@xfindingtrouble said: percy kisses astoria to show off for someone else.
The first time she met Sereda, the girl who tended to her before Lenore, she was six years old and guarding a stray cat with the ferocity of a barbarian. Childhood teasing, the boy's mother had insisted, though she'd quaked in fear when Astoria had shown her that wide, slow smile, the cat tucked under one arm and Sereda clinging to her skirt, peering out from behind her knees. She brought both home, cleaned them up, gave them a soft bed and certain food. Sereda. parentless and just as fierce as first impressions would lead Astoria to believe, received tutors and tailors and, though she's nearing fifty now, calls Astoria sister to this day.
The cat had, by that point, had quite enough of a six-year-old's clumsy care, and took to perching on Astoria's bookshelves and hissing furiously at anyone who came near it. Melora, Sereda's predecessor, wouldn't stay in the same room as it without someone else present, certain that one day the cat would lose its patience and murder them all. After a few too many bites and scratches, Sereda kept her distance, too. Only Astoria made any attempt, watching with mild amusement as the jagged tears in the backs of her hands healed before her eyes. Still, despite its bursts of violence, the cat followed her everywhere—always a few feet behind her when she went into her workshop, sleeping on top of a pile of her notes and swatting furiously if Astoria disturbed it. And whenever Astoria let a hand rest on its head or scratched idly behind its ears it looked as though it was contemplating raining down an impossibly powerful wrath upon her before it leaned wholeheartedly into the gentle touch, the gestures of affection, the absentminded love she offered. It headbutted her hands, took to sleeping in her lap, draped itself across her shoulders, started answering when Astoria called for it. Sereda called it Pumpkin. Melora called it beast. Astoria called him sweet thing. She thinks of him often, as she thinks of all the cats she's looked after, and the way he'd pretend not to want to be touched only to seek out her attention every chance he got, in the inscrutable way of cats.
Percy, she realized in the early days of their courtship, before either of them called this what it was, reminds her often of that cat. Pleasant company despite his capacity for brutality (perhaps, if Astoria's being honest, because of it, at least in part), but startled by any genuine affection from her, enough so to forget to be wary of it. She'd made the connection the first time he laid his head in her lap and fell asleep there, slipping into dreamless quiet after spending the night before fitful with nightmares. She'd carded her fingers absentmindedly through his hair until he stirred, and when she paused, he nudged his head into her palm, as if to encourage her to continue the touch, all without waking. Experimentally, Astoria had resumed, and with her free hand she'd stroked a careful line along the bridge of his nose, and swore she'd caught sight of a smile in his sleep.
That had been the first time but certainly not the last, and in the weeks and months that followed, as the both of them danced carefully around any honest admission as to the nature or strength of their feelings, she found herself mimicking the cat, too. They fussed over the state of her hair, sometimes gathering the hairbrush from her hand to tend to it without interference. She found herself reaching out to touch them whenever she could, extending an arm to brush her fingers against their elbow, stretching her legs to gently nudge her toes against their thigh. It was much the same process: just as she had with the cat, she and Percy carved out a home for the other, opened a guarded heart to admit family.
He has that cat's pride, too, appearing unconcerned and even haughty as he kept a catalogue of every offense, every insult. It's why he's so often more troubled than she is by the whispers that follow them, by the suggestions that perhaps Lord Percival's choice of bride left something to be desired. She can hardly blame the people for their distrust; the last vampire so close to the city's rule had been devastating. And the diplomats don't faze her.
"I find it hard to be bothered by infantile mockery," she'd said to Cassandra once, when Cassandra had asked her, in that wonderfully direct way of hers, if she wanted a diplomat ousted from the castle for an insult aimed her way. Said diplomat had been uneasy at Cassandra's clear disapproval, and averted his eyes in silent shame when Astoria's nonchalance carried clearly through the room. "I have been practicing politics since his grandfather was in nappies and I have forgotten more than he'll ever know. Should he have something useful to contribute to our conversations, I'll take his disapproval seriously."
