#crimson corvid

[byanyan]

@crimson--corvid sent:ㅤ❛ here, you can borrow my jacket. ❜

platonic promptsㅤㅤ∘ ˚ ( accepting )

ㅤ'i don't need your jacket' almost gets blurted out as an automatic, instinctive refusal of help. byan catches themself, however, biting their tongue to prevent the words from escaping. they certainly don't want the jacket, don't want to accept the assistance, but... a glance down at themself is enough for them to realize that it might not be the worst thing they could do right now.

the fight they'd gotten themself into had been more intense than they'd anticipated, especially for their opponent being a mortal man, and although they had come out victorious, the same couldn't be said for their top. torn and sliced in several places, hanging off of them awkwardly and splashed with blood (more his than theirs), it's easy to tell from even the quickest of glances that they've been in some shit tonight. not exactly ideal if you want to head home without drawing any unwanted attention.

gaze lifting from their ruined top up to ruairi, then down to the jacket he extends toward them, the fledgling purses their lips. reluctantly, they reach out to accept the offer, taking it into their hands and promptly slipping it on. it's a little big on them, they observe, though not by much. —of course, all that really matters is that it covers the rough state they're in.

ㅤㅤ" i'm fuckin' pissed, i can't believe that fucker grabbed my shirt like that. "ㅤforgoing any expression of gratitude outside of the barest of nods that could easily be missed, byan huffs in aggravation. reaching down to grab a stray scrap of the pink fabric that hangs down over their pants, they eye it for a moment, running their thumb over it idly.

ㅤㅤ" took me like three weeks to make this thing exactly the way i wanted it, an' he just tore it to shreds like it was nothin'! "ㅤspoken like they weren't the one to instigate the fight, like they aren't equally responsible for the rips despite trying to pull themself free when he'd grabbed them by the shirt. with a disappointed hiss, byan releases the material, allowing it to fall back to their hip as their eyes flit up to ruairi's face once more.

ㅤㅤ" ...you swooped in at the right time, though. not really in the mood to have the cops called on me 'cause i look like i jus' killed a man. 'specially when i didn't even kill 'im. ...prob'ly shoulda though, piece'a shit deserved it. "ㅤ...where were they going with this? oh yeah— fixing the other kindred with a rather skeptical look, byan raises an eyebrow, looking him over almost suspiciously.ㅤ" —what're you doin' out here, anyway? you followin' me, or somethin'? "

[crimson--corvid]

pride of the ventrue ♚ fury of the brujah 🗡

❧ semi-selective ❧ oc, crossover, multiverse friendly ❧ modified vampire: the masquerade canon ❧ past-tense paragraph roleplay ❧ multiple era's to rp in ❧ adult themes, violence, dark subject matter ❧ follows from @zigg--muses

minors: do not interact

humanity rating: 6 - Distant

♚ rules 🗡 about ♚ tags 🗡 oc canons ♚ face 🗡 verses ♚ reputation 🗡

[girlfriend-boyfriend]

Dragons inspired by Boneyard familiars

[sanguine-salvation]

@crimson--corvid is still missing...

A rolodex.

Really.

Not even their father, ever a man who fawned over the novelty of the obsolete, owned a rolodex. But thankfully, Rauirí did. Because he surely did not leave a phone behind. There had been only one name that caught their eye, the others being too familiar, and this one having been left on display. Ruairí never could remember numbers.

NOVAK.

But as if this was not an utterly exhausting moment to be existing through already, the business card lead to of, course, The Coastal.

Their stomach sank, their skin bristled, but their legs pressed on. They couldn't be gone too long, they would not leave Roxxy yet. They had an oath to fulfill before they would...

could...

"Shh." Viktor hissed at themself and pushed past the doors without even minding the guard, damned near shoving them aside to do so. Though, given they were still limping obviously, having barely been patched up and only slightly rested since the battle, they looked a lot less like a patron than most.

Every inch of their body went stiff as stone as they were bombarded with the only sounds that clashed with the deafening mumbling of voices and memories in their head. Slots and card games, a dull drone of apathetically bouncy music, the clinking of glass. They recoiled harshly at a plume of cheap cigarette smoke, and peeled off towards the edge of the room as a flush of unwanted sensation clung to them like a tepid, acidic slime.

It was worth it. For Ruairí. Something was wrong and they. would. know. Where was he. He would not have left Roxxy.

They trudged past the memories pulling at their legs from the floor, clinging to the screams and pain to actually wash away the knowledge of what tables they had sat at and which ones they had won or lost at, until they found the table they were looking for. A table... they'd been... at before...

The shock wore off, and Viktor slammed their hands onto the table. Chips scattered in play, drink glasses rattled, and several of the gamblers lean away in panic. Viktor had touched this table before. They sat at that seat. They remembered their hand. Four of a kind, 3's and an ace. The thrill in their heart and the breath in their lungs as they watched the others fold one after the other after the other until—

"You." They narrowed their eyes at the man at the head of the table, the features of his face carved so deeply into their mind that it made their stomach flip and shortened their temper all the more. They snarled as someone tried to push them back, simply slamming their elbow back into the hand and not once losing focus on Novak's eyes.

"We. have. business."

[arcanescholxr]

Continued from here @crimson--corvid

Dwight has faced many threats before. The Blackburn name, particular on Elias's side came with a list of enemies, those who sought to attack the young witch just for being related to Elias. Those kind of enemies were common for Dwight and he was prepared to send them back to the Magical Realm to lick their wounds. However, this time was different.

The young witch was making the walk back home from the woods after gathering ingredients. A ball of light he summoned followed him, illuminating his path in the dark and dense woods. Suddenly, he felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Someone was trailing behind him. Dwight dared to look over his shoulder, just in time to see someone lunge for him. The two tumbled down, with his attacker revealing a blade. Dwight panicked and created a small blast that knocked his attacker back.

Dwight decided to make a run for it, choosing not to tangle up in a fight tonight. But the witch hunter was faster than he was, and had a deadly aim. When Dwight looked back to see if he was still being followed, he narrowingly moved out of the way when the hunter threw a knife at him. Dwight managed to dodge a lethal blow, but the blade scrapped against his temple. With Dwight thrown off guard, the hunter saw his chance to throw an expanding net at the young witch, the trap entangling Dwight and bringing him down. The witch hunter stepped closer to the struggling witch, Dwight wiggling and writhing in an attempt to get free. Then Ruiari descended and like that, it was over.

"Thank you..." Dwight said with a shaky breath. He felt the stinging pain on his forehead and raised a hand to touch it, surprised to see that he was bleeding. "Who was that?" Dwight took a few breaths, trying to steady his nerves.

[the-shattered-seas]

@crimson--corvid runs his fingers along the indent, curious but hesitant. He cautiously handles the ruby, red as blood, and sets in in the indent on the altar. With an exhale, he prepares himself. Whatever happens, happens.

[ The stone is chosen by the heart, not the hand. - ACCEPTING ]

Blood. Such is the language of those who are left torn.

The ruby glistens with a glimmering sheen, and for a moment, it looks almost more like blood sloshing around in glass than the depth of a true stone. But as it is set into the altar, a sudden sharp snap echoes in the air, and the precious jewel fractures as if crushed by the very act of touching the surface. A beautiful, silky red liquid leaks out and pools around it, slowly stretching around every inch of Ruairi's face. Rather than obscuring it, it cradles his reflection's jaw with comfort— yet drips down from his chin with sated hunger. His corrupted eyes find themself encircled by the deep red ooze as it paints his face in red tears down to his lips. The other gems slowly sink into the surface.

