you are nothing but a speck of dust.

severin moran;2nd son of sir augustus, disappointment personified.we are conglomerates of particles and nothing but. destruction is the purest form of beauty. perfection lasts but the fraction of a second. boom.indie crime rp account. we are not ryan gosling. feel free to say hi anyway.est. 2014, reboot 2020

[perdefinitio]

since i’ve got a bunch of new followers i just wanna say: hi there! 🥴 if any of you wanna write with me, please please please come talk!!! lemme spam you with ideas for how our characters might know each other (perhaps they share friends/enemies??) or how they might (not) get along -- if you love rambly discord essays, i’m your gal. 💕 let’s plot!!! my name’s nat (she/her), 25+.

please note: severin is a crime oc, rather slippery explosives expert + long-time drug addict; mostly single-ship with @kryetar + affiliated across most verses with @dadukos, @kalixus, @crimewrought. ♥

rules / about + character sheet / verses / hc tag / aes / tracker

disco: master of tasks#2732 ; wire: perdefinitio ; multi: rvolving

[perdefinitio]

(water pistol to your head) send memes. 😤

[vitalphenomena]

"H-hello?"

What's it called when you've already had so many life crises that a breakdown in your forties is kind of just par for the course, kind of just the continuation of a pattern that ultimately makes sense to you now? It's not exactly midlife, not exactly quarter life, either, but this sickly thing in between that makes Weston Westmoreland feel pathetic.

In other words, he saved up money from the shop to buy a motorcycle and crashed it almost immediately. Business had been good starting early September. His medical bills will ensure he sees none of the rewards. Health care, am I right?

The man who walks into Weston's hospital room — shit's so serious that he's got his very own place to stay, no dividers, just bona fide walls — does not belong here, not by a long shot. At first he thinks it's someone from the war, but they only see each other at weddings and funerals, really. So who the fuck is this guy?

"Are you s— are you seriously implicating me in this. right n-n-now?"

He doesn't want to be part of a drug crime. He's already considered at fault in the accident, see. The last thing he needs is police attention, the look in their eyes when they realize who he is.

"Junkie! Hey! I'm talking — talking to you!"

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there's a certain stage you reach on withdrawal, a certain single-mindedness, that does fucking wonders tuning out irrelevant distractions. and he's easily distracted, under normal circumstances. (technically this is his normal, but--) right now, severin's fully prepared to ignore the fuck out of the wimpy nobody threatening to witness his stop-and-grab. pick-and-mix. cheeky little snack break.

                   but then the guy's gotta be a snotty fucker about it, doesn't he, and that makes severin want to be a pain in his already-bruised arse.

                   ❝ woah, hey ❞, a glare thrown over his shoulder in lieu of an actual gasp (he's not that invested), ❝ politically incorrect much? ❞ he's had this explained to him by barely-out-of-uni rehab staff, actually. explained to him, an actual junkie. the tone-deafness of some people. he adopts that same well-meaning haughtiness now, a tone that regrettably fits his accent rather well. ❝ you're not supposed to use the j-word anymore, they prefer substance user now. if, you know, you don't wanna get cancelled. ❞

                   they, like there's a fucking council of low-lives who voted on it. a council he isn't a member of, of course. he's an upstanding citizen, ransacking hospital cabinets for purely good and honest reasons. he grows frustrated with his lack of progress pretty fast.

                   with an irritable huff, he turns to face the snitch fully. if severin speaks a bit too fast, it's definitely a manipulation tactic and not because he's feeling impatient as fuck. ❝ tell you what, i'll keep quiet about your liberal use of slurs if you lend me a hand over here, deal? you look like you could probably do with a couple of opiates yourself, loosen you up a bit. win/win for all involved, isn't it. so? ❞

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@rejectory (kendall): a large penthouse overlooking the city ( setting prompts; accepting )

he's being a dick mostly as a pre-emptive measure. these are the kinds of people that can tell his haircut cost only a tenner, can tell his jeans aren't faux-worn-and-torn but actually fucking worn out of the necessity of a chronically bare wallet. (through no fault other than his own, of course, but that's beside the point.) most of them, he's sure, haven't ever set foot on public fucking transport. these are the kinds of people he grew up desperate to emulate, only on top of rich and self-entitled they're american, which makes the crowd doubly intolerable.

                   perfect conditions for party crashing, then. and no rookie fucking guilty conscience, either.

