthy again. She won’t ask, but she feels more than hears her hum as she presses her lips to his temple a moment. He sighs.

“Today was bad.” That’s putting it delicately, but it’s not untrue. Rafaella makes that tiny hum again, but her focus has shifted entirely from her book. It’s set aside on the end-table now, her formerly preoccupied hand finding his so she can link their fingers together. They’re very unlike each other in this one specific way, for all the things they share. When Rafaella tries to hide her hurts from him at first, trying to protect herself or him in some immeasurable way, Orion has no issue sharing his.

He outlines it clearly: there will be no intensive movement of his shoulder for the next twelve months. Were he to do so, he would certainly lose any range of motion, and may end up paralyzed. There are other, more minor hurts that will still take an awful lot of time to heal, but this is the most egregious. This is the injury that debilitates him in the eyes of her Uncle, and Orion has an awful sinking feeling in his chest that he tries to ignore.

(Will it debilitate him in the eyes of Rafaella, too? He’s never worried about this before. He’s never been weak.)

Orion laughs with no bitterness, genuinely amused by how thoroughly Marcelo has decimated him. “They’re really good at their job, hm?” He blinks up at Rafaella, almost coquettish. “I have a type. Competent with a shitty home life.”

Rafaella lets go of his hand and runs a finger down the bridge of his nose before tapping once, lightly. “Don’t forget beautiful.”

“Yes, and works of art. The triad.”

Her mouth twitches at the corners, soft and fond but still reserved compared to several months previous. His Rafaella is quieter, now. He finds he doesn’t mind.

“How long,” he asks calmly, “until Capulet disposes of me?”

The hand in his hair freezes.

“He’s not a man to take kindly to wasted resources,” Orion continues, blithe, even as he reaches for her hand again. He squeezes until Rafaella squeezes back, until he has awareness that she’s listening again. “I’ll certainly be demoted, but I could handle that. It’s the rest that has me on edge.”

Rafaella shifts him off of her so she can look him in the eye. She doesn’t let go of his hand, warm and solid in his. “You are not disposable.” Her eyes are red. He wants to kiss them at the corners.

“Not to you,” he reminds her. “Not to some.” It’s not good enough, not if Capulet is truly headed for war. “I know too much, and there’s no way to ensure my compliance if I’m not being paid for anything. There’s no reason to pay me if I’m not doing anything, and I’m not the right person to be an emissary, even if they weren’t leaning more into fights lately. Two plus two equalling four, the easiest solution would be — “

“No.” This is practically a snarl. Rafaella’s gaze is biting, some of her former venom appearing in the way she bares her teeth with the sound.

He waits. Her mind is so sharp, twisting and unfurling until it blooms with new ideas, potent strategy, or something witty and bold. He wishes he could listen to her think, sometimes. He wants to be in that maze, curve around the edges, hug the walls until he finds her waiting for him at the center.

If he’s realized something, it cannot be long until she realizes it too.

There. He finds it in her eyes, when anger becomes defeat and quickly rallies into determination. “That’s not happening.”

“Of course not.” Orion smiles.

It must be contagious, because her lips curve too, shaking her head. She has far less faith in her ability than he does, but that’s fine. Orion has never been over-burdened with insecurity, but some have said he may be overwhelmed by overconfidence.

If he splits some with Rafaella, it will balance.

“Since it’s not, though,” he points out, “we’re going to have to do something about it, and I don’t have anything in mind.” His head is still fuzzy, sometimes. Things don’t come with perfect clarity. He has been assured that they will, after extensive scans of his brain, but that will come slowly, too. His treasured independence has been cast aside in favor of being coddled and taken care of, and he doesn’t mind half as much as he should, so long as it’s Maeve or Rafaella doing the caring.

She brings their hands up to kiss his knuckles, her gaze very far away.

“I might,” Rafaella admits. Orion never doubted it. “Give me some time.”

When Rafaella Capulet tenders her resignation as Cosimo’s advisor, it does not go the way anyone thinks it will.

That it happens at all is a shock to the bloodstream for almost everyone.

She attends three meetings in the span of a day, one public, one revealed but under the guise of being secretive, and one that is truly kept from the world at large. There are other goodbyes, of course. Other meetings to be had for herself and Orion both, other tender words to share with those who love them and are loved in return, other stolen moments where the pair can be themselves and acknowledge what they’re giving up.

But first, it goes like this:

Near dawn, Rafaella and Juliana Capulet share espresso in Orion’s kitchen. He would call it their kitchen, but she still can’t believe that, can’t hold onto it without fearing she’ll break it. Orion’s house, Orion’s kitchen. She’s an invader he refuses to get rid of.

They talk at length, until the sun is high in the sky and Orion has left for physical therapy. What they speak of, it’s too soon to tell. What they plan for, only the two of them know. In the end, they simply hold each other, holding tight for a very long time, all the while knowing that even when separated, family doesn’t truly end.

Hugs do, though, and finding solace in one another will never quite be the same.

Next, Orion and Rafaella go together to meet two non-descript men in a simple cafe. Nothing is ostentatious, everything quiet, their heads bent low. The Montagues and Capulets alike who pass them by hear Orion and this man conversing in stilted, passable Dutch. When the two men depart, the couple seem extremely satisfied, Rafaella curling around Orion like a cat stretching toward the sun.

