scream 🎃🐈‍⬛

anng • 20th century. • side blog do not re-upload • game blog • bluesky

[qaanngi]

in case anyone decides to follow, tags to block because of reasons obvious:

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(self)reblogging/bumping: #le reblog tag

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[qaanngi]

Artist Ask Time! 1, 7, 13,  24, and 34 :3

Hi Krys, thanks for sending numbers my way 🙏

From this Artist Ask Game in case anyone wants to do themselves.

1) what medium do you use most (if applicable, what software)?

Pencil + paper daily, Clip Studio Paint when I'm doing digital.

7) Easiest thing for you to draw?

Eyebrows, which are the window to the expression.

13) talk about a WIP you like.

I'm still working on my Lulu piece, as I am but a simple salaryman and a lot of free time is a luxury I cannot afford. I typically only work on one thing at a time anyway, though I do have a few WIPs waiting to be done.

Added some fun lil veinies, there's a lot of blood. I think I'm enjoying this piece a lot because of just how ugly it is, conceptually, which fits better with my style. I don't have a pretty art style, I don't have pretty ideas, so this one leans into my edgelord preferences and courts my style much better. Also his teef 💜 I always did try and fit swords, blood, and grit into my other fandoms but it never stuck, I don't think. I do distinctly remember pulling back on the blood and bruises in one piece many moons ago bc I knew the girls weren't into that lol

24) what's a compliment about your art that has always stuck with you?

My digital photography teacher once told me (in the context of my projects for her class) that I had a good design eye. And that was an opinion from a professional so I will take it and stick it between my ribs close to my heart.

34) what's something you still like from your old art?

Answered this one already here, but it was the colour and light 💡✨

Thanks for sending numbers in!

[qaanngi]

Hi, Anng!

Can you answer questions 5, 9, 21, 23, and 34 from the Artist Ask Game? 𐔌՞ ܸ.ˬ.ܸ՞𐦯

Hi buu, thank youuu 💗💗💗

From this Artist Ask Game in case anyone wants to do themselves.

5) how would you describe your art style?

Like an Asian Spaghetti Western but for drawing, so like, Rice Western? Very, very western but with Asian influences in it (though it used to be the opposite - wannabe anime style with heavy western influence). I'd also describe it as technical and bare bones, not much to write home about. I have to overcompensate to make it interesting. I could never (and never did) pull off just drawing characters in a blank space. Something had to be going on (backgrounds, action, storytelling, etc.) or it doesn't look good and looks very, very flat.

9) whats something you always come back to when drawing?

Anatomy. Drills. Boxes. Anatomy drills are forever. I draw daily. I think I've said this before but drawing requires a lot of upkeep from me, it's not something I'm naturally good at, so I have to maintain the feeling. I'm always cycling through the basics when I feel like I haven't revisited it in a hot minute. My sketchbooks are probably 50% drills.

21) what do you think your artstyle would taste like?

Instant coffee. It gets the job done.

23) how many art styles can you work in confidently?

I'm gonna say 3.5 solidly I can switch between without much issue - my default, my copic style inspired by fashion illustration, the heavy ink style inspired by comic books (which is the 0.5, it just looks like my default style but the colouring process is reduced by maybe half or 90% if I'm using a limited palette and is tonally very different), and then lineless vector corporate style I use for work.

34) whats something you still like from your old art?

The colour and light ✨💡 I did share a throwback compilation of just like, a bunch of pieces throughout the years with that burning bright light and colour recently. I've really been enjoying my current Lucanis piece because of how bright and high contrast the colour and light are, although I suppose that means I plan to resurrect that bit as much as I can going forward.

Thanks again for sending in numbers buu!

[ashe-hallows]

with how much this site loves its writer ask games, im astounded ive never seen one for artists, soooo

ARTIST ASK GAME!

1. what medium do you use most (if applicable, what software)?

2. most popular piece?

3. your favorite piece(s)?

4. piece you wish got more love?

5. how would you describe your art style?

6. favorite thing to draw?

7. easiest thing for you to draw?

8. thing you struggle to draw?

9. whats something you always come back to when drawing?

10. how do you deal with artblock?

11. do you listen to anything while drawing?

12. describe your process while drawing

13. talk about a wip you like!

14. whats your favorite thing about drawing?

15. least favorite thing about drawing?

16. how do you motivate yourself to draw?

17. what is something youre confident about in your art?

18. something you feel like you need to work on?

19. where do you find inspiration?

20. is your workspace, digital or not, organized (not neat, organized)?

21. what do you think your artstyle would taste like?

22. do you have a favorite color palette to work with?

23. how many artstyles can you work in confidently?

24. whats a compliment about your art that has always stuck with you?

25. what size canvas/paper do you use?

26. what do you physically draw with (pencil and paper, tablet, etc)?

27. do you ever have multiple wips going at once?

28. whats a piece you would like to redraw at some point?

29. do you use a lot of references while drawing?

30. whats something youre proud of about your artstyle?

31. which fandom have you drawn the most for?

32. have you done a lot of collabs?

33. have you taken a lot of classes for art?

34. whats something you still like from your old art?

35. if you had one piece of advice to give your younger artist self, what would it be?

(remember to give the person you reblog from an ask!!)

[qaanngi]

I should draw Zara fanart. All her wrongs are just!!!! Checks all the boxes for aesthetics I love. Evil woman ✅ Blood ✅ Violence ✅

[qaanngi]

A Throwback Thursday because I was working on that last one there of Lucanis during my break at work and was feeling very nostalgic since I hadn't been doing the thing I probably find the most fun with drawing? Which is turning on the lights 💡 Is it correct? Most likely not. But it's fun. I'm happy to be doing so with him again. And now back to doing so with him some more 💁‍♀️

[qaanngi]

WIP Wednesday ✏️

Tagged by @slothquisitor, hi thank you. Your sketch looks amazing 👀💗

Tagging @krisichiki @ambalambs @thefrostyshepard @zylphiacrowley if you guys are working on anything? Crafts, art, knitting, FFXIV things? Writing? No pressure.