                   ❝ shitty view, mate. ❞ he points his glass (it's his fifth) at a wall made entirely out of fucking window, before unceremoniously downing said glass in one go. the height would be startling if it actually felt real: staring down at far-away city lights, bokeh fucking overload, it's like he's stood in front of a braggy led screen. real people do not live like this. and so it's not a real person he's sponging off of, either: forthright, lacking the willingness for good fucking manners. ❝ you got anything a bit more substantial than this bougie fucking champagne, then? ❞

[perdefinitio]

(water pistol to your head) send memes. 😤

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@vitalphenomena (weston): a quiet hospital room ( setting prompts; accepting )

it's the itchiness that drives him insane. there's no comparing it to anything: like a constant burn but not quite hot, like you're infested but it's nowhere near as palpable. it's worse than the pain that he knows will follow because it's the harbinger, the threat, act now or else.

                   so he'll act. any fucking dilettante can walk into a hospital, all non-chalant like it's where you belong, and if you get your timing right, no one will even fucking notice you're there. what's a jittery junkie compared to a car crash victim with their leg chopped off? (lends perspective, or at least it makes you squint.)

                   he's been here before, and while that grants him the fake confidence required to make it out alive, it also makes him reckless. the room he enters looks promising until he's closed the door behind himself -- the buzz from the hallways suddenly cut off -- only to find this one is occupied. spanner in the works, but then he's nothing if not quick on his feet. (balance, however, is another matter entirely when your body's aching to fucking score.) ❝ bloody long wait, huh? ❞ quick shift into the shared-suffering intonation of, health care, am i right? all cokehead confidence aside, he knows he couldn't pass for medical staff even if the guy were fucking blind. so he opts not to acknowledge it. let doubt linger in his favour.

                   ❝ don't mind me, just gonna ❞, eyes on the prize, he steps into the room to start rummaging the cabinets for anything worthwhile, ❝ get a couple supplies here… ❞

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@erebius: the bar of a loud, dark club ( setting prompts; accepting )

there's the thrill to forgetting, even just for a second, where the exit is: like you're trapped underground with enemy fire raining down on you, except it's the droning uhn-tss-uhn-tss-uhn-tss of a fucking dubstep compilation instead of bullets cornering you. it's got him fucking terrified, but the energising kind. the kind that lights your limbs on fire, the kind that gears you up for fighting for your life. he's simultaneously about to die and on top of the fucking world. the magic of mount white rock. he'll have another half-hour if he's lucky, and he's gonna milk it dry. (like the fucking desert plane that is his tongue. gagging, but hot.)

                   he's not paid for it, which adds a sweet little something-something to the rush of his night. he's no thief like vic, sure. he's got the same audacity of an addict, though. graceless, hardy. ❝ look the fuck alive, mate! ❞ in the bouncing half-light, a neon rainbow that's there and not there at the same time, he's grabbed onto victor's coat a little too forcefully. doubtful that vic would've noticed anything missing from that very same coat, is it? easy to drop your shit when you can't even fucking make out the floor. severin's sure, with the subtlety of a freight fucking train, that he's flying fully under the radar. his voice drowning out the beat drowning out his voice. vic's doom and gloom's no match for sev's impatient lights-off grin. ❝ how 'bout you have some fun! ever heard of that! ❞

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@crimewrought: an otherwise empty parking lot ( setting prompts; accepting )

by the time he's made it back to the car, he's become a wet towel: unpleasant to the touch, unwieldy, just uncomfortable enough to have curled in on himself. he looks like he's fifteen and only just learned reluctance does not save you from shame. the sad drizzle, while too pathetic to drown out the swoosh of cars thundering past them down the motorway, has easily snuffed out his childish anger. now he's just depressed. worse than that: depressed and damp.

