#oc silk

[lydia-too-late]

(Another) Desert Vignette

Tula is looking up at the sky, squinting at the stars through tissue-paper clouds, the atmosphere gone faint hellfire above the distant city lights, a rolling-Earth harbinger of terrible orange-red. One may think the wildfires won. One may think of calamity. One may think: Three hours until certain death.

The suburbs dissolve beneath their feet as they venture farther from San Narciso. Out here, the scrubby hills and city repose together on the landscape. Slums somewhere, too, sloughing off the edges of everything.

"We could just run." Silk scuffs their boots. They inhale just to snort. "Hay unos veinte kilómetros, algo así. Maybe we even make it back." A leathersounding shrug. "That's a joke."​

In the moonlight, Silk's lashes cast heavy shadows over their eyes. She follows the darkness to the hollow beneath their cheekbones, between their parted lips, behind their tongue. She touches the bite marks on her wrists. Red, raw and open, glistening, but they don't bleed. They don't hurt.

The desert is always half dream. In the distance, a coyote screams into the night's silence and rouses a chorus, offering their unearthly din to the moon's slow descent. She's seen Luna there before: the tall, whip-thin silhouette on a distant hill, surrounded by her pack. But not tonight. We could just run. One of Tula's fingertips presses into her wound, splitting it obscenely open. It does not bleed, but it hurts.

(She shrugs, not-quite-smiling. "I'm sure there's a car trunk somewhere along the way…")

Her throat feels tight. She lifts her wrist to her lips, tonguing the puncture like a child, an animal. The warm, saltmetal taste sits on the tip of her tongue.

Silk is looking at her, all sleepy eyes and strange, hard beauty. Tula is looking at them too, eyes wide and rich-girl hungry above her wrist. Their jacket has fallen open, framing a starved waist and soft hips. The bones of their sternum between the halter's illusion of breasts. The excruciating shadow of hair trailing several inches below their navel. The profanity of their shorts, the way they pull tight around their hips and thighs. She wants to push them down to the ground. Make them say her name. Make them moan her name. Make them say it, say it…

Tula jerks herself back; her wrist falls away guiltily. "Just hungry," she dismisses the moment, shrugging like Silk shrugged, her shame hidden with a scowl. They could never outrun it, neither one of them.

[stellarluck]

Some sketches

Full page:

[harbors-heart]

Silk is so prettyyyyyyy

Silk is shared custody with @mordo-draws

[chocodile]

A wizard can be anything, you know.

[lydia-too-late]

Hi there! Wanna know what kinda place you've stumbled into?

I'm a real, live human-person. She/her, creative dilettante, art dabbler, writing enthusiast.

I'm here for the writing and the vampires, mostly, but straying wildly off-topic is part of the fun. I often post my writing, much of it about an OC VtM character named Tula Redgrave, a Lasombra neonate and reluctant diablerista. You may find her here, and beneath the cut.

FULL NAME :: Talulah (Tula) Redgrave

APPARENT AGE :: 26 (embraced 2020)

ACTUAL AGE :: 31 (born 1995)

Important Note: Self Control is set in 2026

CLAN :: Lasombra 

SIRE :: Evelyn Astor. Blonde, perfectly coiffed, perfectly dressed, sharp bones, sharp eyes, sharp bearing; embraced 1930s, in her late 40s or early 50s. (She’s not the type of woman you’d dare to ask.) Widowed young in her mortal life, Evelyn presumably caught the eye of her sire by being the era-rare businesswoman who went fiercely toe-to-toe with her male contemporaries. Evelyn never offered Tula much insight into her past, her powers, or her personal philosophies beyond Never Lose. She’s Lasombra. Who really wants to revisit all of those betrayals? 

HAVEN :: An elderly woman’s apartment. A moment of weakness for Tula, and a door to the sublime for the owner, Ethel. The body is gone, and the bills are (presumably) autopaid from an unknown account. Eviction notices have been regularly appearing on the door, and it appears Tula’s time at Ethel’s place is running out.

