「𝓵𝓸𝓿𝓮𝒶𝒹𝑒」★

THEY'RE BOTH MEN OF BLUSTER, IN ONE WAY OR ANOTHER, SEPARATELY TOO ABIDINGLY STUBBORN TO EASILY SURRENDER THEIR POINT. darcy's steadfastness appears to arise most often from a rigid set of values and an immovable faith in the degree of his own sense of logic. simeon's, of course, comes from little other than a fiery petulance and commitment to remaining contrary, with which he'd allegedly been born – if his mother is to be believed. ( " wailed like a banshee like you wanted to be put right back, " she's said with a heavy but fond sigh, " like you'd decided to come into this world and changed your mind immediately. " ) more than anything, he does not like to surrender his point, no matter how ridiculous he may know it is. for all he can be bright-eyed and soft, simeon can also turn and plant his heels behind the fort of his own opinions, his own way, as though he'd grown roots there. darcy is the sort of man people expect to be immovable ; simeon, on the other hand, often surprises with his resolve.

he doubts his patron is surprised by it anymore these days.

sim scowls from where he stands halfway across the sitting room, arms crossed over his chest and jaw set. he knows that the impression of his askew cravat and half-unbuttoned waistcoat – which he'd half torn away from himself in frustration upon entering the room – lessen the effect of his displeasure, but he doesn't care. he's determined to give darcy the fight he'd incited by plucking sim directly out of his scandalous party. it matters little that he'd practically invited the interruption, knowing perfectly well he'd been warned away from his flamboyant displays and utterly ignoring the cautions anyway. if all dear mr. darcy would admit to caring about was his family name, then sim would not hesitate to make himself a disgrace to it, if that's what it takes to snatch the young lord's attention. he's a demanding sort of man, grasping jealously at every ounce of his attention that he can when he yearns to be the center of somebody's focus. and as much as he'd refused to admit it, he wants to be the center of darcy's.

" oh, don't simeon me, " he bites back, even as he feels a heat settle into his bones from the very tone of his patron's voice. despite himself, sim must swallow back a tightness in his throat that briefly makes it difficult to draw breath. " I am quite serious, fitzwilliam, if you are so embarrassed by me, then it would be foolishness to expect your patronage to extend beyond the theatre season, would it not? "

the performer must pull his eyes from the other man then as he feels his face begin to heat beneath the strange softness he senses in darcy's gaze, one he might risk interpreting as yearning if he isn't careful. he knows better than that, doesn't he? simeon learned long ago that only fools live on such dreams. even if he were delusional enough to think that's what darcy wanted, he could not possibly believe he would do something about it.

ever the lover of art,    more as a concept than as a spectator.       he felt warm with the idea of art being created,    studied,    practiced,    felt in the walls of pemberley,    it’s as it was when his mother lived,    a spirit of passions and beauty,    sorrow,    joy,    intensities he did not allow nor preferred to feel.       he lived vicariously through them,    the illustrated selection recommended.       ideally,    as to not brush with the young master,    kept in the subsidiary house in town,    or paid a salary to live by their own means.       not simeon.       his spark was dangerous if left unsupervised,    damaging to the darcy esteem if left to set ablaze.       he would’ve given up,    he’s not one to bet on the incongruence of creatives and their incandescence,    but he’s learned to accept the words of artistic elders as fact,    and grasp that,    artists are a complicated lot.       the young actor was convincing too.       well,    frustratingly so.       darcy saw him on stage and found ways akin to wine to forget his troubles.       

tonight was no such night,    he arrived composed but vexed by the  notice of his city head butler.       some parties he had tolerated,    meetings,    he wanted to assume,    but rumours spread and reports on expenses did too.       he didn’t know what spell he had his staff on not to recommend decency or write in demand for sanity to the lord of the house.       he will forgive transgressions of duty with the proper promises later,    now,    after a long trip from the countryside,    he must deal with the object of disorder in the otherwise idyllic environment created in the darcy city estate.       this was supposed to be a house where talent flourishes,    not where they bathe in the vices of bacchus.       