                   he says, ❝ fine ❞, upon climbing back into the car -- passenger seat this time --, his own sour way of saying sorry. she's familiar with the fuse, to the point of knowing, even better than him, that he'll hardly ever follow through. as if he'd actually desert her in this fucking no man's land. instead of heeding his petulant advice upon stopping short and storming off (fucking drive off by your fucking self, why don't you), she's simply sat it out. weathered the storm, sneaker-ed shoes propped up on the steering wheel. she's fiddling with the radio like it's any old pit stop, like she's not just waited a full fifteen minutes for his temper tantrum to run out of steam. now her criticising his driving (aggressive, damn near suicidal) feels like a silly interlude. (feels like, at least on three hours worth of sleep last night, she's probably even right.)

                   ❝ your music choices were grade a fucking bullshit, anyway. ❞ with the door closed (almost careful, sheepish), he swats her hand away. this is a signal of concession: passenger seat means in charge of the playlist. means he'll let her drive if she agrees to shut the fuck up about it. that he smells like a wet dog should be punishment enough. ❝ seriously. this sounds like you wanna get killed. ❞

[perdefinitio]

boo. (:

[ohisms]

↪     𝑺𝑬𝑻𝑻𝑰𝑵𝑮 𝑷𝑹𝑶𝑴𝑷𝑻𝑺     (   a  collection  of  various  settings  meant  to  inspire  drabbles  or  be  used  as  prompts .   will be updated .   )

001.   the seaside ,  as the sun is setting .

002.   a cabin in the middle of the woods .

003.   a picket-fenced home in the suburbs .

004.   a dark bus stop lit only by street lights .

005.   a private jet miles high in the sky .

006.   a funhouse’s room of mirrors .

007.   an office building ,  bustling and busy .

008.   the back row of an empty movie theater .

009.   a run-down (or abandoned) motel room .

010.   a loud house party on a suburban street .

011.   a university lecture hall during a class .

012.   the rooftop of a very tall building .

013.   a great ballroom during an elegant party .

014.   the back of a wailing ambulance .

015.   the wine cellar of a large mansion .

016.   behind the school’s gymnasium .

017.   a bonfire in the middle of the woods .

018.   an otherwise empty parking lot .

019.   the bar of a loud ,  dark club .

020.   an empty summer camp .

021.   a large hedge maze ,  easy to get lost in .

022.   a neglected or derelict treehouse .

023.   a spacious ,  light-filled meadow .

024.   an underground / illegal fighting club .

025.   an abandoned scrapyard .

026.   a large penthouse overlooking the city .

027.   an apple orchard in the middle of spring .

028.   an empty playground with squeaky swings .

029.   an extravagant greenhouse .

030.   the base of a large waterfall .

031.   a spacious walk - in closet full of lovely clothes .

032.   a quiet hospital room .

033.   the dark depths of an abandoned mine .

034.   the deck of a fishing boat at night .

035.   the thick crowd of an audience at a show .

036.   a long ,  winding road .

037.   the site of a car accident .

038.   a hiking trail in the mountains .

039.   a cramped dressing room .

040.   a dusty antiques shop full of relics .

041.   the street of an unfamiliar city at night .

042.   between the tall shelves of a thrifted book shop .

043.   a building abandoned during construction .

044.   a house without power or running water .

045.   a mysterious trail found in the woods .

046.   the back of a taxi stuck in traffic .

047.   the inside of an elevator that won’t move .

048.   fairgrounds during a large event  (or after hours) .

049.   a garden bountiful with flowers or produce .

050.   a childhood home or bedroom .