As for me, on the drawing board I just added his wings. Still a ways to go but I'm excited to try adding some horror to some drawings. Horror artists are so cool, and also unbelievably good at doing like anything. Goals.

On the writing board, something that might stick?

"You drink poison," he says pointedly. "Recreationally." She huffs. He smirks. She always gets huffy when she's in a losing battle with him, training session or otherwise. He suspects one of two things will come to pass: she'll change the subject or she'll get extremely passionate about whatever poison she's drinking, insist it somehow isn't going to kill her and that whatever modified dosage is better for something in the body. The growth of fingernails, perhaps, or something else equally inconsequential. "You wouldn't think that if you'd just let me make something for you." Taash, who'd come in late the night before, is seated at the table having a late breakfast. They grumble, and Lucanis hears them rise from their seat and bring their dish to the little kitchen. "You guys are like an old married couple sometimes." "Pardon?" "…If you say so?"

Kind of tempted to make another pair fic, this time when they're finally ready to admit they might like the other as something other than a friend (I did share a double snippet of that before, so maybe some tweaking??). Most of their stuff is behind closed doors with just the two of them, I think their relationship is very private, but the others probably catch glimpses here and there, and like??? When did you two get so close.

Also Amri is such a big loser like her big brotherboss, I love her.

[qaanngi]

I've reached a point where I'm pretty comfortable with drawing hands and so this idea (that came to me At the Office™ as they tend to 🙃) about like, the very first time Lucanis touches Amri back/instigates first (an elbow touch to just get her attention to just. Give her a cup of coffee without interrupting an important conversation) I could write. Lots of things words can do. But I could also???? Draw??? And there is nothing more salacious, meaningful, and scandalous than shots of hands (source: period dramas).

Edit: apparently my auto-correct is even more of a repressed Victorian than I am. I meant salacious, not spacious 😒

[qaanngi]

I like how in the time I started writing mylittlemonster03 I've banged out like 6 Lucamri fics that build on the foundational elements in that one chapter so much I had to go back and edit most of it out, as well as came up with a ton of Viago lore for 04-05 and now, literally just now, the second-last scene for the fic itself with more fun Viago stuff and yet!!!!!!!! Somehow I'm still not done ch.03 🫠🫠🫠

[qaanngi]

Currently 6 pages into the next fight comic and I'm not at the end yet (dropping some establishing shots in and I get to design a training ground). I know how it ends at least 💪

I admittedly like rigid panelling 🥲

[qaanngi]

WIP Wednesday Thursday

Tagged by @slothquisitor, hi thank you 👋💗 Late so I'm not gonna tag anybody. Should be conking out soon anyways.

On the drawing board, still chipping away at that Lulu piece. Finally doing flats 💃 Really need to do that scar chart for myself though.

On the writing board, since I've cleared out the same handful of ideas that my brain was screaming at me aggressively, I have this straggler, one of two drafts that follows up on yours in confidence, not sure where it's gonna go. Lots of cuddling, though.

"Lucanis?" He looks up, realizing his gaze had fallen to the ground in his thoughts. "Yes?" She bites her lip, and he watches with that growing fascination he has with the action. "Will—will you spend the night with me?" Mierda. He feels his eyes go wide. He should… probably say no. They should continue to take things slowly. The near kiss was perhaps too much at once, they're taking their time and carefully navigating how intimate their friendship can be while acknowledging the growing affection. They should probably not. The night they did spend together was an exception. He was feeling vulnerable, and well… if she's feeling vulnerable then maybe—no. No. They definitely should not. They should take things slowly. "…I sleep better with someone else around." Fuck it, it's fine. It's fine. It's perfectly fine. Right?

Not sure if that fun little curse will survive the editing process (Amri's the only one who really curses in narration) but I do enjoy the idea of him folding like origami when she gets shy or uncertain. Which is cute. To me.

[qaanngi]

My bestie IRL read squeaky clean 🫧 and liked it 😭🥹💜 She has not played any DA games through to the end yet but she is a true VIP MVP BFF all the acronyms because she lets me bounce ideas at her all the time 😭

[qaanngi]

Last night she read tmmif, and also really liked it 😭😭😭😭💜💜💜💜😭💜💜 saving her comments in my little folder of comments/tags I've gotten about stuff that make me feel soft and squishy inside 🥲🥲🥹

[qaanngi]

Status update no one asked for: she read chocolat 🍫😭🙏✨🥺😭

[qaanngi]

RIP to that pupil and a bunch of other facial features that get blocked by his hand 😔

[qaanngi]

colouring + lighting style study of a comic book artist I really like.

[qaanngi]

yours in confidence,

Lucanis Dellamorte & Rook de Riva; post A Murder of Crows — the birds bond over blue-eyed brothers and scars. 3.7k w.

[jump forward/slight follow-up to this fun yarn 🍫.] [content warning: vague mentions of torture and abuse. The usual Crow fare]

🐦‍⬛🐦‍⬛--

Her stitching is neat and precise — they've done this together countless times now. The first time he sustained an injury he could not tend to on his own, she offered. She always offers — pulled him back when they re-entered the Lighthouse, asked him if he might need help with the wound from a demon on the back of his arm. It wasn't serious, but the angle would've made it a hassle to reach for, and she'd already asked him to help her with a few of her own prior. They'd set up a regular training schedule by that point, too, so there was no harm in it. They knew each other, in this specific way — blood, injuries, training, death, and naturally: scars.

The precision he should expect from a de Riva, but given how opposite she and Viago are, part of him always pictured her a bit on the sloppier side. Part of him still does.

"You're about to say something about my stitching, aren't you?" Her attention is to her meticulously organized medical kit, packed with a variety of bottles, tins, and dried herbs. Unlike her Talon, however, there are no long-winded labels. Rook likes symbols and acronyms.

"Not a word."

