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ofcastora · 3 years

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SHAKESPEARE’S CORDELIA + DIVERONA’S CATHERINE

happy birthday, kiersten! @catherinedaly

INSP.

FULL PASSAGES UNDER THE CUT

SHAKESPEARE:

LEAR: Thou hast her, France; let her be thine; for we Have no such daughter, nor shall ever see That face of hers again. Therefore be gone Without our grace, our love, our benison. Come, noble Burgundy.

[ Flourish. Exeunt Lear, Burgundy, Cornwall, Albany, Gloucester, and Attendants. ]

KING OF FRANCE: Bid farewell to your sisters.

CORDELIA: The jewels of our father, with wash'd eyes Cordelia leaves you. I know you what you are; And, like a sister, am most loath to call Your faults they are nam'd. Use well our father. To your professed bosoms I commit him; But yet, alas, stood I within his grace, I would prefer him to a better place! So farewell to you both.

GONERIL: Prescribe not us our duties.

REGAN: Let your study Be to content your lord, who hath receiv'd you At fortune's alms. You have obedience scanted, And well are worth the want that you have wanted.

CORDELIA: Time shall unfold what plighted cunning hides. Who cover faults, at last shame them derides. Well may you prosper!

KING OF FRANCE: Come, my fair Cordelia.

[ Exeunt France and Cordelia. ]

DIVERONA:

[ In conversation with Grace Daly / Goneril ]

If she’d known, she’d have brought her gun.

But, hindsight is 20/20 and there’s no time to mull over how differently this fight would go if she brandished a pocket pistol rather than a blade; either way, she’s hellbent on showing her estranged sister that she’s no longer the little dove of a girl that Grace abandoned so long ago. Catherine smirks in spite of the eldest’s jab, deciding its better to keep her talking for as long as she can before they clash and spill the blood of their family. “Oh, Grace,” she sneers in return, a sickly sweet smile gracing her visage, “I’ve withstood your taunts and assaults for twenty-one years now. Don’t further insult your poorly-executed cruelty by doing me any favors.”

“Besides, soldatessa, haven’t you heard? I’ve received a promotion while you’ve remained stagnant. Tell me, sorella, how does it feel to be Hamlet’s bitch?” she cruelly goads, spurred on by the chaos that surrounds them both. “How many coffee runs have you been on in the last week, hmm?”

SHAKESPEARE:

CORDELIA: [ aside ] Then poor Cordelia! And yet not so; since I am sure my love's More richer than my tongue.

LEAR: To thee and thine hereditary ever Remain this ample third of our fair kingdom, No less in space, validity, and pleasure Than that conferr'd on Goneril.- Now, our joy, Although the last, not least; to whose young love85 The vines of France and milk of Burgundy Strive to be interest; what can you say to draw A third more opulent than your sisters? Speak.

CORDELIA: Nothing, my lord.

LEAR: Nothing?

CORDELIA: Nothing.

LEAR: Nothing can come of nothing. Speak again.

CORDELIA: Unhappy that I am, I cannot heave My heart into my mouth. I love your Majesty According to my bond; no more nor less.

DIVERONA:

[ In conversation with Everett Craven / Edgar ]

You love her.

There’s something jarring about hearing her stream of consciousness reduced to three simple words: You love her. There’s something powerful about putting a name to her feelings, something she’s refrained from giving into—for her own sake and Brielle’s. But, here, with Everett quietly and simply filling in the blanks, she knows and finally concedes.

She’s always known.

Even though she’s not yet said it to Brielle, she knows.

It makes her wonder, then, if Brielle knows, too. It makes her wonder if the brunette’s heart sings at the sight of Catherine like Catherine’s heart does at the sight of Brielle—if she loves her like Cat does. Everett can see it, clear as day. It’s etched in the pensiveness in his green gaze, in the way he schools himself into the perfect embodiment of patience and acceptance despite the treasonous words that pour from her lips. You love her.

“I do,” Catherine murmurs after a slight pause, “and I can’t help it.”

But, it doesn’t need to be helped—at least, according to Everett who, perpetually devoted to his favorite godsister, is quick to remind her that her feelings aren’t wrong, but they are dangerous. “I know,” Catia says, voice barely louder than a whisper. The hefty weight of what if nearly buckles Catherine’s shoulders every time she gets a chance to see Brielle; an unabated sense of impending doom settles like lead in her bones and makes her question if it’s worth it—worth risking Brielle’s life, worth risking her own, worth risking her beloved Everett.

