dazyxi

[dazyxi]

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;; “ASPEN” DE ROSA (she/it)

- tight-curled, black hair that reaches its mid-back, dark brown eyes and freckled tawny skin. 6ft (182.88cm)

- she’s a journalist!!

- strange obsession with the woods and cryptids.

- weird & smart!!

- SO awkward. she tries soo hard but her overall demeanor kinda unsettles people and always has, so her social skills arent great.

- MOST likely gonna romance perri. still kinda in the air

- willow is her BEST friend. calls her wills.

- wears coconut-scented perfume but the scent of the forest always kinda lingers.

- nicknamed aspen (like the tree)!! its real name is zaya but it doesn’t introduce itself as that.

- during a school presentation, while walking back to its seat, tripped. she legit just burst out in tears in class and the memory still haunts her.

- bad vision in its right eye, perfect vision in its left. breaks all their glasses within weeks, though. at a certain point, it gave up trying to replace the lens.

- dying feels so much like dreaming.

— INTERACTIVE FICTION

@thelonelyshore-if

#mc oc #interactive fiction #thelonelyshore #the lonely shore #the lonely shore if #oc: aspen de rosa #she’s a lil weirdo and that’s OKAY!

[dazyxi]

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;; LEILANI VÁZQUEZ (she/they)

- has long, black and wavy hair with light hazel eyes and warm olive skin. 4ft, 11in (149.86cm)

- musician, mainly a singer and guitarist

- star-obsessed

- loves spiders!! just… not on her.

- romancing basil

- gets comically awkward around him even though half her personality is her just flirting with people. genuine feelings make her melt

- likes tarot. big spiritual girl

- her style is more cozy and floral prints, but she also really likes tight-fitting clothes

- their apartment is also very cozy. fluffy blankets and random stuffed animals are EVERYWHERE

- likes sunrises but never wakes up in time to see them

- smells like jasmine and vanilla

- hates the build-up when waiting for big rides, loves the adrenaline rush after

- a eighth-note stick-n-poke on her collarbone from when she was 16 and star tattoos trailing down her spine

- childhood wasn’t the BEST but wasn’t the worst. still has a lot of love for their family

— INTERACTIVE FICTION

@girlfromthecrypt

#mc oc #aesthetic #interactive fiction #moodboard #oc: leilani vázquez #girlfromthecrypt #campsolace #suchhappycampers #suchhappercampersoc

[dazyxi]

✧ ˚the crow house; albums

—byte!;

—phone call from mom;

—re:murder;

—first hangover

i refuse to write songs for my oc bands because i am simply terrible at it; i'll probably steal lyrics from actual bands (i should be ashamed) but! just for the kicks — the crow house is an alternative rock band (think: radiohead/the strokes/pixies??) and they are just some teenage losers in adult bodies i wanted really bad to actually make some lore up behind the name of the band. but come on!!! it sound cool to me?? can't that be enough??? also, in order of release the albums go: first hangover, re: murder, phone call from mom, byte!; the first two are with the band including seven and the other two are after seven left (womp womp)

#the album covers r so prettyyyy!!!!! #AND I LOVE THE PIXIES OOOMMHHHGAUUDDD #reblogs

[dazyxi]

;; RYWD WRITING (REMEMBER YOU WILL DIE) @vapolis — content warnings: very brief mention of sh (digging nails in skin), derealization (slightly), and smoking. notes: not lore accurate. i wrote it for fun, and it's very short becauseeee... i didn't know how to continue it from that point ibr 😭😭i don't write shit like this sooo it's very fast-paced and sloppy!! — you're not seeing double! this is a post with added content because people started liking it and the author saw it (thank you so much for the sweet words!! it made me so happy to see that you enjoyed it!!💕) and i was like ohmg!!!! so i wanted to tweak it a little. there's an extra 300+ words, but i didn't really edit the content beforehand, so if it's confusing, sorry!!

The air is thin in Ivy's lungs. The breaths she's expelling are heavy, heaved, and drawn out. She's struggling to inhale and exhale. To breathe. To function. Her room is too tight, the walls too closed-in. In short, she feels like she's being choked. Strangled. Not just by this apartment room, suffocated by life. And she doesn't know what to do. There's no out. She's stuck. Stuck in this endless loop. Stuck in a role. A rabid dog on a tight chain. A vicious animal waiting to be set loose. A psychotic murderer who shouldn't be trusted. Stuck proving them right.

She's mad. Not at Orla. Not at the people who labeled her. At herself. She put herself in this situation. How could people think differently when all she does is fit into their title? Whenever she's given the choice to do the right thing- be better- she does the opposite. Maybe she got comfortable with the low-held expectations. Got used to being held in poor regard. I mean, you can't disappoint someone who never had hope, right?

