ENTER THE NEBULA

[distopea]

#𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐀

Ruled and written by your sincere jester, miho (she/her, 30) | timezone gmt+1

↝ low activity | selective | OC and modern verse centered

dark themes: manipulation, stories of lies, murders, fake accusation, morally grey characters, no moral codes, petty intentions, big ambitions, lack of disciplines, psychosis...

⇝ guidelines | muses | lore

𝚆𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚘𝚛 𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚍𝚊𝚛𝚔𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜?

[mannequinentity]

@distopea For Mattia

The hours aren't what they supposed to be, or how he expected them to turn out. It was supposed to be a normal run to fetch groceries; a sales discount or otherwise, he'll beg for crumbs with little to no greens left in his pocket. A dissatisfied feeling, and not without dragging his knees in these ghost parts of the evening, the sidewalks unoccupied, and an eerie sense of someone watching a fellow such as himself.

Each step was worse than the first, and the near collapse made him buckle down until he slid down the brick wall. It's just like the old days when he slept upon these pavements. Not a memory he would love to dwell on, or otherwise he'll believe himself to be—

Worthless or an outworn street filth polluting the streets. No one is here in these hours, thankfully. He can finally take the time to get his bearings and let his knees recover for the time being. That is, if they have any energy left.

And the last resort is sleeping in these streets for the thousandth time.

There were a dozen of them, more than he could count. Knuckles stained a dark shade of purple, and his face; cheeks had a few markings from a knife. He can thank himself for avoiding a stab wound, or otherwise, this journey would be more of a burden than anything else.

A rest is all he needs. That's it.

But before he can drift away to this silence, one eyelid opened to peek at the stranger.

"Yes?"

Empty of emotions except for this exhaustion he succumbed to. "You're not here to steal my shit, are you? I've dealt with many hooligans earlier tryin to kill me, I don't need more trouble, my kind gentlemen. Legs are made out of twigs. All this walking will send me to my grave."

He shut his eyes and then opened them again to remind himself to stay calm under this abrupt appearance.

"Sorry, long night. What can I say, though? I do look like a fish out of water, away from the piranhas, right?" A lighthearted chuckle before downcasting. "More like a runt surrounded by the big dogs..."

[distopea]

The red district always dragged curious people. The faces varied, from the party people wishing to forget about their long week of work, to the escorts trying to earn their cash, the junkies, the addicts, and the homeless. A sight that Mattia knew by heart. He had grown up in that kind of atmosphere, used to seeing violence and sorrow all around him. It was a pitiful sight for sure ; but it was also very familiar and oddly comforting.

He was having a cigarette in the alley behind the Amazon Club. At this hour of the night, it was still very quiet. The night was quite young in the end, and the usual crowd wouldn’t come before a couple of hours. Calm before the usual tempest of electro music, cocktails and fights. He sighed, a cloud of smoke escaping his throat before he accidentally poked into something.

“Shit!” He cursed, looking down. “Fucking cunt, I almost fucking stepped on you!” He huffed, aggressively, but mostly because he had been startled. He hadn’t seen that shadow before. “Ugh?”

Stealing his shit? Mattia raised a brow. Who the fuck would fucking want to steal anything from that piece of shit? He took out his phone, lightening up the flashlight before he squatted down to peek at the stranger.

“Shit, man, what the fuck happened to you?” Despite cursing like a sailor and talking like a thug, Mattia was always a generous heart to those who would deal with violence. “I don’t know what you look like, bro, but I’d say that you’re fucking close to be a corpse.” He shook his head, before he eyed the metallic door of the club. “Tch,” he clicked his tongue. He grabbed the man by the wrist and started to pull on it.

“Get the fuck up. I ain’t stealing your shit, but some drunkard might. Get up, I’m gonna clean up these wounds.” He threw his burning cigarette away. “Damn fucking homeless. Why do you always have to pick up fights in front of my club, man?”