(She’s always answered yes, even if she’s the only one who ever hears her response. She doesn’t have the gall to voice such selfishness, such fervent longing.)

SHAKESPEARE:

CORDELIA: Nothing, my lord.

LEAR: Nothing?

CORDELIA: Nothing.

LEAR: Nothing can come of nothing. Speak again.

CORDELIA: Unhappy that I am, I cannot heave My heart into my mouth. I love your Majesty According to my bond; no more nor less.

LEAR: How, how, Cordelia? Mend your speech a little, Lest it may mar your fortunes.

CORDELIA: Good my lord, You have begot me, bred me, lov'd me; I Return those duties back as are right fit, Obey you, love you, and most honour you. Why have my sisters husbands, if they say They love you all? Haply, when I shall wed, That lord whose hand must take my plight shall carry Half my love with him, half my care and duty. Sure I shall never marry like my sisters, To love my father all.

LEAR: But goes thy heart with this?

CORDELIA: Ay, good my lord.

LEAR: So young, and so untender?

CORDELIA: So young, my lord, and true.

DIVERONA:

[ In conversation with Everett Craven / Edgar ]

TW: DEATH, SUICIDE MENTION

At eight, she was too young to bottle her own emotions for the sake of others. At eight, she cried alongside Everett because life wasn’t fair; because she, too, was sad; because she ached for him, knowing that he’d never have a mother to tuck him in again like Simona did for her. At eight, even with her tender and too-loving heart, her world was Catia-centric. And despite the politeness in her words and her honey-sweet disposition, she liked it. Craved it, even, because at least she, the golden daughter, deserved it.

But now, at twenty-one, she’s wiser and less selfish–and less deserving, too. At twenty-once, she will bottle her emotions for Everett’s sake. At twenty-one, she will not cry alongside him because life isn’t fair but there’s nothing one can do except keep going; because she, too, is broken–but the pieces of the Craven man are crumbling so much that even Catia’s dainty fingertips might not be able to pick them up; because she aches for him, for Maeve, for herself–but she doesn’t cry. She can’t.

Instead, she engulfs her godbrother in a massive hug and squeezes tightly. She holds him while he cries, remains steadfast and strong. There are no words, but she speaks anyways: “Why? What–” Her voice trembles and cracks. “Was it really her doing, or a framing like Lillian and Cassian’s murders?” She’s not sure which option is worse.

#diveronatalk #catherinedaly #one of the passages under the cut talks about maeve's passing so #death tw #suicide mention tw #happy birthday kiersten!!#(potentially belated depending on the timezone!)

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regicidios-blog1 · 5 years

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cat + mikael, soft squad au *MWAH*

“I hate to be blunt, but that Easton guy sounds like a total douchecanoe,” he said to Catherine, eyes narrowing while he crosses one section of Regina’s hair over the other. “Never give dickheads like that the time of day. And never say dickhead.”Mikael had never been good with kids, always afraid of saying the wrong thing, of setting a bad example. With ten or so years between them, and the two girls barely breaching their teen years, even, he had never once considered the possibility of getting along with his girlfriend’s baby sisters. But as he sat with legs criss-crossed on the floor of Louis Daly’s guestroom to braid the middle daughter’s hair at her younger sister’s suggestion, it became harder to remember why he had any of those reservations in the first place. A soft, amused smile spread across Catherine’s face when she looked at him. “You’re doing it wrong.”Mikael raised an eyebrow. “What? Oh.” “It’s right over middle now,” she said.“Fuck.” Mikael released the section he’d been holding, letting the remaining locks of Regina’s hair fall to her back. “Hey, Regina, is it alright if I do it again?”“I don’t care,” Regina said.A small, fond laugh escaped his lips at the predictable response. With a smile forming as he grabbed a brush to start the french braid over, Mikael thought, perhaps, family wasn’t as ugly a word as he had once believed.

#this is also an au where easton is the same age as catherine GSJLK #catherinedaly #( opp. catherine. )#( opp. regina. )

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castora-aguilar-blog · 7 years

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# (-:

what your muse’s name is in mine’s phone

Blondie 👼🐶🔪 - because Catherine is blonde and vaguely looks like a young Debbie Harry to Castora. The emoji’s speak for themselves and are how Castora views/feels about Catherine.

what your muse’s picture is in mine’s phone

A stray dog was wandering around Castora’s apartment complex one afternoon and both girls heard the barking and went downstairs. None of Castora’s neighbors knew the dog, and both were really tempted to keep the dog but came to the conclusion that it would be a bad time to get a pet, so they took it to the shelter.

