cvrbyns-blog

[cvrbyns-blog]

morganbright.

morgan could argue, do the entire ‘no you don’t have to do that’ routine, but the world knows that she’s a woman of few words, at least when she can help it, and assuming that the nicest argument known to mankind would continue until corbyn insisted, she decides it’s best to just leave, to offer a tiny yet very thankful smile to her in return, and to plant her arse on the chair and drink her own coffee. “you’d think they’d remember,” is morgan going to bring up the election yet again ? she might be able to hold her tongue just this once, but anyone who’s been within five feet of her since the 9th of june, fully understands what she’s referencing, and yes, over a month later, she’s still disappointed. “just to get some lunch quick,” she says casually, before sipping her own coffee. “i’m assuming i didn’t miss much ?” she’s been gone for a maximum of twenty minutes, and it’s clear that not much has happened in that time yet she still asks, genuinely interested in what she may have missed – or worried, even – despite the fact she’s certain it was a grand total of, well, nada. glancing over at corbyn’s cup, she’s fairly certain her name’s been spelt as two separate words. whether from pure idiocy, or just creativity, morgan’s impressed by their commitment to royally screwing it up.

corbyn’s lips curl up in the style of a smirk at what seems to be the beginning of another politic grumbling courtesy of morgan — they’ve never truly bothered her even if they come as a small jab to her parent’s incredibly unfortunate name choice, if anything she finds them amusing and all the more reason to agree. she shakes her head as she purses her lips against the rim of the lid, a pause after her last sip. “no, not really. if anything, you missed the clock’s hand moving,” she mutters disinterestedly. slow shifts go by longer than ones where she’s got an appointment or a walk-in, something to keep her from checking down at her watch every five minutes. the idle time is nice, but she can spend that anywhere, she doesn’t like dragging it with her into her work chair. “where’d you stop for lunch?” at the sight of morgan’s eyes glancing at her cup, she spins it around in her hands, and groans at the sight. “fucking hell,” she groans. “c-o-r-b-i-n isn’t that complicated to do, why must they make the misspell of my already peculiarly-spelled name even more of a headache than necessary?” she looks over at morgan’s cup, sighing. just once she’d like to have a name like morgan, whether it was the whole keychain debacle or for someone to finally get her name right on first try, if ever. she doesn’t realize that she’s verbalized part of this out loud, of course, cheeks flushing red after. “’s anyone ever royally fucked your name over?” corbyn asks. “i mean, since the trend nowadays is to spell your kid’s name in a weird fashion, i just wonder if you’ve ever seen some truly interesting variations of ‘morgan.’”

[cvrbyns-blog]

replies are coming today, i had a minor (read: major) computer emergency that i’ve been busy trying to work out — basically, my pc is falling apart in the same manner my previous one did and i refuse to lose all my files like i did on the other so i’ve been backing this thing up and formatting hard drives and all kinds of shit i wish i totally didn’t have to do because i thought this fucking laptop was going to last me but of course i have no luck, and ever since it snapped chrome has been lagging so every time i come on here shit freezes (edit: it just KEEPS FREEZING AND NOT RESPONDING this is why i hate my life) and it’s aggravating as fuck

so yeah tl;dr my pc sucks but replies will be up soon, and to all the newbies hi !! pls come plot w/ me okay thaaaaanks

[cvrbyns-blog]

🌙💫 texts: corbyn.

nova: both solid points. i wish i could never leave the house but i gotta pay rent somehow, right?

corbyn: i mean, with all the technology around nowadays, i'm sure if you REALLY wanted to, you could make something work.

corbyn: then again, don't know how much a landlord would appreciate you running a business from your flat, or how much you'd enjoy having strangers come over to your place in order to keep your business thriving.

[cvrbyns-blog]

💬 sms to corbyn.

