#to snap a silver stem

[fiercehildr]

This absolutely breathtaking commission of Rhordyn and Orlaith was done for me by the amazing @alilyushka who was such a pleasure to work with 💜 Hope you enjoy 💜

[13wyverns]

I’m sorry what the fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck he better not be actually dead

[diamondthorns]

[lost-in-fictionn]

I finished to snap a silver snap last night and I can't breathe. Orlaith why 😭😭😭😭😭😭

[theotherackerman]

Books read in 2022: 47/75 (reading goal)

To Snap A Silver Stem by Sarah A. Parker

[diejager]

what would eldritch reader vs some other eldritch person look like?

[A cheese wheel has been added to your inventory.]

[A cheese wheel has been consumed.]

Opposition Cw: blood, gore, death, cannibalism?, tell me if I missed any.

Despite old-age rivalries and ancient hostilities, to fight a Lord for One’s territory, the bloodshed and animosity shared between many, and the death of a ruling, primordial being, they had forgone the older ways, taken to learn and study humans and monsters alike, especially the sudden emergence of hybrids, a perfect cross between human and monster, one that rivalled the flawlessness of Old Ones. You were one of those that sought change, to live and prosper farther than in their imagination, their faith and their fear. You wanted something substantial, tangible under your clawed, see thing you could taste and touch, more than the pleas and cries.

Most had left their territory, travelling wherever the wind blew, some ventured far and high, drifting from the country they were born to new colonies —the Caribbean or the Thirteen Colonies in the West of the great Monopolies of the 17th centuries. You rarely strayed outside familiar lands, presiding over a small stretch of land in Europe, it was familiar, comfort. It was a decision many agreed with, those you crossed would peer at you, a subtle nod of their head and they’d be gone, vanishing when someone broke your contact; gone along the wind, leaving only a whisper of their existence in monstrous words too high for human and monster ears.

Perhaps that’s why it felt odd to fight another one after centuries of peaceful coexistence, to throw yourself into the fray, broad and towering over the trees, beak snapping at the canidae entity and talons gripping their paws, claws threatening to rip into your feathered body. You felt stretched, rusted with joints creaking and bones groaning, too old and too tired. This Entity was young, a few centuries old, with a wolf-like appearance and a character that fit a mutt more than it would a being of such prestige. They were chaotic, acting recklessly and without thought, you needn’t ask it their age, it was written all over the scarless skin and brutish acts.

Rather than fighting for land, coveting wealth and fine metals that humans loved with greedy hands, you took on the wolf for protection, the ward of your small family, under a dozen with years of bloodshed and violence under their belt. The 141 had a mastery in different skills, utilizing what they did best to push on, to fight and survive to see the next sunrise, but even hybrids had limits, where their great feats and insurmountable reputation were useless against something of old; be it young or primordial, Eldritch beings had little predator, prey to their own kind but rarely from another.

You clashed with the Wolf, standing on muscular, hind legs ruffled with dirtied fur, blood staining the greyish hair; a strong tail swaying carelessly, cutting trees down with a rough swing; a well-defined abdomen painted with a tribal tattoo, gleaming with a gold light, portraying the image of a holy symbole on a blasphemous being; sculpted arms holding back your own feathered ones, hands bleeding from your talons; and a wide mouth, silver teeth bared in a loud growl, the sound near deafening to you. It was strong and well-trained for something born in times of peace, body built to it’s peak and mind sharpened to ignore every distraction, but you were from the old, racking up more experience and wisdom it could only dream of wielding.

You were defending the LZ, standing between the Wolf and it’s mission of killing those it could kill, beings weaker than it. The only thorn in their mission was you, the lone Entity that engaged it. The Wolf hadn’t been told that the TF had an Old One, primeval in every sense. It struggled against you, your more monstrous figure compared to their tamed one, their creation stemming from some wild fantasy of the Middle Ages, when France feared the human eating wolf.

You screeched as loudly as it growled, voice gaining in force, a cacophony of screams and cries slipping from your tongue, the fears and terror of beings that brought you to life. Spreading your second pair of limbs, you slashed at it, digging into the soft skin of it’s abdomen, tearing away fibres of muscle and warm fat. It yowled, struggling to pull away, frantic at your shift of tactic —fearful that you decided to attack than defend your group. It stood on the single probability that you wouldn’t engage, preferring to protect than fight with the risk of endangering your family.

