#tvrningout: cyrillo

[futurefind]

[ let go ] after holding onto receiver's hand for a while, sender finally, reluctantly releases their grip ( for sa from cyrillo bc obviously i wanna bite my fist and cry ASDFGH )

PROMPTS FOR HANDS & TOUCH / accepting // @tvrningout

Silence has long since been as familiar as a second skin — even if, nowadays, it's not near as solitary as it once was. She can't remember the last time she had to try and find work, whether it was for coin or helping out the free army with training or first aid or labor. And with that network comes familiarity, and she pretends none of them know her beyond nameless muscle brought in by Sir Cyrillo de Bortoli.

Which. If that isn't a whole other can of worms she avoids thinking about. For gods-knows way too many reasons. Sooner or later, she's sure, the free army will no longer have any purpose (for better or for worse), disband, and Cyrillo will see her off with a Thanks for everything, have a good rest-of-your-life, see you never.

But for now, it's... something. Something nice, she dare say, to have something to come back to that's not drifting endlessly between jobs and the latest inn room she's left all-but-abandoned.

(Oh fucking hell, she actually uses Cyrillo's room more than her own, doesn't she? Eugh. Here's hoping she never actually says that to him or else he'll sic Kaiya on her. Possibly indefinitely. Eugh.)

She pretends idling away near him with books is for nothing more than the combined practicality of having better literacy (technically true), resting between jobs (utter bullshit), and being on-call for anything he may need her for (actually true).

So she doesn't even comment when he ushers her over and does little more than take her hand. Not with a fever or a passion, or to pull her into such things, just... to linger. Silently.

His hands are warm, even through their gloves, because he always is. (Maybe she should notice it, more, that he runs cooler than her, or maybe she runs so cold and lonely his vampirism makes little difference.)

And then someone's in the door asking after her. She doesn't remember exactly what, just that it's something casual enough she could ignore if she wanted to— or at least readily put off. It goes in one ear and out the other, because—

"Cyrillo?" she asks, frowning at him. Doesn't even think to be embarrassed about using his first name as casually as this, as unfamiliar as it is, watching his face carefully. He seems worried, but not in the active, nipping-at-the-heels anxiety kind of army logistics or unknown enemy plots.

Instead he seems... forlorn, and a more-than-small part of her wishes she could know why.

She brushes his bangs to the side with her fingertips, presses the backs of her fingers to his forehead. Can vampires fall ill? She isn't sure, doesn't even think that's what this is, but it gives her an excuse for this sort of contact all the same.

"What's wrong?" and before he can dismiss her, "Something's bothering you."

[quietlyblooms]

i'm gonna write but i need my brain to stop playing elevator music first

[mythcaels-a]

unprompted | @tvrningout asked: ” mister rudolf, wait! ” kaiya calls after the wolf, a small basket in her hands that she offers up with a cheery smile. “ i made extra salve by mistake— “ on purpose, actually. “ and the kitchens had leftover pastries from breakfast that you might like. ” she saved them just for him, actually. really, she’s not sure why she isn’t admitting all this; maybe she’s simply nervous. she can’t quite tell how he feels behind that mask. “ i hoped you might take them off my hands. ” ( what if cyrillo hires rudolf on occasion to take care of threats to his coven and whatnot and kaiya just wants to be his friend very badly :’ )) )

𝐔𝐩𝐨𝐧 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐯𝐨𝐢𝐜𝐞, he immediately stops and allows her to catch up to him. She calls him Mister Rudolf, such a title is completely unnecessary for him of all people. He makes it a point to let lips part behind mask so that he can utter words against the title directed at him.  ❝  Just Rudolf is fine, Miss Kaiya.  ❞  She is more befitting of some kind of title, which is why he opts to go with Miss. Blue hues dart down to the basket in her grasp, taking in any and all of the items in said basket before his gaze slides back up to meet her own as she explains why she has the basket and what is in it. She offers him extra salve and leftover pastries and he finds himself in awe over her generosity and kindness ( not that one could really tell with that mask he wears hiding most of his face ).