HADLEY: that's true too!!!! i love dessert. definitely one of the simple pleasures in life hehe

HADLEY: AHHH my favourite theatre's summer production of footloose. it's gonna be amazingggg

CORBYN: tell you what, next time you swing through the parlour or you're free, we'll go out for dessert, on me as a lil celebration of our own

CORBYN: omg that's so exciting!!! what role??? i'm obsessed w/ footloose, one of my all time favourites

[cvrbyns-blog]

💬 sms to corbyn.

HADLEY: HELP i need to decide whether to go out tonight or not. i don't have work until tomorrow afternoon but i also am a little under the weather but DOUBLE also i kinda want to celebrate getting this part i was really wanting

HADLEY: looking for company and opinions SOS

CORBYN: i mean, you can totally go out without going out and doing something super extravagant for your celebration?? nothing screams 'CONGRATS' like dessert.

CORBYN: what did you get a part in though?

[cvrbyns-blog]

🌙💫 texts: corbyn.

november: is there a life hack where you can mute people irl?

november: @ science ??? I'm waiting

corbyn: ...by silencing them permanently, i guess.

corbyn: but that's frowned upon, the only other foolproof option is just never leaving your house. honestly, if you hear from science about a better alternative, lemme know, i'm in need of one myself.

[cvrbyns-blog]

today’s been such a busy day, i literally just got home and i’m dying to go to sleep + my computer is lagging like nobody’s business for some reason but i’ll be on tomorrow, please feel free to im me if you want to do something w/ this little gem or if you just want to come scream with me about literally anything at all i’m happy to chat always

also, watch the bold type

[cvrbyns-blog]

ohhhcharlie.

“Well, I’m here. Apparently early too. When does your shift end again? I can hang out for a bit. I don’t mind,” Charlie replied back, smiling, unsure if Corbyn recognized her or only figured it was another customer. “But not coming in for a tattoo if you were wondering. I still can’t figure out what I want this third one to be, Corbs; it’s frustrating,” she added before plopping down on the couch set out for those in waiting. Her own shift at work had left her feeling drained mostly, leaving her with the need for something to revitalize her, besides just the two cups of coffee she had at Blue Moon. Sure, they did have great coffee, but the remedy for post-work blues usually meant hanging out with someone and letting herself have fun, not that she ever really limited the amount of fun in her life. With any luck, she could convince Corbyn to come out to Neon tonight, wondering if that’d be so hard of a task in the first place. The other girl could dance like she was born dancing or something like that. Charlie picked up one of the magazines clearly one that showcased a range of tattoo-ed models. Though she wasn’t looking through it closely, merely flipping pages. “I’ve thought about an anchor. Or something related to Birmingham. You know, hometown and all,” she mentioned casually. In all likelihood, it’d be years until her next one. Probably ideal. She wouldn’t be able to get anything too extravagant or expensive on the money she made now, especially considering the tips she got today. “You up for Neon tonight?”

She’s glad to see Charlie standing in front of her; for a brief moment, their plans later had slipped her in the midst of a lazy day, the thoughts rushing back into her mind now that she has a reminder quite literally standing in front of her. “Sorry,” she says apologetically, mostly for the fact it had taken her a second to realize who it was standing before her, carding a hand through her hair as she puffs out a short exhale. “It’s been a slow day.” Corbyn glances down quickly at her watch, one of her shoulders bending in a half-shrug. “I’ve got maybe fifteen minutes left on the clock, if you don’t mind waiting?” Turquoise eyes flit after Charlie as she swirls around the shop, picking up a magazine and starting to flip through it. She hadn’t quite realized how desperate she was to talk tattoos up until now, the day’s pace leaving her practically deprived. This was a passion, after all, not just a means of making money to pay her bills ( although she is rather grateful she can do what she enjoys and get a paycheck for it, she knows how rare of an occurence that is and doesn’t overlook a blessing when it lands in her lap ) and she enjoys being here for a reason. Sliding down her seat and edging a little closer to where Charlie’s sat down, Corbyn keeps both of her hands folded in her lap as she listens closely, nodding when appropriate. “I mean, I can always sketch out a few ideas for you, go from there. Actually seeing it helps a lot of times. You can figure out if you like it, hate it, want something different altogether, the works.” She pushes some of her hair behind her ears, watching Charlie quietly. “Neon?” she repeats after the question, her eyebrows furrowing for a brief moment. She’s got no plans tonight, other than with her DVR recordings and a half-bowl of vegan cookie dough she made the other day. Charlie’s good company, and Corbyn’s comfortable around her, so the idea doesn’t sound all that bad. “Yeah, ‘course I am. I’ll have to change out of these shoes before we do, though.” She looks down at her trusted pair of sneakers; worn down to the bone and scuffed around the edges. While they’re certainly comfortable, they’re not her idea of dance attire.