"But you want to. I can feel it."

She keeps things open and light, to let him linger, or to move on. He appreciates it. As she continues to search for a new roll of bandages, Lucanis observes the cut on his right hand. It's two-thirds of the length of his pinkie, nearly half a centimetre deep, running along the knuckle of his index finger down to the base of his thumb. He thinks that if Illario had gotten a better hit, he might've cut the digit off. Maybe that was the goal.

The wound —one of two, the other already tended to— is not too deep, not physically, anyway. It does not require more attention than stitches and basic clean-up, but Rook insists on tending to it, slow and gentle, and he finds it difficult to deny her this one, both for her and perhaps himself. It will not be like the other scars he carries with him.

She holds out a hand and he gives her his. She takes a seat in front of him on an empty crate, wrapping his hand. His eyes check her over for any injuries, and falls onto the little white line on her right hand, barely visible in the dim light of his room, faded with age.

"We'll match now," she says quietly. He hums. A defensive wound from a fight with someone she also saw as a sibling, somewhere she can always see it. Remind her how they turned against her. How they fought, and how she came out the victor, irrevocably changing her relationship with her friend. Her sister.

He looks at his bandaged hand.

His brother.

What a pair they make.

"I wish you didn't have yours," she murmurs. She offers him a line of a smile and he returns it.

"How long did it take for it to fade?"

"Years."

"But it's never really gone, is it."

"…No."

"Rook?"

"Yes?"

"…Thank you," he says. "For coming with me."

"Of course." She nods, serious, but there is warmth in her eyes. Fondness, steadfast and true. Understanding that can only come from experience. "What are friends for?"

Intimate friends.

He smiles at that — small, but no less sincere. Lets himself acknowledge the fact that he has her, especially now that his cousin is… lost to him. His only friend, before her. It isn't, he knows it isn't, but it feels like something a trade — one he was not prepared to make, and one that makes him feel a great deal of things. Uncomfortable, mostly. He really was excited for his oldest friend to get to know his newest. Although, according to his oldest friend, she picked the wrong Dellamorte.

He doesn't like the way he knows his cousin said it loud enough for him to hear, because Illario has always known how to control a conversation — what to say and how. He doesn't like how it… bothers him so much. He knows it's meant to. He hates that it still does, even with the affair settled more or less, even when he's aware of its intended purpose.

His eyes look her over a second time, just in case. Just in case he missed something. In case the Venatori got to her. In case Illario managed to hurt her — touch her. Leave a mark on her.

At least they'd match.

But the idea of his cousin touching her bothers him in a way he does not want it to. It's petty and ugly, and yet he cannot help but feel unsteady.

He traces the scar along her cheek, a safer touch between them that means just a bit more. He has her. He lost him.

But at least he has her.

But he lost him.

She leans into his touch, lifts her own hand to return the gesture, hand cupping his cheek. Her left pinkie cards its way through his beard, sliding down below his jaw to find the little scar on the underside of his chin. Her other fingers follow, settling beneath him, and just as she had, he leans into her touch just slightly.

"Not quite the same," she murmurs. He hums — hers is from her run-in with the Antaam, his was stray magic from Zara.

No, if they were to match stories to scars, Lucanis's eyes drop to her collarbone, down to her chest and the tangled mess of lines running across her skin, disappearing beneath Antivan blue.

She does not remember all of them, she told him so before in one of their shared baths. A quiet, confused admission with just a hint of shame in the early days of their friendship. She remembers being bound to the ground with chains and then beaten until she loss consciousness.

He understands — Zara and her people pushed him to his limits, using every avenue they could to pull their desired results from him and those captured with him. There were days where he barely knew what was happening to him, the sandy floors of the ossuary the only thing he could see, moved about and around, shackles on his wrists and ankles, vision catching sight of the water above him, Zara's red lips, muffled voices, Venatori robes, Calivan and the others, and then his cell once again. Everything blurred together.

She guesses she was held for less than twenty-four hours. He lost a little over a year. They barely kept him alive — his life wasn't really that important at the facility. She was going to be tortured to death that night. It's not the same, but all Crows bleed red.

He presses his forehead to hers in some hope he might pass his thoughts to her rather than speak them. He does not even know what to think. Words are hard for their sort, and they're in a place where this is more than fine — welcomed, even. She nuzzles back, the tip of her nose brushing his briefly in the process. Zara is gone. Her marks and impact linger, but she is not the one who causes him pain this night.

Lucanis takes his hand from her cheek, the back of his knuckles dancing down her neck, shoulder, bicep, down to her elbow where a large cluster of scars sit. She remembers these ones, from her former master, and like her other elbow, both are well worn in. She nearly lost both her forearms in a cycle of a severe injury before being healed up again, the cuts made anew. And then again, and again, and again, and again. Hidden among them are older scars — a training session gone wrong with a sister house, a misstep from her seventh contract, a blow sustained defending a fellow de Riva. He knows them all.

She watches him curiously, her own hands just a beat behind each of his movements. Her fingers travel to his shoulder, a scar from one of the few training sessions he had with a cuchillo house, aged ten. To the one under his ribs earned in a contract in Vyrantium. To his forearm in the last few months, a mark left from coming up behind her to parry an incoming attack. She knows them all, too.

His left hand continues moving along skin and fabric, cataloguing every mark, recalling every story, searching for something he does not yet know. Rook is here with him, to soften the blow of the night's events — to share in his pain, because they always share in their pain, in their lessons learned. A little lighter, and with a bit more illumination, some extra insights that come with a second opinion.

His eyes wander back to her chest, shirt generously unbuttoned nearly all the way down. The scars are darker, some combination of blades and burns, and she has yet to use some complicated de Riva concoction to be rid of them. He wonders at the precise measurements, of how deep her former master cut, how close the woman might've aspired to reach for the heart, and if Illario would have cut the same. It certainly feels that way. His chest aches, and if he is not careful, he feels as though something within him will crack. He focuses on Rook instead.