The air resonates with strange giggles as the serpent slithers around the altar, their tail flicking out to catch the red ooze just as it beads and readies to drip off the edge. They grin with a mouth full of sharpened teeth. For a moment, those teeth simply emanate the aura of spilling blood and torn flesh, so sharp, so large, these fangs have killed and will kill again, devoured and devoured and devoured. But their face is clean right now. "Don't worry, it's not a trap, and I'm not looking for dinner. I'm hungry for something a little more... intangible. Sit with me."

They pause to look at the altar, seeped with red, then sit across from Ruairi calmly. "Oh." They stare into the color as if carefully considering why such a thing has happened to the beautiful ruby still laid split in the middle. "Poor little ruby, someone must've been rough with it. Don't worry. It's just not easy to be of two worlds." They slowly start circling the altar, their eyes watching Ruairi with a steady curiosity.

"I was born of two, and I live of two. It always feels as if you are pulled by one from the other, on both sides, yet repelled all at once. Trapped forever between two magnets, two parts of yourself pulling and pushing and pinning you down. Mortal, immortal. Unfettered, noble. Divine and mundane in my case." Their voice raises to a bubbly chitter as they begin bounding around the altar and Ruairi, their steps both heavy and intangible somehow.

"But it's not even that simple! Annoying, isn't it! Because each half bears splinters and facets all branching off like veins from your heart, a tangled weave of disparate parts all stretched out in every direction, as far as they can reach, as far as you can see! It's a mess, what a mess!" They laugh joyously, as if the sheer idea of something so messy amidst the stagnant pool he was forced into was a party worth throwing.

The red ichor oozes to the floor off the edges, the reflection of the vampire slowly being consumed in an asymmetrical mishmash of delicate lacework and sharp edges, both halves framing the shadowed pits of his eyes into different shapes.

Lhi stops bouncing and curls up contentedly across from him before reaching a paw up and laying it into pool of crimson. "Well, that's what it may feel like. But I'm an old creature now, and I took too long to learn this! So take my treasure, Little Fang. Remember! Red is a single hue, born of nothing but itself. No two parts went into it. No fork in the road can take that wholeness from you. No, no. You are not two halves fighting against each other. You are one. Your facets are still all reflections of one."

They press their claws into the cerise where the ruby is still overflowing— into it, this time. Indeed, where once the altar seemed solid, and honestly still did, their paw sinks deeper and deeper yet as the red liquid begins to swallow Ruairi's face whole, leaving only his shadowed, corrupted eyes peering out amidst a see of blood. Every part of him washed away and left forgotten in that moment.

And then, they pull their paw back out, and with it comes every inch of red that had began to swallow Ruairi whole, pulling up like a sheet around their arm and leaving it drenched in sopping red. With great satisfaction, they tear from it's surface one last bit of red, a human heart held gently in their claws; wet, deep red-purple, alive, but not beating. It was almost as if it were simply a statue, but it looked too... soft. Too real. To achingly familiar. The broken ruby was gone.

"Be their bane." They smile as they marvel at the living organ cradled softly in their hand. "Remember, you are the red, the whole, the once and always, and while you may make many colors yet, while others will force their shades into you to make you fit their palette, while you lay fractured in two and bleeding, you are and always will be whoever you choose to be. Down to your core. You are powerful in that, you are no pawn."

They laugh and toss the heart up into the air, snapping their jaws around it in one fell swoop. It sounds like glass cracking.

For a moment, so fleeting and scarce that even one flick of the eyes would miss it, Ruairi's reflection is uncorrupted. His eyes are as clear and bright as they had been the day before his embrace. Three heartbeats come from the man staring back at him: one echoed tight in his ears the same way it had in the last moment before his first life ended, one echoed in his ears like the destruction of the Antediluvian's coffin, and the final one echoed like the command to slay a thin-blood.

Then, the shadows consume his eyes once more, and the image lays still and silent, just as it should be. "I've got my eyes on you, Little Fang." Lhi chortles sweetly, the blood that heart had splattered on their teeth is suddenly gone. "Paint the world red."

The ruby lay in the indent, unbroken and whole once more.

[slowd1ving]

EAT MY HEART, I'LL EAT YOURS ⁺ 　 . ✦ MOZE

Seek the answer ‘neath the tides,  Madness shall prosper, forget her wiles,  The moon grins once again tonight.  He hates you. He hates your plans, how you talk, how you work. He loathes being stuck with you: detests it to his very core. But that's great, because the feeling is mutual with you! Tied to an ill-omened crow of your own, what's there not to abhor? continuation of tales of a disgruntled corvid art by @ RMavio on x!! pairing: moze + male reader warnings: blood, death, violence, yall HATE each other bro, v slow burn, pre established relationship (if you don't count the relationship of HATING each other's GUTS) wc: 6.3k

HONKAI STAR RAIL MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

Copper defiles the carefully manufactured oxygen that circulates this tiny starship. Its stench pervades the past the clean air, past the distinctly alkaline tang of bleach, and past what little protection your visor affords you. In fact, the clear nanocomputers pick up on a distinctly sanguine hue to the air: labelling tiny crimson specks as biological matter—human blood (tentative). 

“Adult Foxian male, died approximately forty hours ago,” the man crouched before you narrates, oblivious to the you who stares up at the ceiling of the small room—as if the gesture could possibly shield you from the horrifying reality at your feet. No matter how many times you’ve stepped into a situation like this (too many to count ever since your career path practically merged with the Shadow Guards’), you don’t think you’ll ever get used to this. This is Moze’s sphere of knowledge: Moze’s work that intimately twines and dances with the very cesspit of vice and umbrage. 

“Died from presumably loss of blood caused by the deep lacerations across his abdomen and throat,” he continues—the details, unfortunately, seep into your brain as you try your best to tune him out. Thank you, Captain Obvious, you’d bite out, but unfortunately opening your mouth in these conditions would make you sick. “Or at least, that’s what the perpetrator would want us to think.”

There’s viscera splashed even on the very walls. Messy streaks of scarlet contaminate the aged wallpaper in the small room: capricious strokes, as though a child painted them, form characters and seemingly random lines of verse that register as unusual on your visor. That’s your area of expertise. 

Like clockwork, your gaze remains unwavering on the riddle presented on the structure. That’s how you’ve dealt with being in such proximity to Reapers: by pretending the wall is a block of stone and its red ink is precisely that—ink. That’s how you separate yourself from the victims of these gruesome cases; bit by bit, you’re slowly growing accustomed to the nauseating reek of metal that wafts before you. 

And so, when you finally glance down at the glazed-over eyes of the latest victim, it is with startling impassiveness that you assess his cadaver. He’s gone, you accept. Your little ritual has worked, as it oft does. 

“Same sigils as the other bodies.” You finally regain your voice, and the silver-haired man turns his sharp gaze up at you. “But the last line to the verse is different.”

Seek the answer ‘neath the tides, 

Madness shall prosper, forget her wiles, 

The moon grins once again tonight. 