The third, of course, is the hardest. Meeting with Cosimo Capulet is never easy. Telling your Uncle you’re leaving him behind is infinitely worse.

Somehow, though, she manages it. She stands strong as she calmly explains their reasoning. Both Orion and Rafaella have been torn apart by this war, bloody and raw, but she doesn’t point that out. They have been nearly broken, slashed into so many times they’re shells of their former selves in so many ways, but these are not reasons that will impress Capulet. And so, with Orion’s hand tight in hers, she lies.

She lies about the up and coming organized crime groups in Amsterdam. She explains the disorganized and chaotic nature of the warring gangs, of how many have fallen victim to hubris and the law. She opens his eyes to a world of her own creation, where Amsterdam has a power vacuum in dire need of filling, and the Capulets desperately need allies if they’re going to win this war without dying out in the process. She spins and spins her web around him with enough half-truths and persuasive words to bring glory to his thoughts, and all the while, Orion’s hand stays in hers.

A role better suited to our current position, she admits, letting the hint of vulnerability in her show for just a moment. Or should I say our current predicament?

It’s easier than she wants it to be. Selfishly, desperately, she wants him to fight for her to stay. Rafaella has been accepted as his family; should he not fight to keep his family together? Yet he considers it with almost cerebral calm, like he’s watching a chess game rather than thinking of the future of his family, and Rafaella’s heart hardens.

When Verona implodes around him, when his throne is viciously stolen, when everything he’s built flourishes while he crumbles himself, Rafaella tells herself she will not be sorry.

[daphneallard]

–– maledetta primavera

Grief is ruinous. Philip Petre is not ready for what he must tell her, and Daphne Allard is not ready to hear what he has to say. 

TW: death, grieving, suicide mention, drowning mention, murder mention

MENTIONED: Philip Petre (NPC), @deadagainmaevepetre (among others but mostly Maeve)

Daphne feels like she can’t breath when Philip tells her the news. Maeve. Dead. Maeve. Dead. Maeve is dead. Maeve is dead. She can’t wrap her head around those words strung together in that order. It just doesn’t make any sense. Maeve can’t be dead. Maeve is young, and vibrant, and kind, and loves sundresses, and loves flowers, and is everything that’s alive.

Her mind is going a million miles an hour, attempting to figure out exactly what’s happening. No, I’m afraid you’ve got it wrong, signor, she wants to say, but Daphne takes one look at the man who is clearly tattered with grief and can’t bring herself to, lest Philip Petre starts crying in her foyer. 

She brings him into her kitchen and places him in his chair. Her hand trembles on top of his, and they both pretend not to notice. “Would you like a cup of tea?” Daphne asks, her voice surprisingly clear. He nods. He comes first right now, she thinks, not knowing how best to take care of this grieving man. They didn’t know each other particularly well, outside of a friendly coffee once every few months to talk about Maeve. 

It had quieted some of his anxieties (was anxieties the right word? Fear? Rage? Disappointment? All of the above?) that Daphne Allard had been his daughter’s sponsor into the Capulet’s. Beautiful Daphne Allard. Kind Daphne Allard. Influential Daphne Allard. She could take care of Maeve. Well, that wasn’t the case now was it? Daphne looked like someone who could take care of Maeve. She was all smoke and no fire, and more all her poison-laced smile and honey-laden words, Maeve is dead. 

Maeve is dead. It just doesn’t feel right. It’s impossible. It’s unnatural.

Daphne thinks back to the boy who asked her to help escape the Capulet’s, and how she’d betrayed him. A bullet to the head – not by her hand, of course, but with her consent. She’d paid for the funeral and looked his parents in the eyes as she paid her respects. Why is the universe so cold? I take their son, so you take my girl? An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, and a loss for a loss...where is the justice in that?

She takes a shaky breath, putting his cup in front of him. Philip doesn’t touch it. “What is going on, Philip? What happened?”

Daphne braces herself for all manners of story –– fell into the Adige and drowned, killed in a random mugging, killed by the Capulet’s for desertion, shot by a Montague soldier who saw a little Capulet all by her lonesome and decided this would be the best way to curry favor, slaughtered by the Montague’s as revenge for what the Capulet’s did to that spy. What was her name again? Ah, Valentina Gallo. She pictures their initiates stabbing her, one by one. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, a desecration for a desecration. 

When he relays Maeve’s manner of death to Daphne, her heart shatters. “Oh,” she says softly, a few tears trailing down her face. She’s unable to mask the tidal wave of emotions – surprise, horror, grief, denial – on her face. “Oh.” Daphne thinks back to her most recent interactions with Maeve –– why would she call her to look for that dress if she was going to....if she was going to –– no, she can’t even think of it right now. The girl had been emotional, had clearly been hurt and confused and stunned by recent events, but ––– no, no, no. No. No. No. It doesn’t make any sense. 

Why didn’t I realize? Why didn’t I catch it? Why didn’t I do more? Why couldn’t I have saved her? Daphne thinks, unable to hide from the shame. That was her strength, her ability to compartmentalize all of her emotions. Her control. Her mask. Her ability to be whatever anyone needed to be. She could be Verona’s princess. And she, Verona’s would-be savior, couldn’t even save her. 