He brings his hand up to her cheek again, to the scar there, brushes his thumb across the length of it before he travels downward once more, to the mole on her neck, to the scar from her first contract kill on her collarbone, nearly lost in the sea of marks across her chest from her master. He runs into them in their large number, drags his index finger down, stopping short of her chest —her breasts— out of politeness. Her former master was much less considerate. He knows where these lines run.

He finds himself filled with a need to touch more, however. Spread his hand across the web-like marks along her torso and stomach, and move to the ones from her Talon —her brother— all across her back. He can, of course, he knows them well enough that he could mistake them for his own, all those baths and stories they've shared after their training sessions. He knows where they are beneath her clothing, but he finds he wishes she was without — free to run his hands across every line on her skin, new and old, and feel her here with him, with all their jagged edges, open and vulnerable.

Perhaps the thought did make it to her, as her hand comes up slowly to the opening of her shirt, fingers curling along the edge and pulling slightly, exposing more skin. His eyes flicker to hers then in question, but she nods once, fingers shifting downward to the only two buttons she ever bothers with, undoing them. She looks up at him briefly before her hands make quick work of her belts. When the sound of leather quietly hits the ground, his gaze shifts downward, his path cleared. He closes his eyes, forehead pressed to hers once again, as he lets more of his fingers find skin, continuing his course down. He can hear her shuffle slightly, his eyes opening momentarily to catch sight of her discarding her shirt, closes his eyes again and listens as it, joins his on the crate next to them. Her hands return to him shortly after, finding the marks Zara left behind as his digits continue the path of her former master.

When he travels beyond the valley of her chest, when he passes the tattoo that marks her as a member of House de Riva, he reaches her ribs and stomach. He opens his hand then, fingers stretching across skin to cover the scars that run in various directions, eventually coming together like a spider's web. His palm, now flat against her body, moves around to her side. As if by some silent agreement they pull her closer to him — off her seat on the crate in front of him and into his lap.

He rests his forehead on her shoulder, pulls from the many instances they shared as his hands rove over her scars, just as she does the same to his. He focuses on the lines beneath his fingers, feels the way her hand travels his skin in turn, how the stories behind their marks line up. Run parallel. Diverge. He tugs at the memories like a thread, slowly, carefully, a seam coming undone, reopening their wounds — each line, when they shared them with each other, tying them together, and knows she does the same as she follows his lead. Her former master —Suha— across her stomach. Zara along his shoulder.

Target on a contract for his elbow, her collarbone, wooden duck ornament and Orlesian mask. The odd objects. An intimate and vulnerable conversation for them both.

Caterina and Suha: bicep and inner forearm. Punishment, childhood beatings, aged seven — both of them. Shared early in their budding friendship, bonding over the similarity.

Guards, condottieri: contracts escalating into fights. Knuckles — both.

Contract in Orlais: guards for her, retired chevalier for him. Shoulder, right forearm.

Zara, Suha. Waist, hip. Torture — both.

Suha, Zara. Backs: the beginning of a beating. Upper left — her. Lower left — him. First degree burns as a warning. Both.

Lackey beatings. Shoulders, stomachs, knees, backs. Faded. Both.

Contracts: target retaliation. Free Marches for her, Tevinter for him. Left knee, right calf. When her trousers were removed so he might feel this one he barely recalls, only knows he helped tug them down a thigh before brushing his thumb across her knee. His must have follow soon after, calloused elven fingers running up his bare leg.

Memories blur together as hands travel skin — who did what, on who, and where. His, Zara, upper back, whipped. Hers, Suha, right shoulder, also whipped. Caterina. Shoulder. Suha. Chest. Venatori. Bicep. Mercenaries. Forearm. Suha. Chest. Contract. Bicep. Caterina. Back. Suha. Back. Zara. Back. Suha. Thigh. Contract. Calf. Caterina again. Antaam. Venatori. Calivan. Suha again. Zara again. Caterina again. Suha. Suha again. Hers. His. Hers again. His. His. Hers. Both. His. Hers again. Both. Hers. His. Hers. Both. Both again. His. Hers. Hers again. Both.

Illario. Mina. Defensive wounds. Hands. Both.

Viago. Illario. Brothers. Back. Bicep.

It's not the same, however, running his hand across her back, across all the lash marks Viago gave her as punishment. Her Talon, her master. The one she obeys.

But even as he does, as his fingers shift single file down her spine until he reaches the largest scar that stretches diagonally along her lower back, her hand remains on the newly bandaged scar on his bicep, courtesy of Illario, her other hand holding his, their fingers lacing together, her thumb gently stroking the other freshly stitched wound there. Not any lessons Caterina imparted —of which there are plenty— but the marks his cousin left. His brother.

"…Amri?"

"Yes?"

"…How did it feel," he starts, voice hoarse, fingers digging slightly into her back, into uneven skin, "when he whipped you?"

When he hurt her.

She freezes, at the question or his nails he isn't certain. Doubt creeps in —in the voice of Illario, no less— had he gone too far? They've always shared stories, the ugliest to the most insignificant, but Viago isn't just her Talon. She knew that he was aware of the whipping, and she told him before that Viago had to. He never pried — he understood the complexity of one's relationship with their Talon. But as close as they are, her love and devotion to Viago is something he may never fully understand, different from himself and Caterina. Different from him and Illario. Different from their relationship, even.

And in all the stories she's told him, of all her scars, Viago was only ever in the one, and after that first time she never spoke of it again.

Will he also be as reticent on the matter of his brother?

"…I didn't know it was going to be him," she says quietly, her grip on his arm and hand tightening. "I woke up, was dragged into another room and chained to the ground. I thought I was going to be executed, and when I turned my head I didn't see another Crow, I—I saw my brother, and he wasn't there to save me."