The characters rest heavy on your tongue—foreign meanings straightening themselves out as you slowly sound out the snippet. It’s a verse from a children’s book of poems: a short tale about an obsolete, oceanic planet and its restoration by few brave souls. 

“The moon slumbered tonight,” you mutter the original line to yourself. This ancient script doesn’t suit the naïve phrases, but it’s commonly used for rituals—both antique and modern, you’ve unfortunately found. 

With a heavy sigh, you pull out the gun in your holster; it’s warm, humming to life which seems terribly ironic to you, considering where you are. You’ve not used the weapon for quite some time: the flickering it emits seems both familiar and unfamiliar. 

“What do you think you’re doing?” His clipped speech warily assesses the ease with which you handle the arm you never seem to use: preferring the glassy, almost invisible blade currently strapped across your back when in combat. 

“Xiaoze,” you sigh tauntingly, infusing the firearm with quantum energy that briefly glows indigo in this dim room. “Shut up and let me do my job.”

“Ew,” his face sours almost immediately at the nickname, embittered by both how it drips with condescension and no real affection, and how off putting it is for you of all people to be adding things to his name. “Don’t do that.”

“Then shut up.” You line the sights experimentally, having successfully blackmailed the Shadow Guard into keeping mum for a few minutes while you turn the qualitative verse into quantitative data. Perhaps he does feel threatened by the promise, for you only feel his heavy stare on you and not his words. 

The bullet careens and phases through the wall where the verse is located, and with a shimmer of data, the strings of numbers behind the verse reveal themselves: meaningless to all but yourself. It’s a temporary display, containing important information about the very foundations of this riddle. Or, at least, it’s a shortcut since the verse has already been decoded. 

Seek the answer ‘neath the tides: a reference to where the power ‘current’ of Madam General Feixiao is absent. Or at least, these murder locations point to that; they’re in the areas least looked over in the Alliance: namely, not aboard the Flagship. 

Madness shall prosper, forget her wiles: a crude depiction of Moon Rage, as well as the shedding of a ‘Foxian’ identity. Considering all these victims have been Foxian, it’s no far-fetched assumption to think that these have all been building up to something sinister. 

The moon slumbered tonight: a reference to the plaguemark hung over the Yaoqing—a moon left behind by Yaoshi. Past tense. Sleeping.

But that had all changed with this particular murder. Whatever goal the perpetrator hoped to achieve was finally coming into fruition with the awakening of this ‘moon’. 

The data transmitted onto your visor is as elapsed: the time of writing, the exact coordinates relative to the Flagship at the time of writing, as well as some background noise of little relevance to this current predicament. These numbers are duly inputted into one of your pre-created ‘equation’ sheets: linking abstracts together in their own relationships to receive a divinatory variable. It’s one of the few successes you’ve had with qualitative equations; linking energy and mass and speed is easy, but linking feeling together is not. 

In this case, tying down the exact time and coordinates to a specific intention. Any organic creature or ingenium leaves behind a trace of intention, whether it be through actual thoughts or a pre-programmed function. But in this case, the result comes out void. 

Thirty-two hours since verse was written. 

“How long did you say the man has been dead?” you ask, urgently. Moze snaps back to attention at the specific tone in your voice. 

“Forty hours,” he answers. When it comes down to the bloody aspects of this job, he returns to his laconic, reticent ways—it’s truly a shame he can’t keep it up in other aspects. 

“You’re sure about that,” you probe, half a question in your voice.

“It’s my job,” he deadpans, and you scowl as he uses your words against you. 

“Well, this verse appeared about eight hours after the man died,” you comment wonderingly. The strokes of the characters for grins once again appear a bit messier than the rest—almost like a map. Well, it’s not a deduction; your visor picks up on the strange wording right before you do. “Unlike the others that were written manually by a perpetrator.”

“So, this sacrificial lamb was finally the success,” he mutters darkly. 

“But the trail is no longer dead.” You sheathe your pistol back into its holster with a touch of relief, because finally this set of murders is coming to its conclusion.

⁺ 　 . ✦

You take back whatever compliments you had of him focusing on his job when it came down to it. As you pilot the star skiff along the trail of data outputted from your visor and the crude map from the bloody drawings, he’s practically talking your ear off about the garbled string of answers you sent him from your visor. 

“And what is beef’s relevance to this case?” he asks, each syllable drawn taut with what could only be mockery. 

“Typo,” you grit out, tilting the control wheel starboard. Now is not the time. 

“Egg, too?” he taunts. 

Your eyes flick to the top left of your visor, where you did in fact merge the contents of your grocery list with the file meant for him. 

“Use your common sense,” you bite on the inside of your cheek, hard, to prevent any insults from slipping past your lips. “You do still have that, right?”

“So what’s for dinner tonight?” He leans back against the co-pilot seat, and you can feel his gaze prick your face—much like you feel the tiny, irritating smile he wears. 

“I will crash this skiff if I have to, and you’ll have to explain to the General why the cryptologist exploded into itty-bitty pieces, Xiaoze,” you seethe. 

“Not if they don’t find your body,” he returns—far too accustomed to the patronising name for someone who blanched at its usage just an hour prior. Worst part is, he’d definitely make do on this vaguely-worded threat. 

“Madame General and A-hua would know it was you.” You propel the stern forward, if only to feel his hands grip the sides of his seat tighter. He courts death daily as an assassin, but wouldn’t it be a treat to die because of reckless driving. It’s not like you can entrust the programmed visor to him (and it’s not like you want to send the decoded map to the skiff). 

“Would they, though?” He pares away the dirt beneath his nails with his knife, and you hope the sudden jolt in the vehicle gave him an injury. 

“Jump.” A single syllable, gracing the space with your tender command. His brow raises minutely. 

“No one will miss you,” you add. 

“Since you’ve got no friends,” you tack on with an air of finality. 

⁺ 　 . ✦

He hates you. He hates you: hates the way your hands deftly turn the control wheel on the skiff; hates the way you trip and stumble through life, leaving countless messes behind yet still managing to have Feixiao’s approval to work with him; hates your facetious and conniving and sly insults. But most of all, he really fucking hates your plans. 

“This is so stupid,” he mutters in your ear; invisible to all but the tell tale outline on your shrunken visor. You’d reply, but you’re already conspicuous enough in the tailored suit you’ve donned—all sharp lines and a cut too bittersweet for your home planet. So actually, fuck that, then—there’s no point in being all Spy-like and Inconspicuous any longer. 

“Shut the fuck up,” you hiss, adjusting the cufflinks beneath the rich jacket—then subconsciously running a thumb along the edge of your fake identification card that’s pinned to your collar. Unlike that weirdo, you can’t turn invisible—so you’re left firing quanta bullets at the hull of this rig right outside Yaoqing airspace (or technically, space-space) and gleaning whatever information you can to assemble a persona for yourself. 

 <Doctor, Who is slightly Strange> how do I look < 1:34

The message pings to him from your visor, and you know he’s seen it—from the caustic sigh that leaves his lips, because if he ever blows his cover while he’s invisible, it will have been because of you.

< Weirdo > 1:34 > Focus on the damned mission.

Lukewarm, you scoff, brain sounding out your response. How… do… I… look, you type out once more.

1:35 > Terrible. 

Aggravated, you clench your fist, and you swear you can hear the space behind you warp and distort when he snickers. Terrible! What a joke, you seethe—jabbing the code into the airlock that you’d worked out by the little tones left on the verse, as well as reading the intentions left by people at this door. 

