#re: thread

[kingvasiliev-blog]

CAPITAL LIBRARY 20 NOV — 9:20 AM Montague territory / @oflaertes

“No, that doesn’t work for me. I paid for it, it should be here by now.” 

Voice tense and legs quick, Faron makes his way down the street with business on his brain—his own despite the brisk pace with which he heads toward his day job, that of emissary, of uselessness toward the Montagues. At least that’s how it feels as of late. Regardless of the territory he’s seized and the Capulets he’s formally introduced himself to with fists clenched and teeth bared, here he is in exactly the same place he started. And for what?

“VASILIEV!”

Four steps up to the library’s entrance, he halts immediately at the call of his name, vicious and filled with something like hate; it pricks along his arms, the excitement from such an address. From the notoriety of getting called out in the street. From carrying such a reputation as to be sought out like this. “I’ll call you back,” he mutters into the receiver before clicking end on the screen and slipping the phone into his jacket pocket. Spinning on his heel, a smile spreads along his mouth as the familiar face comes into view. “Vernon,” he says in return with a nod, far calmer than Lawrence’s voice had been. “Did you need something?”

[katarinadupont-blog]

STREETS 31 OCT — 9:23 PM OUTSIDE MATT’S APARTMENT / @matthiaswarren​

Rage. It’s all she can see, red and hot and blinding, the only thing that’s come into view since Mikael relayed what exactly transpired earlier tonight between the person she cares most for and the person she’d given her heart to long ago. Fists thrown and guns bashed against skulls, nothing too remarkable when compared to all the dirty deeds she’s done during this Festival of Chaos, but still, in a world with zero consequences, even for just twenty-four hours, a line still remained. One Matthias should have thought twice about before crossing, before launching himself right over it with not a care in the fucking world. Well, that’s not completely true. One care: his grief. 

Well, guess what Matty. We all grieve. That doesn’t give you the excuse to kill my best friend. 

These are her thoughts as she follows the familiar streets toward his apartment, gun held tightly within her palm, finger itching to pull the trigger still, but she isn’t sure she’d be able to with the barrel held to his temple. Does he deserve such a judgement? Based on the way Mikael looked, beaten and bloody, Kat would have answered yes immediately. Before she knew who had done that to him, before he’d said low-rent Channing Tatum, and then everything changed. All she knew was she needed to see him at the very least, hear it from him; but once she spotted that familiar blond staggering up the block, everything changed again. 

“WARREN!” She shouts, rising her arm in the air and firing one shot into the sky to get his attention. “Get your ass over here.” 

[izzygagliano-blog]

ALL IS FAIR IN LOVE AND WAR... RIGHT?

September 1st, 10:32 AM Cathedral / @rafaellacapulet​

AUG 27 5:31 AM - TO CELESTE: Where are you? I couldn’t find you. Meet me at home. AUG 28 9:21 AM - TO CELESTE: I’m sorry about last night. Just come home. Please. AUG 31 12:04 AM - TO CELESTE: I know where you are. I’m coming for you. Hold on. SEPT 1 10:01 AM - TO CELESTE: I’m outside. Be ready to move. You’ll know when.

With a cigarette between her fingers, she stands across the street from the towering Cathedral, eyes bloodshot and a bit sunken in from sleep deprivation, but such is the life when your lover is kidnapped by the scum of the Earth, no? Yes. Izzy hasn’t slept in nearly four days, instead having combed through every important detail about the Capulets in preparation for what she can only imagine could very well be her last day in existence if she doesn’t play this right. They have something she wants, someone she’d do anything — anything being the operative word, the word that will be her downfall — to get back, to keep safe and bring back home. But they don’t know that. Yet. 

Taking one last drag, she flicked the fizzling butt into the dampened street and took off for the entrance. Her normal baggy jeans and button down were swapped for a simple, violet dress underneath a ankle-long jacket. It was the dress she wore for her interview at the paper; her one and only dress, but it worked in this moment. It was as far from her normal garb as she could get, as incognito as her wardrobe would allow. As she climbed the steps, she let her sunglasses fall back down onto her nose and bowed her head in feigned reverence, but really, behind those shades lied a white hot rage Izzy was all too familiar with masking. 

But this time was different. This time she had every intention of enacting vengeance, by any means necessary. Celeste was coming home whether the Capulets gave her up willingly or Izzy had to do so by force. It wouldn’t be the first time she torched their territory and igniting this Cathedral surely wouldn’t be the last time. As she entered, she dipped her hand into the ceremonial bowl of holy water and performed the sign of the cross, as any good Catholic daughter would, and bowed her head in remembrance of her mother. The good intention was there, to say a small prayer in memory of the woman who made Izzy who she was, but it felt hollow in her chest as anger pulsed throughout her legs, pushing her closer and closer to her destination: Rafaella Capulet. 