Her skin is crawling with discomfort, and her posture is rigid as she sits against a wall. A lazily bandaged hand lays against her exposed collarbones. An attempt to ground herself. Flesh against flesh. Warm flesh. Not cold.

She's disoriented. Alienated. As lines of reality turn fuzzy, and she starts to get distant, she mentally wrangles with herself. Nails start to press carelessly into olive skin while her mind ripples with static. This feeling, the sickening nauseation of being trapped, is clawing through her. Seeping into her bone marrow. Sticking itself to her permanently.

Strands of her black hair are stuck to her face by sweat. The sweat that beads from her hairline and trails down her cheeks, joining tears she was unaware of. She feels pathetic. Helpless. She wants to give in. Let herself melt away. Instead, she lets her hands fall to her side in a clumsy action, leaving crescent-shaped indents at her collarbones. They're laced with a left-over stinging sensation but no blood. She starts to count her fingers. Starting with her index finger. . . then middle finger. . . ring finger. . . pinky finger. Index. . . middle. . . ring. . . pinky. She repeats it over and over and over until she's sick of it. Sick of calloused fingerpads scraping together in a strange anchoring method. Blearily, she mocks herself through the disorderment, This is all so stupid. Get over yourself.

She stares at the ground. Exhausted. Her gaze flits around the rays of neon light cast from the windows and onto the floor. Squints at the cracked wood. Scrutinizes the fractures. She drags her eyes upward to the window, the presence of Vapolis leaking through the glass. It's taunting in a way. Slowly, she regains her thoughts, the repeated buzz being replaced. Her mind scrambles to catch up with her emotions, and a moment later, she's frantically digging into her pockets. Her fingers catch onto the cigarettes and lighter, messily dragging them out of her jacket like she's on borrowed time. She flips the lighter on after she's stuck a cigarette in her chapped lips. Briefly, she eyes the dancing flame. Observes as it spins and whirls around like a dandelion in the wind, only less innocent.

She places the fire underneath the cig, and soon after, tendrils of smoke billow into the atmosphere. She sighs out clouds of mist while the familiar rush of pleasure pangs through her. Easing slightly, she lets her body slump, head tipping upward and hitting the wall. Her sore eyes flutter shut, her shoulder still tension-filled and clamped up at her sides, but the looming factor of dread has settled. Somewhat. It's still at the forefront, lingering in her mind. She takes another drag, and it begins to haze over.

One hand still holding her cigarette to her lips, the other struggles to help herself up on wobbly legs. They feel like jelly underneath her weight. "Fuck," she mutters, her voice strained. Wrecked. She stumbles toward the bathroom, and on the way, her feet nearly catch on the mass of random objects lazing on her floor. 

She nudges the door open with her arm, blinks as it creaks open to reveal the cluttered state of the room. She mumbles. Something dumb, trying to be funny, like, What’s that about your house being a reflection of your mind? A rasped scoff escapes her mouth, and she doesn’t like how it sounds when it rings in her ears. It’s dull, devoid of the usual mirth. Not that the mirth is ever really real. It’s fine. Pretending is something she’s good at, comfortable with. She enjoys it. She’ll eventually learn how to do the same being a puppet– or maybe hound is a more fitting word.

She staggers in, immediately supporting herself with her hand on the dirtied tile of the sink. Frowning at the reflection in the spotted mirror, she scans it. Black hair sticks up, tangled and mused, with dried blood at the tips. A split lip and a bruised face with swollen eyes. Red-lined scleras, violet irises glowing in the yellow hue of the light. She doesn’t recognize the woman she sees. She's trapped in skin that’s not her own.

She watches the woman pluck the lit cigarette from her mouth. Hold it between her crooked index and middle. Watches her pull the corners of her dry lips upwards. It’s too toothy, the smile. There’s crimson-red itching underneath it. She doesn’t know if it belongs to her or someone else. The unsettling grin fades as quickly as it rose, and smoke leaks from her lungs and into the air. A deadpan settles on her expression, eyes half-lidded, and it looks strange on her features.

Her mind wanders, thoughts messy and daunting, growing anger festering. It wraps around her bones, causing her to shake. She welcomes it, the feeling comforting. More comfortable than whatever she was feeling earlier. It's whatever. She'll adjust. Conform to fit the mold. Easier than trying to break it or reform it. She always does what's easier for her. Less work. At the end of the day, she did this. What's that saying? Nobody to blame but yourself?