Your job is simple—getting to the bottom of these long-standing murders while also planting a bug on the ship that would allow the Seat of Divine Foresight of the Yaoqing to monitor the situation. Nothing more, but maybe something less if something went wrong. This was only a two-man operation, after all. 

Of course, you neither kept optimistic nor pessimistic. Though there were only two objectives,  those that underestimated the simplest missions oft suffered the brutal brunt of defeat. And of course, the former term being negotiable showed just how difficult it was. Or at least, if you managed to find the office of the higher ups, the data you stole would allow you to reconstruct the space virtually—though what you needed were concrete files that pointed to clear motives. 

No—not the office. 

You squinted as a rough plan of the building popped up from the continuous data you fed your visor—a general prediction of where the lab and computer room would be located, which were simulated as being in the same wing as the office. Perfect. 

<Weirdo> 1:40 > Done all your shopping already, or are you just tired of steak?

You grind your molars as you travel past the small throngs of borisin and humans alike: you don’t look entirely out of place as they’re dressed in a medley of different outfits, from IPC uniform replicas to Penacony garb to even the long robes found on Herta’s Space Station. Point is—your Earthwear doesn’t stand out, and there’s enough people that your badge does not go noticed. 

<Doctor, Who is slightly Strange> gonna shoot you how about that < 1:40

It takes the time of twenty-seven heartbeats to stride through the corridors (tunnels) that make their way around the aircraft. Twenty-seven heartbeats, three checkpoints and one smile shot at presumably a ‘coworker’—before you finally make it into the final stretch. He knows, though you don’t, because he’s counted: listening to the rhythmic beat of your organs as you calmly navigate the ship like you know what you’re doing. 

It’s devoid of souls, except for the two of you as you pad down the corridor. Even the very lab and big office seem abandoned—but Moze’s urgent text alerts you of the presence of someone in the office, just not the lab. 

Guess we’ll start there then. 

A quick swipe of your falsified keycard, and you were in—slipping on one of the freely available lab coats and extending your visor to cover your eyes at the entrance. You do respect lab etiquette, after all; erasing even your thoughts about food and drink as you press through the automatic glass doors. 

<Weirdo> 1:43 > You almost look like a scientist now.

You can hear his exhales—they’re so obviously deliberate, because no way would he blow his cover by accident. He’s snickering, that sod is. 

I am a scientific doctor, you senile fuckwad. < 1:44 

1:45 > Thought your default display name was just a joke. Did you hit your head and hallucinate some credentials?

You seethe, since you can’t exactly scroll through endless files to locate your dissertation on ancient science and qualitative formulae. Over sixty-thousand words, reduced to mere mockery by this cretin. 

It’s a triple entendre < 1:45 And I’ve got the creds < 1:45 prick < 1:45 

1:45 > moron

He types this lightning quick, not even pausing to stop walking—not even pausing to capitalise and punctuate his stupidly mocking text like normal—and you can still hear him because he’s letting you hear his normally silent steps, he’s letting you know he can fulfil the mission while shit talking you to your own face.

this is why you have no friends < 1:46

1:47 > this is why you don’t have friends outside your job. no one actually likes you

You rummage around in the large filing cabinet besides all the gleaming equipment: large centrifuges, safety cupboards, fume hoods, and weird display cases filled with samples of what can only be blood. Swiftly, you snap several photos of the evidence with your visor, then mindlessly write a response. Talk about a call coming from inside the house, you think. 

name two people who voluntarily spend time with you < 1:49 [<Doctor, Who is slightly Strange> sent index.finger.pointing emoji] < 1:49 [<Doctor, Who is slightly Strange> sent laughing.crying emoji] < 1:49

He’s no longer in the peripheries of your earshot; so you know he’s gone off to investigate the other areas of the small lab—beyond the equipment and into the computer room. Good, you exhale—at least he respects lab protocol. 

1:51 > name a time feixiao actually talked to you outside of work

I will…. lend you… my gun so… you can shoot…. yourself, you type, then quickly hit backspace before you can send it by accident. 

yesterday. eat shit xiaoze < 1:52

1:52 > that was charity work don’t flatter yourself

Hastily, you scan any files in the weird stronghold that look even remotely related to borisin and Foxians and especially the one you cradle: labelled only with the icon of a moon and containing eerily similar rituals to the crime scenes you found. 

oh you want to talk about charity work? lets ask the crowd bro < 1:55 everyone who interacts with you is doing charity work.. < 1:56

1:57 > ok at least my job wanted me

Wow. Wooow. You stare incredulously at the message—he’s dragging the Intelligenstia Guild into this, knowing you got put on leave for ‘engaging in querulous behaviour’ and ‘lacking in real life experience’. Low blow. 

…and no one else did so what now < 1:58 name a single friend you have < 1:58

1:58 > .. 1:59 > Jiaoqiu 

Jiaoqiu. How cute, you scoff, resuming your hate typing while you flick through the last few files hidden around in drawers and cupboards. 

idk how to tell you this but you are NOT the friend bro you’re the test subject… < 2:00 I think he pitied you or smth.. < 2:01

2:02 > ew 2:02 > don’t call me bro it’s sickening 2:02 > we are not alike

it’s exposure therapy < 2:03 since you don’t have any friends you don’t and probably never will be called anything endearing < 2:04 aren’t I so nice < 2:04

Pausing, you glance up at where the glass doors lead right to the computer lab; a dim glow washes over the space. Nothing much to worry about, you think—copying data is a far less burdensome task than rifling through pages upon pages of reports and then arranging them back into their rightful place. Though, if you were worried about anything, it was that the virus and bugger installation would take longer than they had to. 

Maybe it’s the paranoia getting to you. 

Or maybe, maybe, it’s the faint click of footsteps against linoleum floors—getting louder and louder and louder. As does your heartbeat: thundering deafeningly in your ears. You can’t turn invisible. You don’t get the luxury of slipping into the shadows like your colleague (to put it very politely) does. 

And so you swallow—tongue thick and leaden within your suddenly too-dry mouth. There are two courses of action you can take (hurry, the steps are getting louder): the first being to hide away in the little storage cupboard and take the escape from there. You will not be able to fool a scientist who knows their colleagues far more intimately than the grunts in the lobby. Moze has worked alone before. He’ll figure out how to get the virus downloaded and the data copied before the person even gets close to noticing him. 

Or—and your eyes flick to the computer room clearly visible from the lab—you could put on an act to save both your life and Moze’s time. You could… probably do that, right?

Heart moving renditions…. Never mind that your heart was pounding right out of your chest—never mind that your glassy sword could not be wielded in this narrow hallway, never mind that flipping the switch on your gun was not quite something you were prepared to do. 

They were almost at the corner, and you made your decision to step out into that narrow corridor. One hand in your pocket and the other raking across your face as you yawned. The epitome of casual. 

And Moze’s ears pricked as he watched you; though you’d never know, and he’d never admit that he did so. He heard the sound of sharp shoes, and was honestly expecting you to turn tail. 

But you didn’t. 

You’re taking lazy strides as he hears the researcher approach—counting on the secrecy of this organisation being tight enough to operate on a need-to-know basis. In other words, you’re operating on the high-risk gamble: that this particular person would be unaware of changes in personnel. There’s no time to read the data streaming from their steps. Ordinarily, from their intention you could figure out their rank in the pecking order—but you are plumb out of luck. 