[cvrbyns-blog]

hadlcy.

Hadley is having one of those days. He doesn’t have a shift at the diner until a little later on, he hasn’t had a wink of sleep, and he’s pretty much getting through on excessive espresso and misplaced thoughts alone. Sadly for him, exhausted or not, the show must go on, and he has rehearsals that are schedule specifically to accommodate him that he just can’t miss, which is why he’s not actively looking for ways to keep himself conscious. He hasn’t sat down at all in the last two hours, and nor does he plan to even as he enters the serene space of the tattoo parlor. While the now abroad owner had worked to give it an atmosphere that soothes people, Haddy is hoping to find the opposite, a bag of food in one of his hands, and four drinks in a cardboard tray in his opposite. Just because he doesn’t personally know many of the current staff of Inkredible doesn’t mean he can’t get into their good graces with hot, possibly caffeinated beverages, after all. The only reserved one is marked with a bold, black N on the lid. “Oh, uh.” He’s not really used to being asked questions when he comes in here, at least not out the gate — it catches him off guard, and he hesitates, coming to a stop where he’s stood. Maybe he shouldn’t just roll up in here like he belongs or something, but having a close relationship with the (again, abroad) owner and the current manager apparently makes the power go all to his little head. “Sorry, no. I mean, yes, kind of. Unless you’re busy?” Now he thinks of it, he isn’t even certain November is in. “Do you like coffee?”

Corbyn recognizes his face fairly easily, she’s got a knack for remembering those, and it’s hard to miss someone like Hadley. All she knows is that he and November are close — she doesn’t ever pry for the details or implore more, they all prefer to keep their private lives in their respective lanes unless someone purposefully derails and mentions it to the others. It’s a courtesy thing, only telling when asked, and Corbyn isn’t usually one to ask questions. She’s content with making her own observations anyways, even if they aren’t always accurate. One observation she knows she’s made correctly is that he hadn’t anticipated her addressing him the minute he’d stepped foot in the door, and it begins to bring the slightest of a flush into her cheeks. “Oh, uh, no,” Corbyn says quickly, her voice adopting some adaptation of her customer tone, with the edges of a false cheerfulness and a little louder than her natural volume. People have to hear her, after all, and she’s not known for being the loudest person in a room. “Not busy at all.” Her eyes land on the filled cardboard tray in his hands once he mentions it, perking up a slight bit. “Love it,” she corrects, beginning to slip back into her normal conversating voice once she deducts he’s come as a friend that is perhaps bearing gifts. While she’d prefer giving over receiving, it’s been a slow day and if some form of human company happens to be with a coffee in hand, she’ll take it and find a way to repay later.

[cvrbyns-blog]

sidsgrey.

Sidney sat at the very end of the pier. Their legs dangled over the edge, toes just barely breaking the surface of the water. It was cold, but they enjoyed the shock of it. They air was thick, salty–something about it reminded Sid of calm. They had their guitar in their hands, and they were carefully strumming out notes. The tune wasn’t defined; it was loose, easy, something random and relaxed. Sid hummed along as they played. They had work later that night, and had already taken Mac on their daily walk. It was that empty, hazy period mid-day that they always felt like they needed to fill, somehow. It was too early for work and too late to go back to sleep. So they usually ended up finding something to do. That day they’d peered out into the pale gray of the afternoon and decided it was a good day to play. Sid was lost in their music–eyes closed, shoulders slumped, fingers dancing across the strings. They were so deep in the song that they didn’t even notice the sound of footsteps approaching. They turned around, offering up a soft smile but continuing their strumming.

