It's the screaming that wakes him up. He rolls out of bed, the dagger from under his pillow clutched firmly in his hands. His ears strain towards the sound and it takes him a moment to realize that the screaming is too girlish to be Lucrezia's. He relaxes slightly. What has his dear sister done now?
(Hey guys, Imma need some help with this one. Feel free to continue it below, we can trade off/collab it.)
He’s been a prodigal son his whole life. Oh, he’s been in the bosom of family, held close to his father’s whims, but he’s an object occupying space, a boy-shape to be taken out for photographs and portraits. He goes to the right school, wears the right clothes, fucks the wrong people.
He’s sixteen when his sister dies. Sixteen and mean with it, kisses a younger boy in the hallway, pulls down his prep-school tie and his starched collar and engineers love between them so that only the blind can ignore it.
He’s expelled the next day, accusatory glares following him out the gates.
-
Silas sits behind his desk like a king on his throne and Jack feels the weight of expectations unmet warring with a vicious kind of glee; he’s shown his own colours at last, plans finally settling.
“What the fuck did you think you were doing?” Silas hisses, deadly quiet, face blank with rage. “Do you have any idea how much work I’ve done to keep us clean
( ... )
War, of course, changes everything. Suddenly he’s overseas, finds his mind filled with more than his own burning desires for the first time; he’s cold, muddy, drenched. He loses men, captures some, and is abruptly sent home
( ... )
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gravity don't mean too much to me
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hatred brings me relief
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It's the screaming that wakes him up. He rolls out of bed, the dagger from under his pillow clutched firmly in his hands. His ears strain towards the sound and it takes him a moment to realize that the screaming is too girlish to be Lucrezia's. He relaxes slightly. What has his dear sister done now?
(Hey guys, Imma need some help with this one. Feel free to continue it below, we can trade off/collab it.)
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This is perfect.
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He’s been a prodigal son his whole life. Oh, he’s been in the bosom of family, held close to his father’s whims, but he’s an object occupying space, a boy-shape to be taken out for photographs and portraits. He goes to the right school, wears the right clothes, fucks the wrong people.
He’s sixteen when his sister dies. Sixteen and mean with it, kisses a younger boy in the hallway, pulls down his prep-school tie and his starched collar and engineers love between them so that only the blind can ignore it.
He’s expelled the next day, accusatory glares following him out the gates.
-
Silas sits behind his desk like a king on his throne and Jack feels the weight of expectations unmet warring with a vicious kind of glee; he’s shown his own colours at last, plans finally settling.
“What the fuck did you think you were doing?” Silas hisses, deadly quiet, face blank with rage. “Do you have any idea how much work I’ve done to keep us clean ( ... )
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