He rounds the corner: wearing a suit far more well cut than yours, though his tie sits loose at his throat and his jacket is slung over one shoulder. From one glance, you can tell immediately. You’re screwed. Still, it’s too late to run now: far too late to leave Moze to figure out how to download the data faster. 

“Who are you?” The drawl is heavy with a cadence far too confident. Just your fucking luck, you momentarily scowl—of course the lab would be frequented by some clear higher-up. Not a regular degular scientist you could simply sweet talk, but someone not in the lower strata of this shady organisation.  

He’s handsome: black hair that sheens prussic, eyes glinting practically amber even in the frigid lighting that washes over this space. Something you’ve unfortunately learned while traversing the galaxy is that this guy cannot possibly be a grunt; and if he is, there’s something seriously wrong with the corporation. He’s eye candy—which makes this situation so terrible. You are screwed. In that moment, your lazy smile wavers somewhat; you are utterly and irredeemably fucked. You could shoot him, but that would no doubt put the rig on immediate lockdown with the sound of the gun. 

Fuck. You want to slam your head against the glass, but that would no doubt screw you over even further. 

You’re not built for this. 

“Oh, are you part of the research team too?” Naive. Your qualifications have just landed you this position, and you’re not quite capable of discerning if you should be divulging that information or not. That’s the mindset you centre this particular character around: just some random guy who’s a bit gullible. 

“Just got transferred,” you lie through your teeth, shamelessly. It’s a sin to lie, but you’ve committed bigger ones before. 

“No wonder I’ve never seen a cutie like you here before,” he murmurs—leaning in as though to inspect your face. And so, you freeze; naturally, this was not the direction you thought this conversation would take. Maybe sweet talking is not entirely off the table, but you sincerely doubt you’ll actually get away. 

You swallow. How much longer do you have to stall for? Is Moze done? What the fuck do you say next?

“Uh.” Thanks? I guess? You’re pretty cute too? You find your hand inching towards your holster—minutely, of course—while potential replies whirl through your mind chaotically. Miniature storms wrapped up in slimy brain matter and miniscule neuron connections. 

It’s only when he lets out a short laugh that you realise that you might’ve let out your thoughts, and you curse at yourself in your mind. 

“Wow, you’re bold,” he comments, closer: until you can almost taste the lingering iron and manufactured scent he has. Like wood. Earth pine. A bitter pang goes through your heart at that: someone from the surviving fallout of Earth, here of all places. In a clean, sterile lab dedicated to sacrificing Foxians—for what? Money? Stupid credits? Humans are rotten creatures, cut from a cloth macerated in cesspits. On Earth, it was no exception. 

Still. Your lips press into a line at his clothes, the particular way the tie is knotted. You’ve never seen another survivor prior to this. 

You may also be completely mistaken. Penacony and doubtless others have the same strands of fashion—but this. This is wholly Earth. 

“People do tell me that,” you return, unbuttoning your lab coat since you’re no longer in the lab boundaries. Moze, hurry the fuck up. You’re already regretting it, but you need to confirm it. Alien everywhere, what other choice do you have?

His eyes don’t widen like you expect, and you feel a stupid ache at the realisation that you’re once again alone. But rather, they flicker to your breast pocket, where your falsified keycard peeks out. Closer. His fingers pluck the plastic as though it were a flower, and you’re much too astounded to stop him. 

“What a shame…” he murmurs, and only the nails digging into your palm remind you fitfully of just how near he is—practically tasting the fucking lies on your breath. 

“Sir, back up a bit,” you grimace. This sucks. The perks of keeping the guy from witnessing the glow in the computer room is slowly fading away the longer you keep this up. Should’ve left Moze to get caught. 

“O strange doctor, do movies of the bygone era really interest you so?” 

You freeze. Shit. Shit. You’d let down your guard—attempting to gauge his reaction to your attire and getting caught out yourself. Really, was there any spy worse than yourself? The falsified card was hastily put together with the help of your visor; of course it autofilled that stupid alias. 

It’s not the first time your mistakes have cost you. 

“You…” This guy. You should’ve run. You suck at gambling. 

“How odd. I should’ve been aware of one like me being transferred.”

“Who the hell are you?” Cautiously, you take a minute step back. He notices—of course he does. 

“The head of the research department, who else?”  Fuck, fuck. Your heart is entering arrhythmia: pounding flush against your eardrums like some goddamn hammer against piercing nail. You’re dead meat. 

“It’s unfortunate that I can’t buy you a suit to replace that cheap one—if you hadn’t infiltrated, we might’ve been good friends.” He’s still putting up a front, but you can tell he’s close to a fight. It’s the snarling instinct of a cornered human—fight or flight activating almost immediately at every minute movement of his. Each shallowed breath, each minute shift in sinew. All of it. 

“No, definitely not,” you retort in disgust. “Most people from that planet sucked.”

It’s true, but your heart twinges blue just the same. Millions of years, all for that stupid molten iron planet to just cease. None but you—all alone amongst the cold, dead stars. 

It was a graveyard of the giants: hulking Jupiter, so wretched and broken; stars slowly winking out one by one. Even the massive silhouette of the Sun had finally been conquered. Had the universe ever been so lonely for the wandering?

“Even you?” And now his fists punctuate the empty space with his words. 

“Especially me.”

How foolish. How foolish, as he’s barely breathing on the floor beside you. How foolish, as you let your teeth grind in stupefied frustration. How foolish, that you wanted to communicate with a remnant from that obsolete planet. 

You’re an idiot as you clutch at your side: warmth seeping between your fingers as you prop yourself up against the wall. Shallow, heaving breaths come ragged—though the fight didn’t last even five minutes, courtesy of your visor working overtime to electrocute that fool by your feet. He looks fried, but you don’t look much better: being stabbed does that, after all. 

You don’t know what you’re doing here. 

What were you trying to accomplish?

Iron tastes especially caustic today. Ah, you realise with a start—this stupid endeavour was all to buy time. Maybe it was all pointless. Maybe you’ll slip into slumber here—tripping over the sleeping man at your feet and seeing your planet once more, if only in your dreams. 

The flicker of lights reminds you of your wretched childhood apartment. All concrete and dilapidated structure, but it was your home. A cruel and cold home—though it was also one where the sun touched the horizon just so, in a way that erased pain for a singular moment in time. 

Stupid. All this to fulfil your stupid mission. 

Your legs wobble, and you would’ve slammed right into the wall were it not for the cold arms wrapping around your ribcage—gelid hand splayed on your chest. 

“Idiot.” Moze’s voice is low and angry; practically shaking while he supports your body. He’s pressed right up against your side—making the smell of blood ever more pungent. Slippery, metallic copper—all coming from you and ruining that stupid suit for good. “Are you illiterate too?”

“Huh?” You don’t know why he’s upset; he got the job done, didn’t he? Maybe he’s mad he has to prop you up while navigating the dim tunnels of this building—his teeth are gritting, after all, even if you can’t see him. You can hear the molars grind together. 

“Are your eyes just for show, or do you occasionally read your messages?” he seethes. Your trembling heart is far too loud to register the final death rattles of the man left behind in the corridor—courtesy of a blade thrown right into his jugular. 