[perdefinitio]

you should like this so i can send you memes. 😏😏

[perdefinitio]

@vipier: " i asked you to leave me out of this. " ( an avalanche of memes; always accepting )

something  about  tristan's  professional  detachment  makes  severin  feel  all  the  more  unhinged,  like  he's  been  making  too  big  a  deal  of  something  downright  fucking  existential.  ❝ are  you  fucking  kidding  me? ❞  he's  used  to  not  being  listened  to,  is  the  thing.  to  blowing  things  out  of  proportion,  to  crying  wolf  too  many  times  until  he's  rendered  not  credible  even  while  he's  being  torn  to  pieces.  it  makes  his  anger,  fear,  flare  up  only  more  intently  --  makes  him  want  to  grab  tristan  and  shake.  ❝ how  the  fuck  am  i  supposed  to  leave  you  out  of  me  getting  fucking  killed,  huh? ❞  

                                there's  threats,  which  he's  lived  with  all  his  life,  and  then  there's  debts,  which  call  for  threats  to  be  followed  through.  ❝ i'm  not  saying  kill  him  for  me,  i'm  just  saying...  do  your  thing. ❞  he's  been  pressing  a  fingernail  into  the  soft  bit  between  thumb  and  forefinger  in  order  to  keep  from  yelling,  but  it's  not  kept  him  from  pleading  instead.  he  owes  too  much  money  he  does  not  have.  isn't  that  the  type  of  issue  you're  supposed  to  share  with  friends?  ❝ i  never  ask  you  for  fucking  anything,  mate. ❞

[perdefinitio]

@crimewrought: " people like us don't get to decide when we're done. " + sender and receiver cook together ♥ ( an avalanche of memes; always accepting )

he's  left  her  the  bell  peppers  to  save  her  from  the  onions,  heroically  braving  those  himself.  nothing's  quite  bubbling  or  sizzling  yet,  so  they  can  still  hear  the  music  he's  let  her  choose,  even  if  it's  a  bit  tinny  through  his  cheap-ass  speakers.  ❝ yeah,  but  why  not? ❞  he's  slicing  uneven  little  cubes,  quick  but  far  from  precise.  it's  not  that  he's  distracted,  because  he  hardly  ever  does  anything  with  precision,  but  the  strange  mood  she's  caught  him  in  is  undeniable.  he  continues  cutting  while  wiping  his  face  on  his  t-shirt  sleeve.  ❝ why  not  just  fucking  leave  this  place  and  open  up  a  corner  shop  in  fucking  jamaica  or  something,  you  know? ❞  

                                he's  found  he's  been  quite  tired  lately,  and  not  the  physical  type  of  fatigue  he's  long  forgotten  how  to  shed.  there's  too  much  running  that  needs  doing.  historically,  it's  not  been  something  they  discuss  head-on,  but  he  knows  it's  a  feeling  that's  caught  up  with  her  on  occasion,  too.  what's  the  harm  in  indulging  in  a  shared  little  pipe  dream?  he  sniffs  against  the  fumes,  pushes  the  onion  into  the  frying  pan  with  his  knife,  and  turns  just  enough  to  glance  over  at  her.  ❝ i'd  spend  all  day  at  the  markets  buying  shit  we  don't  need,  and  you'd  talk  people  into  handing  over  way  too  much  money  for  a  single  bottle  of  cheap  fucking  rum.  why  not? ❞

[perdefinitio]

@hammurabicomplex: " can you see how many fingers i'm holding up? " ( an avalanche of memes; always accepting )

it's  only  ever  split  seconds  --  a  certain  way  the  light  hits  the  curtains,  or  footfall  heavy  on  parquet,  or  now  this  smell  this  smell  this  smell  --  but  it's  enough  to  shift  the  floor  beneath  him.  he's  not  gone  so  much  as  split  between  two  instances  of  himself,  inconvenient  as  fuck,  really,  when  he's  supposed  to  be  paying  attention  here.

