MACHIAVEL

RONAN IVARSSON | RICHARD III

[morecruelkings]

BRUTUS : 

Ronan Ivarsson does what he apparently is best at, which is telling people what they want to hear, and for a brief, flimsy little moment, as easily breakable as a piece of dry pasta, Boris is pleased. Underutilized, mismanaged, by our figurehead.

Fucking Damiano.

Boris cannot wait until the man is dead. Until Verona burns and he’s off on a plane to somewhere nice. Canada, maybe, or Russia, if he absolutely has to keep that end of the deal. With the glaze of drink covering his eyes it is difficult to form the usual sharp words he keeps in his repertoire, and so he elects to go for the glass instead. It’s not very good wine, is it? But it does its job and so he sets it back on the tabletop and has a good, long think about just what Ronan is proposing to him.

Things he knows about Ronan: the man is shrewd, difficult to work with, prioritizes his own agenda over that of others. (Doesn’t that sound familiar?) He is married, unhappily, has a list of affairs a thousand miles long, but he wiggles out of consequences within the Montagues each and every time they so much as encroach upon his personal space. Boris wishes he were that wily, but knows that’s just not realistic. Sometimes, he even likes getting caught. So long as it’s not at the cost of his head.

There’s more politicking, which Boris allows to slip right through one ear and out the other. He doesn’t care about that part anymore than he cares about what color the sky is or how cold it gets in his office.

Another thing: doing business with Ronan Ivarsson is tricky at best, lethal at worst, and there isn’t really much of a good reason to do so unless you’ve hit rock bottom. Or, at least, that’s what Boris has heard from spurned partners, forced to watch as Ivarsson climbed the ladder of success while they stayed on the ground, feet firmly rooted in place. Boris isn’t above knowing exactly where he’s at right now, even drunk, and he just happens to be able to feel the grit of gravel beneath his shoes that are expensive-but-not-too-expensive. He stares at Ronan, hand still grasping the glass of wine, lets these thoughts cycle through for what is probably too long.

“I can get you what you want,” he admits, because if Boris can do anything, it’s that, “but I would like to know why you need it at all. You seem comfortable in your place.” He squints. “Unless you are not comfortable.”

---

There are others, perhaps, who would have flinched beneath the eyes of Boris Kovrov--but Ronan has perfected the art of the visual flaying, the subtle strip-tease of separating skin from bone with nothing more than a calculated flick of the iris from one point of the face to another. He doesn’t fault Kovrov for his clumsiness, the way his focus turns a little to sharp to be casual as Ronan’s words trail off--the world has taught him to bare the sting of the blade, to find comfort in the knowledge that at the last second it will turn away from him, slide back into someone’s pocket as they turn their attention elsewhere. Ronan has never had such a luxury. He has been cut open from the day he was born, by the eyes of others. Had his spine pulled out and re-adjusted, examined, gawked at--he simply learned which tendon in the wrist is responsible for the release, learned to turn the blade back.

Ronan does not flinch, as Boris Kovrov blinks steadily at him. He sips from the glass of cheap wine in is hand and blinks back, clenches his jaw in an effort to pretend that he isn’t bored to tears by the dithering, the tapping of fingers against the wood of the table as the cogs turn slowly. He had thought the man would be at least somewhat worthy of his name, that the image of Brutus with hands bathed in the blood of a tyrant would not be difficult to call to mind--but it would appear that action, the hand that wraps its fingers around the blade and agrees to the changing of history, has given way to nothing more than endless calculation. 

Finally he speaks again, and Ronan can relax his assumed posture and raise an eyebrow. 

You seem comfortable in your place. Unless you are not comfortable. 

Comfort is not what he seeks. Immortality, the divine--these things are borne in pain, these things re-arrange the elements of the body to become something else, something bigger, in order to contain their magnificence. They make the body into something holy and beautiful and terrible for the uninitiated to look at--and only one such as he, born frozen in the midst of a metamorphosis, forever doomed to look at himself in the process of that changing, could ever endure it. 

“Anyone who tells you they’re comfortable is lying, Boris. Men are ambitious before they are anything else--the only thing that differentiates us is courage.” He punctuates the words with a swig from the glass in his hand, before placing it carefully on the table, before folding his arms across his chest. “Are you telling me you, of all people, have never felt the divine whisper in your ear? Have you never heard the siren sing about how you could be something greater than you are?” He smirks. “Or are you one of those who is forever contented with eating the food that falls from the table onto the floor?” 

He meets the other man’s gaze across the table, narrows his eyes. “I can pay you for it, Kovrov. Does that answer your question adequately? Or are you always in the habit of biting the hand that so eagerly wants to feed you?”