“Hah. Muted them to not read your irritating texts anymore.” You close your eyes as he guides you past the chemicals, past the cleaning supplies in the closet that leads to a hidden path outwards. He’s more… gentle than you would’ve expected; grip firm on your arm slung over his shoulders rather than constricting. 

“I didn’t need your help,” he informs you: tone boreal as ever. “You blew our cover.”

Still, you cannot see the furrow in his brows as he peers down at you; neither can you see his lips pressing together. His heart’s pounding weirdly: focused on you rather than leaving this stupid place far behind. 

“I didn’t do it for you—” you grit out, stumbling the last few steps to the concealed star skiff while alarms blare on the ship the two of you leave behind. And he’s grasping your waist as you lean against the rocking vehicle—but you were not going to fall. Blood seeps onto his clothing, though he pays the mess no heed for once. 

“Don’t need your help either,” you scoff, returning his words back to him as you lean against the worn seat. It’s cold. So cold, but you’d rather die than admit it hurts. “Get off me.”

“I’ll drive.” His rich voice finally has a body once more as he settles into his copilot seat. He can visualise the path back to the Yaoqing already—back to the messy, warm place you call home. Where you linger on all those stupid trinkets, the decorations you put up, and the food simmering in the pot on your stove—he knows the route like the back of his scarred hand. 

“I’m fine. It’s not that deep, and Jiaoqiu will take a look at it anyway.”  Jiaoqiu. His lips curl into a sneer as the dashboard lights up—flipping switches with such harsh precision it’s much too apparent that he’s in a terrible mood. 

“Or A-hua,” you add, and his heartbeat becomes something twisted and wretched as he hears the dimmed affection in your voice. You’re tying off the bandage tight around your side—very rudimentary first aid, but the priority is to get as far away as possible from this facility while their systems go down.

“Neither of them will be in when we report to Feixiao.” 

He doesn’t quite know why he lies: syllables rolling off his tongue like a blunder, yet he manages to keep his voice steady. 

“Then I’ll give myself stitches.” So damn stubborn, he thinks. He’s irritated, for reasons unclear to him. 

“No, this was because of me. I’ll treat you.” He doesn’t know why he insists either; one thing he knows for sure though, is that he can’t help but cling onto the scent of your embodiment. Blood and sweat, laundry powder and soap. You. It’s nothing like the damp of his cell. 

“No thanks. You’d probably—hah—use this opportunity to get rid of me,” you wince out. Well, he cants his head in thought—you’re not wrong. He might’ve left you behind: no regrets, no more dead weight. 

“You think so little of me?” 

“Yes. Why else would you come close?” On edge—that’s what he can hear in the tremulous pulse beneath the flesh, all torn and never at ease. It’s not fearful, precisely, but gone is the casual annoyance in your tone—it’s more of a void acceptance, as though you’re stating the obvious. 

To answer your question, he doesn’t know. He’d normally recoil at the sight of the dried blood on his clothes—scrubbing at his skin the moment he could—but he’s absent-mindedly pulling at the threads laved in you with a hand not preoccupied by steering. 

“Anyways. If you keep pushing it, you’ll be permanently dubbed that nickname you so hate.” 

“Don’t care.” He meets your eyes through the reflection of the glass window. One gaze—flinty and stubborn. The other pair of eyes—silent and unyielding. “I’m treating you before we report to Feixiao.”

“Little A-ze is all grown up now, huh,” you mutter, and the prefix you put in front of his name is cold and distant. It tastes quite bitter, and for that reason he doesn’t deign to speak for the rest of the flight. 

For once, he’s truly living up to his description of being reticent. 

⁺ 　 . ✦

“Why’d you do such a stupid move?” With each agonised beat of your heart, the needle jabs into one side of your flesh and extends past the other. This may have been taken as to mean he’s fast with your treatment—but your pulse is as sluggish as barely molten lava, burbling and gurgling like you’re on your last legs. “Look after yourself first.”

The towel he painstakingly placed on your couch is spattered with sanguine. Unfortunately, you’re a bit too lost in delirium to realise the gravity of this situation: Moze, kneeling by your side as he carefully stitches you back up. So delirious, you don’t notice his heavy gaze and scarred hands that reverently handle the tools that pierce your body. 

“A-ze,” you slur, half-conscious as you bring a scalding hand to press against his boreal face. He freezes, like he really is made of ice. But alas, your hand falls back to your side just as quickly and his expression settles back into a scowl. 

“I could’ve escaped,” you murmur, eyes heavy with slumber. “But then you would’ve been in trouble.”

I wouldn’t have been, he wants to say back. You and your idiotic plans. He’s thought it before and thinks it now—he really fucking hates them. 

“Don’t ever do that again,” he instead grits out, tying off the last stitch with the scissors with a clinical professionality that you’re quite astounded then. “Look after yourself, and I’ll do the same.”

“Shut up and get out then,” you retort—and he plucks the roll of bandages you were planning on winding around your side. You blink: taken aback once more. 

“No.” 

No? 

“Fuckface,” you comment bitterly, though there’s a certain decrease in volume as he winds his arms slowly around your torso to wrap the cloth around you. Like this, his silver tufts of hair brush past your chin—strangely clean smelling for an assassin. And when you rest your palms on his upper back to alleviate the tension in your side, you swear he freezes. 

“Idiot,” he slams back; though, there’s a certain rapidity to his pulse as your chest is right in his eyeline. It’s steady, rising and falling with each even breath you have: naked muscle just about grazing his nose. For the first time in ages, his fingers waver in his task. 

“Call Jiaoqiu then,” you shrug. He’s tucking the ends of the bandage into itself, so you miss how the faint flush on his face immediately fades. 

Speak of the devil, and he shall appear. 

“Call who over?”

The foxian stands in the doorway with a pleased, close-eyed smile—much like the cat that finally got the cream. He’s grinning, Moze realises with horror; he saw the vulnerability in his shoulders, even if for a brief second.

Shit. He didn’t even notice. 

“Jiaoqiu?” You take your hand off his shoulder to wave; the man can no longer suppress the irritation in his expression. 

“In the flesh!” 

“Wow, you really don’t look good,” he continues, voice drawing closer as he inspects your bloodied torso. 

“Yeah, because I’m stuck with the fucker who lied about you not being—”

Moze presses his palm against your mouth—heart erratic at the feeling of soft lips against his hand, though it has nothing to do with you. More of the fact that he’s never been so close to someone like this. Yeah. That’s the reason. 

“Why are you here, Jiaoqiu?” he replies in your stead, ignoring how incredulously your gaze pierces into the side of his face. 

“So cold! You two are late to report even though you arrived half a system hour ago! But I totally understand, Moze.” Jiaoqiu’s smile does not quite reach his eyes as his gaze flitters between you and the assassin. That, perhaps, would be the usual description of how the foxian smiles regardless, but especially so today. “He’s injured, after all. Why not let me treat him before the two of you report to our Arbiter-General?”

“Pah–!” With a gasp, you finally wrench his hand from your mouth—glaring at him all the while. “That would be great, Jiaoqiu, thank you.”

Thus, the assassin is left simmering on the other side of your living room: daggers jabbing right into the other man’s back as he finishes your treatment off with a bowl of scorching hot broth. And though he doesn’t outright say it, Jiaoqiu is evidently amused by this turn of events—much like he’s amused with every irritated tell of Moze’s as he inches ever closer to you with his sly smile. 