                                ❝ well,  i'm  not  fucking  blind,  so-- ❞,  an  irritable  response  that's  somewhat  undermined  by  his  pressing  thumb  and  forefinger  into  his  eyes  until  he's  seeing  stars.  not  blind,  but  seemingly  keen  on  getting  there.  ❝ fuck. ❞  if  he  opens  his  eyes,  he'll  have  to  contend  with  being  on  the  floor:  with  the  strange  pity-confusion  in  her  brow,  with  having  collapsed  for  no  discernible  reason.  he  knows,  but  it's  paramount  she  doesn't  --  so  it's  thorny  petulance  that  paints  over  his  embarrassment  when  he  starts  getting  to  his  feet.  ❝ technically,  you're  asking  a  yes  or  no  question.  yes,  your  fucking  fingers  are  visible  to  me,  what  of  it. ❞

[perdefinitio]

greetings from the void. 🤪

i never meant to abandon this blog, it’s just felt a bit off being here after several blogs/people went quiet who have been an integral part to severin’s story. that said, the lil gremlin’s far from disappeared, and i wanna be active on here again so bad.

so i’ve decided: i’m dropping all threads (sorry babes xx) and starting fresh. gonna reblog a couple juicy memes tonight, so please please please feel free to send how ever many you want to try and get things started again. keeping pre-est. relations of course, and happy to build new ones, too. (main verse or otherwise!) pls indulge the lonely emo boi. 🥺

also gonna reblog this a couple times in order to catch whoever’s still around. if i’m quiet on here, you can always catch me on disco (master of tasks#2732) and on my multi. love ya, miss ya, don’t be a stranger. x

[perdefinitio]

@foerger: " you need a lift? " ( an avalanche of memes; always accepting )

over  the  combined  force  of  running  engine  and  pouring  rain,  the  question's  barely  audible  --  its  self-satisfied  amusement  lost  to  the  noise,  though  the  stupid  fucking  smirk  makes  up  for  it  with  ease.  between  the  car  coming  to  an  abrupt  halt  in  front  of  him  and  severin  slipping  eagerly  inside,  he  hasn't  got  the  time  or  nerve  to  roll  his  eyes,  no  matter  how  fucking  appropriate.  cheeky  bastard.  he's  on  the  backseat,  door  not  yet  closed,  when  eames  hits  the  gas  and  they're  propelled  forward  into  the  onslaught  of  rain.

                                ❝ couldn't  have  shown  up  before  i  got  fucking  soaked  to  the  bone,  could  you? ❞  his  annoyance,  though  palpable  as  he  starts  peeling  out  of  his  coat,  is  somewhat  tempered  by  his  gratitude.  they're  moving,  at  least.  ❝ whose  car  is  this? ❞  

[perdefinitio]

@consultingsister: " hey, so... i know you haven't been feeling great, so i picked up a few of your favorite snacks, drinks... " ( an avalanche of memes; always accepting )

their  kitchen  must  be  twice  the  size  of  his  own,  at  least,  big  enough  to  be  struck  almost  by  surprise  that  his  feet  can  even  reach  the  ground.  sat  at  the  kitchen  island,  watching  her  sort  the  groceries,  he  feels  shrunk  rather  uncomfortably  by  his  surroundings,  by  childhood  memories  looming  large.  he  shouldn't  be  here,  he  thinks,  he's  being  an  inconvenience  on  sebastian's  insistence  alone.

                                if  he  weren't  quite  so  hollowed  out,  he  might've  laughed  at  haven't  been  feeling  great.  sounds  nicer  than  relapse  and  withdrawal,  he  supposes.  it's  a  euphemism  he  doesn't  think  he  deserves;  much  like  he  doesn't  deserve  her  straining  to  be  kind.

                                ❝ most  people  would  argue  coddling  me's  not  the  right  approach. ❞  most  people,  a  very  distinct  voice  in  his  head  above  all  else.  ❝ you're  already  letting  me  stay,  you  shouldn't-- ❞  ungrateful  boy.  he  averts  his  gaze  before  it  can  meet  hers,  seemingly  focused  on  unfolding  and  re-folding  one  of  the  bags  she's  unpacked  already.  ❝ thanks,  i  mean.  but  you  didn't  have  to. ❞