[drowsydrunk]

“…his beauty burned me unbearably;”

— Christa Wolf, Cassandra: A Novel and Four Essays (tr. Jan van Heurck)

[morecruelkings]

RONAN IVARSSON | RICHARD III

useless magic: lyrics and poetry by florence welch 

ballet by david seidner

on being ill by virginia woolf

just one yesterday by fall out boy 

death takes a holiday dir. mitchell leisen

wanting by elisabeth hewer

virgin and child with angels by bartolomeo cavarozzi 

the song of achilles by madeline miller 

[morecruelkings]

HERO:

.

Lucien would be furious.

Heloise knows this, but her inquisitive nature is impossible to leash, and she cannot free her mind from an endless loop of troubled thoughts. Lucien would be furious, but Heloise has been scolded for far less. Her mother hadn’t been fond of her curiosity either. Don’t meddle in the private affairs of others, she would say, you’ll learn to stop sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong. So Heloise quelled her appetite for her mother’s sake, she allowed her to butcher doll parts and unravel her at the seams, thread by thread, stuffing her full of cotton before stitching her back together again. Her mother would be furious too, of this she’s certain, but her heart hungers for answers and she’s teetering on the brink of starvation. Foolishly, she climbs the branches of the poison tree, wide-eyed and unknowing, like a lamb to the slaughter.

The pale glow of the moon cradles high as stars glitter across the night sky while Heloise decides to make her presence known. She’s on the verge of utterance when she hears the snapping of a bone and she nearly stumbles over her own two feet, and her stomach ties itself into knots like a ribbon spun from the finest of silk. There’s a flurry of fists and a barely-there sharp intake of breath, the victim’s bloodied mouth swelling with each strike, and like summer rain, her tears begin to flow, dampening her cheeks. Fear crawls up her throat and she begins to choke on it. Heloise struggles against the invisible chains that hold her captive, but they anchor her in place, terror-stricken and cotton mouthed. “Pardon me,” she whispers, her voice softer than wind chimes rattling in the summer breeze.

He doesn’t hear her. No one ever does. She tucks herself behind a column post as Ronan continues to pummel into the man, a rose veiled away in a flowering shrub, desperate to regain her focus and quiet the hummingbird beating of her heart. Heloise’s silent pleas mirror the heart-rendering cries of his victim, so she delves deep, gathers a bit of courage, and takes a step forward, relaxed and feather-light. “Pardon me for interrupting, but I need to ask you a quick question.” He takes no notice of her and she goes into a fit of frustration. “If you could spare a few minutes of your time–” Heloise’s words ring with slight acidity, like overripe cherries, and she’s a second away from repeating herself, but Ronan sharpens his teeth and takes a bite. Lower your voice and begin by telling me who the fuck you are and what precisely it is that you want. Silence pierces the room as she takes another step forward, a prickle of uncertainty creeping along the curve of her spine. “I’m Heloise, Brielle’s sister. You belong to Lucien, don’t you?”

She glances at the man crumpled at his feet, music continuous, the bass vibrating beneath her feet. “You don’t need to worry, I’m not a threat. I only have one good arm at the moment,” she motions towards her sling, “and I don’t have a weapon.” Heloise’s eyes find his as she shifts on her feet uncomfortably, a faint smile curving at the edge of her lips. “Lucien’s been unhappy lately, have you noticed? He’s unhappy and I think it’s because of you.” Her heart descends as she struggles to make sense of her own words. She hadn’t meant for them to sound so cruel, but they hold a bit of truth, and it’s too late to backtrack. A delicate shade of pink dusts the apples of her cheeks as she smiles once more. “I’m afraid that my mouth moves faster than my brain. I didn’t mean it like that.” Heloise takes another step forward, fawn-eyed and trembling. “Lucien is unhappy. Isn’t he?”

---

you belong to lucien, don’t you? the kitten mewls, snaps its jaws to reveal a mouth full of only milk teeth. 

does the wolf belong to the prey between its jaws? does the predator belong to the kill after he’s stripped all of the useful meat from the bone? does god belong to the sinner, to those who would forsake his greatest gifts? 

does the minotaur belong to the labyrinth, or are they both trapped there, in the darkness? 