Castora snapped this pic when Catherine went down (huddled in Castora’s very fluffy yellow blanket) and started playing with the dog. She took it on her phone just when she sighed heavily and said “I don’t think we can keep keep her.”

what your muse’s ringtone is in mine’s phone

Under Pressure by Queen & David Bowie, but only the first 30 seconds of the song/the part sampled for Ice Ice Baby in order to confuse people about which song it is.

my muse’s last text to your muse

> don’t open the freezer. don’t ask why.

> i can’t see you but i know you’re judging me.

> but before you ask, what i have in the freezer is completely legal. ish. as legal as it can be.

> if you’re going out remember to lock the door

> if i’m not back by morning call rallis. he probably has a tracker on me or something

#answered #ask meme #catherinedaly #&&. two sides of the same coin ( catherine )

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castoraguilar-blog · 7 years

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ira furor brevis est

date: january 9th, 2017 time: 3:34pm location: the colosseum @catherinedaly

The heavy sun did nothing to wilt Castora’s smile as she peered out at the dusty floor of the stadium, the only indication of the afternoon’s excitement soft hoof marks in the tracks that would soon be thundering with beasts and cheers from the audience alike. As someone who reveled in excitement and who loved the thrill of winning, Castora found the Palio electrifying. There was something about the buzz in the air as money exchanged hands and bolstered egos warred with each other that sent a jolt of energy through Castora’s veins. The frenzy of the crowd was palpable and contagious; she’d seen the horses and riders on their parade about an hour ago as she sat in the stands and was confident the Montague horse would take the race--so confident that she’d braved the crowd to place her sole bets on the black stallion. Though it wasn’t until afterwards did Castora realized she’d lost her previous companions.

The race would not start for some time yet--and would only last upwards of a minute--but the invigorated crowd, filled with sudden shouts and boisterous laughter provided the most anticipatory atmosphere to await the main event. Castora weaved her way down the stands, a bubbly cocktail in her hand, as she tried to remember where she’d set down her hat, sorely regretting leaving it, and her friends, behind to beat the rushing crowd.

The stands were too full of people to allow her to weave seamlessly through it, and Castora found herself taking a detour along a row of mostly empty seats. As she merged into the crowd climbing down the next set of steps though, she felt a sudden push at her back, and Castora stumbled onto someone’s foot. She felt the bump beneath her low-slung heels, and hastily swerved out of the way as the group behind her descended, which conveniently prevented her from getting a good look at the woman she’d accidentally trodden on. Castora called over their bobbing heads, “Sorry about that, it’s absolutely mad here. Did I spill anything on you?” When the group descending the steps finally revealed the woman though, Castora realized she’d spoken too soon.

#have i mentioned i'm terrible at starters ?#hope this is ok though !#thought i'd have it start off rather nice #since it's mostly cat that's mad at castora hahaha #event: races #c: catherine #catherinedaly #cordelia*

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dalygrace · 4 years

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🔆 + [post] college au featuring @catherinedaly @evcravens @katarinadvpont

“Grace! Mamma wants a picture to make sure I got here okay and didn’t die en route!”

Catherine’s voice floats from the living room into the kitchen where Grace has her head in the fridge, looking for the bottles of wine Katarina had put in there to chill. She grabs the first one she sees (Kat can come back and get a different bottle herself if she wanted something specific, she thinks, swiping the corkscrew from the counter) before sweeping into the living room and depositing herself onto the couch beside her younger sister. Catia’s face is flushed from the two glasses of wine she’s already consumed, and Grace laughs as she fumbles with her phone for a moment before finally taking a selfie. Grace knows she’ll likely get a scolding voicemail from Simona before the night is out for the wine in her hands and Catia’s clearly buzzed state, but she’s happy, so she doesn’t care.

“Are you going to open that or just let it get warm in your hands?” Mikael asks, slouched in the armchair opposite her, and Grace laughs again, deftly uncorking the bottle and pouring him a glass. “For you, m’sieur,” she says in her snootiest sommelier voice, the one she’d perfected those long nights in college when they used to mix something awful for each other and have a guess at what was in it, an exercise in masochism on both their parts that left them more often than not hating themselves the morning after. They’d grown since then, matured to real cocktails and wine that came in bottles instead of boxes (Thank god, Everett had exclaimed at the sight of real Italian wine, last year when they’d all gathered to christen Mikael’s new apartment in Jersey), and Grace’s liver thanked her for it.

