#vilestblood.

[desalvar]

@vilestblood // horror starter ghskjs

"Now this.. is what I'm talking about." He lifts it with a flourish and a weaponized delay, gleefully conscientious of Antonín's direct line of sight just behind him. It's in the antiquarium's discount bin, ornate frame ruined with royal blue overlay and painted on a canvas just shy of being tolerably sized. Something like 16x14.5, the Thing depicts - piteously enough - a brilliant desert landscape in its middle. Brushed on with care and tasteful strokes, perspective perfectly honored and colors matching, it's unfortunately offset by the most hideous of mustard skies. There's been an attempt at steepling - something to the effect of disturbingly hair-like texture - but the value is flat the entire way through and the slab of white on the left looks nothing like a cloud. Still.. it utterly pales in comparison to the comically small figure in the off-middle, plastered on without care for distance or depth. It is staring at the viewer with its awful, almond-shaped eyes, jaunted at the hip.

Surrealism doesn't even begin to describe it.. Middle school art class might.

Nik turns to grin. "For our bedroom."

[vullcanica]

"To me, all shall kneel, but you. To you - all but me." — 𝐊𝐢𝐧𝐠/𝐊𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐞

@vilestblood

[vitalphenomena]

@vilestblood said: ❛ No, it’s okay. You didn’t wake me. ❜

DAVY FRETS. "Are you sure? Are you certain?" His phone is pressed so close to the side of his face that the warmth of its screen begins to feel oppressive. Sighing, he brings his phone away from his face to check his email—again—and put Antonín on speaker.

"I cannot sleep," he blurts. He sounds loud and abrupt in his dark, empty apartment—in his lumpy, empty bed. (He loves and hates living alone.)

"And you are always working, I know, so I thought that, maybe, you would be awake. Hopefully not too busy, but awake. — are you busy?"

[sxnguinesxnctum]

✏ !!

[ gio's wishlist of muses ; ACCEPTING ]

[ hello. And welcome. To to first of likely many muses gio doesnt play specifically bc she wants to play WITH them more than play them.

Pieter Van Eckhardt from Tomb Raider Angel of Darkness. One of the main antagonists of the game, an immortal alchemist who kills people by fucking up the elements and organisms in their body, leader of the Not Illuminati, evil bad guy with a low voice that makes me blow up. I love him so much but id love for my girl Lara to shoot him more. ]

[bloodebayou]

so this is gonna take me 20 years to write LOL

[miratenebrarum]

"with some luck neither of you will survive the winter"

[fishermcn]

🤝🏻 👀 er or bb verse

@vilestblood // a chance bargain struck that ill-omened night; yet back to back they fight till the dying light // accepting.

i.) it started with raised eyebrows at an honest-to-rot black knife perusing his wares before shrugging and selling his usual stock of lethal implements, aromatics, and other tools of the trade. it developed when one evening it wasn't crow but the bloodthirsty thing living inside him that showed up half-dead from some fight or another and hungry for sustenance. sam came away from the encounter with a fresh batch of scars and a new deal (offered at a much safer distance): let sam study and test samples of crow's blood, and he'll work on developing a suppressant to try and reign in any uncontrollable impulses.

ii.) while their agreement hinges on sam's immediate disposal of crow's blood once testing has concluded, those relatively short windows of study alone have filled many pages of sam's tattered journal. this deepened understanding of the formless mother's influence and its relation to the victim's blood has lead to drastically more deadly recipes that rely on such things... as well as a few theories on how to subvert her influence.

iii.) sam has recently hired crow to hunt down those cleanrot knights that still wander caelid, melting down their armaments in an effort to purify the traces of unalloyed gold forged within them for use in their shared interests. while not one to shy from conflict, sam knows when he's outmatched, and those still-sworn to malenia are dangerous enough to warrant crow's services.

[kxllerblond]

don't make promises you can't keep, darling.

The businessman doesn't answer at first, index and middle finger tapping away at some nonsensical rhythm there on the table. Clark didn't always let slip his obvious 'I'm thinking and choosing my words carefully' tells, but when he did they were bountiful and plenty.

❝ Well, I don't, dear. Promises mean quite a good deal to me, you see. I don't make any I don't intend to keep. ❞ he, admittedly, often bit off more than he could chew in that moment-—but he always chewed it in the end, somehow and someway.