[distopea]

Black cat, snow tiger (❁´◡`❁)

Mattia Lenio & Kaizen Voloroff

awesome commission by Fhadiprat ❤️

[distopea]

Facts about my Italian boys 🗣️

Alessandro

Best English accent among them all, doesn't like when people comment about his Italian accent, he tries to hide it most of the time

Was born in America, but has learned English as a second language for a long time, though, educated enough to cover his accent

Bathed in the Italian culture he has received from both his father and uncle, half Americanized and half coming from Sicily, with traditional roots deeply anchored in him

Moderate religious belief, but rules and laws of the Christian church are also a part of his identity

Would be considered "macho" in his behaviors, feels a clear superiority towards women in general, mostly induced by his education

Gabriele

Thickest and heaviest accent from all the boys. He had to adopt English as his daily language only in his fourties, which means that he often stumbles on word and insert Italian words in his sentence

Deep roots as well in the Italian culture, directly coming from Sicily and Napoli, where he has grown up. He feels a deep difference with the Italo-American culture, and doesn't recognize himself in any

Doesn't believe in God, doesn't feel religious, but somehow has profound fear and inner conflict towards what defines a good person and how this person is supposed to act.

Would be considered both rigid and liberal, he doesn't share a deep understanding of the American culture - he feels profoundly out of step with his line of work, and people's behavior overall

Mattia

Born in America, but deeply pushed aside by his own family to the point that attenting school was truly not their problem, Mattia only had Italian language for a long time, resulting in a rather thick and present accent, despite having a very good knowledge in English

He doesn't feel belonging to the Italian culture, but he likes the warmness coming from the people living in the Italian neighborhood and enjoys some traditional aspects mostly revolving around family bonds and a sense of acceptance

Doesn't feel religious, doesn't believe in God, doesn't feel connected to any religious belief. He has a good relationship with Father Santino who was basically some guidance during his youth, but other than that, Mattia has never really seen the appeal

A fake thug in the end. Mattia has street codes and mobsters codes deeply anchored in him, but he has the softest heart possible. He cares too much, leading him to be the kind of person adoption "strays" and putting himself in dangerous situations for the sake of others.

Has the soft spot for people perceived as outsiders, weak, outcasted... He's very gentle and generous with night workers, escorts and prostitutes, as he has witnessed for a long time the cruelty showed by his own family when they were owning brothels

[distopea]

sending u kissessssss

I send you kisses toooooooooooooooooo TALAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA !!!!!

[distopea]

I'm too much into cosy games, or big story line I guess... Also where are my windwaker lovers?

| from here

[distopea]

Waiting for a commission for both Mattia ans Kaizen, these fucking mobster bros… And just with the first sketch I’m EXCITED

[foolshcme]

we all just suffer, 'cause no one feels that bad  independent multimuse oc please read rules before interacting | heavy trigger warning

[distopea]

Alessandro is an utterly scheming individual.

Fake smiles, gentle friendliness, a way to slowly get into someone's head and mess with it. Alessandro loves his victims: vulnerable, needy, lonely.

Like a true narcissist, he isolates them even more, stepping into their lives and making his presence something both irritating but also needed. He feeds on people's despair, he nests in their weakness, he loves when they rely on him.

[distopea]

For the new spring menu,

Alessandro, Konstantine, Emi

[distopea]

Hi, I'm not dead ... Write with me 𐔌՞. .՞𐦯 !!

[sosordid]

# 𝑺𝒐𝒔𝒐𝒓𝒅𝒊𝒅 , a study in flaws. The Failure of everyday men , The insurmountable incline of circumstance , The hilarity of mundanity , The horror of reflection , and the crucial act of living. Written by 𝑳𝒐𝒃𝒐𝒕𝒐𝒎𝒚 (26) , a private + selective oc multimuse blog. Equipped with a #carrd for your convenience. Modern + Horror + Crime + Mundane ocs. please reblog + like ♡ and follow at your leisure.

⸻ ❛ Give all you've got, under the moonlight. It's yours for the taking. ❜

[archivedmemories1108]

Nastka had arrived early on purpose.

He always did when the stakes were uncertain. Time alone in a room allowed him to dissect it, to feel its pulse before another presence contaminated the air. The private chamber behind the velvet curtains was dim, washed in amber light that clung lazily to the carved wood panels and the heavy green felt of the poker table pushed aside to make space. The scent of polished oak mingled with old cigar smoke and the faint metallic trace of money that had changed too many hands downstairs.