“Any requests?” they asked warmly, tilting their head and squinting into the sun, “It’s a great day for some music, I think.”

She didn’t frequent the pier, mostly because of the scene it had the potential of drawing — if she wanted to see the water, she typically took to walking along the beach. However, the urge had struck her to get out of the house and go wander along the pier for a little while, and she’d followed it without question. It was rather aimless, Corbyn milling around without any sort of set direction or stop on her list. Most things didn’t change around the pier, an observation even the most undiscerning could have made. Corbyn liked a routine as much as anyone, having thrived off of them for years and years, but she also appreciated spontaneity, a freshness in an otherwise stale flavor that the pier hardly ever gave her when she visited. The sound of music had been floating in the air gave something new back to it, her body seeming to run on autopilot in that direction if only to relish in the ambiance it created for a day like today. She hadn’t meant to disturb them by any means the closer she grew, caught up in her surroundings as a whole, but she had, warmth flushing her cheeks at her exposure. Corbyn was quick to replicate their smile, hers much smaller as she shielded her eyes for a moment to look at them.

“Surprise me,” she offered at their request — as high as she wanted to construct her hopes, she found it very unlikely dancehall was on the possible setlist and that it would be the same interpretation acoustically. Besides, whatever they’d been playing previously had lured her in closer, already wonderful all on its own. “Every day’s a good day for music. Certainly brightens this place up a little, I think,” Corbyn mused. “Do you like to play down here often?—I mean, I only ask because I hardly ever come out here anymore.”

[cvrbyns-blog]

morganbright.

in a shocking turn of events, morgan has actually remembered to eat an appropriate meal, at a semi-appropriate time. alert the mayor, contact the media, and start the parade; who cares about disappearing individuals, when morganna daisy brightman has actually pulled herself away from work long enough to go and get something to eat. it truly is a summertime miracle. fed, coffees in hand in their little cardboard carrier, and cigarette butt tossed to the floor outside inkredible just as she walks through the door, morgan’s rather content with life. “’s just me, dude,” her tone is rather apologetic; she’d noticed that corbyn hadn’t exactly been swamped with clients today. “got you a coffee,” it’s a little warm for piping hot coffee, but morgan couldn’t remember if corbyn  liked it iced or not, or would just rather go without – so she got her one anyway. morgan’s inked a couple of people today, but she has nobody booked in for a good hour or so, and doesn’t usually take walk-ins unless there’s been a cancellation, so she’s free to pull her chair over to corbyn’s station, pluck the coffee from it’s cardboard prison, and offer it to her.  “they spelt your name wrong.”

one without an eye for detail would have certainly missed it, but at the sight of morgan, she relaxed just a little, her shoulders dropping a fraction of an inch. she’s been busier than corbyn during her shift, working through appointments; corbyn liked taking the occasional walk-in customer, most of her bookings typically set during an afternoon or weekend shift. she watches as morgan slides over her chair to her station, offering her a smile as she approaches. “you’re a gem — thank you,” she expresses, taking the cup from morgan’s hands. “lunch sometime this week is on me, promise.” while she doesn’t feel obliged to return the favor, she does feel like it’s a way of expressing her gratitude; she likes morgan, after all, considers her a friend both in and outside of the workplace. corbyn rolls the cup around in her hand to look, and sure enough, she’s right: they’ve royally misspelled her name. "when have you known them to ever spell my name right?” she mutters teasingly. it’s true — having a name with a rather unconventional spelling is an invitation for a slew of misspells, whether it comes from the coffee shop down the street or the occasional bill in the mailbox that the computer generated out wrong. “where’d you go roaming off to that was near a coffee shop?” corbyn asks, taking a sip of her drink. 