Hands that wear fingerless gloves reach out to grab the basket that she offers, relieving her of its weight.  ❝  I will gladly take these off your hands. Thank you for these gifts you have given me. I am grateful for them and for your kindness.  ❞  And he smiles at her, not that she could really tell unless she notes the smile lines at the corners of his eyes.

[tvrningout]

TVRNINGOUT: a private, selective, and oc-centric multimuse with original lore, studying the impact we have on each others' lives & our ability to change; features muses of varying fandoms and with varying verses, unconditionally loved by bel ♡

note that cyrillo is the main muse of the blog, and rin is the “ hero ” of dorverold’s story; they will be the focus of this blog!

AFFILIATES & MAINS:

@cursedblessed @fangier @futurefind @hopeharmed @mellodiies @metrictita @mythcaels @solivcgant @starpoacher @violetueur

BLOG NAVI:

rules | lore | memes | wishlist | opens

MUSE NAVI:

dorverold muses | slice of life muses | kny muses

[attroxx]

❛ @tvrningout said . . . “alice? are you in here?” from cyrillo maybe! ❜

𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐀𝐍𝐘 ? 𝐎𝐇 𝐒𝐇𝐄'𝐃 𝐓𝐎𝐓𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐘 𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐆𝐎𝐓 ! from the back of the bookshop alice hears a man's voice, one she recognized now. maybe a few months ago she would've been skeptical, perturbed but now his presence had become somewhat routine. dusting off her skirt alice moves through piles of books with ease. at this point she could navigate the crammed bookshop with her eyes closed.

making it toward the front she pokes her head out from behind a shelf, making sure it's the company she thought it would be. then she smiles.

❛ cyrillo ? you know we close at seven . . . what's the matter ? ❜

halloween starters. ― accepting.

[unboundtravels]

𝐶𝑙𝑖𝑐ℎ𝑒 𝐷𝑖𝑎𝑙𝑜𝑔𝑢𝑒 𝑃𝑟𝑜𝑚𝑝𝑡𝑠 // Accepting

@tvrningout asked: "what seems to be the problem?" // from cyrillo ( set in his modern verse unless you prefer his main ) for the first doctor! i just think maybe it'd be a neat dynamic uvu

THAT'S THE FIRST THING SHE HEARS when enters the hallway from the small closet that her Police Box has landed in. Quietly, she inserts a small cylindrical object into the waistcoat she's wearing. Not quite sure where exactly the ship has come from, The Doctor is more or less perturbed by the setting of the hotel she seems to wander into. It reminds her of those dimensional slips one can fall into if they're not careful. The Backrooms, if she recalled the name. Quietly, she peetered out into the hall. Her lips pursed together, fingers tapped together. That's when she hears the voice, ever so suddenly. She turns to face it.

The person who's confronted her sees a woman wearing a black waistcoat over a bright turtleneck. Her forearms have buttoned coats and her figure is a nice hourglass figure. She appears older, perhaps somewhere between 45 or 65. The range is up in the air. Her hand clutch at the lapels of the jacket hanging over her shoulders. She stares at a man who seemed to flag her down the moment she entered his domain. Regardless, she stands tall. Shoulders broad and gaze narrow. 

"The problem..? Hm? I'm not sure what you're referring too." Her finger brushes softly at the corner of her lip before she raises an eyebrow. She seems to be confused by the request, or at least feigns confusion before her fingers interlock together and rest near her abdomen.

"Is there a problem, good sir?"

[futurefind]

" at least i have you to look after me, eh? " from cyrillo for sa :’ ))

“𝘪𝘯 𝘢𝘯 𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘰𝘧 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥” 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘵𝘴. / accepting // @tvrningout

She sees red— literally— and her mind goes white. She focuses on what's important— what actually matters— and squashes everything else— the worry, the panic, the terror, the urge to cry and scream and throw up, the ghosts suddenly suffocating her— into a far off corner of her mind so she can get to work.

She doesn't remember much after that, but also remembers every breath with an eye-seering clarity. The reek of blood. How he was colder than he should've been. Crimson embedding itself in the cracks of her skin, under her nails. Every single stitch and plaster and bruise and scrape.

How she can't close her eyes, for even a blink, lest she see the life drain from his. Keeps checking and double checking and triple checking his face to make sure it isn't so, no matter how briefly.