He stood by the far wall when Kaizen entered, not seated, not relaxed. One hand rested loosely at his side while the other adjusted the cuff of his dark shirt with unhurried precision. His posture suggested ease, but it was deliberate, engineered. He preferred to look like a man who had nowhere else to be.

When the door locked behind Kaizen, the click echoed sharper than it should have. Nastka’s gaze shifted to the handle for the briefest second, cataloguing the sound, the implication. Private matter. Good. He would have expected nothing less from someone like him.

He studied Kaizen without lowering himself to the obviousness of staring. The mercenary carried himself like a weapon that had learned to walk upright. The tension in his shoulders was not nervousness but readiness, a body accustomed to recoil and impact. Nastka noticed the way he did not sit, the way he claimed vertical space, leaning instead as if furniture were beneath him, as if even wood and velvet were temporary conveniences.

The flame of the silver zippo flared, brief and bright, reflecting in Nastka’s eyes. He watched the ritual with quiet interest. Men who relied on guns often needed small gestures to remind themselves they still controlled fire.

Am I late

The question hovered between them.

Nastka did not answer immediately.

He let the silence breathe, stretch, become heavy enough to be noticed but not questioned. In that space, he stepped forward, slow, measured, his shoes barely whispering against the floor. He reached the table and pulled out a chair, fingers resting on its back, knuckles pale against dark wood. He did not sit.

Late.

The word was a lie people told themselves to soften the truth. There was no late in worlds like theirs. Only missed chances and poorly timed deaths.

He lifted his gaze to Kaizen at last.

"When I was younger," he said calmly, voice low, even, "my father used to tell me a story."

He paused, watching Kaizen’s face, not for interest but for tolerance.

"A man arrived late to a funeral. The coffin was already in the ground. He apologized. Said traffic was bad. Said he meant no disrespect."

A faint curve touched Nastka’s lips, humorless.

"The dead man did not care."

He stepped closer then, reducing the distance between them until the air itself felt aware.

"The moral was simple," he continued quietly. "Time does not punish you. It simply moves on without you. And when you finally arrive, the outcome is already sealed."

His eyes held Kaizen’s.

"So no," Nastka finished evenly, "you’re not late."

A beat passed, deliberate.

"But if you hesitate too long in this world, you do not arrive late. You arrive irrelevant."

Only then did he turn away, as if the answer had been settled long ago.

He walked past Kaizen without haste, the faint scent of expensive cologne cutting through smoke. Reaching the small bar cabinet against the wall, he poured himself a drink without asking if the other man wanted one. The liquid caught the light like molten amber.

He did not drink immediately. Instead, he leaned his hip against the cabinet, glass resting loosely in his fingers.

The remark from the other lingered behind him.

He turned his head slightly, just enough to acknowledge Kaizen without fully facing him.

"Neither did I."

The words were simple. Their weight was not.

Kaizen was younger in his impulses. Addicted to accumulation. Money. Territory. Recognition. Nastka recognized that sickness well. It made men loud. It made them efficient. It also made them dangerous.

What interested him was not Kaizen’s brutality, nor the blood he had spilled so easily in other people’s names. It was the restlessness beneath it. The hunger that no number ever seemed to satisfy.

The murmurs from downstairs bled faintly through the floorboards. Cards shuffled. Money exchanged hands. Lives continued unaware that two predators were measuring the same stretch of shadow.

Nastka finally raised the glass and took a slow sip, never breaking eye contact over the rim.

He felt no need to reach for a weapon. If blood was spilled tonight, it would not be from temper. It would be because calculation demanded it.

He lowered the glass.

"You locked the door," he observed calmly. "I assume you’re not here for small talk."

His head tilted slightly, studying Kaizen not as a rival, but as a variable.

Inside, there was no fear. Only a quiet, sharpened curiosity.

Kaizen preferred the field. Nastka preferred rooms like this. Rooms where timing mattered more than bullets.

He wondered, not without interest, which of them would understand that first.

[distopea]

Ah, men like him. Kaizen had never liked talking. Talking was perhaps an asset for some, but a flaw to his conception of the world. He blew out a cloud of smoke while the other blonde was filling the room with his nonsense garbage. Late? Yeah, he probably was. He had crossed the entire city, he had passed over red lights, but he had left the Amazon Club late. That was not a tool to toy with, that was just a fact. A way of introducing the conversation.