“It’s Italian,” she says before Everett can ask, pouring three more glasses and pushing them across the table to their intended recipients. “Kat put aside her homeland snobbery just for you tonight, so we can indulge in your homeland snobbery to celebrate you finally deigning to grace us with your presence.” Mikael roars with laughter as Kat and Ev make twin faces of affront and Catia sneaks Grace’s glass off the table, taking a big sip before Grace can snatch it back. “That’s the last glass for you, drunky,” Grace says fondly, “You’ve gotta be with it when Papa comes to pick you up later or else Mamma will start thinking Kat and Everett are bad influences.”

The two in question pull faces again, and Grace settles back onto the couch with her new glass of wine, smile so wide it hurts her cheeks.

She loves nights like this, family and friends gathered in the living room, when the house is full of laughter and conversation. The brownstone she shares with Katarina is warm and spacious, always kept tidy (Grace) and packed with art and photographs of their mutual friends (Katarina). They have a spare bedroom that they use to house the rotating cast of characters that come through New York, because despite only being in their mid-twenties, having a six figure salary (Grace) and coming from a long line of successful stock brokers (Katarina) means they can afford to live somewhere that isn’t a shoebox, exorbitant rent be damned. Its most common occupant is Mikael, despite the fact that he lives only a short train ride away, because he always whines about how annoying New Jersey Transit is and how cold it gets in the winter. Grace, who grew up in the City, thinks he’s full of shit; then again, he’d spent his whole life in Southern California before moving east after college, so she supposes he gets a free pass for the first few years of real winter.

Sometimes she wonders how they all ended up like this, living in each other’s pockets. Everett and Katarina had met first at an orientation for international students; then Mikael had crashed in, a fortuitous roommate pairing; Lillian came next, trailing in Katarina’s wake, and the four of them became MikandEvandKatandLil easily in the first months of freshman year. Grace, down the hall in Reiber and two rows back in econ classes, was an outsider to the fearsome four, too snarky to fit right in, raising hackles with her quick anger and the drinks she kept accidentally spilling on Everett. Ironic that that’s what brought them together in the end, she thinks, sleepy and warm, before excusing herself from the room.

It’s strange, she thinks, basking in the glow of their laughter as it follows her down the hall to the bathroom, that they all stayed together, relatively speaking. Lillian was off being beautiful somewhere in Europe (she’s in Paris, Grace knows, but she still instinctively pushes down the knowledge of the kind woman with whom she never quite clicked, a sequelae of having pushed down for years the frustration over whether she wants to kiss her or be her, a crisis she’s become more comfortable with since it first started in sophomore year) but she visits as often as she can; Everett was still in Boston, a godsend for Grace’s mother’s nerves as Catia settled into her first year at Tufts (Simona can’t quite handle being an empty nester - it doesn’t matter that Grace lives an easy ride away on the NQR, with Regina fucked off to Montreal for most of the year and Catia in Boston now, Simona is struggling to adjust to not having them all at family meals again like they had been once Grace came back from UCLA), but he too made the pilgrimage to New York with some regularity. Mikael was practically a third housemate. They’d muddled through important years together, through good ideas (vandalizing USC and using an unassuming Everett as the getaway driver) and bad (Grace’s brief affair with Rafaella, a beautiful but flighty exchange student; Mikael’s everything with Lucrezia, a Kappa a year younger than them all who’d moved back to Chicago after her graduation and summarily dumped Mikael over text when she was introduced to a player for the Cubs). Something expands in Grace’s chest as she looks at herself in the mirror, bright and warm and painful in the best way, and she has to sit for a moment on the tub to catch her breath. She leans against the wall, tired and overwhelmed by all the love she holds, and she doesn’t notice the minutes slipping away until the door opens with a quiet click.

To Everett’s credit, he doesn’t startle when he sees Grace, only makes an appraising noise and moves to the sink. Grace, head fuzzy with wine and sleep, does at the sight of him, and smacks her head hard against the tub. She groans, long and low, and Everett laughs at her, the bastard, before stripping off his shirt. “Not that I’m not enjoying the free show,” Grace says with a joking leer, “but why are you rinsing your shirt off?”

“Catia spilled her wine on me,” Everett says evenly, running the bottom of his shirt under the tap. “Must be genetic,” Grace mutters, and he laughs again.

“I still don’t believe all those times were accidents,” he says, wringing out the shirt as best he can. “I’ve never seen you be clumsy around anyone else.”

