BLOOD BOND

multimuse  /  private, independent, selective

[juramentum-archive]

   multimuse blog of canon & original characters as collaged by crow.               21+, private, independent and selective.  /   sideblog to @vacantwar

                              ( rules - character list )                                             icons courtesy of @popsicons

[crimsonicons]

150 commissioned icons of Xu Xialing from Shang-Chi for @juramentum​​​

More commission info here!

Before & after can be found under the cut

Keep reading

[crimsonicons]

150 commissioned icons of John Constantine from Constantine for @juramentum​​​

More commission info here!

Before & after can be found under the cut

Keep reading

[juramentum-archive]

SPOCK.

                A SMALL FLAME IGNITES at the back of his skull. Spock is accustomed to scrutiny; she knows that. Even before his arrival to Earth, it’s been this—watching, judgment, definitions that were created for him and never with him. Leaving the compound was a label Spock designed for himself, and for her. It began as a drop of ink, a black dot that stained the parchment of her father’s laws and grew wild into the skin. As a Vulcan, it is illogical to feel pride. But how long has it been since he last heard them? The tenets of Surak were the first words he could speak, told and retold until they made the shapes of bones, aiming to the glimmer from his eyes. He’s learned since being here, the grass under his bare feet instead of the sand. Spock hasn’t forgotten where he came from; he was reminded of it every day, every day to the moment they left this vast and powerful prison. “Indeed,” he says finally, an answer to both those statements. Below them, they will new soldiers in this army, new banners, and wealth. And Spock has never feared the mark of a challenge. “Your father’s enemies are now yours, as well. However, to that, I say let them come.”

     CONVERGING BENEATH THEIR FEET are the future and the past, set in stone, in bricks, in the years that have passed and the blood spilled to build this empire she has inherited. But Xialing was never taught to cower, and never thought to do so in the face of adversary. She was raised with fists to the pillar of a wall in her own making, in secrecy, bold and rebellious in her silence of a second born daughter without a mother. Her own scrutiny became the mark of her ambition.

That she could be more, that she will be more, that she is—more.

Ever since she knew what it means to fight, Xialing has fought with defiance that had once flared into rage and now tapers into strength. Spock’s presence is a reminder to this fact: that she is not alone. Never has been, never will be, not anymore.

“We have a lot to do,” she announces, gazing at the sky beginning to darken, “let’s not waste any more time.”

[juramentum-archive]

SPOCK.

                   PERHAPS, IT IS MERELY A MATTER of perspective. But Spock has invested much, has given much, will always give much, and to this warrior of her own making, not the hand that came before it. The Ten Rings is a dynasty forged from blood, anger—Spock has felt it simmering beneath the concrete he stood on as a child. He feels it, too, conflict in his bones. It was their home. It still is, in a way. “Yes,” Spock nods to the potential written into the stone, “—now it belongs to another. It belongs to you.” It’s not designed as a comfort what Spock says. Xialing has never required pity or placating words. He only speaks the truth; she is his ne ki’ne, his shield partner. Spock has never lied to her. He has no intention to start, “And it will be whatever you wish it.”

     EVER SINCE SHE WAS a child, Xialing has been living inside a cage. They raised her to be a proper daughter, whose hands were soft, who never knew violence until she seeked it out on her own. And when her mother died, they sheltered her as if she was fragile porcelain until she came to learn only how to trust herself— herself, and Spock. 

Even after they’d escaped the confines of these stone walls, the revelation of her father’s all-seeing eyes that kept track of both her and her brother dropped like heavy stones in her guts. Never did she once understand true freedom before this moment, seen the world for what it truly is behind the illusion of choice, at the cost of yet more lives.

“It will be greater,” she vows, because it belongs to her, now. Xialing turns, watching Spock. “You will have to prove to them that you’re worthy to stand by my side. They are watching you, Spock— watching us.”

[juramentum-archive]

𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐝𝐝𝐥𝐲 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐟𝐢𝐜 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬 / xialing

1. What does your muse smell like? Of amber and vanilla, black pepper and cedarwood. It’s earthy, sweet and spicy, warm on her neck and skin. Sandalwood incense once, when she was younger and sat by her mother’s shrine for hours a day. Now, the scent lingers only sometimes (and it’s then you’d know where she had just been). 

2. What do your muse’s hands feel like? Calloused. She is a fighter. Strong and sure; steady, slender and true to her aim. They are powerful hands, ones that have kept her alive all these years. 

3. What does your muse usually eat in a day? Anything she wants, now that she’s no longer bound to the strict mealtimes set in her household. From snacking on egg tarts to curry fish balls, to bamboo steamed pork ribs over rice, laksa noodle soup, or beef noodle soup, and siu mai from Seven Eleven (not forgetting dimsum for breakfast every other week)— even fast food varieties, she’ll eat whatever she feels like eating at that time. Xialing likes to eat, and she isn’t a meager eater. 

4. Does your muse have a good singing voice? It’s a voice that sounds better humming melodies and quietly singing under her breath than belting out loud. 

5. Does your muse have any bad habits or nervous tics? Not at a glance. Discipline has been trained into her bones. But there are times where Xialing will sit with one or both of her knees up and her arm hooked around her own leg. It’s an act of self comfort, for all the times no one was around. 

6. What does your muse usually look like/wear? Dark and comfortable clothes. Also practical ones, when it comes to fighting and travelling. Ideally, with lots of pockets. She likes strong, durable boots. Her hair is always neat, cut into a chin-length bob. Meticulous fingernails, and a pristine overall appearance. 

7. Is your muse affectionate? How much? How so? She tries to be. But she’s grown with so little of it. Shortlived, gone the moment her mother passed away. But she tries, hard. It’s in her subtle words, when she says us instead of me. Ours instead of mine. It’s in the companiable silence, and the squeeze of her hand. Xialing has a lot of love to give, she just doesn’t know where it’ll go— where it can go, and how it’ll be received. 

8. What position does your muse sleep in? Sideways, most of the time. With her back facing the wall, and another pillow in her arms, ideally. Or a person, but that’s circumstancial.

9. Could you hear your muse in the hallway from another room? No, you can’t. Her steps are light and graceful, her voice level enough even when they tremble with emotion. Xialing is not a loud person, but her presence is loud and demanding even when she stands in silence.

Tagged by: @fasciinating <3 thank you Tagging: Whoever sees this!

[juramentum-archive]

SPOCK.

     HE LOOKS OUT INTO A FORTRESS built from stone, centuries of bloodshed and war smothered into the concrete. There is something old here. And Spock sees an entire world that needs changing, a mentality that needs to evolve. He looks out onto center floor and sees the snap of limbs, sharp hands, and shifting loyalties. He looks beside him and sees something greater, something tangible. Spock looks at all this, what awaits them, at her, what all can be possessed at the edge of fingertips, and sees potential. “—everything.”

     IT TAKES THREE SYLLABLES for Xialing’s eyes to mold into the sharp shape of her sheng biao— honed with a precision she paid to earn with her blood, her sweat, and her tears. This is what he sees: everything. And in it, she sees the rubbles of her father’s legacy. Her jaw flexes before her lips part, breathing in the stale air of an old painting she will rebuild to her own image. Xialing pulls her shoulders back. 

“This is what he left us, Spock,” her gaze sweeps the courtyard, “a thousand-year-old heirloom. His empire. My prison and my home—” for a time, once, and now, “—our home.”