They are both crying now, father and not-quite mother. What a horrible scene, Daphne thinks. Maeve would hate to see us like this. She wipes away her tear, and takes Philip’s hand, and promises him that needn’t worry about anything. She will take care of the funeral arrangements – he must not pay a single penny. I am strong enough for this, Daphne wills herself. And if I am not, I must be. 

His shoulder’s slump in relief, and Daphne’s mind goes to everyone else. Everett. Oh, poor Everett. First Lillian, and now Maeve. Her heart breaks for him. Juliana. Vivianne. Catherine. Bunny. And what of Orion in Amsterdam? 

And Cosimo. On a more cynical level, this simply isn’t good for the Capulet name. Join the Capulet’s, we’ll make you want to kill yourselves isn’t the most inspiring slogan to new recruits. 

“Did she talk to you about this?” Philip asks, and it takes a second for Daphne to register what he’s referring to. Did Maeve ever talk to your about what kind of funeral she wanted? 

Daphne shakes her head. “No, but I think I can....I think I know....I knew her well enough to know what she might have wanted.” 

How wrong this is, a parent burying their own child. 

How wretched it is to think of Maeve Petre in the past tense. 

[tomassabello]

🎬Troilus & Paris, Scene I

Date: May 18th, 2019. Time: Early Evening. Place: Restaurant in Neutral Territory. Availability: Closed to @priam-taravella​​​

It’s a basic truth of life that whatever one went out of their way to avoid, they would inevitably encounter at some point down the line. It’s a tenant of Murphy’s Law, and after two months of ardently hoping he’d never cross paths with Juliana’s fiancé, Priam Taravella is sitting here, three tables away from him in the same somewhat pretentious and overly-pricey restaurant. Of course, his bad luck doesn’t end there. The Capulet sees him too, giving a brief wave just as Tomas goes to look away - and, when the actor’s company excuses themselves to take a call outside - strolls over to greet him with a brilliant smile that only succeeds in setting him on edge. 

“Signor Taravella... Buonasera.” He greets Verona’s so-called Prince, making use of every acting muscle in his body to keep his tone polite and aloof. Comfortable. 

“I’d invite you to my table, but unfortunately as you see every chair’s taken.” Blessedly, the actor thinks, casting an eye over the two seats belonging to the couple he’s entertaining for dinner. Old friends from Rome who we currently taking a call from their son’s babysitter outdoors. Unknowingly leaving Tomas in the hot seat. 

“I do hope you’re enjoying your meal, maybe we can chat another time.” An unmistakable hint, the reluctant celebrity hopes, aiming to conclude any possible conversation before it’s even had the chance to begin.

[igagliano]

date: 31 march 2019 location: cafe near the roman baths status: closed to @alvafae

Isabella sits with a pad of paper atop the table, hand moving at only half the speed of her mind; there’s so much she needs to put to paper so that it remains as factual as possible. She needs to remember who attended the anniversary and who did not. Present: Roman Montague; Juliana Capulet; Odessa Vernon; Grace, Regina, and Catherine Daly... The list continues. Absent: Mona Chen, Loretta DeLucci, Calina Sokolova... This list continues, too, though it’s much shorter. Isa gnaws absentmindedly on the back of her pen, locked in thought until she hears the tinkling of the bells atop the entry.

She notices the little songbird. Their arm is coddled by a sling, forcing her lips downward in a soft frown. This is why she writes, this is why she so fervently wishes to bring an end to both the Montagues and the Capulets: because innocent people—people like Alva or the common Veronesi—get caught in the crossfire without even knowing they were in the middle of a gunfight. She makes a conscious effort to unclench her jaws and to softly smile.

“Alva,” Izzy calls from her booth in the back corner of the bakery, hand raised slightly to catch their attention. It’s early and mostly empty, with only a worker behind the counter and a couple of people sitting towards the front of the cafe. As they approach, she motions to the seat across from her. “Thank you for coming. Can I buy you something? Breakfast is on me.”

[gertrudezhang]

WHEN: MARCH 26TH 2019, EVENING WHERE: THE CATHEDRAL OF VERONA WHO: @julianaxcapulet

Fottere. Her curse does not manifest into spoken word as Juliana announces their presence to the room, focusing her attention on the woman behind crown jewel of the Capulet empire; Volumnia. The physical remnants of their previous altercation had faded some time ago, all that reminded her of it was the subtle bend to the bridge of her nose that had not been there before. It surprised her when the lion cub prowls forward in the stead of the lioness - heir rather than capobastone - registering in the slight tilt of her head as though to ask the young woman what she planned to do.

The principessa had spent decades in the ivory tower of her father’s making, so she had heard, while Genevieve had been on the ground working and gaining experience. Even now, Priam is swift to remove the threat of Celia from aiding her superior, they protect Juliana. Hands held aloft, feigning ignorance of the weapon strapped to her back, she watches in anticipation. “I’m not here to hurt you,” a warning, a kindness that she isn’t sure would have been returned, and a truth. 