“They really were,” she whines, clambering out of the tub to perch on the edge. “It’s not like I was purposefully trying to ruin the godawful number of polos you owned.”

“Really? All of them?” He turns from where he’s hanging his shirt on the towel rack to raise an eyebrow at her pointedly. “Even when an entire bucket of punch somehow went from your hands onto Castora and I all through the second story window senior year?”

“And she never forgave me,” Grace says solemly, and Everett only shakes his head with a bemused smile.

“We thought you all went to sleep without telling us.”

It takes her a moment to process the change in topic, but her mouth has always been quick on the draw, ready to spout nonsense until her brain catches up. “I only disappear mysteriously from parties that I am not hosting,” she says, “and this is, regrettably, my house.” She yawns, listing forward from the rim of the tub with enough force to alarm Everett, who easily catches her and pulls her to her feet. “That begs another question,” he starts, bemused, “of why you’re in the bathtub and not, say, your room, where there’s a real bed?”

“Going to bed while you still have people ‘round is admitting defeat,” Grace says haughtily, though the effect is somewhat ruined when she almost trips going out the door on the hallway runner. She rights herself before Everett can steady her and flashes him a placating smile as she turns pointedly back towards the living room, where the rise and fall of Kat’s voice and Mikael’s laughter can be heard over the humming of whatever music Catherine’s put on the stereo. She’s only made it a few steps before Everett is in front of her, turning her around and shooing her back towards the stairs. “I just found you half-asleep in the bathtub,” he says pointedly, boxing her in as she tries halfheartedly to push past him. “And most of us are sleeping here anyway, so it’s not like you need to make sure we all leave without stealing your things.” She gives in with a frown, too tired to argue, overwhelmed by the nearness of him, the warmth he radiates, the sudden urge she has to latch on and not let go.

“Why do you do that?” He asks as he corrals her up the stairs, interrupting the low grumbling she’s kept up all the way down the hall. “What?” She replies brilliantly, caught up in her false irritation and the effort it takes to not trip up the stairs. “Sleep in the tub,” he continues, to which she stops on the top step and shrugs, full body. “Dunno,” she replies, truly uncertain of where that particular quirk came from but now painfully aware that this is not the first time that Everett has come across her asleep in a tub. Once is an anomaly, twice is a pattern.... She can’t quite figure the rest of the thought and instead flings herself onto her bed, loose-limbed and nearly asleep by the time she’s horizontal.

She looks up to see Everett leaning against the side of the doorframe, soft smile playing over his lips. She smiles in return, warm and open and real, and pats the bed beside her. “C’mere,” she says, rolling over to make space for him beside her. Grace closes her eyes as he closes the door, and she feels rather than sees him settle onto the edge of the bed, perched as if he wants to take up as little space as possible. She cracks her eyes open to level him with a withering look. “It’s okay, Mr. Chivalry. Let your hair down. Relax, take off your shoes and dive in, the water’s fine,” she quips stupidly, too tired and buzzed to filter herself. She’s suddenly aware as she rambles that this is the first time he’s seen her room since their freshman year at UCLA, all three thousand miles and seven years away from where they sit now. He’s been to her house before - to her apartment on Levering after their tentative friendship blossomed into something real; once, notably, to her parent’s Upper East Side apartment the summer after their graduation where he’d charmed her father with his talk of his Harvard MBA courseload and her mother and sisters with his insistence on making dinner to repay them for allowing him to crash on their fancy and entirely uncomfortable couch for a night - but never in those times did he come close to entering her room, a strange and sacred space. He never visited her in the shoebox of a studio she kept for the hell of it in Alphabet City that first year, too busy in Boston to do more than catch the Amtrak up for a weekend once or twice every few months. Grace, who had been pulling hellish hours in the office to prove to herself as much as her superiors that she was worthy of a promotion so soon into the job, saw him for an hour at most when he did make it up, safely tucked away in the dark corners of pubs that Katarina and Mikael kept locating in various parts of the city.

It is strangely intimate now, having him in her space, seeing the emptiness of the pale blue walls, the way each thing had its place and no mess was allowed to exist. This was where her fastidiousness for work was echoed in her personality; there was no room for her trademark wildness here.

“Just lie down,” she says finally, after they’ve sat a moment too long in a silence that’s toeing the line of discomfort. “Or walk down two flights of stairs to the guest bedroom, I don’t care.” With a shrug, she flops onto her back, closing her eyes again. She hears him type something (obvious by the quiet click of his iPhone keyboard because he has his ringer on, the maniac) and set his phone down on the bedside table, feels him settle beside her a moment later. She waits a beat before reaching out to tangle her fingers in his.