The Wolf would die today. Your grip was unyielding, keeping it in this situation however much it tried to squirm away, hands prisoners of your first pair of wings and chest bleeding from your second. Before long, it would be another body added to your count, cooling and gutted on the forest ground. You swung your tail around them, wrapping once around their slim waist, adding further leverage over it while you dug their intestines out. The strong stench of blood, metallic and tempting, filled the air, bringing fearful tears to the Wolf’s eyes, beady, yellow eyes growing hazy.

You revelled in it’s slow death, your thirst for violence growing with the ages of peace, strung tight like an itch that bothered you incessantly. You hungered, you couldn’t remember the taste of Eldritch meat, the rich ambrosia in the veins or the last whip of their dying breath. Your beak cracked open, white teeth gleaming inside your black mouth until they were dirtied, stained red with the blood of an Entity, you clamped down on it’s neck, breaking the rough skin with enough force to shatter bone, but the Wolf had tough bone. That would only prolong it’s suffering, the pain feeding you as much as the meat and bone would —a delicacy of the ages. You wonder how König and Ghost would think of Eldritch flesh.

You wouldn’t need to eat for another month after this buffet.

Taglist: @warenai @capricorn-anon @sae1kie @yeoldedumbslut @tallmanlover @distracteddragoness @vxnilla-hxrddrugs @konigsblog @havoc973 @im-making-an-effort @daisychainsinknots @0alk0msan @danielle143

[thesummerstorms]

So the other thing is, in my headcanon verse, Dick and Jason (Todd) both definitely think Annabeth is dead.

She was a seven year old run away in the streets of Gotham. Neither Batman nor Jim Gordon were ever able to discover a single lead. Just from their mutual experience, the most likely options were death or trafficking that took her out of Gotham.

And at some point, after Tim became Robin (so Bruce and Dick were very tentatively starting to reconcile) but before Jason came back as Red Hood, GPD does finally find something.

Something is a damaged silver bracelet with Anna Elizabeth Wayne's initials engraved on one of the charms and a snapped link where a different charm (the elephant representing Dick Grayson) broke away.

It's an exact match for the gift Dick Grayson gave his baby sister the year she turned six, full of guilt about how little time he spent with her now that he and Bruce were barely speaking.

A hummingbird charm, in part as an indirect reference to Robin, in part because Anna reminded him of a hummingbird with her inability to sit still. A hummingbird in a flock of Robins and Bats.

A star and moon charm, for Kory who Anna idolized and who suggested the gift to begin with. Or for Bruce "I am the night" Wayne. Or as a reference to NIGHTwing. Dick's explanation changed based on his mood and the audience.

A tiny silver disk, engraved A.E.W.

A dog, just because Annabeth so badly wanted one of her own.

The bracelet is found in a crime scene full of teenage skeletons. There isn't a body that can be identified as Anna Wayne's- none are quite the right age, and none match Bruce's DNA sample- but some of the other victims are identified as run away children.

The conclusion seems pretty obvious to Jim Gordon.

Dick accepts it, grieves, and withdraws again, freezing Bruce out while he tries to come to terms with what happened.

Tim knows what's going on, but it all seems somewhat... detached somehow. As if he's watching a blurry bit of film. Like most of Gotham PD, his brain has glazed over most of the other details within the year. He doesn't have enough of a personal connection to see through Athena's manipulation of the Mist.

Bruce Wayne isn't accepting anything as fact until they actually find a body. Some gut instinct, the part of him that hold on to his subconscious impressions of Athena, tells him it isn't that simple.

He's right. The crime scene is actually a monster's nest, and one that Annabeth successfully escaped. But he doesn't know that. And he also isn't convincing anyone, including himself, that his denial doesn't stem purely from his guilt.

And then, with all of this context, a resurrected Jason Todd returns to Gotham in secret.

And, look, it's hard to imagine how his initial reunion with Bruce could have gone much worse...

But finding out that his baby sister, who despite all the other family bullshit he loved deeply, ran away from Bruce and was seemingly murdered in the same year as his own death?