#mc oc #rywd #remember you will die #oc: ivy essa #writing

[dazyxi]

;; RYWD WRITING (REMEMBER YOU WILL DIE) — content warnings: very brief mention of sh (digging nails in skin), derealization (slightly), and smoking. other warning: not lore accurate. i wrote it for fun, and it's very short becauseeee... i didn't know how to continue it from that point ibr 😭😭i don't write shit like this sooo it's very fast-paced and sloppy!!

The air is thin in Ivy's lungs. The breaths she's expelling are heavy, heaved, and drawn out. She's struggling to inhale and exhale. To breathe. To function. Her room is too tight, the walls too closed-in. In short, she feels like she's being choked. Strangled. Not just by this apartment room, suffocated by life. And she doesn't know what to do. There's no out. She's stuck. Stuck in this endless loop. Stuck in a role. A rabid dog on a tight chain. A vicious animal waiting to be set loose. A psychotic murderer who shouldn't be trusted. Stuck proving them right.

She's mad. Not at Orla. Not at the people who labeled her. At herself. She put herself in this situation. How could people think differently when all she does is fit into their title? Whenever she's given the choice to do the right thing- be better- she does the opposite. Maybe she got comfortable with the low-held expectations. Got used to being held in poor regard. I mean, you can't disappoint someone who never had hope, right?

Her skin is crawling with discomfort, and her posture is rigid as she sits against a wall. A lazily bandaged hand lays against her exposed collarbones. An attempt to ground herself. Flesh against flesh. Warm flesh. Not cold.

She's disoriented. Alienated. As lines of reality turn fuzzy, and she starts to get distant, she mentally wrangles with herself. Nails start to press carelessly into olive skin while her mind ripples with static. This feeling, the sickening nauseation of being trapped, is clawing through her. Seeping into her bone marrow. Sticking itself to her permanently.

Strands of her black hair are stuck to her face by sweat. The sweat that beads from her hairline and trails down her cheeks, joining tears she was unaware of. She feels pathetic. Helpless. She wants to give in. Let herself melt away. Instead, she lets her hands fall to her side in a clumsy action, leaving crescent-shaped indents at her collarbones. They're laced with a left-over stinging sensation but no blood. She starts to count her fingers. Starting with her index finger. . . then middle finger. . . ring finger. . . pinky finger. Index. . . middle. . . ring. . . pinky. She repeats it over and over and over until she's sick of it. Sick of calloused fingerpads scraping together in a strange anchoring method. Blearily, she mocks herself through the disorderment, This is all so stupid. Get over yourself.

She stares at the ground. Exhausted. Her gaze flits around the rays of neon light cast from the windows and onto the floor. Squints at the cracked wood. Scrutinizes the fractures. She drags her eyes upward to the window, the presence of Vapolis leaking through the glass. It's taunting in a way. Slowly, she regains her thoughts, the repeated buzz being replaced. Her mind scrambles to catch up with her emotions, and a moment later, she's frantically digging into her pockets. Her fingers catch onto the cigarettes and lighter, messily dragging them out of her jacket like she's on borrowed time. She flips the lighter on after she's stuck a cigarette in her chapped lips. Briefly, she watches the flame dance. Observes as it spins and whirls around like a dandelion in the wind, only less innocent.

She places the fire underneath the cig, and soon after, tendrils of smoke billow into the atmosphere. She sighs out clouds of mist while the familiar rush of pleasure pangs through her. Easing slightly, she lets her body slump, head tipping upward and hitting the wall. Her sore eyes flutter shut, her shoulder still tension-filled and clamped up at her sides, but the looming factor of dread has settled. Somewhat. It's still at the forefront, lingering in her mind. She takes another drag, and her mind begins to haze over.

One hand still holding her cigarette to her lips, the other struggles to help herself up on wobbly legs. They feel like jelly underneath her weight. "Fuck," she mutters, her voice strained. Wrecked.

It's whatever, she thinks. She'll adjust. Conform to fit the mold. Easier than trying to break it or reform it. She always does what's easier for her. Less work. At the end of the day, she did this. What's that saying? Nobody to blame but yourself?

#remember you will die #rywd #mc oc #oc: ivy essa #writing #idk if the author would wanna be tagged so I'm not gonnaaaa #im also so sleepy so this even MORE half-assed #please take this from my humble hands #also she was originally gonna be in the jax/orla poly route but i very quickly realized She Cannot Handle That so she's going for delilah!!

[dazyxi]

—

;; QUINCY "QUINN" SANTOS (he/him)

— tan skin, dark brown eyes, and (dyed) blonde hair with black roots. 6ft, 4in (193.04cm)

— a grown man with the comedic disposition of a teenager. (said fondly)

— he doesn’t cook often (delivery or takeout), but when he does, he’s a cooking GOD. will casually whip the meanest dishes known to humankind. would be a good househusband/manwife, methinks...