“Grazie per aver guidato Catia qui e prendersi cura di lei a Boston,” she mumbles sleepily, feeling him tense lightly at the language change. She likes that he forgets sometimes that she grew up speaking Italian around the house, likes that she can still surprise him by volleying his native tongue back at him. She saves it for moments like these, just the two of them, but tonight it feels different and the aching love in her chest feels different too. Tonight Italian feels like the hushed French she can hear from Katarina’s room every night when she talks to Lillian, devotion bridging the hours and miles that separate them. Tonight, sono contento che tu sia mio amico feels a little like I love you. Everett’s hand in hers is warm.

“È facile. Non c'è niente di cui ringraziarmi. So quanto eri eccitato di vederla.” The bright thing expands in her chest again.

“Sono felice di vederti anche io,” she mumbles.

“Lo so,” he says, smile evident in his voice, and he gives her hand a little squeeze. Grace grins stupidly at the ceiling, warm with pleasure and the gentle weight of Everett beside her, and falls asleep.

#featuring blink and you'll miss it reference to castora and also a complete slaughtering of english grammar #this baby's got two of the longest sentences ive ever written and it's chaos #have some functional adults who love each other #spray our dreams on any surface where the paint will stick | au #one whole life recorded in disappearing ink | drabble #I will walk down to the end with you if you will come all the way down with me | everett [past]#you're the last best thing I've got going | katarina #seek out the hidden places where the fire burns hot and bright | mikael #what will i do when i don't have you / when i finally get what i deserve | catherine

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rafaellacapulet · 4 years

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date: march 25th

location: cathedral

time: 12:00 AM

status: for @catherinedaly

Her hands tremble -- and for once it is not from the fear that seems integrated into her being; it is from the familiar rush of adrenaline that had flowed in her veins the moment Valentina’s gaunt visage had been revealed. An eye for an eye indeed. The smile on her face was genuine, and for the first time in a month she felt the muscles that had been suffering from disuse ache from being stretched. Though ash clung to her hair and the sound of beams and pillars occasionally sounded with a resounding boom, she could not help but feel satisfied -- morbidly so -- by the way it had all played out. By the resiliency, she had seen from her people, and the obedience that they had all demonstrated. It reassured her, knowing that they would stand behind Juliana as they had with Cosimo.

She had remained behind, looking the part of the victim without having to do much more than let her eyes feel with tears and cough as though her lungs were full of dust and smoke. The hum of ambrosia tainted her blood and she sighed, ignoring the stitch in her side, the ache pounding in her head, and the echoes of the whipping, beating, and strangulation she had undergone. It made her mind fixate on odd things as she explained to the fire captain what had happened with wide eyes and wet cheeks. It made her fixate on Bunny’s unconscious form, Catherine’s stillness when she had seen Valentina’s form, how the knife gleamed in Juliana’s hand.

She caught Catherine’s wrist as the woman rushed past her, throwing the blanket the fireman had provided her with and pulling it over the other woman’s shoulders, quickly wiping away the tears as though they weren’t there to begin with. “Cordelia,” she said in lieu of a greeting. “Cry a little bit more, make your hands tremble, and swallow as though you’re choking on a sob.”

#a woman so pure even the angels look on in envy | catherine #this is raf's 101 on how to victimize urself and not make it seem like ur really happy she be dead!!!#date | march 25 #event | what we sow #:') im ready for this #drug addiction tw

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diveronarpg · 4 years

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The following characters have been inactive for seven days or more and must resume activity, or contact the main within 24 hours, or risk having their role reopened:

@catherinedaly

@cleosokolova

@daphneallard

@igagliano

@ruizes

Our activity checks operate on a three strike system, so keep that in mind! Please remember that we understand how hectic schedules can get and that you can always contact the main to extend your hiatus.

#diveronaactivity

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ofcastora · 4 years

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I DREAMED THAT LOVE WOULD NEVER DIE I DREAMED THAT GOD WOULD BE FORGIVING

DIVERONA + BROADWAY @catherinedaly

#diveronatalk #catherinedaly #tw eye strain #&. my graphics | look i made a thing

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czarnichego · 4 years

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@evcravens asked: capulet brielle au pls mentioned: @catherinedaly

A couple months into she and Katya being together, the invite became official: If you ever need anything, please don’t hesitate to ask.