STATUS :: Tula has been in Las Alturas for about seven months. For much of that time, she was only very loosely affiliated with kindred society, working as a bartender for Salvator Santos, ghoul to a prominent local Anarch (Miel, the “Party Baron”). She now works directly for Miel, doing odd jobs: protection, message-delivering, information-finding.

Porcelain doll, but make it tomboy. Average height and thin frame, with enough lean muscle on her limbs to suggest some athleticism in her mortal life. Hungry cheekbones, full lips. Resting scowl-face. Some nonspecific and irrelevant European heritage: pale skin, a fading scatter of freckles, sun-starved red hair in lazy, haphazard curls. Mostly casual fits and no makeup, but she’s not against being better turned-out for special occasions, especially if someone else is willing help. (Again. Lasombra.) Overall, there’s a sense of rawness in her bearing and demeanor, of potential unrealized.

LIKES

:: The inhale and exhale of waves against a shore, the lure of potential in a far horizon.

:: The three photos she still has of herself, taken prior to her embrace, the edges grown soft from handling. 

:: Bass, the kind that splits deep, like a primal echo, like the shudder of life in her slumbering cells. 

:: Baths. Hot water warming her skin.

DISLIKES

:: Bartending. (You’d like her to smile? If only you knew how sharp her teeth were, you wouldn’t ask.)

:: Fluorescent lighting. The pallor of her skin. The anemic shadows. The diseased-looking kine. What was bad with mortal eyes has become intolerable with vampire ones. 

:: Toreadors. They are the worst. 

:: You’ve heard this story before. Poor little rich girl. Perhaps Tula wasn’t real rich, not fuck you rich. She shouldn’t have had any complaints. Both parents were doctors, both smart, capable, distant. Why they chose to have a child is a mystery; no one involved appeared to take much pleasure in the arrangement. The memories of her childhood - the trips, events, holidays - consist of being surrounded by disinterested adults offering tight, tense smiles. A series of shifting backdrops for her solitude. 

:: Typical high school boyfriend, typical college break-up. A prestigious grad school meant perpetual stress: keen loneliness, the specter of inadequacy. Pills. First occasionally, then persistently.

:: How she attracted the attention of Dr. Astor — Evelyn — in this state, she’s not sure. What started as a professional relationship rapidly turned personal; soon she had no secrets, no time or interest to devote to anything but her mentor and their work. Tula’s memories of the the night she was embraced are painful and confusing. She knows she suffered. She knows Evelyn laughed to see it. She knows the wretched pit of emptiness already existing within fractured deeper, went darker, and grew teeth.

:: Evelyn was precariously Camarilla, still earning their trust, and as a result, she was obsessive about Tradition and Decorum. Any misstep on Tula’s part was a threat to her standing, and she never let it be forgotten.

:: To become a recognized member of the Atlanta Camarilla, the Prince tasked Tula with the hunting and killing of a Tzimisce infiltrator within their city - a test for both her personal loyalty, and the “quality” of her Sire’s bloodline. She was given three nights.

:: On the second night, Tula found and fought the Tzimisce, an alien-tall, long-limbed, long-tongued creature named Luna. She should have lost that fight. Yet miraculously, when vitae spilled in terrible abundance, it wasn’t hers. Tula couldn’t resist — she drank and drank, unthinking, beastly, until she’d consumed Luna’s essence. 

:: Evelyn and the Prince were horrified by the diablerie. The act was primitive, base, corrupting. Soul-level soiled by Luna’s Tzimisce blood, Tula was a mongrel, unfit for their society. She was banished from the city and disowned by her sire. It was mercy not to kill her, they said, but no one expected her to survive long on her own anyway.

:: (Important note for the future: Evelyn had killed at least two of her childer prior to Tula. Unbeknownst to Tula, their bloodline is particularly inclined to diablerie, and more specifically, the diablerie of one’s own sire. It is likely that it traces back to Sybil, the only woman embraced by Lasombra himself, though all of these facts are murky, debatable.) 