After an eternity, after a blink of an eye, she's done.

She excuses herself to the bathroom (she thinks she says to clean up), and regrets it immediately. It hits her like a horsekick to the chest, she can't breathe she can't breathe she can't breathe— and she barely keeps herself from sending her fist through the mirror (and, changes are, into the wall behind it). She hates looking at herself, on a good day, and now—

Now she'd failed. Again. There's blood on her hands and it's not hers, because it's never hers. It's all for her but it's not hers, and it should be hers, it should've always been hers, the blood on her clothes and the eyes going lifeless. Why isn't it hers?!

Why is she—

She shoves the wind back into her lungs like gathering broken glass with naked hands, and pulls herself back outside. She doesn't think she actually got to cleaning. She just knows seeing Cyrillo again, like this, rips her heart out of her chest. But him still being here, gaze alive, lets it continue to beat — no matter how atrocious and gorey of a thing it is. That she is.

Sasume feels about as old as Cyrillo presumably is, maybe older, but without any immortality or undeath to keep her going. Like a puppet with its strings cut and joints rotted and clogged still trying to drag itself through its cues as if there's any audience left.

She sits at his bedside again, silently. Doesn't remember doing it. Can only stare at the spark in his eyes until she's seeing through them, seeing nothing at all, as if pretending to keep him out of her nightmares could ever keep him from joining the graveyard at her feet, pumping through her veins. Keeping her alive, no matter what she says or wishes or wills otherwise — because she's never had a choice.

" — at least i have you to look after me, eh? "

And she wheezes, chest crushing in on her ribs and heart and soul so suddenly and so fiercely once more that the world starts to spin. Heat floods her skin even as her blood runs ice cold, and acid creeps up her chest. Her vision blurs, and she isn't sure if the world is shaking or if her bones are.

"Don't—" she chokes on a sob, wetness leaking out of her eyes, and presses the hand she'd been gripping tight against her forehead instead of her own. She gasps, a keening, pathetic thing, and sees more than feels the tears pouring out.

It's not fair, she thinks, both distantly and as deafening as a thunderclap. She's not sure if she means this, or all the bodies piled up in her heart. If it's his being hurt, or that she's not hurt, or that taking all the gods damned blades and bites and bruises in the world can't spare those closest to her even a single one— no matter how much she wants otherwise.

"Don't—" she can't get anything else out. Doesn't even think there'd be a point. Even if, already, it feels like she's begging. For him to not play light, maybe, but also for the gods to maybe— maybe— show her even the slightest of favor and make it so this wasn't so. That maybe—

"I should've been there," she chokes out, nonsensically, world blurring again, pressing the back of his hand even harder against her own skin. If she gives even the slightest inch, even now, who's to say he won't slip through her fingers a final time?

"I should've...—" and finally, curled over herself like that, at Cyrillo's bedside as he warms her own damned bed, she weeps.

[futurefind]

this has me screeching asdfg all of 'em but one block... cyrillo really is her match huh :' )

Bingo Time, Baby!! // @tvrningout

Ah.

Ah.

Sasume adamantly refuses to look at Cyrillo's face as the heat creeps up her own neck— she's already perfectly aware of how smug he can get, and the last thing she needs is to see the handsome and/or teasing smirk on his face.

"Don't even start," she says preemptively, already embarrassed enough.

"Besides," she huffs. How much is she his type— "You're still plenty talkative compared to me—"

Which. Mean's he's 100% her type. Which she already knew but—

Even more reason for him to be smug.

Her face goes red and she squirms, relenting, and puts her face in her hands with a groan.

"Shut up." she says again, whining. "I can still kick your ass—" As if she's never happy to let him win, regardless.

[futurefind]

" duties can wait, " murmurs the vampire, gently pressing his lips against sa's shoulder before nestling his chin in the crook of her neck. they still lay beneath the covers of his bed, legs tangled and curled around one another; cyrillo refuses to allow the swordswoman to rise despite her squirming. " sleep a little more, cuore mio. the world will not end if you aren't there to protect it for a few more hours. "

unprompted / always accepting // @tvrningout

A vague noise rumbles out the back of her throat, and she pretends it's in protest at his words rather than contentment at the kiss and their sustained closeness.