“heloise.” he says slowly, stalks towards her. he does not raise an already bloodied hand to her, wrap his fingers around her throat or reach for the blade he keeps tucked close to his ribs, to put an end to this clear waste of his time, to this offensive oversimplification of matters the girl has no way of even conceiving of--instead he lingers on the edge of a shadow, levels her with the full force of his gaze, his complete attention. “hasn’t he told you, darling? i belong to no one, apart from myself. that’s what makes us--well matched, you see. he’s the same--i couldn’t have him even if i wanted him, no one could.” 

the labyrinth will always turn away from you. the labyrinth will always change its shape to keep you inside of it. the labyrinth will always chew and chew and shred you with its stone teeth and never give you the pleasure of spitting you out. keep walking, minotaur. keep raging. 

he exhales loudly and withdraws a handkerchief from his pocket, begins boredly cleaning the blood from the palms of his hands. it’s a mask, designed to draw the girl’s attention away from the red string he’s about to pull at, to draw from the pit of her stomach and up through her throat in one perfect motion. “he must talk about me often, for you to be so certain that i am the cause of his unhappiness. i’m not sure if i should be charmed by such a notion, or concerned about the fact that my husband seems to harbor a desire to involve all of verona in our private life.” 

he pauses in his motions, gazes at her again--he feels heat, an ancient kind of anger and ache lingering just underneath the surface of his skin. whatever they had once had--whatever ronan had once felt, twitches inside of his chest like a corpse, giving one last shudder of life. it is a bruise that he cannot stop prodding at, because he likes the way the pain fades into something sweeter in the final seconds before it fades into nothingness--which is why he snaps his teeth at her, why the mask falls momentarily from its perch atop his nose. “he could have had happiness, if he’d so desperately wanted it--he chose misery for himself. you can run along like a good little pet, right back to his side, and tell him as much. i don’t care.”

[thebookquotes]

Soon we will be strangers. No, we can never be that. Hurting someone is an act of reluctant intimacy. We will be dangerous acquaintances with a history.

— Hanif Kureishi, Intimacy and Midnight All Day: A Novel and Stories

[morecruelkings]

WHEN | MAY 26, 2019 WHERE | THE IVARSSON HOME WITH | @santodomingos​

bellamy santo-domingo will die one day--of that ronan is sure. 

the boy is the promise of martyr, the promise of blood seeping into the cobblestone streets of a city that he could not save, that no one will ever save--the promise of an ending to a war, or perhaps the beginning of another, both fought and ceased to honor his memory. it will gut lucien, in ways that ronan could never hope to, when the inevitable happens, when the boy becomes more ideal than human being--and there had been a time once, when ronan would have claimed that he would remain unaffected. 

that was before the image of valentina hanging from a crucifix in the cathedral, screaming out in pain and looking too young to possibly suffer such a fate began to wind and unspool like film reel in his mind’s eye constantly. 

now he looks at the boy, already curled up on ronan’s couch and sleeping when he unlocks the door, and thinks that perhaps he deserves better than to suffer the arrows of a saint, the fate of the martyr. perhaps there are others who deserve such cruelty more. 

ronan ivarsson does not believe in kindness--but he believes in survival, particularly when the world at large would tell you such a thing is impossible in the body you were born in, with the twisted up and gnarled heart that beats wildly and erratically inside of your chest. that is what he tells himself as he gently settles a blanket over the young man’s shoulders, as he quietly shucks his jacket and pours two glasses of a bottle of wine he’d been saving, as he orders food for two from an app on his phone before paging through one of the stack of novels he’s been meaning to read. 

there is no shame in helping bellamy survive. 

he wakes a while later, stretches and cranes his head as though he cannot quite place his surroundings in his current state. ronan sighs, and resolutely does not smile warmly around the lip of his glass. “you know, bellamy, people would be inclined to take you a lot more seriously if you did not snuffle and yawn like a kitten upon waking.” he speaks the words boredly, but at this point he’s certain that santo-domingo knows that’s its forced for the most part. he pushes the second glass in the younger man’s direction, flips another page without reading the words. “they might even come to respect you--shocking to consider, i know.”

[morecruelkings]

lamprius​:

‘Shut up’ he wants to say. ‘You’re making my ears ring.’ And yet he doesn’t. And yet he can’t.

Ronan approaches, inevitable and unavoidable and all Lucien can do between this and the rushing water behind him is anchor himself in the hopes he won’t get swept away. He’s spent too many hours looking at Bernini, he sometimes forgets stone is stone and not real flesh to be gripped. Stone is stone – and Ronan will never have the humanity needed of him. And still Lucien tries, digs fingers into exposed ribs that are now within reach, with the hopes that he is strong enough (with the hopes that he is significant enough) to mark stone.

A dripping dagger sits on the counter behind Ronan, and his eyes narrow at the sight of it over his husband’s shoulder. It disappears from view as Ronan fills his field of vision, though the image is pressed into his mind. “A thousandfold?” He says on a breath that is lost to the way his head turns when Ronan dips to his neck, his shoulder.  His anger is mixing with more baser instincts now to create a cocktail that he quickly threatens to get drunk on.( This wouldn’t be the first time they’ve given in to such impulses in this bathroom, though it’s quickly making a name as a contender for their most contentious.) “You spoil me.” Lucien says and though there’s a bite to the words, he means them in every sense of the phrase.