[cvrbyns-blog]

pearlescvnt.

So, she’s a little bit bored. It’s her day off, sadly, and as such she has no idea what to do with her time. She’d planned to sunbathe the hours away, but of course today had to be the day the weather changed and the rain began to pour. She could still swim, she supposes, but it seems like a waste of makeup now that she’s got herself glowing like a bronzed goddess. Instead she’s made her way toward the familiar parlour she’s wiled away far more hours in than she’d care to count, only she has no intentions of fresh ink marking her skin today. Instead, the person she’s here to see just so happens to be lounging around, doodling in her chair and looking quite the sight on her belly. It makes Pearl’s lips quirk into a little smirk, brow cocking at the display as Corbyn moves to sit up — like she feels the need to be proper around her of all people — and a hand comes to rest on her hip, jutting it out. “Your shift’s over soon, right?” she glances toward the clock, double checking the accuracy of her words. “Figured we could do something if you’re free?” Do something could mean a lot of things where Pearl is concerned, but she’s willing to go with the flow for now. 

Pearl is a familiar face, once she’s usually glad to see come strolling through the doors of Inkredible. She likes Pearl, likes whenever she comes into the parlour, likes the company she provides when she does. "No ink today?” she quips, the hints of a smile settling onto her lips. At the offer, Corbyn looks down at her watch before doing a quick once-over at the shop. Pearl’s a few minutes early from the official end of her shift, but the current state of the place isn’t holding her back any. Chances are, business wasn’t either rolling through the door until later on in the evening or it wasn’t coming at all. It’s been awhile since she’s contributed to being social, she figures being with Pearl for a little while will do her some good. “Um, yeah,” Corbyn replies, unfolding her legs and swinging them down over the side of her chair as she moves to stand. “Sure, just...let me straighten up really quick.” She cards a hand through the ends of her hair, eyes darting around at the things she needs to straighten up before she can leave. She turns off the radio, stuffing her sketchbook back inside her purse and the last few grapes into a trash bin. Her chair seems to look alright, along with the rest of her space, and she figures if there’s any issue or something’s out of place, it’ll be handled. Corbyn slings her purse over her shoulder and strolls over to where Pearl is waiting, her hand resting on the counter as she stops in her tracks. “Did you have somewhere in mind?” she asks. 

[cvrbyns-blog]

maycs.

her camera stands as tall as she does, directed towards the horizon. to the naked eye, it is a midnight abyss where sea blends to sky. during the morning hours, the sun would illuminate behind the water, and distinguish the land from the atmosphere. immediately before dawn, maya navigates her way to the sand. her goal is to capture a starry night turned purple and orange hues. with her finger on the fire button, one eye closed and the other focused through a microscopic lens, she coincidentally snapped a silhouette figure strolling past during her long exposure. she is not phased by an unpredictable subject, she enjoys capturing others in action. but it is not even morning, the sun is just starting to show its face. curiously, maya calls out, “what are you doing up so early, huh?” her extroversion forcing her mouth open and words out. long nails still gripping the edge of the camera, she appears from behind the viewfinder. 

mornings are corbyn’s typical meditation time; there’s something about the quiet of the early morning, sun barely pushing over the horizon that brings her a certain peace. the peace extends beyond her four walls, most people in town never up early enough for work ( none of them look at the sunrise anymore, she’s discovered ) so she takes the opportunity to go out then and settle on the beach without the baking sun luring overhead or the sounds of commotion swirling around her. some days she’ll bring her yoga mat down by the shores, but today’s mood prompted for more of a stroll. her hands are stuffed in the pockets of her sweater as she ambles along slowly, eyes trained on at the ground beneath her. she’s somewhat startled when she hears someone else call out to what she realizes is her — there’s no one else on the beach at this hour, corbyn, except for you. “sorry?” she repeats, turning in what she thinks is the direction of where the voice has come with a hand shielding her eyes in an vain attempt to see where she’s looking before awkwardly letting it fall by her side when she sees it’s maya. “just a morning person, i guess. i like coming out here for a walk ‘fore the sun comes up, it’s more tranquil.” she rests one of her hands on her hips, rolling all her weight onto that side of her body as she takes a step closer. “could ask you the same thing; you working on something?” 