Genevieve had been given her mission; rescue. Reluctant as she might have been to injure anyone in the meantime, she was not opposed to it if necessary, especially considering how important the woman in front of her was to the opposition. One movement - a single finger twitch - could have ended a war.

[benvoliosantodomingo]

BELLAMY SANTO DOMINGO | THE KEEPER

“what is your religion? [...] - to love what is good and beautiful when i see it.” - george eliot 

basic information 

full name : bellamy santo domingo meaning : bellamy ( french ) - “fine friend” santo ( latin ) - “holy or devout” domingo ( spanish ) “of the lord” 

nicknames(s) : bell, bells  preferred names(s) : bellamy, bell, bells  birthdate : may 21st, 1995 age : 24 zodiac : taurus gender : male pronouns : he / his romantic : panromantic sexual orientation : bisexual nationality : Italian ethnicity : italian / brazilian current location : verona, italy living conditions : bellamy lives in an apartment by himself, away from the villa santo domingo. it has large windows that let in a lot of light, two guest rooms for his various friends to move in and out of, a large kitchen even though he can’t really cook worth anything, and he keeps it filled with the things that are important to him. one wall is two large bookshelves, relics from his travels are scattered around the place, and a wall in his bedroom is dedicated to pictures of the people that he loves, and pictures and postcards from his years traveling. its the only place that's ever truly been his, so he’s tried to leave his mark on it as much as possible.  title(s) : benvolio, ufficiale santo domingo, the keeper 

background

birthplace / hometown : bellamy was born and raised in verona. social class : bellamy comes from a wealthy upper-class family, but he never really agreed with everything that came with that distinction--and in comparison to families like the rossos and the montagues he always felt like his own family saw themselves as distinctly lesser. now that he’s an adult and living on his own, he would say that he’s firmly middle class and happy to be so. education level : bellamy has a high school education, and received police training upon returning to verona. father : luca santo domingo mother : ana santo domingo ( née moreno ) sibling(s) : bellamy is the oldest of five, and has only brothers. they aren’t particularly close due to bellamy’s proclivity for gentleness and peace, and the ones that are old enough are particularly devoted to the montague cause, like their parents. he makes an effort to see them occasionally--but it usually doesn't end well.  dante santo domingo ( 22 )  leonardo ( leo ) santo domingo ( 20 ) milo santo domingo ( 17 ) raphael santo domingo ( 13 )  children : none, but he is very much the mom friend.  pet(s) : none, but he’s not opposed to the idea of having one.  other important relatives : part of his travels involved staying with some of his mother’s relatives in brazil, and he has various aunts and uncles that are involved with the montagues in various capacities.  previous relationships : juliana capulet his secret high school girlfriend--two gentle souls who found solace in each other, in abandoning the pretenses they had both been affecting for their families. their relationship ended when bellamy decided to go traveling, but they left on good terms.  carlos de leon a formula one driver that bellamy met while he was staying in spain. he made bellamy momentarily forget everything that he had left behind, and they burned brightly for a few months. he begged bellamy to stay, to leave everything behind and start new, but ultimately bellamy decided to move on.  jack hawthorne a poet and an an american student at oxford that bellamy met while he was in england. they dated intensely for six months, and that was the closest that bellamy ever got to really considering staying somewhere--but ultimately there was more of the world that he wanted to see, and he wasn’t willing to give up on the people he had back in verona. they’re still close, and text from time to time.  arrests? : none, he’s the one with the strict charge of bailing others out of jail.  prison time? : none. 

occupation + home

primary source of income : the salary he earns from being a police officer.  secondary source of income : his salary as a soldato, and a trust fund account from his parents which he uses as sparingly as possible. he wants to create a life for himself based on his own merits.  content with their job (or lack thereof?) : bellamy is only on the force because the montagues placed him there upon his return--if he had a choice he would do pretty much anything else. there are aspects of the job that he likes, but he detests having to stand by and watch violence occur just because its in the montague name, or arriving moments too late to stop the cruelty from occurring. once upon a time, he’d imagined that he might study to be a poet, or a writer of some kind, but he’s since pretty much given up on that.  past job(s) : he picked up odd jobs on his travels whenever his funds started to get a little bit light--waiting tables, local bookshops, things he could pick up and leave pretty easily.  spending habits : bellamy’s parents presented him with a trust fund account as their way of taking care of him once he was out of their sight--but he doesn’t like to use it that often. it’s money they gained at the expense of others, and its their excuse for not having to think about him. he doesn't believe in spending money just for the hell of it, to show off what you have--he gets only what he needs to make himself comfortable, to make himself happy, with the salary that he earns from his job. his parents money gets donated to charities most of the time--shelters, food banks, organizations that stand against mob violence, no matter how small they may be.  most valuable possession(s) : an old t-shirt he stole from marcelo on a particularly bad night that still has their scent, and a daisy that roman had once tucked behind his ear that he keeps pressed in-between the pages of a book. 

skills + abilities 

physical strength : 7/10

bellamy keeps himself in good shape, and his job requires him to be able to lift heavy objects, or even people out of harm’s way if necessary. he’s not as strong as someone like marcelo, who works out regularly and with the specific purpose of being able to overpower other people, but he can hold his own. 