Ronan, after all, turns all his beliefs rotten. He inspires decay in a man that otherwise only knows how to create and build. What has Lucien always called his husband? His first and last mistake? That anger sits in him still, but he entertains other ways of dissipating it now - which makes this whole situation grow dangerous.

He wants to push that offending mouth away and finds he does. Long fingers wrap around the pale marble of Ronan’s neck, an answer to that challenge of his gaze, and Lucien guides him away. His grip is loose. Not enough to suffocate, not enough to choke, but -

-they share a marriage bed less and less now, it’s an act that has nearly become non existent, but Lucien would be lying if he hadn’t looked at Ronan’s sleeping figure after nights that had begun not unlike tonight and considered doing something about a life so unworthy of living. 

There’d been a time where he’d thought Ronan capable of saving. Lucien now turns all of that effort to Verona. 

Still, dark eyes watch. Still, Lucien is terribly human. Fingers trail down ribs like piano keys and he likes to think he knew how to play them. Maybe if pushes hard enough, he could play the discordant melody of sharing a bed, like it could revive the muscle memory of a marriage that should have been.

“I find that forgiveness is granted far more easily when apologies are offered on their knees -“ He releases his hold and lets his hand quickly drop to his side. He considers letting his own mouth make an attempt to claim Ronan’s, make this struggle for dominance, for retaining his willpower, more physical. While it’s a battle Lucien will always fight, he’s never certain of the outcome.“- So I’d wager our definitions of pleasure are night and day.”

Lucien really can’t imagine Ronan getting on his knees for anyone.  

“If you were me and I were you, what would you expect?”

---

“you are beautiful when you are cruel.” ronan sighs and rolls his eyes when the hand that had moved from the skin of his neck, tender in its idea of threat, to the skin of his ribs, falls to the man’s side listlessly. he knows that speaking such a thought out loud will cause the man before him to draw a different mask to his face, to obfuscate any feature that ronan, in all of his blood and his cruelty, might have found attractive in this particular moment--but one does not get what one wants by keeping quiet about desire, and there’s always the off chance that ronan’s tongue will lash just sharp enough to make lucien’s blood run hot, run angry enough that he’ll forget idealism and the moral high ground on which he’s built his fortress and bare his teeth. 

he turns his back, returns to his position at the sink. if he’d wanted to fuck a marble statue, a real hero, he would have. he wants a man of flesh and bones, a wolf to meet him with teeth--not a lamb, not some vague concept of a salvation he does not want, wrapped in an approximation of a man’s body. 

“i have knelt exactly once, in my life. i do not intend to do it again, even if the request comes from your lips.” he has lived in this body long enough to know that he is a creature who was meant to kneel, to take up fistfuls of earth and bare patiently the blows of those who would stand above him and deign him worthy enough to see another day, to step outside so long as he confined himself to the shadows. he will never accept such a fate, not even from one who against his better judgement, still holds something like love in his heart for him. he takes his shirt from where it lies on the floor, holds it underneath the tap in an effort to work the stains from the fabric. 

silence draws taught between them, like the string of a violin wrapped one turn too tightly around the peg. it will play a sour note, once the bow is drawn across it--but patience wears thin, and success still reigns heady in his mind. “your business in russia must not have been that important, if you can so quickly change course and come back here.” he speaks the words slowly, tries half-heartedly to keep vitriol and boredom from seeping in around their edges. “what exactly was the nature of your errand? perhaps i could be of some assistance.”

[morecruelkings]

brutuskovrov​:

Americans can drink. Did you know that? Americans, with their shitty beer that tastes like piss from a thousand different distilleries, with their shitty sparkling drinks that just taste like soda water no matter how many flavors he’d tried – they can drink.

The year Boris spent in America, he thinks he was drunker then than he’s ever been in the entirety of his life. And why wouldn’t he have been? Shunted off to some shitty mob crawling at the edges with people, people, always people, clawing and scrambling at something better than themselves and making the most pathetic attempts he’d ever seen at attaining it. He’d thought he’d known how to beg when he pleaded with Damiano for forgiveness on his hands and knees (and he hadn’t done that, really, don’t tell anyone that) – and then the American Mafia with a capital M had taught him wrong when they went to those who watched over them with keen eyes and crueler hands and begged with their tongues curled into loops for mercy from men who wouldn’t give it to them.

The point here is that Boris Kovrov is drunk, and the waiter is giving him a strange look, and it might be because while Boris is drunk he is not drunk enough, quite yet, to unravel himself from the wiry cord of tension he’s learned to evolve into by the end of the day. Boris in the morning is relaxed, confident, suave, sharp. He’s charming. He gets all his best work done in the early hours of the day, preferably before noon – the best sex, too, but that’s neither here nor there. By the end of the day he’s usually contemplating the decision to be made between a bottle, a plane ticket, and a bullet. There’s a joke in here about roulette, but he still has enough of his wits not to make it. He is in a bar in territory that used to claim neutrality, haunted by ghosts, and he is drinking because it could have been him to claim this hotel and it hadn’t been. It had slipped through his fingers. Every single beat – right through the gaps.