darcy didn’t prefer this role of cornering predator,    he knew little how to handle this kind of confrontation where his own feelings felt jumbled in.       no,    he shouldn’t indulge in his own physical urges,    he would be a fool when he knew this was just simeon’s duty ( to be enticing ) as a performer… right    ?    surely.       ‘ simeon.       no.       you are not to run from this conversation.       i did not take you as a cowardly man,    so please do not disappoint me,    ’ ever so unpleasant mister darcy,    demanding,    obsessed with values no one is truly upholding,    how is he to compaginate he has no desire to let him go,    for his talent or… other more indescribable reasons,    with the displeasure of these energetic spells of sloth and lust displayed as parties    ?   

the moon’s axis guides these shores. in the phase of waxing crescent and obscured by fog of skeletal beige, passage is destined to get muddled. it’s fate and her spectres that bewitch seafarers onto her lonesome coast. bonnie relies on their omniscient power to fuel her third eye, but they’re a crew with mercurial attitudes, fond of riddles. eternity is incredibly long, after all.

she foresaw this particular sailor’s return, but she hasn’t solved his purpose yet. what he needs from her. or what she needs from him.

❝ this is my shore that you drift on, mister darcy. perhaps it is you who keeps finding me. ❞ the tattered chiffon skirt isn’t modest, as prone to an untamed sea. when she rises from where she is waist-deep in the water collecting precious pearls, the salt-worn swaths are plastered to her slender thighs. a sudden influx of waves crash onto the beach in her wake.

coarse sand, pink as rose quartz under the glisten of night stars. she glistens too, doused in the celestial gold light. appearing more than human. or less than. based on the perspective.

it’s almost ridiculous how he,    the one born to carry the burden,    is unscathed from the hands of magic.    maybe unwanted.    maybe it's his duty to fight for them,    maybe he is made to be the proverbial blade,    a hero of sorts.    he has no idea how,    but as myths indicate,    he’s selecting a journey as a prerequisite.    inevitably,    it has been laced with encounters of solely the preternatural.    his soul is weighted down by darkness,    his sword by blood.   

just over three hundred years,    and speaking on family still does not get any easier.    HE CAN NO LONGER IMAGINE HOW FRESHLY PAINFUL HER OWN WOUND MUST BE,    when she had murdered her own father amongst the stained glass and consecrated walls of the church itself :    his proclaimed haven,    no longer safe.    while alucard stands,    arms crossed loosely at his chest and gaze tracing the path of the young girl,    he wonders if she even feels that wound at all,    or if it has always been numb.

@pinkcopy.    men are a terrible waste of air.    from maria

well     there is certainly a truth to those words.    perhaps,    in alucard’s mind,    not a complete waste of air.    but a great many of them are not at all favorable,    in the long run,    and should not be taken as anything more than a leech in this world.    some don’t deserve to breathe.    but some are unaware.        ❝    men     human men   …   are not crafted by any longstanding fabrics of our time.    they are not made to be durable,    nor immortal.    their lives are fleeting,    and therefore they are doomed to know very little at all of this world.    unless they’ve experienced history,    they hardly know what sorts of trouble they’ll get into.    ❞

some should be told.    perhaps.    in truth,    alucard has never really wished to concern himself in such matters for too long.    what truly stains the earth are only small,    faint matters,    those that do not harm or impact others :    what it means to be human.    that is none of his business.        ❝    most of the time,    they only act human.    other times,    they’re fools helping the wrong side.    ❞        a draught of silence,    swallow bitterly.        ❝    those are the ones who must be stopped.    at any cost.    but you know that well.    ❞

⋆ ☾*ೃ ` beyond the storm .  /  𝙰𝙲𝙲𝙴𝙿𝚃𝙸𝙽𝙶 .

‘ i think it’s unfair.    no.    it is unfair.    why do i know,    then    ?    i am not immortal,    nor do i want to be. ’ a lie,    she had begged her mother for this only weeks ago,    it all seems so distant now.    it was for love,    not for glory,    after all.    ‘ but i know what’s right.    and what’s wrong.    i don’t know because i know magic,    i know because i’m human.    ’ she shakes her head,    back to playing with a leaf,    voiding it and returning it,    each time more rotten than the next,    until its dust and she must pick another victim from the tree she sits under.    desolation is just anger in the cherubim of her face,    anger and love she’s had placed on the people that have left her.    who is she now,    but a vessel of that grief    ?    a girl waiting to become power itself and impose justice in this world    ?    is imposition just at all    ?    fixing this seems like a moral conondrum eating itself into passivity.

the elder sharma steals another glance at him, his profile carved sharp against the softened green of the gardens. he does not fidget, nor does he fill the quiet with empty pleasantries. she admires that. there are so few men who find dignity in reticence, fewer still who wear it as naturally as their tailored coats. and yet — she cannot help but wonder what stirs beneath that composed exterior. is it mere pride, or something more terrible, more familiar? a duty that chafes the skin, an obligation made flesh? he does not look unlike herself in that regard. and that, perhaps, unsettles her most of all.