offense : 6/10

bellamy doesn’t believe in violence, and would much rather talk his way out of an altercation. however, he’s had effective tutors throughout his life who insisted that he be able to keep himself safe, and hold his own if the need ever arose, so he knows the basics. 

defense : 6/10

again, he is capable of holding his own should the need arise, but he doesn’t go out of his way to practice the skills, and he would prefer to do just about anything other than get into a physical altercation. 

speed : 8/10

bellamy’s preferred method of exercise is running, and his job requires him to be able to take off running at a moment’s notice, so his strength really is his speed. it also comes from childhood and teenage years running from whatever mess his friends got themselves into, so that he could bail them out later. 

intelligence : 8/10

bellamy is primarily intuitive, rather than classically educated and booksmart. he has a talent for reading people, and for reading emotion. he did grow up among the books of the verona library however, and has always been a voracious reader, and has taught himself a lot over the years. 

accuracy : 5/10

he hates shooting a gun, and his hands shake pretty much every time he has to draw it. he’s just good enough to pass the test to get on the police force, nothing more. 

agility : 8/10

he’s young, and a youth spent raising hell on the streets with his friends meant he developed a good deal of agility--he can hop a fence, a wall, or scale a fire escape with ease. 

stamina : 7/10

bellamy is physically fit, and trains pretty regularly, so his stamina is pretty above average. however, he has a low tolerance for pain and when he gets hurt it generally tends to really hurt. 

teamwork : 9/10

bellamy loves working with other people, and his skillset lies directly in his ability to communicate--he recognizes that no one ever really does anything alone, and that the future he envisions, in particular, will require as many people as he can convince of its plausibility. he can however, be blind and obstinate when his friends are brought into the equation--he will choose them above anyone else, every time. 

talents : bellamy has some talents as a writer, though he would never admit to it. he's skilled at communicating, at convincing other people to believe in his ideas, and he’s also very good at doing so in a way that never strays from genuine. he’s also pretty good at surfing, driving, and dancing.  shortcomings : bellamy is loyal to a fault--it would be easier to convince people of his crusade for peace if he could detach himself from the people in his life would oppose such an idea, but he never will. he also tends to be stubborn, and idealistic to a near fault. his life hinges on his ability to see peace brought to the streets of verona, and he refuses to consider that that might not be a real possibility.  languages spoken : italian, english, a little bit of portuguese, a little bit of french, and a little bit of spanish. drive? : yes, and at speeds that probably wouldn’t be considered “safe” or “legal”.  jump start a car? : yes!  change a flat tire? : yes!  ride a bicycle? : yes!  swim? : yes!  play an instrument? : no--his father played the guitar, and bellamy briefly considered learning, but got bored pretty quickly.  play chess? : no--there was always something more interesting for him to be doing, somewhere else.  braid hair? : yes, for the benefit of his friends exclusively.  tie a tie? : yes, and a bowtie.  pick a lock? : no, that’s what he had roman and marcelo for. 

physical appearance + characteristics 

face claim : marlon teixeira eye color : brown hair color : brown hair type / style : its always been curly, and he’s never really been particularly gifted at controlling it, so he generally doesn’t fuss with it.  glasses / contacts? : none dominant hand : right height : 6′2  weight : 175 build : bellamy is tall but solidly built--the muscle that he gains tends to fill him out.  exercise habits : running, boxing, lifting weights, yoga on occasion skin tone : he’s got his mother’s olive complexion.  tattoos : none yet, but he’s considered it a couple of times--he’d like for them to be meaningful, connecting him to the people he cares about.  piercings : none.  marks / scars : bellamy was an active child and carries the scars of that, and he has a very active job that has a tendency to leave him bruised and bleeding.  notable features : his curly hair, his nose, and a nice bone structure.  usual expression : bellamy makes an effort to smile as much as he can, as a kind of defiant act.  clothing style : bellamy has a weakness for nice clothes--he has a couple of designer suits that he’ll break out on occasion, and even his casual wear tends to be high end. he runs the full spectrum--he likes cozy sweaters some days, sportswear others, and some days he just wants to wear a crop top.  jewelry : a watch most days, rings he accumulated on his travels if he’s not on duty.  makeup : a little bit eyeliner, if he’s going out.  allergies : jerks!  diet : bellamy can cook well enough to stay alive, but he's not particularly gifted. he knows a few of his mom’s old recipes, and he can follow along with the food network, but he’s not really skilled enough to branch out and be adventurous by himself. he does like trying new things--he’s frequented a lot of out of the way restaurants in verona, and he’s totally that guy that will tell you that a particular dish is made better at a distant locale where you wouldn’t expect it to be made better. he notably is not phased at all by spice.  physical ailments : none. 