It’s truly incredible how much Boris has fucked things up for himself, and how quickly he is willing to do it again. His opportunity comes in the shape of the devil: Ronan Ivarsson slides into the seat next to him with a look in his eye that Boris very much does not like and he thinks it takes everything in him to stop himself from saying I don’t have time for you. The worst part is, it’s not even the truth: he has all the time in the world, right now, to wallow and be miserable for no reason at all, to feel sorry for himself, because that’s what Boris does. He rides the wave for as long as he can, lies about it in the process, and then crashes hard. Ronan Ivarsson orders a bottle of wine on his tab, the bastard, and then presumably settles in to watch the show.

Boris holds his head up with his hand and shifts his gaze from the waiter to Ronan and then back again, and – waits. Furrows his brow. Stares, then, at Richard III, king of kings, just a soldier, still a soldier, and isn’t that a laugh. “Do you ever stop that thing?” A vague, circular gesture of the hand, two fingers, middle and index, more pointed than the rest. Pointed at Ronan. “The politicking. The thing you do. I think you think it makes you look smart, and handsome.” Further squinting, further scrutinizing: “It does do that, you know, and you’re lucky, because otherwise you have an ugly face.” The quiet clink of the bottle on the counter-top, thankfully, saves him from the rest of his stream of consciousness. “Pour me a glass of wine and then tell me what the fuck it is that you want.”

---

kovrov snaps his jaws, bares his teeth, in the same way that all dogs attached to short leashes do when the unencumbered pass them by--a last ditch effort to prove that there’s something to be afraid of, the potential for danger, despite the collar that pulls and rubs the skin raw, despite the chain that gets yanked roughly back and the blow that follows. ronan does not flinch--the wolf does not suddenly forget that he is larger, that the teeth in his mouth have been cut on tougher game than the mutt tossed out onto the street that sits across the table from him, just because the dog starts barking. he crosses one leg over the other, folds his arms across his chest and raises an eyebrow, and he waits. 

bark, bark, bark. 

“a little more poltick, singore, and you wouldn’t be sitting here by yourself, no?” he drawls, a smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. “I wouldn’t be quite so quick to bite the hand that might be able to feed you, cospiratore.” he pours the glasses anyway, because he is trying to get something from brutus and the game of manipulation involves giving, as much as it does taking, driving the knife into your opponent’s chest up to the hilt. “but nonetheless, it is good to hear that my tongue is not my only charm. i’ll be certain to bat my eyelashes more next time i take the council floor.” 

he grins around the lip of his glass before tipping it back--it’s cheaper than he would normally allow past the barrier of his teeth, wine that his mother would have rather broken over his father’s head, but it still does what it was meant to. it hits the tongue sweetly, goes down bitter, trailing heat. he places the glass on the tabletop and wraps his fingers around the head of his cane, levelling kovrov with a gaze. “i believe your talents have been underutilized, mismanaged, by our figurehead, signore kovrov--the man has all but proved that he lacks vision, understanding of what exactly is at his disposal with what occurred at the cathedral.” he falls silent for a fraction of a second as valentia’s face crosses his mind, and he picks up the drink again to throw back more in a swift motion. 

“i want information, you’re adept at obtaining it--particularly now that you are, how shall we say, persona non grata. il serpente wouldn’t dare repeat what he hears, if he values the scraps he’s been given.” he shrugs his shoulders, taps his fingers against the stem. “i propose we simply combine our two skillsets.”

[brutuskovrov]

The Montagues + A Guide To Troubled Birds, p. 2

@henryzhxng, @matthiaswarren, @ofrosso, @odessasvernon, @paoladamasco, @morecruelkings, @ofaguilar

[morecruelkings]

WHEN | MAY 23, 2019 WHERE | LAMBERTI TOWER WITH | @heloisem​

the place reminds him too much of valentina. 

she would have enjoyed this--watching ronan repeatedly bring his fist into contact with the all-too-soft, all-too-yielding flesh of his low-life, battista designated target. she would have leaned against the concrete wall of this hallway that connects the kitchen and the loading dock, bottle of beer clutched in her fingers as she hurled curse words and encouragements in equal measure, as she drawled some pithy remark about how this disgrace of a human being should stop begging for mercy from the notoriously unmerciful richard the third. she would have laughed, she would have wrapped an arm carelessly around his shoulders and promised to tell her brother of what she’d seen, despite all of ronan’s protests that there was nothing between the two of them. 