Sorry, friend, he surmises. Not much of a chance you’ve got. 

It’s a great day for the fox, but not so much for the crow who seethes in the corner. 

⁺ 　 . ✦

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

miss raven 🐦‍⬛ you like shiny things right?? what are your thoughts on rollo’s ring. didn’t you call it chunky before

Many times, yes— I find it super ugly, chunky (as in, it’s a weird shape and takes up a lot of space) and hard to coordinate with a look, but it works fine on Rollo.

There are a few Raven-Rollo interactions I've received; these will be differentiated from the usual Rollo at the Writing Desk interactions by a different phrase in the header. "Will today be the day?" is a reference to the opening scene in Hunchback of Notre Dame; Quasimodo asks a bird (nesting in a gargoyle's mouth) if they're ready to fly yet.

Will Today be the Day?

“… You’ve been staring at my hand for quite some time now.” Rollo’s observation was abrupt, an accusation with a sharp point. He casted Raven a suspicious look as they walked side-by-side. “Crowley-dono is your guardian, is he not? I would have thought him to instill better manners in his kin.”

She leapt, frazzled by the truth he bore. “Y-You’re absolutely right! My apologies… I will avert my gaze.”

Rollo scoffed. “What is it that you are planning, hmm? Do you intend to make off with my possessions the instant I lower my guard? Perhaps you’ve picked up a habit for pilfering from Ruggie-kun. It wouldn’t surprise me—you Night Raven College mages are all the same.”

“No, it’s not like that!!” Raven shyly brought her index fingers together, her eyes cutting away from him. She suddenly found the sidewalk to be of great interest. “It’s, erm…”

“Don’t mumble. Spit it out already.”

“Corvids—ravens, crows—have a penchant for shiny objects. I can’t help that my eyes are drawn to them. It’s in my nature.

“Hmph.” Rollo made to cover the crimson gemstone that crowned his finger. “You have surprisingly juvenile interests. At the very least, it appears to be harmless so long as you control your desire to acquire those trinkets for yourself.”

“I’m telling you, I don’t have such a desire in the first place! Besides, things that sparkle look their happiest when they're with their true owners."

"... Did I hear that correctly? Things that sparkle look happy?"

"Not literally, of course. I took creative liberty with the phrasing." Raven cocked her head to one side. "But don't you think when a piece of jewelry catches a stray beam of sunlight, it looks like the jewel is winking at you? That's what I mean when I say they look happy with their owners."

"Not ever," Rollo replied stiffly, "and your comparison doesn't work. Ownership means nothing; a jewel would shine all the same regardless of who wears it."

"Now you're just sucking all of the romantic lyricism out of it."

"It didn't need that to begin with."

He turned away—as if that were the end of the conversation—and elicited an excited squeak from Raven.

"Oh...!" She fixated on the gleam of gold and scarlet that peaked through a crevice between his fingers.

The ring smiled at me.

Her heart leapt, and she smiled back at it. (Rollo scowled, his displeasure obvious.)

“If you don’t mind, may I see it up-close?” Raven asked. “Just this once. I promise I won’t bother you again about it after.”

“… You may, but you’d better keep your promise. I don’t want to hear another word about this later.”

With that, Rollo offered his ringed hand to her. His fingers splayed out to allow for a good glimpse of his accessory. Raven bowed her head—a sign of thanks—and gingerly took his hand in her gloved ones.

She had expected him to be frigid—his fingers were so long and bony. But no, he was flesh too. Warm and pliant.

Of course he is. I don’t know why I was thinking of anything less. He is only human too.

Raven slowly guided his hand, watching the way the sunlight gathered on the ring’s facets at different angles. The band and prongs were golden, and the center stone was a gorgeous red.

Ruby? Garnet? Or something else entirely…? Cut into a lozenge shape—diamond-like prism, with additional flat faces she could see herself in.

“Oooh, pretty,” she cooed, sounding slightly dazed.

As Raven did this, Rollo inspected her.

She was a small thing, no taller than his shoulders. Dressed in black (like a certain lizard he loathed), perhaps she would have registered as more of an enigma had there not also been a sort of… fluffiness to her, thanks to her voluminous feather shawl and skirt. The top hat skewed at a jaunty angle really did make her look like a childish miniature of NRC’s headmaster.

He honed in on her ears. They were pointed, certainly not the shape of a typical human’s. She had mentioned her tendencies as a corvid earlier, implying animal heritage—but the ears suggested fae, not beastman.

He took in the rest of her face. With her eyes cast downward like this, her thick lashes shaded honeyed amber colored irises. Sun dappled raven hair, highlighting the small, mysterious smile at her lips as she regarded his ring.

Such a simple-minded girl, he sneered. It’s no wonder she’s so easily manipulated by mages and sympathizes with their cause.

A creature captured and tames to be in service to vile villains—Rollo would be lying if he said some part of him vaguely felt pity for her circumstances. Perhaps if she was removed from NRC and given the proper guidance and instruction, she could see reason. (… despite how annoying he found her to be.)

No, she’s too far gone to be rescued, he argues with himself. Draconia has already sunken his claws into her feeble mind.

What a shame, the voice in the back of his head simpered. She could have been saved from sin. We could have understood one another.

Her eyes suddenly fliicked up. “… Rollo-senpai? I think I’m done. Thank you for letting me look.

He quietly gasped—he had been caught staring. Cheeks heating, Rollo hastily pulled his hand away. His shame was masked with a stern frown.

“… That is enough. Let us never speak of this again.”

“Hehe, it’s the very least I could do for you.” She grinned in an irksome manner, the snaggle-toothed smile reminding him of the less savory smirks sent his way by other NRC students. “It can be our little secret.”

"I do not wish to share any sort of a secret with you."

Raven raised her brows. "Were you not the one who requested that we no longer bring up this incident? So it's our little secret, whether you want it to be or not~"

"Which I don't," he clarified stubbornly.

That was the truth--wasn't it?

[starscatteredsky]

names for a vampire kin

names for a vampire!

pt: names for a vampire! end pt

vlad

drac/dracula

vamp

crimson

ebony

obsidian

mirror

scarlet

hemo

onyx

ambrosia

astarion

carmilla

victoria/victor

amber

dusk

dawn

drusilla

fang

pierce

blade

vampyr

nocturne

daemon

thorn

caine

corvid

corbin

vinnie

vincent

hope you like some of these, fellow vampire! - mono

[ID in alt!]

[byanyan]

(@crimson--corvid) headcanon: Byan makes fun of Ruairi for hand rolling his own cigarettes like an Irish grandpa, but secretly thinks it's cool. (Ruairi knows this and lets them make fun of him)

a headcanon you have about our musesㅤㅤ∘ ˚ ( accepting )

ㅤYES, REAL. they're constantly rolling their eyes at him over it, just "do you realize how much time you can save by just buying cigarettes??" but they actually think it's so cool. the most they do is roll their own joints, but even that is frustrating for the amount of effort it takes, and there's something that just feels more classy about rolling your own cigarettes? they'll never say it, but it's COOL.

[sanguine-salvation]

@crimson--corvid is still missing...

Viktor trudged over the headstones, the pebbles and overgrowth scattering as they searched. It had to be here, it had to. They felt him.