Everett probably regrets that now, with Brielle sprawled out on the floor in the middle of his sitting room, hands covering her eyes and one foot bouncing slightly on the heel. ❝ So, tell me these rules. Maybe I will be writing... ❞ She tugs her phone out of her pocket and listens as Everett calls from the kitchen. She’s never met such a rich person who cooks for themselves. You can not do this, no? she’d asked the first time she saw Everett heating a sauce pan. Could I hire someone? Yes, I suppose, but I enjoy it. Later, she realized that Everett isn’t so different from her: he cooks for people because he cares for them, too.

❝ There’s no rulebook, Brielle, you don’t have to write them down. ❞ She can hear from the way he’s talking that he’s smiling, even though he’s too polite to laugh at her. Brielle drops the phone back on her face, where it sticks a moment before sliding down her forehead. ❝ Monthly anniversaries is more of a school thing. As adults, you might get her something nice at six months, but yearly anniversaries at best, and you usually pick them together. Have you asked Catia ? ❞

She rolls over so she can put her chin in her hands and look in his direction, feet kicked up and swinging back and forth. It’s nice, that he does this for her. He certainly doesn’t have to. Katya probably asks him questions, too, or maybe not, Brielle’s never asked. She just... doesn’t have the kinds of resources someone else might, with their parents or siblings or anyone in Verona. Brielle came all alone and defected after Faron died; who would she think to ask? No one, but maybe Everett. He was engaged before, after all, and when she asked him if it was too sore for him to give her advice on the matters of love, he waved her off. Now, she points her toes and waits for him to finish whatever he’s making, elbows digging into the floor. ❝ No, ❞ she says quietly.

❝ What was that ? ❞

He closes a cupboard as she speaks, and she shakes her head, waiting for him to be done. ❝ No, I am not asking, ❞ she admits, ❝ I feel stupid not knowing. ❞

It looks like he’s nearly done. Everett has everything on a warm setting rather than an actual cooking one, and he puts a lid on whatever is in front of him before moving toward the room Brielle is occupying. Hastily, she scrambles into a criss-cross sitting position, looking for her phone until she realizes she’s sitting on it. When she looks up, he’s half-smiling in the dim light, hands in his pockets. His sweaters always look so soft. Maybe that’s the kind of softness money buys, she isn’t sure.

❝ Well, if I know Catia, and I hope I do... I don’t think she’ll mind. ❞ He offers Brielle a hand up, and she goes, always surprised at the strength he hides within his polite, closed demeanor. ❝ And you’re not stupid, how many times do I have to tell you not to say it ? ❞

Chastised, Brielle follows him into the kitchen to set the table for two. ❝ Sorry. I... ❞

She shuts the silverware drawer just as she feels a hand on her shoulder. When she turns, Everett has an eye on her, freezing her in place. ❝ You don’t have to know everything all the time. You can still be learning. No one who’s worth your time is going to mind, Brielle. ❞

Her shoulders slump, but it only takes a moment to put herself back together. She gives him a determined little nod and takes her silverware to the table, setting Everett a place in the same chair as always. She likes a little variety, but she’s done this enough times to know that he prefers routine. Stability, that’s Everett’s middle name. Something she didn’t know she could crave before. Something she has, and part of its foundations are right in this room, etched on the walls as memories that build her into someone she didn’t know she could be. Someone brighter, maybe. Someone worth all that.

#♟☭ ～〉ask memes.#♟☭ ～〉tbd ( everett craven ).#THIS IS SO SOFT

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regicidios-blog1 · 6 years

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♥ ⊗ ؟

Send me a ♥ for one thing my muse likes about yours.

something he won’t admit is that he’ll always admire how, again and again, she’ll choose kindness. how, again and again, she’ll choose ideals and morals. it’s not childish, as most people would think, but brave. maybe a little stupid, but brave.

Send me a ⊗ for one thing my muse dislikes about yours.

that being said, he firmly believes it’s much easier to be a good person if you grew up loved, and sometimes interprets her nerve to be kind in a cruel world as self-righteousness. love is privilege, and that self-righteousness can be frustrating to the people who’d grown up without.

Send me a ؟ for a random thought my muse has about yours.

Get out before they eat you alive.

#catherinedaly #( asks. )

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dukemassetti · 4 years

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march 4th catherine’s abode mid-morning | closed for @catherinedaly

Orion was not normally a throw a party type. He didn’t really celebrate the success of others, unless it was someone in his tight-knit circle, but unfortunately, the circle was widening. Without his consent or permission, but it couldn’t be helped. The people in his circle kept adding their circles to his, until it was one monstrous mish-mash of almost ten people he needed to keep track of. It’s exhausting, but it’s kind of exhilarating as a thought experiment.