he hears bone break as he hits the man again, perhaps a little harder than necessary, in her honor--out of the corner of his eye he could swear he sees her shape rounding the corner, could hear her voice calling out his name over the din of music coming from the other room, over the sobbing and the disgusting pleading. it’s not her, he forcibly reminds himself, as the anger pools anew just underneath the surface of his skin like a bruise. it will never be her. she will always remain in your memory, and you must learn to be content with that single, solitary kindness. kindness that was not afforded to her, in death. 

it’s a girl he does not recognize, instead--though if the tone of her prattling and the angry expression on her face is to be believed, she is familiar with him and displeased to be burdened with such knowledge. he allows his target to crumple to the floor and reach for what remains of his bloodied facial features, levels her with a raised eyebrow and a furious gaze. “i am nowhere close to drunk enough to deal with your screeching, signora, so i suggest you lower your voice and begin by telling me who the fuck you are and what precisely it is that you want.” 

[goreprofonde]

| Jeffrey Weinstock, Invisible Monsters: Vision, Horror, and Contemporary Culture

[morecruelkings]

odessasvernon​:

.

Perhaps people would find it strange that she had gravitated towards Ronan. Perhaps people would chalk it up to her navigating the ways of the mob without that guiding hand of her father or protection of her brother. They would see it as red riding hood wandering into the mouth of the wolf—- a naive child just waiting for the slaughter. In a way, perhaps they were right. She knew the basics about Ronan Ivarrson. She knew he was a Montague soldier. She knew he was a politician. She knew he needed to learn about social media and the influence it has over voters and the common people. She didn’t know about the dark secrets buried in his closet, but she didn’t care to. What he did outside out of their time together was none of her concern..

Curious eyes tracked him as he spoke. A swell of pride hit her as he spoke about her work, and she fought back the satified smile that threatened her lips. There was a certain part of her that beamed whenever praise was thrown her way. It probably stemmed from childhood, and how she often struggled with receiving the praise for her accomplishments. She would get complimented on her beauty, but they would look past the high marks she received in a class. She would get complimented on her manners, but they would ignore the suggestion she’d quietly mention as the men spoke about mob politics. It often felt like she was grasping for something that was just out of reach, but maybe she could finally wrap her fingers around the illusive item.

“A lot of people seem to underestimate the impact social media can have.” Perhaps she was drawn to the medium because of that similarity. “A lot of your opponents don’t utilize the correct platforms, so you can trust that your numbers will continue to rise with time.” People might forget, but Odessa did major in poltical science during her years at university. She was familiar with the way politics worked, even if she had never set foot in the field aside from her learnings. 

At his question, she sucked in a breath. Her mind drifted back to the announcement, to the realization that an opportunity was within her reach, before it refocused on the male before her. “I trust that you’ve heard about the new positions?” She suspected that everyone involved within the Montagues had heard the announcement by now, but she would ask regardless. “I would like to throw my hat into the ring for the strategist position, and I would like your help in securing it.” 

---

so, he thinks as he twines his fingers together on his desk top, as he slowly nods his head in acknowledgement, the diamond shows its sharp edges. it’s unfortunate for the vernon girl, that diamonds, while precious and dazzling when draped across a bird-boned wrist or stitched into an expensive fabric, also tend to be reflective and not so easily obfuscated. odessa vernon was born into world that has only ever wanted her, prostrated itself at her feet, with people who cared so deeply for her safety that they draped themselves around her like bird wings so her pretty eyes wouldn’t have to gaze upon the horror--ronan learned his trade because he was left without a choice, because it was either that he learned to control every situation that he walked into, or he was subsumed by self-loathing, by those who would have rather seen him boarded up inside of some victorian attic. 

what does odessa vernon know of pain? of the kind of hatred that grows claws and teeth, makes people want to do harm, to cause hurt? what does odessa vernon know of control? 

the answer is apparent, but the effort that will surely be involved does not outweigh the usefulness of having the his teeth in the girl in some way--her name carries capital, in this world they’ve both chosen for themselves, capital that ronan will be able to use to pay his way out of something, before his rise is complete, he’s certain. and besides--there’s always the potential for odessa to pleasantly surprise him, to bare her teeth to some effectiveness. every caesar, alexander alike needs their red right hand, do they not? 

“of course, i am at your disposal, signora.” he smiles, shrugs his shoulders as though she’d asked him for something simple, like a letter of recommendation or a cigarette. “you’ve already shown some talent in that regard--it’s merely a manner of--” he hums thoughtfully, taps his fingers against the knuckles of his opposite hand. “transference. instead of getting people to vote for me, or to buy stock in your father’s bank, you get them to do your bidding. to follow your plan of attack.” 

he raises an eyebrow in a kind of challenge, leans forward just slightly in his chair. “i will be honest with you--in order to be successful, you need to consider people to be more like--pawns. expendable, lost as often as they are gained, all in pursuit of a higher purpose. do you think you can do that?” 