She brushes her thumb gingerly across the cut on his arm, ghostly along her stitching beneath bandages. It's different, very different, but he hears the way her breath catches, the shaky inhale at the mere memory, a little under two years now. At least he had time to process that it was Illario who betrayed him, though he isn't sure how much that helped, and she and Viago are close, still. He lessens the pressure of his fingers, follows the scars up to her shoulder blade, stroking the lines gently.

"When he looked me in the eyes, all I saw was ice in that blue I thought I knew, and I wondered, if—if his love had a limit. If I'd reached it. If it was ever love, even. If I read it wrong, and he only tolerated me for as long as he did because of circumstance. That the man I loved most in the world— my brother, who I would die for, was going to get rid of me because he was tired of pretending, and finally found the opportunity to do it." She takes a deep breath, and then slowly releases it. "I still have him. I'm lucky, but…"

"It's not the same."

"No. Not even close." She pulls him closer, buries her face into his chest, muffling her words. "Sometimes I think that I made him be there for me. That I pushed things onto him and he had no choice but to help. I have him again, I love him still, but I can't—I can't talk to him, not like I used to. Not like I do with you."

"Amri…"

She looks up at him instantly, some horrified realization settling across her face.

"You're not a replacement. I swear I don't see you as my new—"

"I know," he cuts in nodding, eyes on hers, ceases the action when she finally mirrors him once. He knows better than anyone, in this moment, how it feels. He's almost grateful she feels as guilty about it as he does. "Before you, my cousin was my only friend."

A small smile finds its way to her lips. "You said."

"And I don't…" He takes in an unsteady breath, "I don't have him anymore. But I—I have you."

"And it doesn't feel right, does it?"

"No," he says quietly, resting his chin on her shoulder.

She squeezes him in her arms then, so very present — there for him, with force, intention. He was not prepared to make this trade. It should not have been a trade in the first place, it wasn't, not really, he knows it wasn't, and yet here he is, down one friend and brother, and in place of that: her. His chest burns with guilt. Affection. Pain. Relief. He hates the feeling. He squeezes back, meeting her force with his own, dragging his nails along her skin, leaving his own little marks along her body as she does the very same — a small comfort, knowing they'll match. He pulls her closer, feels her ribs beneath his crushing arms.

He does not know how long they stay like that, Rook seated quietly in his lap, wrapped around him as he holds on to her lest he drown in his… loss. Wonders when Illario's love reached its limit. What did he do to push his cousin to take action? When did he tire of pretending? When did it start?

Despite all that he's been through, despite a literal demon occupying his flesh, he hurts. He feels hurt. He does not like that he feels hurt. The betrayal was an act of aggression. He should be angrier. Why isn't he angrier?

He sounds a bit like Harding.

Oh.

Rook's to accompany Lace in the morning. He pulls back, clearing his throat. "You have somewhere to be tomorrow. I shouldn't keep you."

She's silent as her eyes stay on her hand, tracing the scars on his inner forearm.

"You could if you want to, though. Keep me here, I mean," she says lightly, looking up at him. "For a few more minutes. Hours. The whole night, even. If you want."

Heat crawls up his neck immediately, and Lucanis is suddenly very aware of the fact that she's stripped nearly all her clothes off for him to touch her on a whim, let his hands wander wherever he pleased.

"Rook…"

"I don't mean anything untoward. I mean…" She curls her fingers around the newly bandaged scar on his hand, and he returns the gesture. They match now, after all. "If it was my sibling, would you leave me be?"

"No." His answer is immediate. He knows her.

"I can leave if you'd like some time alone, though. That I understand, too."

He studies her for a moment, runs his hands up her waist, along the fingers tracing his scars as they've done throughout the evening, up to her shoulders, back down to her elbows, before he breaks from the trail, hooking around to her back again, to the scars there. He clears his throat. "…Stay. Please."

With her arm still loose around his waist, she gives him a squeeze that he returns, gentle this time. Her touch is warm as he leans back, pulls her down with him onto his bedroll, both of them on their sides, facing each other, bodies close together. He ducks his head lower, tucks himself into this offered closeness as his nose brushes across the little scar on her collarbone. He inhales, shaky, takes in the scent of chocolate, coffee, and elfroot, before he pulls her closer, bodies pressed together once more, thinking their ribs might fit snugly if there was no flesh in the way. He feels her arm shift, tugs at the blanket at the foot of his makeshift bed and she leans back slightly. Their eyes meet, he nods, and she pulls it over them both. His arms curl around her more, lets himself hold onto her tightly. He's lost plenty this night, he will not lose anything else.

[qaanngi]

yours in confidence,

Lucanis Dellamorte & Rook de Riva; post A Murder of Crows — the birds bond over blue-eyed brothers and scars. 3.7k w.

[jump forward/slight follow-up to this fun yarn 🍫.] [content warning: vague mentions of torture and abuse. The usual Crow fare]

🐦‍⬛🐦‍⬛--

Her stitching is neat and precise — they've done this together countless times now. The first time he sustained an injury he could not tend to on his own, she offered. She always offers — pulled him back when they re-entered the Lighthouse, asked him if he might need help with the wound from a demon on the back of his arm. It wasn't serious, but the angle would've made it a hassle to reach for, and she'd already asked him to help her with a few of her own prior. They'd set up a regular training schedule by that point, too, so there was no harm in it. They knew each other, in this specific way — blood, injuries, training, death, and naturally: scars.

The precision he should expect from a de Riva, but given how opposite she and Viago are, part of him always pictured her a bit on the sloppier side. Part of him still does.

"You're about to say something about my stitching, aren't you?" Her attention is to her meticulously organized medical kit, packed with a variety of bottles, tins, and dried herbs. Unlike her Talon, however, there are no long-winded labels. Rook likes symbols and acronyms.

"Not a word."

"But you want to. I can feel it."

She keeps things open and light, to let him linger, or to move on. He appreciates it. As she continues to search for a new roll of bandages, Lucanis observes the cut on his right hand. It's two-thirds of the length of his pinkie, nearly half a centimetre deep, running along the knuckle of his index finger down to the base of his thumb. He thinks that if Illario had gotten a better hit, he might've cut the digit off. Maybe that was the goal.