psychology 

jung type : ISFJ enneagram type : type 2, the helper. the caring interpersonal type: generous, demonstrative, people pleasing, possessive  moral alignment : neutral good  temperament : melancholic element : earth primary intelligence type : intra-personal Intelligence. mental conditions / disorders : bellamy struggles with anxiety.  sociability : bellamy is incredibly sociable--he draws his strength from other people, he has a deep and abiding love for humanity as a whole and believes wholeheartedly that they are capable of good. the only time he has a tendency to withdraw is when he’s well and truly upset--he’s used to being something solid for everyone else to lean against, and he doesn’t want them to worry about him.  emotional stability : bellamy tends to feel everything very deeply, and makes it a point to not hide that about himself. he grew up in a household where he was expected to keep his emotions in check, to channel them into violence and aggressive behavior, so as he’s been on his own he’s always been very outward about his expression. when he’s upset, he’s well and truly upset and its obvious. when he’s happy, he’s out and he likes to be among people.  obsession(s) : bringing peace to verona, and ending the mob war. when he was younger he fell deeply in love with the written word, and spent most of his teenage years drinking in every book he could get his hands on.  compulsion(s) : bellamy has a bit of a savior complex--if he sees someone in need, he feels compelled to try and do something, even when there might be nothing to be done.  phobia(s) : bellamy fears losing his loved ones, leaving him alone, deeply.  addiction(s) : none.  drug use : recreationally when he was younger, when he was in social situations. since he’s been back in verona and on the police force he’s tended to stay away from them.  alcohol use : mostly socially, but those tend to be heavy binges. he drinks when he’s truly upset, as a kind of last resort coping mechanism.  prone to violence? : absolutely not--he believes that most situations can be diffused without resorting to violence, and that violence is a plague that has swept through verona unchecked for hundreds of years. he prefers to resolve things with his words, with his voice, or to exit a situation entirely. if he feels its a last resort, he might turn to it, but it would have to be a desperate situation. 

mannerisms 

speech style : it depends on the situation--he generally speaks like a young person, with a lot of slang, and sometimes at more of a loud volume. if he really believes in what he’s talking about, he tends to speak very forcefully, with a lot of hand gestures and eye contact, with clear and concise language. he’s a gifted speaker who knows how to tailor his manner of speaking depending on audience.  accent : italian quirks : he’s always playing with his hair in one way or another, his manners tend to be less on the formal side because he grew up in a big family, he always gets up before the sun if he can help it.   hobbies : reading, writing, drawing, taking photographs, dancing, he’s trying to learn how to cook better, shopping nervous ticks : whenever bellamy’s nervous his hands start to get a tremor in them.  drives / motivations : what drives bellamy is the idea that a better future exists--a future where the people he loves will live and grow old, will do the things that bring them joy. he just has to figure out how to change things, to convince people to see that future in the same way that he does. he’s very motivated by his makeshift family, by making sure that they are safe and well taken care of. his primary motivation has always been kindness, everything he does comes from that place inside of him.  fears : he fears losing himself in this war, as well as losing the people that he loves about. he fears that violence will corrupt beyond what he can save, that he will have to bury the family that he’s made for himself.  positive traits : kind, selfless, optimistic negative traits : none he’s an angel he can be stubborn, he can be blindly optimistic, and he tends to be kind of a martyr at times.  sense of humor : more on the dark and dry side--its a side effect of being friends with marcelo rosso for so long.  do they curse often? : yes! he’s young and his family consists of his friends, he’s never felt the need to clean it up for them. 

favorites

activity : writing next to a sunlit window.  animal : all of them beverage : anything fruity book : the sword in the stone by t.h. white, maurice by e.m. forster, one hundred years of solitude by gabriel garcia marquez, the collected poems of john keats, the return of the king by j.r.r. tolkien  color : green  designer : thom browne, prada, louis vuitton  food : he has his issues with his mother--but she remains the best cook he’s ever known. he misses her brazilian food every day, as well as her high tolerance for spice.  flower : sunflower  gem : tourmaline  holiday : halloween  movie : the lord of the rings trilogy, an american in paris, eternal sunshine of the spotless mind  quote / saying : ”the future has several names. for the weak it is impossible; for the faint hearted it is unknown; for the valiant, it is ideal.” - victor Hugo scent : bright and floral  sport : football (soccer)  television show : parks and recreation, cooking shows, queer eye  weather: warm and with relentless sunshine  vacation destination : são paolo, brazil 

attitudes 

greatest dream : seeing his friends grow old and build happy lives for themselves.  most at ease when : he’s with the people that he cares about--they know him as well as anyone he shares blood with ever could.  least at ease when : he’s on the job, specifically when he has to draw his weapon. any kind of combat situation makes him uneasy.  worst possible thing that could happen : he resigns himself to life in the mob, realizes that peace is unattainable in verona, and becomes like his parents and everyone else in the montague ranks.  biggest achievement : leaving verona when he was 18 years old, and seeing what else the world had to offer.  biggest regret : allowing himself to be lured back, allowing the montagues to put him in the verona police force.  top priorities : keeping his loved ones safe and alive, building a better world for them to live in. 