[morecruelkings]

WHEN | MAY, 2019 WHERE | A GALA CELEBRATING THE VENETIAN OPERA WITH | @evcravens​

this, ronan thinks resolutely as he smirks around the lip of his champagne glass, is the problem with love, with being in love. it’s like having a wound that you aren’t even aware of--that bleeds freely and pains you at a distance from your physical body. anyone with ill-intentions, with enough blood on their leather-gloved hands that such things have long ceased to matter, can dig their fingers in and pull out the meat, the bone, leave the thing festering--and you would be none the wiser until the pain burned bright enough that the choices immediately became amputation or death, knees or grave. 

he’d worried about such a thing, once. he’d touched his husband’s cheek gently, asked him what he knew about how many different ways there were to kill a man, if the need ever presented itself, if one of ronan’s many enemies ever decided to aim the blow just below the jugular vein. 

he doesn’t anymore. 

he thinks only now of hurt--which is why he tracks everett craven as he moves, with all of the well-taught grace of a true son of verona through this room. vivianne thinks she can dangle a reporter and a pointed question in front of him as a reminder, as a facsimile head on a pike--let her learn, as so many have, that it is a dangerous thing indeed, to play such games with one who plays them better, with one who does not lose. 

he waits, watches, until the expression on the man’s face starts pulling taught at the edges, until he starts to take the long way around the room to avoid conversational partners--for what better way to prove ones self a friend, than to arrive like a white knight on a horse with a fabricated emergency and a brand new glass of red wine? he sidles up next to craven and gently rests a hand on the man’s shoulder, pulls his mouth into a particularly contrite smile. “i’m so terribly sorry, signore craven, but i think your assistant is in need of you--poor girl looked in an awful state.” 

the man craven had been speaking with--probably someone looking to either invest in, or hire him--nods and walks in the opposite direction, after which ronan presses the long stemmed glass into the man’s hand and grins wolfishly. “i’d apologize for the deception normally, but you looked more in need of this than me.” 

[morecruelkings]

WHEN | MAY 25, 2019 WHERE | A CHARITY BENEFIT  WITH | @katarinadvpont​

at some point, somewhere in the fetid earth on top of which rested the ivarsson villa, an instinct had taken root. a young man, who shares ronan’s face, the not-quite-saintly contortions of his body, set into flesh and bone rather than the stone of a master, and none of his steel, had been lead like lamb to slaughter to the idea that he was too hideous to be seen--that his body, war-torn from the moment it was birthed, was the manifestation of sins he had not even been alive to put end to. he came to learn, to internalize, that his would be a world devoid of light, that the act of seeing would forever begin and end in his own eyes. he kept to the edges of the glittering rooms in which his mother reigned as queen, where his father walked as though the entire earth had been unfurled for his feet alone--he did not speak, he did not reach out and touch. 

ronan has tried, repeatedly, to raze that particular forsaken stretch of heart muscle--he walks into those same rooms as an adult wielding his tongue as sword and shield, he does not allow himself to want for conversation, for touch and more if its what his heart, denied as long as it was, decides that it wants. he has tried, to bury that young man in the same way he buried his father, his mother in turn--but as it turns out, the self is not a thing that is so easily torn apart, so easily forgotten. 

he still finds himself, at gatherings such as this, drawing away from the crowds, the captive audiences--something inside of him exhales, when he steps through a pair of over-large french doors and is met with a sudden burst of cool night air, when something in the back of his mind reminds him that he will not be an object of curiosity, if only for a moment. the tortured muscles in his shoulders relax, right up until he realizes that there is already a figure leaning casually against the railing of the balcony. right up until a blonde head turns and he’s met with familiar, keen, hunter’s features. 

“mademoiselle dupont.” ronan drawls, with a huff of annoyed breath. “how fitting that someone so recently unemployed should find themselves at a benefit for the less fortunate.” he leans against a nearby wall and withdraws a silver cigarette case from the pocket of his jacket, which he gestures to with a wave of his hand. “i’d love to make another donation, if you partake in such a vice. or are your lungs still at some sort of diminished capacity?” 

[shimmeringjinx]

SHE WAS MY SISTER AND I LOVED HER

[morecruelkings]

lamprius​:

He needs a moment, to allow the fog of anger to clear from his mind. He turns off the light and lets the living room plunge into darkness out of respect, even though he’s the only one here to witness this senseless bloodshed. Lamprius is foolish to feel a flash of fear for Ronan when he first enters and sees all the blood - the sound of the tap running from their bathroom makes the concern dissipate like smoke and disgust twists his gut.