The wound —one of two, the other already tended to— is not too deep, not physically, anyway. It does not require more attention than stitches and basic clean-up, but Rook insists on tending to it, slow and gentle, and he finds it difficult to deny her this one, both for her and perhaps himself. It will not be like the other scars he carries with him.

She holds out a hand and he gives her his. She takes a seat in front of him on an empty crate, wrapping his hand. His eyes check her over for any injuries, and falls onto the little white line on her right hand, barely visible in the dim light of his room, faded with age.

"We'll match now," she says quietly. He hums. A defensive wound from a fight with someone she also saw as a sibling, somewhere she can always see it. Remind her how they turned against her. How they fought, and how she came out the victor, irrevocably changing her relationship with her friend. Her sister.

He looks at his bandaged hand.

His brother.

What a pair they make.

"I wish you didn't have yours," she murmurs. She offers him a line of a smile and he returns it.

"How long did it take for it to fade?"

"Years."

"But it's never really gone, is it."

"…No."

"Rook?"

"Yes?"

"…Thank you," he says. "For coming with me."

"Of course." She nods, serious, but there is warmth in her eyes. Fondness, steadfast and true. Understanding that can only come from experience. "What are friends for?"

Intimate friends.

He smiles at that — small, but no less sincere. Lets himself acknowledge the fact that he has her, especially now that his cousin is… lost to him. His only friend, before her. It isn't, he knows it isn't, but it feels like something a trade — one he was not prepared to make, and one that makes him feel a great deal of things. Uncomfortable, mostly. He really was excited for his oldest friend to get to know his newest. Although, according to his oldest friend, she picked the wrong Dellamorte.

He doesn't like the way he knows his cousin said it loud enough for him to hear, because Illario has always known how to control a conversation — what to say and how. He doesn't like how it… bothers him so much. He knows it's meant to. He hates that it still does, even with the affair settled more or less, even when he's aware of its intended purpose.

His eyes look her over a second time, just in case. Just in case he missed something. In case the Venatori got to her. In case Illario managed to hurt her — touch her. Leave a mark on her.

At least they'd match.

But the idea of his cousin touching her bothers him in a way he does not want it to. It's petty and ugly, and yet he cannot help but feel unsteady.

He traces the scar along her cheek, a safer touch between them that means just a bit more. He has her. He lost him.

But at least he has her.

But he lost him.

She leans into his touch, lifts her own hand to return the gesture, hand cupping his cheek. Her left pinkie cards its way through his beard, sliding down below his jaw to find the little scar on the underside of his chin. Her other fingers follow, settling beneath him, and just as she had, he leans into her touch just slightly.

"Not quite the same," she murmurs. He hums — hers is from her run-in with the Antaam, his was stray magic from Zara.

No, if they were to match stories to scars, Lucanis's eyes drop to her collarbone, down to her chest and the tangled mess of lines running across her skin, disappearing beneath Antivan blue.

She does not remember all of them, she told him so before in one of their shared baths. A quiet, confused admission with just a hint of shame in the early days of their friendship. She remembers being bound to the ground with chains and then beaten until she loss consciousness.

He understands — Zara and her people pushed him to his limits, using every avenue they could to pull their desired results from him and those captured with him. There were days where he barely knew what was happening to him, the sandy floors of the ossuary the only thing he could see, moved about and around, shackles on his wrists and ankles, vision catching sight of the water above him, Zara's red lips, muffled voices, Venatori robes, Calivan and the others, and then his cell once again. Everything blurred together.

She guesses she was held for less than twenty-four hours. He lost a little over a year. They barely kept him alive — his life wasn't really that important at the facility. She was going to be tortured to death that night. It's not the same, but all Crows bleed red.

He presses his forehead to hers in some hope he might pass his thoughts to her rather than speak them. He does not even know what to think. Words are hard for their sort, and they're in a place where this is more than fine — welcomed, even. She nuzzles back, the tip of her nose brushing his briefly in the process. Zara is gone. Her marks and impact linger, but she is not the one who causes him pain this night.

Lucanis takes his hand from her cheek, the back of his knuckles dancing down her neck, shoulder, bicep, down to her elbow where a large cluster of scars sit. She remembers these ones, from her former master, and like her other elbow, both are well worn in. She nearly lost both her forearms in a cycle of a severe injury before being healed up again, the cuts made anew. And then again, and again, and again, and again. Hidden among them are older scars — a training session gone wrong with a sister house, a misstep from her seventh contract, a blow sustained defending a fellow de Riva. He knows them all.

She watches him curiously, her own hands just a beat behind each of his movements. Her fingers travel to his shoulder, a scar from one of the few training sessions he had with a cuchillo house, aged ten. To the one under his ribs earned in a contract in Vyrantium. To his forearm in the last few months, a mark left from coming up behind her to parry an incoming attack. She knows them all, too.

His left hand continues moving along skin and fabric, cataloguing every mark, recalling every story, searching for something he does not yet know. Rook is here with him, to soften the blow of the night's events — to share in his pain, because they always share in their pain, in their lessons learned. A little lighter, and with a bit more illumination, some extra insights that come with a second opinion.

His eyes wander back to her chest, shirt generously unbuttoned nearly all the way down. The scars are darker, some combination of blades and burns, and she has yet to use some complicated de Riva concoction to be rid of them. He wonders at the precise measurements, of how deep her former master cut, how close the woman might've aspired to reach for the heart, and if Illario would have cut the same. It certainly feels that way. His chest aches, and if he is not careful, he feels as though something within him will crack. He focuses on Rook instead.

He brings his hand up to her cheek again, to the scar there, brushes his thumb across the length of it before he travels downward once more, to the mole on her neck, to the scar from her first contract kill on her collarbone, nearly lost in the sea of marks across her chest from her master. He runs into them in their large number, drags his index finger down, stopping short of her chest —her breasts— out of politeness. Her former master was much less considerate. He knows where these lines run.