— the genre of the play is tragedy with comedy! it felt fitting for him soooo

— he was taught tagalog at an early age, and it was his main language, only talking in english at school or when hanging out with friends. but because he moved away, english has begun to replace it. still, whenever he converses in his mother tongue, it makes him feel at home.

— annoying on purpose. finds joy in it, even.

— mamas boy THRU AND THRU!!

— chronically a flirt (mainly to annoy, but if people are uncomfortable with it, he stops immediately.) HOWEVER... flirt back, and he shortcircuits.

— cried when he got the acceptance email. (he's also an email HATER.)

— someone seriously needs to shut him up!! he never stops talking!!

— will cry if you call him by his first name (kidding, but not really. it's like a gut-punch. he genuinely feels like it's a minus off his lifespan every time someone refers to him as that)

— romancing adarsh. and maybe will die in doing so.

— tattooed. but... in like... a manwhore way... he has a rib tattoo and lower hip tattoos. (snake underneath his right rib ++ xoxo written on one hipbone, stars on the other.)

INTERACTIVE FICTION—

@backstage-if

#aesthetic #interactive fiction #mc oc #backstage oc #backstage if oc #backstage mc #moodboard #love love love this IF and i've thought so much ab quinn&adarsh. so many brainworms... #oc: quinn santos

[dazyxi]

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;; CECILIA “LIA” JHIN (she/her)

— ivory skin, skunk black-red hair and dark brown eyes. 5ft, 6in (167.64cm)

— loser!!!

— musician (genre being a combination of gothic rock and dark pop.)

— girl from chicago who moved to new york for her boyfriend only to get broken up with…… nearly immediately. it took everything in her not to strangle him (she cried instead)

— rainn romance cause opposite attracts is so cute to me. (she currently hates him)

— my girl is sooo homesick 😭

— speaks english + korean. went into kindergarten not knowing any english. she was horrified. her korean is iffy now, and she trips up in korean more than she does in english.

— did i say she’s a LOSER

— most def has written love songs (and now HATE songs) about rainn

;; INSTAGRAM (darl1ng.cecilia) + some writing!

—

Cecilia is trying to find happiness. Find light in the darkness. It's hard, though. The wound Rainn has left is still raw. Raw and bleeding. And the pain seeps into her body when she remembers that she's in a place she doesn't belong. That she's homeless until further notice. Well, she guesses homeless isn't really the word for her current situation- just. . . living with strangers in a New York apartment. The same apartment complex where she was supposed to be living with her boyfriend— now ex.

But the Earth will keep spinning. The Sun will keep shining. Birds will keep singing. Fish will keep swimming. It's comforting, in a way, that despite what happens to her or others, life will carry on. She thinks she needs to take after nature— learn how to keep living no matter the circumstances.

INTERACTIVE FICTION—

@apt502-if

#interactive fiction #mc oc #moodboard #aesthetic #apt 502 #apt 502 mc #apt 502 roommate #apartment 502 #502 roommate #oc: cecilia jhin

[dazyxi]

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;; ANGELISE “ANGEL” LAVIGNE (they/them)

— golden brown skin, tightly-curled white hair, golden eyes and white-feathered wings. 5ft, 11in (180.34cm)

— the unchosen nephilim. (painfully aware of the ironic irony of being a nephilim with the nickname angel.)

— majors in alchemy.

— the unchosen title, even if they pretend they’re over it, is a hurtful forefront thought in her mind constantly.

— vik+theo poly.

— comparable to a stray cat; untrusting and irritable.

— flight over fight.

— vik, when he was into ceramics, made them a moon trinket tray with golden accents. it currently resides on top of their dresser, responsible for holding their rings.

— despite the wound their ex, lucia, left is still raw and bleeding, they try to treat her kindly. it rarely works, and they usually find themself running from her. (and the past they share together.)

INTERACTIVE FICTION—

@disenchantedif

#interactive fiction #aesthetic #mc oc #moodboard #disenchantedif #disenchanted #disenchanted mc #oc: angelise lavigne

[dazyxi]

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;; AURELIA DE VESPHIRE (she/her)

- rosy skin, straight light pink hair with red eyes. 5ft, 2in (157.48cm)

- ruby pendant (with a golden chain, not silver), her father’s crown, typically wears white.

- hobby: gardening + unhealthy: sexual acts.

- obvious crush on hunter.

- flower tattoo + alistair tattoo.

- her journal is allistar 2, she writes lies.

- traits similar to that of a cornered animal.

- set farah’s room on fire.

INTERACTIVE FICTION—

@coeluvr

#interactive fiction #mc oc #aesthetic #mood board #crown of ashes and flames #crown of ashes and flames mc #oc: aurelia de vesphire