Percy, for their part, had been furious at the disrespect shown to their wife, and has yet to forget it, years later. (She thinks of the cat and the way he punished her for spilling wine on his favorite cushion, weeks and weeks later when she presented him with a new one, lifting a leg to piss on it while keeping eye contact with her. She'd been so charmed by the sheer strength of his personality that she couldn't even pretend at anger. Somehow, she imagines she'll react similarly when Percy finally lets loose their cold fury.)
In the three years since their wedding they have yet to grow bored with one another, and though Percy is admirably focused on the business of administering over Whitestone, he is nevertheless more focused when she is on-hand, if only because his eyes don't wander to the curve of her hips and waist (thanks to the corset he'd tied himself mere hours before) while she's walking across the room, and he doesn't find himself forgetting to absorb what he's told because he heard the ring of her laughter from the other end of the hall. She would tease were she not the same, utterly entranced by the furrow of his brow or the quick, clever movements of his hands as he gestures and speaks. Better, they have both learned, if they simply stay nearby one another.
It's how she knows he hears the conversation occurring not far from them, two women speaking just loudly enough that they can, from where they're standing, pick out nearly every word. He's got a glass of wine in one hand, the other at Astoria's face as he fixes a stray curl for her, when his fingers freeze and he clenches his jaw, the tension in his muscles visible to her and near enough that she almost raises a hand to smooth her fingers against his skin and try to soothe him.
"You'd think one vampire was enough," the first woman says, and she lets out a sigh. "Lord Frederick and Lady Johanna must be turning over in their graves."
"Is she even still considered noble?" Her companion seems genuinely curious, despite the snide tone of her gossip, and the first woman laughs.
"At least she had the good sense not to take the name. An undead de Rolo." She sighs again. "Nobility doesn't mean a thing in circumstances like these. I could say my dog is noble, but I still wouldn't let him eat at the table with people."
The hand at her cheek is very nearly shaking with rage, and Astoria simply turns her face to their palm, presses a kiss there. She wonders what bothers them the most: that strangers dare speak of their parents like this, that they dare speak of her like this, or that she'd made the same argument when she said she should, perhaps, refrain from taking their name.
("De Rolo or no," she'd said softly, sweetly, hands folded over their abdomen and chin propped up on her fingers, their knees bent and ankles bracketing her hips, their fingers twisting in the tangled mess of her hair, "I am utterly, irrevocably, eternally yours." Words like eternity mean something to her, Percy knows. "Your name is symbolic of liberation. It means something more than I could ever put into words to the people. I don't want to take that from them. Whatever my name is, I love them like you do." She'd shifted forward, pressed a kiss to their collarbone, before settling back where she'd been, and pretended to be surprised when they guided her back up by her hair so they could press their mouth to hers and roll her over, pin her gently to the bed beneath them.)
The second woman laughs nervously. "At least she's not on the council," she says, as though perhaps dog is a step too far, and she's trying to bring the insults to a more civilized place.
"Of all the de Rolos, one would think that the clever one would know better than to fall into bed with a dead woman. Do you think she's enchanted him somehow?"
"Maybe he's just in love. It wouldn't be the first time someone was foolish because of love."
"Love," the first woman said gravely, "is not reason enough to condemn your only surviving family, and the well-being of your city."
Her companion seems uneasy now, and she says, voice halting, "Surely Lady Cassandra—after all she suffered—would not have allowed such magic to defile her home again. Surely she's had a cleric see to him if there was any concern."
The first woman says, "It's not just arcane magic. Spread legs can be just as deadly as a spell," and Astoria laughs at that, bright and ringing and loudly enough that the two women stop speaking and look at her. When they do, Astoria meets the first woman's eyes, then the second's, and winks. The second woman grabs the first by the arm and leads her away, farther into the room, and Astoria looks back at her husband, and this time she does raise her hand to rest gently against his cheek, thumb stroking his skin.
Percy looks down at her in surprise, as if he'd forgotten, in his anger, that she was there at all, and he softens at once, lets Astoria distract him with discussion of the wine and a conversation with a visiting academic she'd invited herself so he might enjoy a bit of theory unrelated to his current projects. He's earned a bit of learning for learning's sake. Still, his eyes wander to the women, and when he stops his sister to ask for their names, Astoria thinks of the cat again.