[orpheus-vault-blog]

✧

juliana capulet –

I would kill you. ✧ I would physically hurt you. ✧ I would attack you unprovoked. ✧ I would manipulate you. ✧ I dislike you. ✧ You annoy me. ✧ You scare me. ✧ You intimidate me. ✧ I hope I intimidate you. ✧ I pity you. ✧ You disgust me. ✧ I hate you. ✧ I’m indifferent toward you. ✧ I’d like to get to know you better. ✧ I’d like to spend more time with you. ✧ I’d like to be friends with you. ✧  I’m unsure what to think of you. ✧ I’m unsure how I feel about you. ✧ You are my friend. ✧ You are my best friend. ✧ You are my mentor. ✧ I look up to you. ✧ I respect you. ✧ You are my hero. ✧ You inspire me. ✧ You are my enemy. ✧ You make me happy. ✧ I want to protect you. ✧ I would fight by your side. ✧ I consider you an equal. ✧ I think you are beneath me. ✧ I think you are above me. ✧ I would lie for you. ✧ I would lie to you. ✧ I would sleep with you.✧ I would sleep by your side. ✧ I would hug you. ✧ I would kiss you. ✧ You are family to me. ✧ I would die for you. ✧ I would kill for you. ✧ I would trust you with my life. ✧ I would trust you with my most precious belonging. ✧ I would trust you with a secret. ✧ I would trust you with my biggest / darkest secret. ✧ I love you (platonically). ✧ I love you (romantically).

[julianaxcapulet]

date: may 24th 2014 location: abandoned warehouse  time: nighttime status: closed to @rafaellacapulet​

This is what she had been craving...right? Then, how could she explain the sinking pit in her stomach as she followed Rafaella into the warehouse. It curled into her gut and tore into her insides like a savage beast, but Juliana remained determined to keep the mission in sight. She would not fail now. She looks to Rafaella, so confident, so assured in this in environment and attempts to channel the other woman’s energy, charging her own steps with a ferocity and purposefulness that surprises even herself. 

It was always within her-- something Vivianne had nurtured, something Rafaella had encouraged. But truthfully, she was glad it was Raf, here with her now. Had it been Vivianne, her nerves might have spiraled beyond her control. Raf had that magical capacity of putting her nerves at ease. She made Juliana feel safe, but more importantly she made Juliana feel brave. She’s not sure how, but she’s found her person in Rafaella Capulet. Juliana may have been born a Capulet, but Rafaella had been built one. As far as she was concerned, they were of the same blood, DNA be damned. 

Her training comes back to her now-- her growing familiarity with the coolness of bullets, the bitter taste of blood-- but this is unlike anything she’s ever done before. Juliana is smart enough to know this is her father’s way of easing her into his business, to have her watch from the shadows while Raf does the real work, but as far as Juliana’s concerned it’s a significant improvement from the paperwork her father had her doing earlier. There was something so dreadfully real about the stakes of a mission. 

This was her path, her birthright, her calling. La principessa had finally broken free from her prison of glass and gold.

"I’m ready,” Juliana says with a finality that indicates there’s no going back, “Let’s do this.”

[priam-taravella]

Date: June 16th Location: The Twelfth Night, Vivianne’s office. Time: Afternoon Status: Closed for @lavolumnia​ 

“I hear Padua is really nice this time of year,” Priam quips, as he enters the capobastone’s office. 

The Emissary has quite a lot of thoughts regarding everything that went down the past few days. He’s shared his opinions with Tiberius and Juliana, and he did not hold back. Being friends with the Capulets for so long grants him the luxury of speaking his mind freely, especially with someone as short-fused as Tybalt. 

Vivianne is different. He has earned her respect, it certainly wasn’t given via over two-decade-long friendship. When she calls for him, Priam always answers, without a fail. After all, Viviane Sloane is one person above all who he trusts to be a capable leader, regardless who holds what title. 

Whilst rest of the mob is drunk on the ecstasy of recent events, Priam remains stark sober. Cosimo was slipping, it’s clear as day to Taravella, but the way everything has been handled, he doesn’t share the excitement of his best friends. It took a lot of convincing to secure the Gomorra alliance, Priam fears, with sudden changes, all his efforts might be futile. Internal fights rarely inspire confidence, but at least the coup hadn’t transpired until the alliance became official. Will be harder for Garrone to back out now, Priam hopes. 

Inside the office, Priam stands near the open window, a cigarette in hand. “May I? I fear I might need this, if we’re going to get through this conversation.”

[deadagainmaevepetre]

@dalygrace​ asked: 19, 27, 39

19. What do they think about before falling asleep at night?

27. What is their biggest regret?

39. What recharges them when they’re feeling drained?

19. What do they think about before falling asleep at night?

She daydreams, and she remembers. About the movies she wants to watch with Juliana, or the time that Bunny played with their hair and Maeve thought they were going to kiss; the times she looked at Catherine with only hope and joy, instead of fear that Maeve can’t follow where she goes; the first time Orion complimented her and when she made Everett laugh so hard, he almost spit out his drink.

27. What is their biggest regret?

BRINGING THIS BACK FROM MAEVE’S APP — also more emo now that Everett is the one who first brought her into the Capulets...

She remembers her Papa coming home, his shadow sinister in the moonlight and the blood staining his hands and his cheek. She remembers swallowing her fear and asking, quietly and plainly, what he was out doing. If she will let herself, Maeve knows she can feel the same drop in her stomach and the sudden, violent urge to vomit at his feet.

She remembers marching up to the Capulets and demanding recruitment. “Enlist me,” she remembers saying, “and I will be the most valuable person in your army.”

She remembers the glint in their eye, an old friend of her father’s and surely a pawn in the Capulets’ game. “You have no experience with violence, weapons or warfare. You’ve been kept in the dark your entire life, and you think you offer value?”