And there’s that sadness that comes with the understanding of what has happened, the inevitable sadness that comes with the loss of life.

There’s no pulse, but he can feel the ghost of a death rattle as he puts two fingers to their neck. Lamprius hovers in silent regard for a moment before gentle hands go to pockets and he finds a wallet. He’ll save any identification for later, so that he can do a proper follow up. For now, he hides the ID and credit cards he finds between the worn covers of ‘Frankenstein.’ He tucks the book back into the shelf where it lives, trying not to leave behind any streaks of the blood that have gotten on his hands, making his fingers - his wedding band - sticky. Ronan’s made no attempt to hide his love for knife-work and the fact that stabbing is as close and personal as one can get to killing something without resorting to their own teeth is not lost on Lamprius.

He should leave now - but he needs to know. Sure enough, there’s Ronan unbuttoning a bloody shirt, surrounded by the marble and porcelain of their bathroom. His words pierce the space between them. Ronan loves to talk, doesn’t he? Meanwhile, Lucien only finds silence in the presence of death.

Of course it infuriates him, the casual way in which his husband speaks about taking a life.

But his mistake is making eye contact, even through the mirror. Even in the tall shadows of this hallway, Ronan’s picks him out with a hunter’s precision and Lamprius is snared. He cannot attack him in the way he attacked Alexander or slip up behind him the way he snuck up on Vivianne. Ronan is the trap to his lion, the wolf to his fox. Politics waits for no man, not even an Ivarsson Ronan says and the words are a good reminder. How aware Lamprius - Lucien - is that he himself is just a man too. He’s as intrinsically aware of this as he is of the the drying blood on his fingers… and all he knows is that he wants to scrub it off before it slips beneath his skin. Ronan’s taken full command of the sink, so Lucien rolls up his sleeves as he sits on the edge of the tub and twists the tap to release that jet of cold water. He tries to lose his anger to the sound of rushing, rushing - 

“You spilled on the rug.” Lucien says finally, sharply, as he switches back to Italian. Strange, after speaking Russian non-stop for the last 72 hours. It would be crude to ask Ronan if he fucked Signore Zacarro before he slipped a knife between his ribs, wouldn’t it? The tinny smell of Zaccaro’s blood that lingers is what keeps Lucien’s anger grounded. 

“Signore Zacarro must have struck a hard bargain if it caused you to ruin hand-knotted wool.”

His gaze lifts and he lets it slides over to stop on a spatter of blood that flecks Ronan’s jaw. 

“Any other deals that I should be aware of, amore mio? Or is it just the one in the living room?”

--- ronan turns to face him, to tell him to strike the look of contempt from his handsome features and join the man he married in the reality of the world in which they both live--that not every life is precious and filled to the brim with meaning and value, that some people must pay the price so their betters can move towards a more glorious future, continue to walk the path of the divine towards what they are owed, what they are destined for. He drags his tongue over the ridges of his teeth, curls it tenderly around the words you knew what i was, amore, and you married me anyway--but as has always been the case, where his husband is involved, he finds that he is less interested in cutting, in being so obviously cruel. 

he wants lucien to join him in this--in the same way they promised to be joined in everything else. ronan fell in love with him once, because he could see it flash in dark eyes like a sword in a downward stroke, the promise of an executioners blow--the promise that even in hate, even in the dark things of this world, ronan would have someone by his side. 

he wants what he was promised, with the same fervor, the same molten hunger that burns like gold in the pit of his stomach, that he wants the world.

“he hardly drove a bargain at all,” ronan sighs disdainfully, picks at a fleck of blood on his thumbnail. “he just bored me for too long. you know how i so enjoy the challenge--” he saunters closer, lets the shirt fall from his shoulders to the bathroom floor. He wraps his fingers gently around his husband’s chin, tilts his head so that his gaze is met, his challenge as well. “and the chase.” he drags his nose gently along the man’s jawline, a curve of bone as sharp and as beloved to him as the blade that now sits slick with red on the counter behind him. let me wield you the same, my love. we could do great and terrible things together. 

“name your price for forgiveness, signore,” he purrs, presses his lips to the soft stretch of exposed skin just behind the ear, pouring downwards into the neck and shoulders. “and i will see it met a thousandfold. unless of course it’s simply a new rug--that would be terribly dull and far less--” he chuckles, a rumble of a sound that comes from between his lips on a warm exhale of air. “pleasurable, wouldn’t you say?”

[sheismyshe-deactivated20190201]

For two months I tried to be a prison. Tried to keep you here, the way evidence keeps a crime alive. Then love caught me by the chin & started eating my ear. Its voice rang clear, had hardly any distance to it. This is how you make love: you devour everything. You don’t throw up after. 

- Alysia Nicole Harris, Votive