“a prudent man might very well call for carriages at the first sign of grey clouds— but only the rare man considers the implications of the journey upon others.” the words leave her lips carefully shaped, not rehearsed, but deliberate. she speaks often with purpose, but now there is something else woven in: curiosity. not the idle sort that makes a pastime of people, but the rarer kind, the one that seeks understanding without demand.

she listens to the breeze stir the trees, to the sound of edwina’s laughter floating back on the wind like a song kate knows by heart. that sound has always made her protective, fiercely so, but now it makes her… wistful? she cannot name the feeling. perhaps it is merely the sweetness of the berry fading from her tongue, leaving only the tang. or perhaps it is the way darcy walks at her side as though it is the most natural thing in the world, and not a peculiarity that would make lady featherington faint dead away. he has not said much, and yet she feels as though they are already deep in some unspoken understanding. that is either dangerous or divine.

darcy focuses forward,   in the controlled space georgiana is in,   in the merry and propriety of a walk with a friend her age and he finds some solace for his compulsions there,   at least what matters most is safety.   still he doesn’t look at the eldest sharma at all,   it would be improper to look and not look,   so he resolves to do what’s most comfortable.   he is also safe like this,   for she is a woman he cannot criticize,   and any person who cannot fall prey to his scrutiny is a person that threatens to become a predator.  

it’s almost ridiculous how established she appears,   the curves of her shoulder when she walks,   dignified,   not unlike her young sister,   for he’s seen not a pair of sisters as idyllic as them,   but with something cutting and clever about herself.   here is where he strays from expectations of the ton.   after all,   a woman should be many things as mandated by books of etiquette and politeness.   a man should as well,   but,   if there’s a quality he finds absolutely irresistible,   it's intelligence.   extreme and dedicated wit.   not talent,   but habit.   it’s best not to further analyze if she’s to be measured so highly.   he will find a flaw in kathani,   time is a most cruel confessor.  

alekos watches, silently frustrated, as gesthamane happily takes the offered bite of fruit from @pinkcopy. had he been the one to offer it out to his large white dragon, she'd have snorted a puff of smoke into his face. she doesn't yet trust him, and he, in a way, has yet to trust her. instead, she's happy to nuzzle into janna's hand, accept her food, and croon and coo at the kindness of her petting. she would never let alekos do that. his mother says she senses his stubbornness, and that's why the dragon tied to him won't trust him yet. why does he have to change who he is to get along with a dragon? why is she so eager to fawn over janna, not him?

the inexorable fascination with the cat and mouse game has evaded her for so long 'till now, the purposelessness of the faux pretenses only a confusing & irrelevant obstacle in front of an otherwise clear, sunny path. now, with sevda's graceful & nimble hands digging beneath supple flesh to search for the tender spot to sink their claws in, she finally sees the appeal in it. the lazy spring evening is spent with enjoying the entertaintment from the well versed artists of new rome, the founding of rome brought to life in the beautiful amphitheater lit by a thousand candles by the sunset, nymphs floating amongst the senators and refilling cups endlessly while murmuring sweet nothings to willing ears. the black stola sat regal on her shoulders as it did every time she had the privilege of wearing it, reporting for her brother's duty who sent his kindest regards for his inability to make it tonight. while she rarely ever wished to avoid new rome when it beckoned her for reasons that consisted of a amber eyed siren whose only job seemed to be tormenting her, her patience is severely tested as she sits listening to a young senator who is seated next to her by benevolent coincidence.

it's not that there is nothing with him, either. he's smart, from what she can tell. wise beyond a couple years, with a sturdy jaw and wide set of shoulders. he does not bore her, or speak inappropriately. it almost would have been a pleasant conversation, a pleasant companion to soothe the rest of the evening if it had not been for the keen eye of the daughter of eros looking when she thinks she isn't being perceived. sevda ulusoy is a relentless, ruthless workaholic of a woman and bianca does not refrain from reminding her that in the afterhours, when the blush has faded from their cheeks and the remnants of sweet wine linger in the roof of their mouths. falling into the coral sheets like she's done a plenty of times is so breathtakingly easy, it does not need a single drop of sweat upon her brow with effort. she sits back, palms planted behind her for support as the liar and the witch crawls atop her like it's a throne and not bianca's inviting thighs. it very well might be.