She thinks of the boys, surely no more than fifteen, who'd wandered through her woods and thrown smooth stones her way from the trees; it was amusing more than anything, given that one of the boys had been the child her sweet Sereda had so loathed, and that they'd deliberately waited until Sereda was in town, knowing that if she were present she'd have chased after all of them with a broomstick in one hand and a frying pan in the other. It was only the cat with her, and Astoria had scooped him up to shield him from any projectiles, though the stones only bounced harmlessly at her feet, the boys' aim and strength both wanting.
But the cat, perceiving insult and potential injury to his family, had hissed. He spat and writhed in her grasp until he'd wriggled free and he'd launched himself at one of the boys with a scream, left him with a gash in his cheek and a bite so deep in his hand that it was terribly infected for days after and resulted in a rather concerning fever. And then, calm as can be, the cat had returned to her, and climbed into her lap, and settled in the shade provided by the tree she sat under and the grey of the sky. He fell asleep there and when she lifted him into her arms to head back inside he pressed his cold, wet nose to her cheek and rubbed his face against her jaw, as if to say, you are mine, and only I am permitted to draw blood, and only in good fun.
Percy, she thinks, has the same look in his eyes that the cat had all those years ago. She doesn't question it when he slips away from her apologetically to have a word with someone about the seating arrangements, and by the time they've sat down to begin eating, she's forgotten the women's faces, pleased to be sitting between her husband and Allura, visiting from Emon.
It's not until she hears a loud, joyous bark from one of the tables that she tears herself away from the conversation they're having, and she sees the first woman seated beside the head of one of the tables, displaced from where Astoria was certain she'd originally been seated in favor of the hunting hound they'd been gifted last year. Melchior is now at the table's head, looking immeasurably pleased by the current arrangement. The servant attending to the dog looks at the woman witheringly when she complains, and Astoria has to strain to hear the servant's response.
"This dog," the servant explains, "is the treasured companion of Lord Percival and Lady Astoria, a skilled hunter, a noble beast deserving of only the finest treatment, and he shall not be fed scraps on the kitchen floor—"
Astoria looks at Percy. Percy raises his eyebrows and smiles, looking satisfied, and catches her hand in his, brings her fingers to his lips so he can press a kiss there. She wonders if he's simply bored tonight, if he's planned such a specific revenge, or if the insult was simply a step (or five) too far for him to forgive.
The second part of their revenge comes when they stand to address the guests, glass raised, voice warm. Their speech is an unremarkable one for the most part—we thank you for joining us, for your friendship to Whitestone. A word here and there about Whitestone's current projects, a longer word in honor of Vex'ahlia, who couldn't join them but is nevertheless remembered fondly in her absence, as Grand Mistress of the Grey Hunt and the Champion of Pelor.
"And I would like to direct your attention once more, this time to my wife, Astoria de Rolo—pardon me, Grim—" And here Astoria's eyebrows raise, but she doesn't react beyond that and a smile. "—whose generous patronage of the arts in the city has allowed us to turn our attention to the reconstruction of the amphitheater, a project we have long had to delay. She has breathed such life back into this city."
Part two of his revenge completed, he sits again, and the dinner commences.
The final part comes when the plates have been cleared from the tables and the guests are mingling again, Melchior led out from the hall after gorging happily on a cut of meat that Astoria suspects was superior to his neighbor's. They step out to a balcony, eager for a breath of fresh air and a chance for relative quiet, and Astoria follows them out, stands beside them at the railing, careful not to touch them until she's seen that they want the sensation of her cool skin on theirs. "Quite a speech, my love," she says after a moment, and they chuckle, casting a smile her way.
"Did you enjoy it?"
"Immensely. Particularly the slip in which you forgot my name." She grins to match him, though she sobers after a moment. "She really bothered you, didn't she?"
He's silent for a moment before he answers. "You know how I think of you," he says finally. "And you know how I value you."
"I do."
"Sometimes," he confesses, and he reaches up to tuck that misbehaving curl behind her ear again, "it drives me mad that not everyone knows those things."
"Sweet thing," she murmurs, and she presses a kiss to the soft underside of his wrist. "I appreciate your defense of my honor. I could always eat her., if she's really upset you."
"Not satisfied with the nuts and berries?"