He finds himself filled with a need to touch more, however. Spread his hand across the web-like marks along her torso and stomach, and move to the ones from her Talon —her brother— all across her back. He can, of course, he knows them well enough that he could mistake them for his own, all those baths and stories they've shared after their training sessions. He knows where they are beneath her clothing, but he finds he wishes she was without — free to run his hands across every line on her skin, new and old, and feel her here with him, with all their jagged edges, open and vulnerable.

Perhaps the thought did make it to her, as her hand comes up slowly to the opening of her shirt, fingers curling along the edge and pulling slightly, exposing more skin. His eyes flicker to hers then in question, but she nods once, fingers shifting downward to the only two buttons she ever bothers with, undoing them. She looks up at him briefly before her hands make quick work of her belts. When the sound of leather quietly hits the ground, his gaze shifts downward, his path cleared. He closes his eyes, forehead pressed to hers once again, as he lets more of his fingers find skin, continuing his course down. He can hear her shuffle slightly, his eyes opening momentarily to catch sight of her discarding her shirt, closes his eyes again and listens as it joins his on the crate next to them. Her hands return to him shortly after, finding the marks Zara left behind as his digits continue the path of her former master.

When he travels beyond the valley of her chest, when he passes the tattoo that marks her as a member of House de Riva, he reaches her ribs and stomach. He opens his hand then, fingers stretching across skin to cover the scars that run in various directions, eventually coming together like a spider's web. His palm, now flat against her body, moves around to her side. As if by some silent agreement they pull her closer to him — off her seat on the crate in front of him and into his lap.

He rests his forehead on her shoulder, pulls from the many instances they shared as his hands rove over her scars, just as she does the same to his. He focuses on the lines beneath his fingers, feels the way her hand travels his skin in turn, how the stories behind their marks line up. Run parallel. Diverge. He tugs at the memories like a thread, slowly, carefully, a seam coming undone, reopening their wounds — each line, when they shared them with each other, tying them together, and knows she does the same as she follows his lead. Her former master —Suha— across her stomach. Zara along his shoulder.

Target on a contract for his elbow, her collarbone, wooden duck ornament and Orlesian mask. The odd objects. An intimate and vulnerable conversation for them both.

Caterina and Suha: bicep and inner forearm. Punishment, childhood beatings, aged seven — both of them. Shared early in their budding friendship, bonding over the similarity.

Guards, condottieri: contracts escalating into fights. Knuckles — both.

Contract in Orlais: guards for her, retired chevalier for him. Shoulder, right forearm.

Zara, Suha. Waist, hip. Torture — both.

Suha, Zara. Backs: the beginning of a beating. Upper left — her. Lower left — him. First degree burns as a warning. Both.

Lackey beatings. Shoulders, stomachs, knees, backs. Faded. Both.

Contracts: target retaliation. Free Marches for her, Tevinter for him. Left knee, right calf. When her trousers were removed so he might feel this one he barely recalls, only knows he helped tug them down a thigh before brushing his thumb across her knee. His must have follow soon after, calloused elven fingers running up his bare leg.

Memories blur together as hands travel skin — who did what, on who, and where. His, Zara, upper back, whipped. Hers, Suha, right shoulder, also whipped. Caterina. Shoulder. Suha. Chest. Venatori. Bicep. Mercenaries. Forearm. Suha. Chest. Contract. Bicep. Caterina. Back. Suha. Back. Zara. Back. Suha. Thigh. Contract. Calf. Caterina again. Antaam. Venatori. Calivan. Suha again. Zara again. Caterina again. Suha. Suha again. Hers. His. Hers again. His. His. Hers. Both. His. Hers again. Both. Hers. His. Hers. Both. Both again. His. Hers. Hers again. Both.

Illario. Mina. Defensive wounds. Hands. Both.

Viago. Illario. Brothers. Back. Bicep.

It's not the same, however, running his hand across her back, across all the lash marks Viago gave her as punishment. Her Talon, her master. The one she obeys.

But even as he does, as his fingers shift single file down her spine until he reaches the largest scar that stretches diagonally along her lower back, her hand remains on the newly bandaged scar on his bicep, courtesy of Illario, her other hand holding his, their fingers lacing together, her thumb gently stroking the other freshly stitched wound there. Not any lessons Caterina imparted —of which there are plenty— but the marks his cousin left. His brother.

"…Amri?"

"Yes?"

"…How did it feel," he starts, voice hoarse, fingers digging slightly into her back, into uneven skin, "when he whipped you?"

When he hurt her.

She freezes, at the question or his nails he isn't certain. Doubt creeps in —in the voice of Illario, no less— had he gone too far? They've always shared stories, the ugliest to the most insignificant, but Viago isn't just her Talon. She knew that he was aware of the whipping, and she told him before that Viago had to. He never pried — he understood the complexity of one's relationship with their Talon. But as close as they are, her love and devotion to Viago is something he may never fully understand, different from himself and Caterina. Different from him and Illario. Different from their relationship, even.

And in all the stories she's told him, of all her scars, Viago was only ever in the one, and after that first time she never spoke of it again.

Will he also be as reticent on the matter of his brother?

"…I didn't know it was going to be him," she says quietly, her grip on his arm and hand tightening. "I woke up, was dragged into another room and chained to the ground. I thought I was going to be executed, and when I turned my head I didn't see another Crow, I—I saw my brother, and he wasn't there to save me."

She brushes her thumb gingerly across the cut on his arm, ghostly along her stitching beneath bandages. It's different, very different, but he hears the way her breath catches, the shaky inhale at the mere memory, a little under two years now. At least he had time to process that it was Illario who betrayed him, though he isn't sure how much that helped, and she and Viago are close, still. He lessens the pressure of his fingers, follows the scars up to her shoulder blade, stroking the lines gently.