Who doesn’t like a challenge, really?

He’s got a box under his arm, a bottle of wine in hand, and nothing to lose when he shows up on Cat’s doorstep. Rafaella is an ever-present wound, but he’s trying to do small things that she might do if she were here. Ensuring that people strengthening their loyalty to the Capulets is being rewarded, not just in promotions, but in praise itself. Trying to make things less of a disaster for when she returns, as no one knows what they’re doing to her or how long it’ll take her to recover.

Normally he’d buzz her, but someone’s coming out as he’s going into the building and his hands are full, so he takes advantage and slips inside behind them. There’s a little finagling once he reaches her door, but he knocks well enough, leaning elegantly against the doorframe by the time she opens the door. ❝ O captain, my captain, ❞ he drawls, ❝ won’t you let me in ? ❞

#diveronastarter #{.⋅ ✯ ⋅.} ────── ⊰ CORDELIA | do you regret what you became or what you did not?#{.⋅ ✯ ⋅.} ────── ⊰ CORDELIA | oo1.

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deadvalentinagallo · 5 years

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date: january 12th location: empty warehouse in montague territory availability: closed @catherinedaly

Valentina saw red often. Anger coursed through her veins like water through a river. She had a lot to be angry about in her life, but one thing that never failed to get her blood boiling was seeing her brother in any sort of pain. Valentina embraced pain. She found a comfort in throbbing bruises and scars littering her body. Santino, however, was never meant to be that way. She was the younger of the two, but she always felt like she needed to shoulder his wounds. She would live with the scratches and scrapes so he didn’t have to. She would fight everyone if it meant he could go to sleep peacefully. She would be cruel to show others that Santino Gallo should not be touched unless in a gentle manner.

And thats why she found herself waiting in a warehouse. She had never felt such unbridled anger until she saw the scar that covered his tattoo. She had never felt such a determination to get even until she saw the sadness in his eyes and the whispering of I made a mistake that echoed off of the walls of their apartment as the old year melted away. Valentina had swore right then and there that she would hurt the person that laid a hand on her brother, and now she was getting her chance.

It wasn’t too hard to figure out that Catherine Daly was responsible for all of this. From then, it took a bit of time to learn her routine and figure out a time and place to enact her vengeance. She knew she couldn’t steal her away from her own home. There were too many nosy neighbors to contend with. She couldn’t steal her away from the college she currently attended because, again, too many prying eyes would fall on the scene. No, she needed a place that wouldn’t notice a missing body. She needed someone that could blend in with a crowd. It took a bit of her memory, but she recalled a current neutral that ran in the same circles as her during her time as a thief. He was smart, light on his feet, and willing to do anything for the right place.

Her eyes lit up in uncharacteristic joy at the sight of her old companion dragging an unconscious form towards her. She motioned towards the chair in the center of the room before glancing at her set up. She had the propane, she had the holders, and she had the brander. All she needed was for the girl to be effectively tied down and she could start her work.

“I don’t want this shit being traced back to me.” She laughed at the male’s comment. “Compagno, i’m a cop. I would take care of it.” She hoped she wouldn’t have to resort to that, but she’d risk her position if it came down to it. If he went down, there’s not doubt in her mind that she would be taken down with him. There’s no loyalties among street rats. Money may buy a few hours of trust, but then it goes right back to every man for himself. She knew that, and as she watched the male tighten the restraints, she knew that they were in this together.

“Grazie.” She nodded at his work before slipping him the money she promised. As soon as the exchange was finished, he peeled back into the shadows and she found herself alone with the girl that hurt her brother. A scowl fell on her lips at the look at her. Someone so weak, so small, managed to cause her brother such grief. It was a shame it had to be her brother, or she may have been impressed.

An exaggerated sigh left her lips before she slipped on the ski mask. She couldn’t risk being recognized. Even though she never talked to the woman, they were both welcome on the Capulet’s side of town. They were both soldiers to the Capulet name. It would be too easy to call her out, and she wouldn’t let this girl be her ruination.

“Wake up, kitty cat.” She cooed, using the unlit brander to lift up her chin. Such a beauty-- it was a shame she’d have to ruin it. “It’s time to play.”

#torture cw #kidnapping cw #blood cw #only bc of the gif #also no torture yet but felt like it still needed to be tagged #( chat )#( catherine )#( warehouse )#( january 12 )

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