#c;ava

Ava was nervous as she stood in her room, looking in the floor length mirror. She was done up in the finest robes money could buy. She looked like everything a pureblood women should be.

At the tender age of 19 she wondered why she hadnt been married off to a suitable suitor yet and now she had her answer. Her parents wanted to offer to the Dark Lord. She was to carry the heir of the Dark Lord, that is if the Dark Lord accept her parents offer.

A faint popping and in came the family house elf house Debzy. "Master and Mistress are ready for you now Miss."

With a simple nod, the young blonde turned away from the mirror and walked down the stairs. Her parents already speaking to the Dark Lord about what gift they were offering him.

                                         “... This fuckin’ girl–”

                 It had been less than a year since kindred souls had their paths woven through since his migration to Lanford, but apparently, only a handful of months were needed for him to spot her anywhere. A side street on North End, a sunny Sunday at the market, a meander near the lake. But finding her in the sea of bobbing heads on a packed night at Cube was a feat in itself; the haloed blonde hair and a devil’s tongue surrounded by women unfamiliar to him, and the look of disdain on striking features felt too familiar not to spot from his place on the balcony. Ava Wright. At his club. Without saying a damn word let him know. 

Name: Ava Selwyn

Age: 38

Gender: Female

Sexuality: Bisexual

Blood Status: Pureblood

Faceclaim: Katheryn Winnick

About:

When Ava was a young girl, she was given to the Dark Lord as a gift from her parents. So he could make a heir. The next Dark Lord.

She was honoured, glad that she was choosen for the part and soon she gave birth to twins. Faustian and Hestia. Theu were the apple of her eyes. Though Faustian, the first born had a special place in her heart. He was the true Heir of the Riddle name.

She ended up raising the children by herself, though their fathers followers that stayed true to the cause would do anything to help as they believed that The Dark Lords work would continue through them.

She easily saw part their father in each of them as they grew up and when he finally returned they did not disapoint when it came to their loyalty to him.

                Jason was beginning to get real tired of this. He was getting tired of supporting his competition once or twice a week by even blessing the cellar with his presence. He was getting tired of picking at a bowl of stale bar nuts after two beers, a being able to drive a sacrifice for his time and patience. He was getting tired of being ignored by the blonde focal point of his subjection to musty air and horrid company, sitting pretty behind the bar, knowing exactly what she was doing to him. It was edging midnight, the end of her shift before the bar back was left on his lonesome, and it seemed she was taking her sweet time clearing up. To infuriate him, no less–– and he was getting real fucking tired of the way it made his blood boil but his lust stir.

               “Oi, Grumpy,” He called, throwing in the white flag for this silent treatment that hadn’t lasted more than a few minutes. He talked a mile a minute, which only added to his languid torment, “I know you can hear me, sweetheart. I’m this close to peltin’ these beer nuts at your head like its our own fucked up version of rocks at a window,” He smirked, tossing one to bounce across the bar, before huffing out his frustration, “... You’re killin’ me here.”

                      O’Hara. Come in O’Hara. You have a guest in holding cell two, says she knows you. She’s not cooperating much. Take care of it? There wasn’t even a hiccup of time between the radio sounding and the deep sigh of exhaustion that left his lips, the sound relayed from somewhere in the trenches of his bones. He knew who it was without a second’s hesitation, a certain lithe brunette with the nimble fingers of a cyberpunk now making her infractions, her ‘visits’, a monthly, sometimes bi-weekly thing. Like clockwork. “Copy that. Be right there.” Adrian took one last look at the mountain of paperwork left for him on his desk during the depressive game of hooky he had played, pushed elongated fingers through his thickening beard, gritted his teeth, and squeezed his eyes shut in one baited moment of frustration, and then stood to make his way toward the right sector of the station. 

                       A holding cell, or more often used as The Drunk Tank in a town like Lanford, was definitely not The Ritz. Nowhere near it. It was arguably the size of Adrian’s North End apartment’s vestibule, with just an ugly space grey toilet in one corner, and a hard cinder bench in the other. It was one of the town’s most undesirable places to be. Well, at least one person didn’t seem to think so. 

                       “Ava Wright,” the name left it the way always did; frustrated, worrisome, a few ounces of affection he couldn’t help. He pushed his arms through the metal bars and relaxed there, shaking his head with his jaw tendons tense, mirroring the image of a man meant on the other side of the bars. “You’re going to be the death of me, you know that, right?”