She clings to the shadows, choosing to walk down the right side instead of down the middle because she knows there’s stairs in the back. Second floor, last door on the right. Nikolai’s voice rumbles from deep within the recesses of her mind, filed away under Verona > Mob > Capulets > HQ. Like a human search bar, she flips through the files she can recall at will and lands on Adviser and holds it there, open wide for her to read over and memorize. Izzy makes a hard left, tip-toeing as quietly as she can up the spiral staircase until she comes to the landing. Names don’t don the doors, but instead nicknames are carved discretely into the fine wood: Paris, Titania, Lady Macbeth, Bianca. One by one, she passes until she finds Rosaline, the biggest by far. 

Of course. 

Three raps of her knuckles agains the clouded glass come next, followed by a large gulp of the nerves in her throat, then silence.

[kingvasiliev-blog]

STREETS 31 OCT — 9:53 PM Neutral territory / @kaisloane

Little time remains, just over an hour to wring himself dry of any lingering anger, any vice still itching to claw its way out. Fending off a pack of vicious Capulets had only hurt, pushed him further along the edge of the cliff called indulgence, one the witches had practically begged him and every other one of them to swan dive off of this evening—to purge. Hearing Brielle’s voice had helped, learning she was safe and hadn’t met the fate he’d feared she had in the hours she was silent. But knowing he would see Calina the moment he set foot through his front door helped more. 

It would seem, however, as he turned the nearest corner in search of the bridge they were to convene upon commencement of this festival of chaos, that vice was not done with him yet. A familiar face, perhaps ten, twelve years older, but still as sinister as he remembers, comes into view, and though the light be dim, the radiance of potential is as bright and blinding as it was the first time he’d met the little Sloane. “Could it really be?” He laughs, hearty and from the belly, almost amused at the way chaos has laid its bait so generously at his feet tonight, as if he wouldn’t devour ever piece whole. “Cyrus Sloane all grown up.”

[kingvasiliev-blog]

STREETS 31 OCT — 1:34 AM Downtown Verona / @ofcleopatras​

He doesn’t like the way this looks, the way she fits so perfectly at his side, likening her to a Queen and her newfound King; what did that make him then? He grits his teeth at the question, hands shoved deep into his pockets as he looks both ways before crossing the street. Eyes landing on some long-legged metal bat wielding blonde smashing the glass of a storefront to his left, a brawl between two fifty-something gentlemen to his right, but he had his sights set on the armored car pulled up to the pump. Rallis slides a credit card out from his wallet and slips it in the machine, pressing a few buttons before looking up at the hollering from behind Faron, so he ducks behind a pillar, pretends to check his phone for a moment before peeking back around. He watches as he turns on his heel, mutters something to Calina as she leans against the passenger door, then goes inside. 

Now’s his chance. 

He strides up slowly, unzips his Gucci jacket, immediately checking the gun strapped to the belt of his jeans just in case he would need it. No consequences. The witches’ voices echo within his head in unison, eerie and causing the hair on the back of his neck to stand on end, but regardless—that just meant he could put a bullet between Alexander’s eyes if he needed to. Eyes roving over her frame, taking in the short dress clinging to her perfectly sculpted curves, the very one he intends to slip his hand up in just a minute, he lets out a harsh huff of air at the mere sight of her. She twists just so, arcing her back and practically forcing his gaze to drop to that ass of hers. 

Fuck. 

Without a word, mischief painted across his face in an impish smirk, he clasps his hand around her wrist and continues walking past the car. Shuffling through a small crowd of people gathered outside the door, he leads her around the corner only to press her hard against the brick wall of the building the moment they’re out of sight. His hands clutch greedily at her waist, head dipped low to brush his lips teasingly along her jaw. “Having fun without me?” Faron murmurs the question into her chestnut curls, twisting one around his index finger as he smiles into the soft flesh of her neck. 

[katarinadupont-blog]

I JUST WANT BACK IN YOUR HEAD

ABANDONED WAREHOUSE 24 JULY 2017 — 22:25 Capulet territory / @graceydaly

Does she remember?