“Yes.“

She remembers their approving hum. She remembers the quick and rapid process of becoming a Capulet as her Papa watched, horror in his eyes. She remembers being proud of herself.

No, joining the Capulets is not the mistake Maeve is thinking of.

“My biggest mistake has been letting the world make decisions without me. My entire life, I’ve loved Verona more than anyone - and never once did I ask the right questions. I thought I knew my Papa, thought I knew Verona.. For so long, I lived… I lived a lie. Because I never tried to see what was right in front of me.”

Her fingers are shaking, Maeve realizes with a start. She folds them together and wills them to stop trembling. “It won’t happen again.”

39. What recharges them when they’re feeling drained?

Talking to those she loves, and being reminded that they love her in return. Really, that’s it; those small moments where Maeve feels whole with those she loves is all that she looks forward to.

[rafaellacapulet]

☺ (THE RARITY OF A CUDDLE W/ VIV I'M SCREAMING)

Once upon a time…

    They were both too old to sleep in the same bed, but Juliana had been having a particularly difficult night. Although she wouldn’t admit it, Rafaella was feeling much the same. You would think that her nightmares would have consisted of her dad’s sharp, hollow cheeks and his red-faced fury, or the sound of the ruler hitting open palms with the hissings of her mother’s disappointment. But what Rafaella saw was worse -- her father with pride glinting in his eyes, taking her into his arms and pressing a kiss to her forehead while her mother hugged her as well, her cheeks full and ruddy. Then, when the young Capulet’s eyes flutter open, she was left with nothing less than the visceral feeling of being gutted. 

    That singular feeling was far worse than any true nightmare her subconscious could have concocted. 

    So she did as any sensible teenager would do when they’ve awoken in the ungodly hours of the morning, she went down to the kitchen and rummaged around for whatever gelato there might be in the freezer. Studiously ignoring the tears that were running down her cheeks. When the freezer door closed, she turned around and found Vivianne looking at her, brow slightly raised. Rafaella stared back at her before remembering the tear stains on her cheek and she quickly wiped them away. 

    She sat next to Vivianne as the underboss shifted through her paperwork. A half-hour passed and she was helping her sort it out as well, filing the information away, refreshing herself on the finances of the mob, combing through the revenue. Then her eyes started to drift shut and Vivianne clucked her tongue in impatience. Not a word about why either of them was awake had been said, just the occasional questions and correction about which paper went where. 

    “Vieni qui,” Vivianne beckoned, shifting the pillows on the couch around them. And without further prompting, Rafaella found her arms wrapped around Vivianne while the other woman held her, fingers combing through her hair. Neither of them were likely to acknowledge this again, but that was fine by her. Vivianne’s hands were oddly gentle when they wiped the tears from her cheeks, perhaps a little hesitant. They were warm, all the same. 

    It made her heart shift and ache in a way that was worse than what her dreams had done to her. This was too real. The loss of this mother would be too much for her to take. Ever the creature of indulgence, though, she remained with her head in Vivianne’s lap, hair combed soothingly by unfamiliar fingers. With a blanket of melancholy silence holding them both captive. 

[julianacapulets]

The afternoon finds Juliana Capulet pacing the Twelfth Night museum – furious footsteps assaulting the ground beneath Giuseppe Zanotti sandals, heels hitting the ground hard enough to damn well pierce it in harsh counts of the moments that pass by with disgusting haste. These walls have never known the madness that twists her features then, especially awaiting ( @tomassabello​ ). But FEBRUARY 23rd, 2019, marks five days since beloved Rafaella was taken, and with every passing day, the roses are exceeded by thorns.

[SENT] JULIANA: I need to see you. Our spot. Noon. [SENT] JULIANA: Please.

Her eyes rove over the words sent at dawn – and already, she feels too far away from them. As if the composition of letters belonged to another, not herself. Juliana’s feet storm a chaotic rhythm, yet have nothing on the thoughts that flood her mind painfully: possibilities; the very worst of the what if’s. But her hands no longer shake, not when her hands furl in tight fists, blanched bundles, unrelenting. She cannot be weak, not when her Rafaella needs her. 

She won’t be. She won’t fail her this time.

                       “Please, please, please, please, please ...” The Capulet heiress chants under her breath, hurried & mindless like a mantra in meditation, one said enough times to either convince the universe or be rendered trite in the trying process. She makes herself be patient; a feat that, the year before, she could still tell herself was no hard ask. She keeps her feet moving within a preset number of tiles—twenty to the right, then twenty to the left, then back—lest she walk out the museum’s entrance and march herself to the Montague emissary’s doorstep, her fist banging a hole into the door’s wood and into her face if that is what it takes to know Rafaella state.

Somehow, she remembers that Tomas might not be happy about an assault on his wife. After all, is Celeste Duval’s safety not the very bargaining chip she is about to use to callously manipulate the adored man who, realistically, might no longer wish to be her friend when he hears what she’s got to say? 

Footsteps sound, that familiar gait she’d know in a darkened room. Scarlet-polished nails dig viciously into tender palms before she turns, forcing her heart back from from where it leaps, immediately, to her throat. Her pulse pounds vividly.

“Tomas.”