[cvrbyns-blog]

Things around the shop had been sleepy at best during the morning —  not as though Corbyn anticipated anything else, she didn’t know many people who liked a tattoo with their breakfast tea — the sluggishness rounding out into the afternoon as well. Her shift’s beginning to edge towards a close without any sort of customers coming to her chair for ink, a slight disappointment but a slot of free time to pause for a snack and work on whatever she desired that she appreciates no matter when it happens to fall in her lap. Corbyn’s black sketchbook sits open in front of her as she goes about resuming her work on either what was going to be an incredibly intricate next-tattoo, or a glorified doodle that had yet to find its direction, lying stomach down on her chair. She hums along quietly with the radio, the noise leaking from the small speaker she has set up at her station while she draws, occasionally pausing to reach over for a grape out of the plastic bag close to her. The sound of a door opening from the outside steals her attention as it pierces the mood she’s created, Corbyn glancing over her shoulder in that particular direction before sitting up, adjusting herself so she’s facing the doorway properly. “Hi,” she greets softly, absentmindedly fixing her glasses for a quick moment and then letting her hands fall into her lap. “’S there something I can help you with?”

[cvrbyns-blog]

hi my beauties ! the name’s caro, i’m 19 and from the est timezone, and 'm typing this while hiding from the a/c dude so please bear with me

so first things first, i suppose, hi you guys! idk if any of you will remember my trashy ass, but i was here back a year ago when this beautiful little roleplay opened for the first time with a taylor swift fc (pretty sure it was bunny...) and i’m so glad to see this is back, ‘cause i got hella busy trying to get ready for college and it wasn’t the most fun ever, so if you for some crazy reason remember me, hi! if you don’t, that’s okay, because you will ‘cause i plan on loving each of you down

i won’t ramble for thirty years about corbyn mostly because i’ve already done that (sorry, nat & dash, i don’t know what brevity is) so i’ll keep this short ‘n sweet, and if you wanna read more on her you can gladly do so here and here (this one’s under construction but i’ll get it done as fast as i can)

corbyn’s been in brighton for about four years now after moving from auckland, nz to attend school here (and that fucking failed, lemme tell ya)

she’s a former dancer turned tattoo artist, she’s got some pretty interesting stories about her dance days if you ask + she’s willing to tell

she’s my lil’ cinnamon roll baby, doesn’t look it upon first glance bc resting bitch face but she just loves people and is kinda dorky and wants everyone to feel important and special to her bc they are

also my hella indecisive, has no idea what she wants to do, often self-isolating child who is S U C H an infj, she’ll shut people out sometimes because she just likes being on her own, but also it comes from a place of her being the root of all her problems; she’s very observant and knows what side of herself to show people but she’s also so indecisive about what she wants from people that she’s just all over the damn place???? bear with her

is one of the biggest perfectionists you will ever fucking meet

she identifies as pansexual?? love is a door she’s never really opened and once again, isn’t sure what she wants out romance-wise and is somewhat naive when it comes to that realm of things, she’s not very experienced and is hella awkward

super non-traditional, she’s what the kids call a modern-day feminist and is always trying to learn as much as she can so she’s as socially/politically aware as she can be

100% believes in all the local legends, my little conspiracy-theory-loving child. do not ask her to give you the rumored tattoo - she will turn you away so damn fast

i’m working on getting a connection page up for her as we speak but please feel free to like this or just magically appear in my ims, i’d love to plot with all of you and love your muse babies ! i can’t wait to start writing with you guyss

[cvrbyns-blog]

[cvrbyns-blog]