❝ If you're implying that's what you think of my ethic. Well, then I'd be incredibly wounded and just a little pissed off, admittedly. ❞

[desalvar]

@vilestblood // cont. from x

  It's only a little daunting how well-kempt pristine the whole neighbourhood looks. He hadn't predicted that 'old' in Antonín terms meant the well-preserved historic kind with cornice and friezes, not whatever wreck falling apart at the bricks Nik had come from, so his well-loved ACDC shirt's a little bit of a sore foot against the tasteful backdrop. He wouldn't be surprised at a dress code of ironed socks around here.

The face at the end of Antonín's accusing little fingers scrunches up in mockery, joke abandoning his tongue in lieu of laughing. "Semantics." Yes, he remembers the younger, dumber days well. Too well, in fact, by virtue of a faded scar and badly-aged insults.   (('Like you can talk, princess! Whoever gets you's gonna have to be either dumb, broke or blind!))   Oh, he'd pay money for his scrappy little pipsqueak self to witness this and clutch his pearls. Cainhurst and Desalvar, hand in hand on their way to willingly sharing a space. (-- Well.... maybe..)

His hand dips to Antonín's waist while he rustles for the keys, shoulder indulgently leaned against his own. "I'll agree to drop the 'crazy' if you stop packing your dress shirts by categories."

The interior is spacious. Terribly spacious, by the looks of the decent-sized main room, even this barely lit and lumpy with covered furniture as it is, lined with far too many doors and tall radius windows for comfort. He's left standing dumbly in the middle, weighing his choices, eyes drawn to the cooker as its glass-ceramic top gets a light shined on it. This is.. too nice. "And you're sure this is free? For the both of us?" Does the landlord know about me, he means to ask until Antonín turns, backlit against the speckled english landscape and the green blot of some park opposite ( -- He could get used to the view.. ) , and snatches his hand.

There's only time for an incredulous smile before he's whisked through the sheet maze beyond, enraptured by his best friend chattering to him about the space. The balcony's big enough for Antonín's stupid plants and a chair or two, overgrowth permitting, and the kitchen's fit to cook his soups and steaks on. Until- "And we have a bathroom each?" He might've been envisioning it just fine before the double bedroom reveal. It.. well. Logical, yes, yet perplexing. "It's.. bigger than I thought." Is what he probably means.

[vullcanica]

“You’re like a big, dirty raccoon.” (Affectionate — for Nik 💖)

 "Half your fault."

 And he has the audacity of one too, stretched in full over their little garden swing, hands dirty up to the forearm and head pillowed sweetly onto an inviting lap. Grinning. There's a growing stain on one pristine linen sleeve where he's lovingly stroking his husband's wrist. Since Antonìn doesn't move, he takes it as acquiescence.

 "If you didn't want some awful cretin bare-fisting your begonia dirt, you shouldn't have invited him in the garden at all." A playful dig. But he doesn't mean it. Not really. Not with the smooth purr of his voice at its most content. Left with a pleasant ache from hours of gardenwork, he's laid out his achy bones and sweat-soaked meat and secured a worm's-eye vantage to Antonín's fondly exasperated smile. Resting, simple as that. It's warm out. They have homemade lemonade on the little glass-top table nearby. There's a sunbeam caught in one loose silvered strand of hair up above, perfectly sundialling something like ten in the morning. It might be heaven.

 His weight heaves gently, ankle anchored over the swing's armrest, and a hip pops out long-overdue tension. God, but he's getting old. "He might need some upgrades soon, if he's to catch up with you." Perhaps it's time to get it over with and get his bones nailed down secure...

 With the huff of a satisfied bear stealing his coherence, he turns to bury his nose in Antonín's warm belly and rests his eyes. The arm he's stolen tucks securely under his chin. Ah, he'll wash the stain out himself later.

[vitalphenomena]

A SUMMER FLITTING ABOUT EUROPE WITH ENDLESSLY DISPOSABLE INCOME MEANS, FOR MARGOT, PICTURESQUE AND EFFORTLESS LUXURY. Sometimes, people like Margot and Antonín are at a risk for not knowing how good they have it. Both of them can be angry, petty, mean—whatever for? Isn't life perfect?