"The blackberries had turned," she says sadly, and Percy chuckles again, and turns to face her. His hand falls to her chin, and he grasps her jaw in his fingers, tips her head upwards towards him. The balcony is in clear sight of anyone inside and near the door, including the two women they'd heard before, but he doesn't seem bothered by their lack of privacy.
They lean down to kiss her and Astoria reaches up to meet them partway, and she all but melts into them, the powerful certainty of their kiss and the strength of their hand settling on her side, fingers gripping tightly enough that were she still human, it would leave a bruise. She doesn't challenge this unexpected reversal of roles, Percy's gentle but unwavering dominance over her in these moments; she only leans into him more, with all the desperate need of a woman starving and in the presence of a fest.
He kisses her like he means to swallow her whole. He kisses her like he loves her, simple as that, and Astoria's own hands come to his wrist, his face, and she thinks that she has done this thousands of times and never once has it been anything less than miraculous. She breathes in the subtle scent of lavender on his skin and his clothes, brushes her fingers over the smooth plane of his jaw, and when they separate she feels an aching hunger for more of him settle into her chest, hollow and needy and wanting. When she gets him back to the room they share there will be no separating them, she's sure.
When he pulls back from her she chases his lips and he laughs, concedes, kisses her again. Neither one of them stop for the audience, and the familiar faces there, peering into the night and their shapes wound around one another.
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“Let them talk…” Vex adjusts with a little groan from an aching muscle as she maneuvers another pillow to prop herself up a little more comfortably. “I’ll give them a piece of my mind if they say anything untoward and protect your honor, Darling.” She promises, eyes crinkling at the edges with her grin.
The archer feels a little boneless laying her and much like she’s floating. Taking the moment for Percy to rejoin her, Vex interlocks her fingers together briefly, stretching her entire body. As she allows her limbs to relax again she cracks an eye open to Percival.
The chill of Whitestone creeps against her skin as his shifting body moves the air again and so she is clinging to his frame once he is close enough. Though something about his words dig into her heart. With him settled Vex cards her fingers through his hair a few times with her thumb smoothing against the shell of his ear just once before she draws her fingers under his chin to draw his gaze to her own.
“I’d like you here every night, Percy.” She allows her voice to tip to a more serious tone, and her lips purse lightly, “Could be our bed is all I’m saying—“ a little shrug leaves her, fingers not under his chin drumming lightly against his bare shoulder in a thoughtful rhythm.
@xfindingtrouble asked ❝ a bad reputation doesn’t mean you’re bad. ❞ ellis @ agrona!
the URGE to roll her eyes was strong and so she did. without any hesitation. though, it was not made by spitefulness, but she found it hard to believe the other's words. " i don't think many agrees with you. at least not the nobles, or the orlesians and probably some old grumpy man. " there was NO doubt, the inquisition had made many good deeds when the world had been on the verge of breaking due to a cursed green giant hole in the sky, but it had all changed after the breach had been closed. people now saw them as a THREAT and agrona understood them. as much as she loved her friends, the good memories, the bad memories, she also thought it was time to disolve the inquisition. then people, strangers, had begun talking behind her back, spreading lies because she was a dwarf, a FORMER member of the carta, a reaver. it made her irritated. defiant. a quiet, yet heavy sigh escaped chapped lips before clear green eyes gazed upon the warden. " how did you get through all of it? you have been in this weird ass game longer than me, champ. "
unprompted, because i wanna see how this turns out
[ hey percy wanna deck a noble piece of garbage ? ]
@xfindingtrouble
characters: lord cytos & percival de rolo
── ♥
" It has come to my attention that you have been speaking to my child? Prince Cytos? Greetings. I'm their father, Lord Cytos. I figured I should introduce myself, seeing as they have a determined tendency to make the mistake of saying the most inane of things. Surely you've heard them by now. "
── The nobleman can't help but chuckle, as if talking about someone who wasn't family, as if speaking about someone who both of them didn't like, and not someone who wasn't a good person at heart.
accepting
@xfindingtrouble sent: “Fools who run their mouths oft wind up dead.” from percy!
Lark canted her head to the side as she was enjoying a drink at the bar. She had been striking up a conversation with a young man. Her dark brow rose and she found herself nodding in agreement.