"When he looked me in the eyes, all I saw was ice in that blue I thought I knew, and I wondered, if—if his love had a limit. If I'd reached it. If it was ever love, even. If I read it wrong, and he only tolerated me for as long as he did because of circumstance. That the man I loved most in the world— my brother, who I would die for, was going to get rid of me because he was tired of pretending, and finally found the opportunity to do it." She takes a deep breath, and then slowly releases it. "I still have him. I'm lucky, but…"

"It's not the same."

"No. Not even close." She pulls him closer, buries her face into his chest, muffling her words. "Sometimes I think that I made him be there for me. That I pushed things onto him and he had no choice but to help. I have him again, I love him still, but I can't—I can't talk to him, not like I used to. Not like I do with you."

"Amri…"

She looks up at him instantly, some horrified realization settling across her face.

"You're not a replacement. I swear I don't see you as my new—"

"I know," he cuts in nodding, eyes on hers, ceases the action when she finally mirrors him once. He knows better than anyone, in this moment, how it feels. He's almost grateful she feels as guilty about it as he does. "Before you, my cousin was my only friend."

A small smile finds its way to her lips. "You said."

"And I don't…" He takes in an unsteady breath, "I don't have him anymore. But I—I have you."

"And it doesn't feel right, does it?"

"No," he says quietly, resting his chin on her shoulder.

She squeezes him in her arms then, so very present — there for him, with force, intention. He was not prepared to make this trade. It should not have been a trade in the first place, it wasn't, not really, he knows it wasn't, and yet here he is, down one friend and brother, and in place of that: her. His chest burns with guilt. Affection. Pain. Relief. He hates the feeling. He squeezes back, meeting her force with his own, dragging his nails along her skin, leaving his own little marks along her body as she does the very same — a small comfort, knowing they'll match. He pulls her closer, feels her ribs beneath his crushing arms.

He does not know how long they stay like that, Rook seated quietly in his lap, wrapped around him as he holds on to her lest he drown in his… loss. Wonders when Illario's love reached its limit. What did he do to push his cousin to take action? When did he tire of pretending? When did it start?

Despite all that he's been through, despite a literal demon occupying his flesh, he hurts. He feels hurt. He does not like that he feels hurt. The betrayal was an act of aggression. He should be angrier. Why isn't he angrier?

He sounds a bit like Harding.

Oh.

Rook's to accompany Lace in the morning. He pulls back, clearing his throat. "You have somewhere to be tomorrow. I shouldn't keep you."

She's silent as her eyes stay on her hand, tracing the scars on his inner forearm.

"You could if you want to, though. Keep me here, I mean," she says lightly, looking up at him. "For a few more minutes. Hours. The whole night, even. If you want."

Heat crawls up his neck immediately, and Lucanis is suddenly very aware of the fact that she's stripped nearly all her clothes off for him to touch her on a whim, let his hands wander wherever he pleased.

"Rook…"

"I don't mean anything untoward. I mean…" She curls her fingers around the newly bandaged scar on his hand, and he returns the gesture. They match now, after all. "If it was my sibling, would you leave me be?"

"No." His answer is immediate. He knows her.

"I can leave if you'd like some time alone, though. That I understand, too."

He studies her for a moment, runs his hands up her waist, along the fingers tracing his scars as they've done throughout the evening, up to her shoulders, back down to her elbows, before he breaks from the trail, hooking around to her back again, to the scars there. He clears his throat. "…Stay. Please."

With her arm still loose around his waist, she gives him a squeeze that he returns, gentle this time. Her touch is warm as he leans back, pulls her down with him onto his bedroll, both of them on their sides, facing each other, bodies close together. He ducks his head lower, tucks himself into this offered closeness as his nose brushes across the little scar on her collarbone. He inhales, shaky, takes in the scent of chocolate, coffee, and elfroot, before he pulls her closer, bodies pressed together once more, thinking their ribs might fit snugly if there was no flesh in the way. He feels her arm shift, tugs at the blanket at the foot of his makeshift bed and she leans back slightly. Their eyes meet, he nods, and she pulls it over them both. His arms curl around her more, lets himself hold onto her tightly. He's lost plenty this night, he will not lose anything else.

[qaanngi]

WIP Wednesday ✨💗

Tagged by @slothquisitor, hi thank you 🫶💗 I am so excited for Davrin and his misadventures with cults and how you're gonna go about it. I love your Davrin.

Tagging @krisichiki @zylphiacrowley @ambalambs @thefrostyshepard if you guys are working on anything new? Art, fics, crafts, knitting, crochet, FFXIV? Things with your babies??

As for me, on the drawing board, I found out Lucanis had a week in the middle of said week and the brain was like omg girl you drew your Spooky Ooky shit in like 2 days or whatever but I had weekends for that, so I gave up on trying to finish it the day of pretty quickly, but I'll probably keep chipping away at it just to finish. I haven't done solo Lulu drawings in a hot minute. I love snarly mouths. Idk why i gave him fangies but I did. It's a rough sketch though so it might go away later.

Also in my sketchbook I started drawing probably the best scene from chocolat 🍫

Just a girl (murderer) and her daikon with legs 🫜

On the writing board, my brain jumped ahead to some mylittlemonster04+ stuff. But it is the polar opposite of 👆👆

Amri smiles with gratitude. She smiles demurely, with just a hint of unsteadiness — vulnerability. Her eyes tremble with purpose — to feign awe at his generosity and attention, lashes fluttering momentarily in practiced shyness, gaze falling down and skittering away, as if his attention is something that makes her blush. As if she understands her place — as if she does not hold a grudge. As if she wouldn't, given the opportunity, cut the man's cock off with a rusted blade and shove it so far down his throat he chokes on it. Because she can. And he wouldn't be the first, but he would probably be the second most satisfying to do it to, considering how familiar she is with the damn thing. Commissioner Odan hums, drags a finger down her cheek, and she takes in a breath, as if she needs it. These people are so fucking easy.

Give my pretty little liar her Oscar 🗣️🗣️🗣️