She visits Antonín not because it's him, but because, sure, what the hell, why not? Leaving the continent for a reunion with someone who's been present in her life since childhood is exactly what this quick little trip was all about. Indulgence, spontaneity, a world without consequence.

Margot is twenty-three years old. She has just graduated—is proud enough of her accomplishments academically and in regards to the sport of chess that her parents' lofty ambivalence hardly stings. She won't talk to Antonín about that at all; in their younger years, they angsted about feeling unloved and invisible enough for a lifetime.

After dinner, they walk to Antonín's current lodgings—where he stays while he finishes school, prepares for his career. Margot speaks animatedly; she brought her travel chess set, and she can't want to see if Antonín has improved. She tells him about playing against her boyfriend, playing in tournaments, desperate for something challenging. She meanders back to talking about her boyfriend; it is often like this.

Antonín interrupts.

@vilestblood said: "in the end, there might not be a difference between trusting someone and underestimating them."

Margot suddenly appears flat and empty. Her big eyes go dull.

"You have no idea what you're talking about. When was the last time you let yourself get close to anybody?"

[sxnguinesxnctum]

"Great. I was just wondering when you would pop up."

He's so tired.

[chateautangerine]

@vilestblood asked: [ 𝐃𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐊 ] ― sender makes receiver a cocktail to try 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐒𝐄𝐒 (accepting)

Come to the bar. 

Have a drink with me. 

Cliff lifts his head from the telegram. The room is alive. 

Down the waxed herringbone floors, his footsteps muffled by the sound of clinking champagne glasses. The numerous, innumerable conversations between people he may or may have never known, all of them draped in dinner jackets and trailing, glinting dresses, clusters of them in groups that stretch out and rise against the railing of the infinite floors above.  

He doesn’t think about it. This is normal. He thinks about the telegram—Come to the bar. Have a drink with me—and a face surfaces muddy-cotton-y in his sleeping brain. 

He’s here. 

Who wants to see him? It smells of tangerines. He recognizes the song as “Nocturnes”, and pays no mind to the warbling guests here. No mind to their faces smeared like the remains of a cheap eraser, grayed rubbed smudged. Down the penrose steps, his shoe touching down. The room suddenly empty save for one. 

It smells of tangerines. He recognizes the song as “Nocturnes”, slightly off-key. They’re obscured by a column, part of their face reflected on a mirror upfront: short red hair. A tattoo on the arm. He blinks. Charred black hair and pointed teeth. He blinks. A scar at the throat.

He stops at the bar. The song warbles. Cliff unpeels his hand from the column, and he ebbs over.

“I made you wait, didn't I...” he starts, bedside whispered. His chair makes no noise as he settles in, and, dreamily, he says, "Lord, look at you."

There's a glass by his hand. His friend had ordered it for him. An orange slice perches on the brim, the drink inside of it potent cough-syrup red. He thinks vaguely of cranberries and cherries.

A wrist lying limp, poking out of a corner.

"Why didn't you call, I wonder?" he asks, not expecting an answer, his face muted. Cliff wraps his fingers around the glass. Then, faraway, "I wrote you a letter."

He knows this man. He turns around. He knows him like the back of his hand. Like they've grown up together. Cliff hasn't seen him in an indefinite span of time, and he knows him by his starry gray eyes and his dead skin the way Cliff knows a well-loved book, the spine tatty and creased from too many perusals, each page absolutely empty. He knows him like he knows faces but none of the names. Like how you have never seen yourself, only through mirrors. A picture.

The man looms over him, gangly and gnarling and tall; strange and unbelonging, like something in the corner of your eye. Nothing is there. The song plays backwards.

"You're bleeding, you know," Cliff says, high and ribbony. He reaches out to hug him.

The man may or may not have smiled, his mouth and chin stained red.

The wrist lies limp in the reflection of the mirror.

[lancelot-sharpkeen]

"this is a no gnomes zone we hate gnomes we hope gnomes blow UP"

[miratenebrarum]

@vilestblood

No 👁

throws the frog in his hand at his face

[biskael]

@vilestblood said : “ coal . “

“ AND WHAT , PRAY TELL , makes you think I’m deserving of such ? what a childish notion to possess . “