❝ Aye, so you say. ❞ she replied and took a sip of her wine. ❝ Fools always wind up dead because of the things they say.❞ She went on and ran a hand through her hair in an attempt to tame the long waves. She was eyeing Percy; surveying him. She couldn't quite determine if he was a friend or a threat.
❝ And where would you place yourself, are you a fool? ❞
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There was a certain energy that came with watching the sun rise, and Aryin could not for the life of her put it to words. In a way, it was like faith, something that she did not, could not, would not put her - well - faith in. Faith is easily broken, easily taken, easily dashed upon the rocks, like a frozen piece of glass. A sunrise is something you can always count on seeing, as long as you make it to the next day.
you, you, you . . . it's all you .
A patient smile curls the corner of her lips as she looks partially over one shoulder towards the gunslinging technician of war in the wings. Yes, she has read the history books of this world, and has listened to countless a bard song, countless a tale of deeds sung by both reckless and silly, and dire and dirge. Yes, indeed, there is many things to say about his group. Many things to ask. But right now, at dawn, when the sun is yawning above the horizon like a blooming rose... now is not the time.
" I suppose, in a manner of speaking, I was merely thinking that, hm, " she takes a slow breath in. What brought on the thought, indeed. " things back home. They are going too well. When things go too well, the home is bound to burn. I do not wish, to watch to world end a fifth time. "
" Percival, I am not strong enough to lose everything again. "
i love the handwriting meme everyone's doing, i love to see what it would look like. so, a sample of astoria's, in a note to @xfindingtrouble -
[Good morning, my darling. Forgive me, please. I couldn't bear to wake you before I left - by the looks of it you fell asleep in your work, and you're too wonderfully peaceful to disturb. I've left you my notes from my study of the orb last night, and when I return, I would enjoy the chance to hear your thoughts. I'll be in the catacombs most of the day. Your sister has asked me to join her as she tries to identify and return remains to their proper graves. I think perhaps this is progress. Please tell Taryon that while I appreciate his devotion to you, I miss you, and it's my turn tonight. Wear a heavy cloak - it's cold today. I love you.]
Will it disturb her, Astoria wonders, if Cassandra knows that her guest identified her by scent alone? Or will it feel, sickly, strangely, like coming home? The sound of footsteps doesn't startle her; enough people have come in and out while she worked, some to bring her the supplies she requests, some out of curiosity, some out of suspicion. But she breathes in, her nostrils flare, she parts her lips and lets her jaw drop as if to allow the scent to hit the roof of her mouth, like a prowling cat trying to locate its prey.
(But for once, she is not on the hunt. She does not lay in wait, considering all the ways to play with her food before she devours it. She simply waits, and wonders.)
The footfalls get closer, and sound more familiar to her. Delicately, Astoria sniffs again, as if to ensure that Cassandra is alone. She has been here the past six hours, legs tucked under her as she sits on the floor, books stacked high beside her and several small jars beside her. They appear empty to the casual observer, and they appear empty even to her: the brilliant gossamer threads inside them have faded, and though it pains her to lose the material, she is in the midst of an experiment.
The pages beside her are covered in her scribbles. At the top of one page she's written the words is vampirism magic in origin? and underlined it twice; that she hasn't died of old age yet suggests not, though she wonders, not for the first time, if Sylas would have been undone if he spent too long here. (The gods certainly love their tricks, she thinks bitterly, even the men who wish to be gods.) It is a waiting game, now, observing how long the jars can remain near the orb before being removed without the magic being stolen from them permanently.
(Halfway down the page is another question, this one circled: Can it undo a resurrection?)
And the footsteps are closer still, now, and they stop for a moment when Cassandra no doubt sees that she's not alone. Astoria glances over her shoulder at her and offers her a smile, careful not to show too many teeth.
"I can step out if you'd like some privacy," she says, rather warmly, "though please be careful of my jars if you do?" And then her eyes flicker down to the small basket filled with things that it looks like have been taken at random from Percy's workshop, and her smile grows crooked. Someone has infuriated her, no doubt, and Astoria knows better than to try and defend her lover in the face of his sister's rage. "Percival," she asks, maybe a little wickedly, "or Taryon?"