Well... That's definitely not going to help.

[sexypantsriorson]

VIOLET IS SCARED OF THE DARK! BUT WHY? WHAT DOES IT MEAN?

🚨 Spoilers for Fourth Wing and Iron Flame Below 🚨

When reading Fourth Wing one of the many times I've read it I noticed that Violet seemed scared of the dark on several occasions. However, the newest Xaden POV bonus chapter (Ch 27) solidified my crack theory that may mean nothing at all even further.

Fourth Wing:

⚡️Chapter 1: "The Captain nods and points to the open door into the turret. It looks ominously dark in there, and I fight the urge to run like hell."

-> This is the weakest evidence but I wanted to include it. Even though the majority of the fear probably stems from having to cross the parapet and going into the riders quadrant I can't help but notice how the darkness of the turret is pointed out in relation to her wanting to run away.

⚡️Chapter 19: "'Hope you're not afraid of the dark.' He pulls me inside, and suffocating darkness envelopes us as the door closes. This is fine. This is absolutely fine. 'But just incase you are,' Xaden says, his voice at full volume as he snaps. A mage light hovers above our head, Illuminating our surroundings. 'Thanks'"

-> side note: as Nicole from FFG would say ITALICS! Is this a Xaden intinsic moment or is this similar to Ch 27 where he senses her fear down their bond?

⚡️Chapter 27 from Violet's POV: "Xaden lifts a hand a few inches above the table, and shadows pour from underneath our seats, filling the room and turning it dark as midnight in a blink. My heart jumps as my sight goes black."

⚡️Chapter 27 from Xaden's POV: "I lift my palms just enough to clear the table and summon the cooling darkness of the shadows. They stream out from under the table and blanket the room in less than a heartbeat, devouring all traces of light. Panic skitters down the silver bond."

Iron Flame:

⚡️Chapter 36: "He steps forward, raises his arms, and shadows rush in from the wall at our backs, engulfing the formation - and us - in complete darkness. Theres a glimmer of a caress across my cheek, right where it's split to what feels like the bone, and more than one cadet screams."

-> The structure of the first sentence, the emphasis on 'and us' is what clued me into the fear in this chapter. And once again Xaden, who is also the source of the darkness, uses the shadows to comfort her. Based on Ch 19 and Ch 27 of Fourth Wing he likely knows she's scared of the dark at this point.

Noooowwwwww - What does all this mean? Well.... I have no idea!

As mentioned before it might mean nothing at all. Rebecca might have just thrown it in there as a quirky personality trait of Violet's. I personally just don't think that's the case.

According to a study done by John Mayer (the clinical psychologist, not the singer) only 11% of adults in the US are scared of the dark. So, its not that common of a fear. Also the amount of times it's brought up throughout the two books we've had so far makes me think it might be significant.

On July 8th Rebecca Yarros and Red Tower Books released a joint Instagram reel with a small video showing the cover of Onyx Storm for the first time. The caption has the tag line "Are you ready to BRAVE THE DARK?" written just like that with 'brave the dark' in all caps. 'Brave the Dark' is also written on the cover of the book in the same way 'Fly or Die' and 'Burn it Down' was used as a tag line of FW and IF respectively. This is another one of the most prominent reasons I think that these allusions to Violets fear of the dark are more than just a basic character trait. In each of the scenes mentioned (with the exception of chapter 1) Xaden comforts Violet in the darkness. Furthermore, if you search 'dark' in the FW ebook there are over 80 occurrences of the word and almost all of them are in relation to Xaden (I couldn't search IF because I don't have the ebook). We know that OS is going to focus on Violet trying to find a cure for Xaden. Is Xaden part of this darkness Violet is scared of?

The Empyrean Series is my current hyper fixation so I couldn't get this spiral out of my head since yesterday.

Please weigh in on what you think Violets fear of the dark means or where it comes from! I'd love to hear other peoples opinions. Also, if you know of any scenes I missed where Violet is scared of the dark please let me know.

Thank you for coming to my TedTalk TairnTalk. (I stole that from someone else but I can't remember who said it first but credit to them you are hilarious).