She knows, by all rights, what she should do—pry herself away from him, maybe with an excuse about an urgent assignment she failed to mention. Or, at the very least, protest his protesting, say something about her not being a god's chosen doesn't mean she can't try anyway, as if he isn't keenly aware how little she sleeps.

And it had been a long trip, this last carousel of jobs. Longer, still, without being able to see any familiar faces, nevermind without him to bicker with or fuss over— or to lull her to sleep and stave off the nightmares.

Traveling through her nights may shave untold days off her longer journeys, but they make her feel no less alone.

But now? Now she's warm, in a way she'd thought she'd never be able to feel nor allowed to be (even ignoring the quality of his bed and plushness of his covers).

So instead of pulling away, she cuddles closer, wrapping an arm around him to tug him closer (as if that were even possible), to keep him there.

"You spoil me," she mumbles, shuffling down to bury her face in his chest. Presses a kiss there before she fully melts back into bed. "Keep it up and I'll never want to leave."

As if she didn't, already.

[futurefind]

🩹 - to trace your muse’s scars . ( for sa from cyrillo or vice versa bc i'm gonna weep no matter who's doing the tracing :' ))) )

Prompts / Always Accepting // @tvrningout

Cyrillo doesn't talk about himself. At least, as she picks up on, not really. (Because like recognizes like and she's more than familiar with obfuscation.)

But scars don't lie, as much as she wished they could, and he... well. He has far more scars than she'd've ever guessed, even if it's a while before she has the time and brain space to focus on them. She shouldn't be surprised, she knows she shouldn't — after all, being a vampire requires dying, and for him to appear so young means his end was far more likely to be violent than not.

It hurts, even if once upon a time, when they'd first met, it would've been reassuring and relieving to know they shared such things.

But they were strangers, then.

And now? Now...

It must've been centuries since he'd lived, since he'd been hurt, and still she wants to reach through time and keep him safe. It's not an usual wish of hers, that she could take the scars of others for herself so they wouldn't need to suffer them. But...

Her left hand trails a feather-light touch across his abdomen, tracing along and across every scar there. Her other hand is tucked against his chest, bracing her upright, but even there her fingers ghost along the edges of the wounds gouging into his flesh above his heart.

She sighs to herself, quietly, before pressing a warm kiss to its center, lingering until she feels his magically-revived heart pulse beneath her lips.

"I'm sorry," she whispers, pulling back just enough to continue her ministrations. "You deserved better."

.

She wouldn't consider herself ticklish by any stretch of the word. Jumpy or tense, maybe, but never ticklish.

And yet, tickles is her first thought. A shiver rushes down her spine and back up into her skull, stirring her from from her half-sleep. She blinks once, trice, thrice, and shifts to look at the source.

It's Cyrillo (to be expected), focusing on her scars (not too surprising), with a touch like a ghost, as if she'd fall apart at the seems with anything firmer (baffling).

She watches as her fingertips skims along the rim of one of the gashes across her side, traces along the stretched and aged scarring of ribbed flesh at its inside, before finally following along the deep tear at its center.

Sasume makes a vague grumble in the back of her throat, confused. They're her biggest scars, sure, but it's hardly the first time he's seen them (to say the least)— to say nothing of all those or all the times they've been on display from simple sparring.

"What?" is her oh-so-clever question, barely coherent and half-asleep, dragging her own gaze up from his hand at her side to the man himself and—

Her chest squeezes like she'd been kicked in the sternum. He looks—

He looks—

Not just somber, but mournful, like he's never seen such a thing before. Like he can't imagine a world where she's been injured in such a way, even though he's never known anything less than that.

Like they're days old wounds and not over a decade.

Like it's a tragedy.

She wheezes, heart shuddering and crumbling in on itself like a house of a cards.

"What—" her voice breaks, too, and she hides her face back against his chest. She tries to laugh, tries to force one, but that, too, is pathetic and shuddering.

"What's that look for, huh...?"

It's not like anyone— not like she'd— died or anything.