:: For a little over a year, Tula meandered westward, broken and haunted. Surviving, but barely. Tortured by Luna’s memories of her Sabbat pack and their animal companionship, projected like dreams throughout her daysleep. 

:: Las Alturas was land’s end, the very edge of the hemisphere on the banks of the broad Pacific. Nowhere else to go. Skittish, bitter, mistrusting, she got a bartending job at a ghoul-owned bar named Otros and laid low. It felt like waiting. She didn’t know for what. 

:: When a kindred called Silk dropped a parcel by Otros, she recognized them from her dreams: Luna’s favored packmate, her most beloved. The possessive, obsessive feelings, the bloodbonded intimacy. Tula was overwhelmed by it. Silk, too, sensed something magnetic in Tula, and after only a few interactions they were inseparable. Is it the blood? Is it real? Are those things mutually exclusive? 

:: Tula must, in the near future, tell Silk about Luna. Was Luna, via dream-memory, nudging Tula toward her former packmate, delivering this diablerist into the arms of revenge? Was Luna simply tormenting Tula with memories of love and belonging, because -- despite all of her privilege and opportunities -- it was something she never had? Is this obsession all Tula’s own doing, the result of her fundamental inability to practice restraint? To what extent is Tula’s free will impacted by Luna’s blood? And how much does it even matter?

:: Tune in next week. Or next month. Or whenever we figure it out. 

[milkyblocky]

and heres cure silk with her friends, cure ripple (green) and cure cattleya (purple)! i tried to emulate the style of official precure renders

[ibunyang]

decided to color these doodles before i posted them...weehehe once again...my version of mc for the wonderful fic by @megamegan213 https://archiveofourown.org/series/3972631

[lydia-too-late]

Pros: power

Cons: now you’re in love with their ex

"Kill them with kindness <3" WRONG. Diablerie 🧛🏼‍♂️🍽🧛🏻

[whirlwindwonderland]

Scrolling through the Slay the Princess tag, I saw @bubblybloob's Fae Princess route idea and I thought it was real neat, so I decided to doodle up a fake screencap to try and mimic the game style. Good way to kill a morning!

[rainbow-neko-artblog]

creechur meet clown

[sothequeensays]

The child stresses one thing: that the Pale King failed to create even a single truly hollow vessel

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Labeled cameos:

[lydia-too-late]

“Meghan,” she’d said.

“You’re all Megan?” 

“Yeah. Well. I mean. It’s spelled differently. I’m Meghan with a ‘g-h’ — there’s also Megan with just a ‘g’ and Meagan with a ‘e-a-g.’”

The letters dissolved into incoherence, near irrelevance. Tula cut her eyes to Silk, then back. “Are there any more of you?”

“Nah,” Meghan shrugged, sharp white bones flashing in the dark. “I mean, we looked it up, and there are like ten different spellings, so there could be. We’re figuring it out. So, like. Anyway. Are you coming or not?”

Meet The Megans. From right to left: Meagan, Megan, and Meghan. The former pair are thinbloods, and the latter is a third they've claimed to ghoul. What they want is anyone's guess.

[maple-and-pie]

Couple of my OCs

[milkyblocky]

cure silk and cure ripple's power-up form, imago mode! i want it to look like a natural evolution of their base form since the imago form represents the final stage of an insect's metamorphosis

[mothfulhansel]

a silkmoth lady oc i made out of the blue, her name is Lovet

[silkwxtch]

The citizens of Vault 101 imo should’ve at least been a little hesitant around the Lone Wanderer in Trouble on the Homefront because this kid, barely an “adult”, that you either watched grow up or grew up alongside left the only safe place you knew in such a violent stir, that they killed security guards, (and depending how you played, killed the Overseer,) came back an estimated 2 weeks later, and is surviving. You know how metal it would’ve been to have characters comment on the way the Lone Wanderer looks? Things like, “You’re looking a little worse for wear.” or “Is that your blood?” Idk I’m rambling but I love Lone Wanderers