‘ you are difficult,    ’ no smiles,    no seduction,    what else does she need to do with her chest eagerly blooming from her blouse and the solemn red of her lips    ?    ‘  it’s not my fault,    you’re lacking introspection.    when you become a spinster,    don’t call me.    ’ her hands circle around bianca’s shoulders like laurel braids,    tilting her cold expression to the side.    a treacherously innocent gesture,    for anything but.    ‘ i’m not competitive bianca,    i play in my own lane.    ’ furrowed brows and pursed lips,    what will she do with the deathly girl who refuses to take her frankly perfect advice    ?    it bruises her pride not to be denied,    but rather played with and still requested for attention.    she would’ve rathered be manipulated than brazenly denied.    ‘ so,    will you act right,    or do i have to take my business elsewhere    ?    ’ not an empty threat,    a calculated one,    although it’s terribly implied business is more this arrangement than matchmaking itself,    as if they didn’t belong into the same cycle.    

smoke coils through the air like a living creature, clinging to every breath, every tremble, every unspoken fear that passes between them in the wreckage. eddie crouches low beside her, his gloved hands steady even as the chaos of collapsing concrete and screaming metal thunder around them. his helmet's tilted back just enough to reveal the steady weight in his gaze — not pity, but a vow carved into the lines of a man who had already seen too much loss. her voice, laced with indisposition, shatters through the sirens and groans of a dying building.

the world of mortals always changes quickly, but with the industrial revolution beginning to find its foothold, magic takes its place in the shadows of humanity’s mind … but there are still the rare few who harness it, and those that hunt it. today, ira is pursued by the latter. he is stiff-legged and trying to keep a low profile ( as to not raise any suspicions of the fine folk strolling about this well-kept and curated park), but the boarish fiends are swooping in quickly ! when he is sufficiently behind some type of trimmed shrubbery, ira runs— he bolts, rather, like a frightened hare, until he is near a pond where ducks splash out in its center. there, he thinks he is alone, and so he travels somewhere distant ( unnoticed by his panicked unobservance, a very human man is caught in the tailwind of this arcane transmutation ).

the scene mister darcy will experience is this : as though the world bows in on itself as though the ripples of a droplet, wavering and gliding— and then the violent upheaval of earth. gone is the park they both once stood in, suddenly trees and undergrowth spring into vision and burst from the earth ! only, there is no quake, nothing in these men moves, save their location. the skies, once sunny and bright, now darken in a gloomy grey that begets an oncoming storm. the very humidity of the air has changed. certainly not where they once were. surrounding them is a thick and deep forest, darkening the further the distance sprawls away.

ira, temporarily, allows himself a moment of security. he has lost those pesky hunters, now he is, once more, all by hims— by all the devils, there is a certain horror that grips a man when he believes he is alone to suddenly notice another body there.

❛❛ hostia puta ! ❜❜ he shouts, startling so badly he may as well have jumped into the air. evidently, by the look on the stranger’s gobsmacked expression, he had been caught as unawares as ira was. swiftly, an in a most menacing way, ira rushes his unwilling companion and corners his back up against some tree.

‘ i must definitely will not.    we are not acquainted nor i care for us to be,    ’ it had been a second when the unimportance of his surroundings became really important,    and while his composure took a step back the sudden forced of being pressed against rough,    uncomfortable bark leaves his otherwise solemn face tinted with a certainly perplexed expression.    he carries no weapons,    no knowledge,    he can only act as if he does not lack anything to master this situation.    whatever it is.    he does not deal with uncertainty well,    but he can predict his own behavior and find peace there.    by the rulebook of whatever etiquette drilled on him as a child.    the strange man,    foreign and loud for his english sensitivities,    is merely a stranger.    a very emotional one at it,    and collaboration appears unnecessary in the war against this uncertain reality.    fitzwilliam  is particularly spiteful he is to be touched at all.