[futurefind]

🤚 - to offer your muse a hand in dance . ( for rea from cyrillo perhaps!! maybe she's at one of his social functions in one of her attempts to learn more about rin and his magic? and he's just :' ) " alright lemme put on a lil razzle dazzle and keep her out of rin's hair for a while " asdfg )

Prompts / Always Accepting // @tvrningout

She knows it's rude, of course she does, but— if the gods have returned— or worse, have never left— then that blows all her working theories on the Decay right out of the water! Hell, even if they didn't, that'd still make all this lightbringer nonsense deserving of even more investigation...!

(And, besides. At least she's only badgering the poor woman when she's at a public-ish event! Plus, isn't it better to be annoyed by genuine and academic pursuits rather than political sleazebags like her aunt trying to brown-nose for personal gain?)

"Well—!" Rea laughs, more at herself than anything, flashing him a smile as she takes his hand. "If it's you of all people asking, I'd have to be even madder to refuse...! You'll have to pardon my two left feet, but at least it's not a dance you're looking for, hm?"

Another giggle leaves her as they come together, and she's careful as she can to avoid stepping on his feet. Unfortunately, her wind magic bumpers are hardly the skill she's prioritized working on, so they'd either make her clumsiness worse or make any foot-stomps even more unpleasant. So, she'll have to be light-footed the old fashioned way.

"Are you at least going to offer me any fun magic lore instead?" she teases, shameless as ever. "Doesn't even have to be anything personal! Not about you, or the army, or your fancy-shmancy spellsword-sellsword— though I'd hardly complain if you did!— since I'm sure you of all people have a bunch of miscellaneous magic lore to share...!"

"So, de Bortoli, tell me: What's your theory on the 'Decay' of magic?" if he even had one, that is.

[futurefind]

" don't be stupid. you're not going anywhere. come on, back into bed… " ( from cyrillo for sa! maybe she's got quick healing but that doesn't mean she doesn't need rest uvu )

Prompts / Always Accepting // @tvrningout

"I've been in bed plenty," Sasume snipes back, (mostly) redressed and scowling at the handsome-bastard roadblock filling the doorway as she yanks her hair out from under her shirt. She knows what he means, of course, but quite simply she doesn't care.

Shoving herself to her feet makes her legs reignite with pain and tenderness, to say nothing of the ever-familiar sensation of the now-healed wounds which are all-but trying to rake in on pain debt. Most is fine, like her legs, but the worst of it (that'd always prompt her into around-the-clock use of Third in the first place) hardly feels healed at all.

(Of course, as proven when she was a kid, actually taking it easy— and not exploiting Third whenever necessary to fight off sleep— minimized the rebound. But—)

Still, she crosses her arms and glowers up at him.

"Now are you going to move or am I going to have to make you." As if she can do much of anything to intimidate him with how he's seen her in the last hour.

[futurefind]

❛ here, take this. you’ll catch a cold. ❜ from cyrillo for sa <3 he's being a lil gentleman <3

𝟐𝟎𝟎 𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐎𝐌 𝐃𝐈𝐀𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐔𝐄 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐓𝐒 / Accepting // @tvrningout

At first, in the brief time it takes, she thinks she's just going to hold his coat for him— then it's sitting on her shoulders instead, and she feels her brain crack against the front of her skull and start spinning.

She blinks. Blinks again.

Warm is her first thought, and her second is to carefully grip it close. She's not one for the finer things in life, no, but she recognizes them, and just because they're above and beyond her doesn't mean she can't care for them properly (particularly when they're not even hers).

"I'll be fine," she assures him, heaving a sigh. Pointedly, she lifts her other hand and flame briefly erupts from it. Briefly, because as soon as its there she lets it fade, eyes blue as ever, and drops her arm back down.

"A little cold won't kill me, so why don't you head back inside?" she's wearing all the coats right now, after all.

[futurefind]

you're forgetting the part where i love you. from cyrillo for sa bc i just gotta uvu

PAST LIVES (2023) PROMPTS / @tvrningout

Telling people not to worry is something she's done too many times to count. First it was her sister as a kid, and for what feels like forever it's been about clients or layfolk with a job on their hands. But now, for longer than it feels real or possible, it's been... more than that. Kaiya. Ciaran. God knows how many associates of theirs.

Cyrillo.