“You’ll enter from the South,” a grimy fingertip knocks against the wooden table, the map’s southern border rustling beneath Odin’s touch. “We’ll come in from the water just to make sure there isn’t an ambush.” Katarina nods as if she understands the plan just laid out before her, but she hasn’t been listening to a word her Captain’s said since he started talking. Her eyes flicker up to where she stands across the room, arms pulled tight against her chest as she rocks from foot to foot impatiently. She knows Grace is itching to feel something break beneath her fists the same way Kat’s fingers twitch with the impulse to pull at a trigger, yet they’re being lectured like they’re toddlers, and she can’t help but roll her eyes at the condescension. 

“Are you even listening, Katherine?” One of Odin’s men grunts in her direction, the leather on his gloves squeaking as he grips the rifle in his hand tighter. 

“Yes, I’m listening,” she croons as sweetly as she possibly can, leaning forward to brace either hand against the table. Kat arches her back and blows a bubble of Trident in his direction, shoulders tall as she exposes her cleavage to distract him. When the tits come out, fat chance he could focus on anything other than the promise of more flesh, but all she really wanted was to change the idiotic plan he laid before them. “Just wondering why we’re—” she pauses to gesture to Grace, willing herself to keep her eyes trained on Odin but her gaze falls to the soft jut of her fellow soldier’s bottom lip. Does she remember? she asks herself quietly again, in the split second where her cheeks flush red and a whiskey-fueled memory of teeth against her neck comes rushing in. She probably doesn’t, Kat decides, continuing on, “—coming in from the South when you know I can’t get a good shot with all those pillars in my way.” 

Twisting around, she pulls herself up onto the table and crosses one leg over the other. Long, jet-black curls billow over her shoulders as she leans back onto her palms, head canting back in the direction of il capitano. “Besides, how am I supposed to lay down any cover fire for her,” another pause, a flick of her wrist over her shoulder in Grace’s direction. At least if she isn’t facing her, she can no longer greedily ogle; Katarina needed to steal another glance of those lips like she needed a hole right between her eyes, “if I can’t see a fucking thing?”

[katarinadupont-blog]

STREETS 31 OCT — 10:25 PM Montague territory / @oflaertes

It’s pain she wants, to will an aching sort of hurt to manifest within her chest just so she can claw out the useless muscle resting within. It’s broken anyway, no longer of any use or worth nearly anything close to what it used to be. Not since him. And Katarina blames him for this, for the way his greedy hands have already wrung out every ounce of believability she could have mustered, for the way it caused her to fail the one person she might actually love. But mostly she blames him because it’s easier than taking responsibility for what she’s done, for who’s heart she’s surely broken on this godforsaken night, but whiskey courses through her veins, lingers on her breath as she stumbles across the street with a gun in hand in search for the only person she can think to punish. 

It’s agony she wants, to rub salt in her wounds and bleed out right in front of him. Look what you’ve done. Would he even notice? Would he even care? She doesn’t think so. And every time she closes her eyes and sees Grace’s face, that disappointment shadowing the edges of those sharp features of hers as she bared her teeth with such ease, pain shoots everywhere. Perhaps she won’t even have to brandish her knife before him; Grace had already successfully torn out her throat. 

“Leone,” she calls out to him from across the street, something vicious choking the word as it leaves her lips. Long ago she’d spoken it with such adoration, hadn’t she? It feels bitter now, like ash coating her tongue, like —

It’s revenge she wants, to make him hurt as much as she does, to watch him suffer. Kat raises the barrel of the gun and aims it at his chest, tears stinging behind her eyes. “Why couldn’t you just stay away?”

[katarinadupont-blog]

GARAGE 31 OCT — 12:14 AM TIBERIUS’ APARTMENT / @catherinedaly

This was definitely a bad idea, something she should have never brought up with such an excited eagerness to her tone, but the idea was too good to pass up and Catherine was clearly feeling a little reckless—how could Katarina say no to her? They enter through the side, making quick work of the locked door with a crowbar and a few grunts in tandem with a little brute force, and they’re in. At least twenty cars come into view as soon as they cross the threshold, but Katarina has a very specific, very cherry Lamborghini in her mind’s eye. 

The one they were going to steal.

“Do you see it? It’s bright-ass red, butterfly doors.” She reaches into her pocket to retrieve a lighter, perfectly rolled joint placed between her lips, words a bit muffled as she sparks the end to life and inhales deeply. “He’s always driving it around with Meek Mill blasting,” she exhales and coughs a bit, head instantly feeling like she was floating as she passed it over to Cat. “Here,” she says, taking off quickly down the line of cars, a little squeak of excitement escaping as their intended vehicle for the night came into view. She points to it and looks over her shoulder. “C’mon, I can hot wire it.”