Dead. The Dead. Dead, dead, dead. They were all dead, this was the truth, but they knew better. When others spoke of the dead, they meant the freed. Even a mind like Novak's.

Bastard.

And more so, they remember's Ruairí's story. Where would you hide a vampire during the day? Where would you put him that he could not escape. Buried. Waiting for his master's servants to come collect him, just like all those years ago, just now far less 'amusing'.

Bleeding. Novak's voice had writhed in their ears, and their skin itched at the sensation of their frustrations being watched for stupid amusement.

They had checked every graveyard from the south end to Bristol. This was the last one. The oldest one. The dead of Gotham's 'finest' lineages laid here, the clean-handed killers who bought the world and ruled it, their tendrils still writhing under the streets, their money and fame buying themselves worthless marble temples to their dreary existen—

Snap! The fireworks cracked the sky open, and they winced as one went off too close. Loud. Their body went rigid under a wash of overstimulation, but they forced themself to stretch out against the shock to keep going. "Mmph..."

He had to be here. He had to be. Bleeding, suffering. I know, I know, I'm looking. Wasted time. Novak's voice slithered along their skull and curled under their jaw. Stop it, stop it.

Their eyes flickered over every headstone, every vault, every looming crypt archway that laid silent in the night.

Their lungs burned, their hip ached as they rubbed the bandages raw with their running— Lisa's work was being put to the test— but it had been too long, they needed to find him. They could still feel him after all this time, closer and closer and...

They slowed to a jog as their eyes caught something in the flash of obnoxious red and gold that shone in from the distance, the dark torn away for a split second. That little jolt showed them what they had known was waiting.

One vault. It yearned at them. Too old, but too disturbed. The dust and lichen laid in faint little piles around the edge of the box, and a faint smear of something stained the edge going in.

"Ruairí...?"

That was it! They rushed up to the vault so quickly that they nearly tripped over a headstone. No, no, this was it! They felt it! "Ruairí!" They pushed against the lid, far far too heavy for them to even budge. But they knew it. They could see the seam in the filth, and something about the stone vault made their stomach feel strange.

The sky lit up again with another burst of color and shrieking wail of a rocket, a crackle and boom that thundered against their ears, and a fizzle that droned on too long. They winced and pushed again. Nothing. Too heavy. They'd dislocate their shoulder before they'd move it enough to even look in.

"Ruairí, are you still there?" Their voice was stained deep with desperation, their teeth grit at the silence, and they leaned close, pressing their ear in a futile attempt to hear through so many inches of stone for a voice that might not have been there to yell back.

[arcanescholxr]

Ruairi (@crimson--corvid) often fetches things from the taller shelves for Dwight in his shop, to save him the trouble of climbing the ladder.

Send a headcanon you have about our muses’ relationship and I’ll tell you if I approve of it or not.

YES ABSOLUTELY!

Dwight is short and keeps things on the lower shelf as a general rule, but he can't always do that so whenever he does need to store something on a top shelf, he resorts to grabbing a ladder. Ruairi grabbing things for him would be a massive help and it's simply adorable! 🩷

@crimson--corvid

[bluefeathrs]

what type of soul do you have?

Changeling Soul

You have acquired the Changeling soul. too fast. and too much. your heart burns crimson inside your chest. you move closer to what you want. what you need and you just beg for no more change. subject to all eyes. even ones on the back of their heads. to be beautiful and yourself is possible. and you are living proof of that. without the salt the sea would not be itself. what would be the defining feature of the ocean without the salt, its size? to rid of it would be cruel. like a life long friend being taken away. you are no longer afraid of yourself. and no one can convince you of that. you will, must, not move backwards. you are not a failed version yourself when only one of you exists. you are you and that is a miracle. the blood that runs in your veins pump with the greater cause to lead your life how you want it. and I'm cheering for you.

Stolen from: @vin-robles & @cosmic-gemstone

Tagging: @zaunseye @masquenoire @red-hemlock @smilingmxsk @byanyan @mxldito @sanguine-salvation @crimson--corvid & whoever wants to take this! Tag me!

[ratwhsprs]

What is your Cosmos Persona?

Tagging: @byanyan @red-hemlock @mxldito @crimson--corvid @frostise @oculusxcaro @smilingmxsk @sanguine-salvation & whoever else wants to do this!

[theyenvymarleyyy]

Bc my babes are idiots Here some Basic ages for some characters:

@crimson-maze 22

@love-sicklesbian 24-25

@corvids-treasure-box 16-18

@victoria-saturn 38

@donnas-dollface 18-19

If you're a mutual and already have a role you can Just ask If you want to actively be included in my Story (I don't want to bother anyone so I rather y'all ask me💖)

And If we're mutuals and you don't have a role yet Just ask I don't mind adding anyone that wants to!!

[corvid-lullaby]

‼️CW‼️: Death, blood

It was something that he absolutely loathed.

Time and space are both vast and endless. Life is something that could develop and branch into infinite directions. Yet here we are, struggling down what appears to be a single, fragile thread. Crimson does it shimmer as it threatened to fray with each toed inch--

"But what else can ya do!?"

Struggle. As we have always done; struggle. Struggle did this corvid beast do since fate is something he both refused to believe and denied it with his every waking moment. This bird was keen on being free, and the thought that something greater was steering his life made his feathers crawl.

"But what can..." was strained through a weak exhale. The breath that was lacking to finish the comment was instead replaced by a repulsive, wet clench of his throat. Those words were murdered by the fullness of blood that took residence in his mouth.

Warm... And the taste!... Oh the delicious taste that is life in liquid form. He would have savored it if it weren't for the burning panic in his lungs for oxygen. All he could do was dizzily turn his head to the side with the hope that gravity would aid to clear his air ways.

Regardless of his body screaming in agony for air and from the fatally grotesque state it was in, Shikiya was oddly still and calm. He took a sort of quiet pleasure in watching the blood pool in front of him from his mouth. The deeply red reflections served as a distraction from the thoughts that currently plagued him.

From his first meeting with that Warrior of Light in the far distant past to meeting them yet again eons later.

It was their fault that his beloved died.

It was fate's grace to remove that memory upon being sundered.

It was destiny's cruel humor to reunite him with them; harboring a deep hatred from an unknown origin.

To kill another has always been a simple task for this tengu. None matched him after all--except for this one. No matter how he desperately tried to match this Light's Blessed of a warrior he always just fell short. Regaining his memories as an Ancient did indeed fuel his rage, but it still wasn't enough.

Just beyond the oxidizing pond of gore, the greaves of his eternity long rival stood stoically. The ideal hero, of course. They were the saviour to this star many times over after all. Towering, powerful, and loving despite it all. Who wouldn't love them?

Who wouldn't?...

Maybe this one with the amber gaze of a dying fire. He was staring up at you now. This crow, which has given you hell for so many years, now lies with his final breaths already spent and in the midst of his last vitals flattening out. Surprisingly, his spent body was not your doing.

Past his deep hatred for you there was still something he understood. This world would not be here if it weren't for you.

And so he sacrificed himself for you. You who are destined for greatness, and he who is fated to forever fall.

'You who could love and protect...

Why couldn't you save me? '

What an ironic thing. He loved you in the end.

FFXIV Write Day 1 - Steer

Master List (Adding later)