Sasume'd found it funny, at first, that an ancient being could be bothered to fuss over a mortal merc. Still does, in a way—what with how it makes her head spin that he... cares for her, like he does. Despite everything. Despite how long it'd taken her to catch on.

"You really don't need to worry so much," she tells him, not for the first time. Most certainly not the last—

"You're forgetting the part where I love you."

It hits her like a kick to the face, twice as dizzying, and inexplicably thrilling. Makes her heart trill in her chest and her bones turn to putty. It's only habit that keeps her standing. It still makes her feel... weak? But in a good way? Even now.

She goes quiet with warmth. Forgets what they were talking about, for a moment.

"...I'll be fine," she says, smiling gently and reaching out to lace their fingers together. Squeezes. "Promise. Be back before you know it."

[futurefind]

i just wanted to see you one more time. from cyrillo to sa as well bc i'm soft okay!!

PAST LIVES (2023) PROMPTS / @tvrningout

'Her' quarters are something that, even now, maybe especially now, could barely be called that. She uses them to store her scant belongings, change, and maybe sleep once or twice a week (less, usually, if Cyrillo's around). She's barely redressed when there's a knock on her door, and she doesn't wait to yank it open. After all, now of all times, there's a million emergencies that could crop up and—

"...Cyrillo," she says, usual scowl softening with a mix of fondness and surprise. Her heart jerks, mind racing ahead to tomorrow and a million battle plans. "What's wrong—?"

"I just wanted to see you one more time."

She blinks. Once. Twice. Thrice. Panic flees in place of awe and warmth and her expression melts along with her bones, despite everything. Slips her hand out and grabs his by the wrist, and tugs him inside far enough to shut the door behind him.

"...Well," she ignores how she's already, certainly, as red as the first time they kissed. Ignores how this should be the least of his behavior to get to her. Pretends the importance of tomorrow and the nerves makes her more liable to do so. Turns her hand around to lace her fingers through his, and uses her other to smooth out nonexistent wrinkles in his shirt. Slides it back up his chest to fiddle with his collar— it's only the desire to see him that keeps her from folding herself against his chest, instead.

"Just because it's just one more time, doesn't mean it has to be short," she hums, finally leaning up to give him a warm kiss, if one buzzing around the edges with nerves. "Not between how little we like sleep and how long we've got between when we're getting up and setting out."

She huffs an almost-laugh. "Not like I'm going anywhere, you know?"

[futurefind]

"In many ways, unwise love is the truest love. Anyone can love a thing because. That’s as easy as putting a penny in your pocket. But to love something despite. To know the flaws and love them too. That is rare and pure and perfect." from cyrillo 👀

Fantasy Magic & Romance / Always Accepting // @tvrningout

Her heart aches. She doesn't know why (yes, she does), just that it hurts to hear him talk like that. Even if she can't exactly pinpoint the exact reason (yes, she can), she just knows...

Well, that he deserves better.

Deserves better than wanting, yearning, and never getting, reaching out for something that he won't ever be able to grasp. She knows it's a silly desire, when he's lived as long as he has— loss and heartbreak and grief are an inevitable part of life even in a mortal's lifespan.

But. Even still.

As much as her heart throbs, it also twists and flips and tries to flutter alight from inside its cage. She can't help but think about how she's anything but a penny, about as fortuitous as a shattered mirror, and how Cyrillo suggests that that would get her something as dreamlike as perfect love.

Instead she hums in the back of her throat, gaze sweeping over the sunset as she leans against the railing, swallowing her heart and hope and courage down, down, down, and tightening the lock of her ribs.

"I don't know," she says, resting her cheek against her hand and forcing the heat away from her face, against the thumpthumpthump in her chest trying to force it up across her skin.

She glances back at him, trying to be as casual as possible. Not cold, not really, but she may as well be trying to do an impression of a tundra with how much she wants to melt away with warmth, instead.

"You like to speak from experience, Cyrillo—" Fuck. "But you've always seemed like a wise man, to me."

Maybe it wasn't what he wanted, and maybe he preferred trials and tribulations and what-ifs to simple and sweet fulfilled promises of happy endings and ever-afters.

But. As far as she's concerned?

He deserves all the pennies in the world.