“Ugh.” He grunted. When he thought of it, people always assumed that his grunts were a lack of dialogue and intelligence, but it was mostly because it was just a profound disinterest in topics that wouldn’t need so much spotlight. He stared at Nastka talking, lost in his riddle of time and sermon, while they could have already moved to the next steps. Funny for someone who seemed so inclined to save time, ugh? What for? Why jerk off his mind like that to simply define that yes, he was late, and no, he didn’t fucking mind.

He took out his phone, quickly checking at the time. Not really much caring about appearing rude either — everyone had business everywhere — he casually texted Mattia, his rather impatient friend, that yeah, in the end, he was probably going to be late again to their meeting again. Seemed like he had found a chatter, or whatever philosopher he thought he was.

“Just like talking.” Kaizen shrugged, blowing out another cloud of grey smoke. “Talking for too long in this world, that’s also irrelevant.” He sighed again. That was nothing but brattiness or an attempt for getting under his skin, it was once again, his honest opinion. That was the reason why he had never enjoyed these meetings either.

He perceived that the most malicious part of his interlocutor would try sneaking into his mind, putting labels on his attitudes, his way of talking, his way of handling things. Truth was, these men in this underground world always thought they knew better.

“No, I’m here to talk business,” Kaizen said bluntly, before he crossed the room and eventually pulled the chair. If Nastka thought that staring at him and drinking slowly would unease him, well, he had found himself some uncaring opponent.

“We got situations to talk about.” He taps the butt of his cigarette over the ashtray. “Turns out, getting rid of this target is trickier.” He looked up, cold, per usual. “You’re in my way, and I’m in yours. We don't need to jerk off one another, I know my boss doesn't need to have you as an enemy.”

[distopea]

@stanislawkowalski !!

It was not very much in his habit to attend these meetings… If meeting was the proper term to explain what was going on. Rarely would he partake in discussions, bored with the useless chat, the egos in the room, and more importantly the lack of actions. He has always preferred the field anyway. He was a man born with a gun extending his digits, and he had the sensation that anything could actually tickle his need to take the cannon out and threaten whoever might think it was a good idea to get under his skin.

Yet, curiosity animated him too. He had heard about this fellow before, Nastka, but he had never encountered him. Courtesy of the underground world, they have evolved apart for many reasons. You wouldn’t put two wolves in the same enclosure ; they would try to eat the other one alive. Those were the inner rules of the hidden mobsters. Colliding together meant having a winner and a loser, and right now Kaizen wouldn’t ever be pictured as a surrender.

Stairs going down, a metal door. A private club with illegal bets and other poker nights somewhere downtown. Some dirty cash for lowly gangsters and their wide pockets, but also the perfect cover for whoever wanted to have a chat. He hoped there weren’t too many prying ears tonight ; he would have to cut them right after the meeting if tongues felt the urge to spill secrets they shouldn’t talk about. Knocking on the door, his face was well-known enough for the gatekeeper not to ask for a password.

Rather, the atmosphere was quite tense right now. When he walked inside, murmurs and side looks would escort the few authorized card tables, but Kaizen was already moving, heading to the back of the room, behind red velvet curtains and a wooden door.

“Am I late?” He asked when he noticed that Nastka was already there. It was annoying, but it wouldn't show on his features. He grabbed the handle of the door, and he locked it behind his back. Whatever might be the turn of their discussion, if blood was spilled, then it would be their private matter. He wouldn’t really care about being late or not, but he didn’t like the undermining of it. He wouldn’t sit down right away either, preferring to lean against a piece of furniture and lighten a cigarette with his silver zippo.

“Mmh…” He peered at him, like an animal trying to cease the danger of another one. “Never thought we would be talking one day.”

[distopea]

Facing a neglecting mother on tumblr... but you can reach out on discord, I'm not dead I promise 😭

[distopea]

Tangled in our bug world... for @sosordid

|| do not repost / commission by fhadiprat on v_gen!

[foolshcme]

we all just suffer, 'cause no one feels that bad  independent multimuse oc please read rules before interacting | heavy trigger warning