[pyrpaw]

I heard your call and came to fulfill your wish

Hi, there! First time ordering here (I hope I do it right)

Reader: Neutral 👍

Type: Headcanons (Romantic)

Scenary: Romantic headcanons about a reader who gives flowers to his lover as a token of his love and appreciate (each flower has a romantic connotation)

With Jamil, Silver And Leona

ooo you asked perfectly! I'm not super well known on flower meanings so I'll just use basic ones probably, but provide the meaning (also sorry if I misunderstood anything)

(contents: established relationship, mentions of the reader and Jamil dating before the overblot,and the reader being present during Jamil's overblot, and just some badly done angst in Jamil and Leona's)

giving flowers <3

Jamil Viper

Daffodils,bright yellow petels and a bright green stem to accompany it, they symbolize new beginnings and peace, and occasionally, forgiveness

And god knows Jamil needs forgiveness

After his overblot he couldn't look you in the eyes, even if you were dating at the time, but despite all the events that he made you endure when in a blind rage, you were the first to forgive him

White daisies, the classic white petaled flower that fits well in hair, symbolizing loyalty, beauty, patience, and simplicity

Sounds just like Jamil huh?

Jamil would always try and accompany you when you went out, and anytime someone else would try to even talk to him, he'd ignore them and go straight to you

(could be his antisocial-ness as well, but still)

And I mean he has to be the most gorgeous man ever, long silky hair, smooth skin, dazzling eyes, the epitome of beauty

Along with his insane patience due to handling Kalim, he rarely ever snaps, and finally, the simplicity of life he oh so enjoys

so, with a simple bouquet and a guilt ridden boyfriend, you ventured off to Scarabia

After wandering around for awhile a student told you Jamil was in the kitchen, and once you walked in Jamil's head raised before a nervous expression filled his face as he looked away to focus on cooking

Without saying any words, you walked up and gave him the flowers and a kiss on the cheek before leaving the kitchen, leaving a stunned Jamil with flowers in his hands

Now, Jamil doesn't know the flowers meanings, but he does know that almost all flowers you give him are for a reason, so after the dorm had dinner he decided to look up the meanings, his face softening as he read the various meanings

And bam, a sudden ding from your phone, low and behold... your boyfriend finally texted you <3

Silver

Magnolia, large white petals forming a elegent shape, it represents nobility and perfection, who better fits these then Silver?

Silver, a honest and courageous knight, who always manages to sleep like a princess with perfect hair and (almost) perfect manners

Dandelion, a airy and puffy weed that symbolizes strength and resilience

Because who is it that always helps you no matter the toll it takes on him? Silver

It's always nice to hang out with your boyfriend, him taking a nap by a tree while you pick flowers nearby, carefully holding them as to not pull off any petels

You've noticed that the local wildlife that swarms around Silver has taken notice of your flower picking and giving tendencies, and have started to bring you little flowers to add into the bouquet

So, with a Dandelion, Magnolia, and various wildflowers collected by birds, you walked back to your sleeping boyfriend

You get up to him and decide to sit next to him, putting the flowers into his open palm and not wake him, opting to just silently sit and cloud gaze

Eventually he started to wake up, grabbing onto the flowers and looking over at them once his eyes opened, before looking back at you and putting his hand on your own

Does he know the meaning of the flowers? god knows, but he seems to get you your own with specific meanings, so you say he does

Leona Kingscholar

Iris, a beautifully purple flower that symbolizes royalty and respect

Because in your mind despite him not being in line for the throne, he's still a person to highly respect

Orange tulips, unique petals that face upwards, symbolizing understanding and appreciation

Because what Leona really needs is someone to not brush off his struggles and understand his difficulties

Ever since Leona's overblot and the whole school learning his true feelings and envy, he's had a hard time meeting with you, last minute panic and cancellation in the fear of being judged

So, you get him a lovely bouquet of Orange tulips and Irises, going through Savannaclaw to find your boyfriend, only to be told he's out napping somewhere, so the delivery of flowers lands on Ruggie

After Leona was awoken by Ruggie he received flowers and automatically knew who sent them, looking at the arrangements of flowers with a meaning he knows is true from you

Bouquet in hand, he gets up and ventures off to find you

So, here you are now, after getting a sudden text from Leona that he was coming to your dorm, you are now peacefully cuddling with your boyfriend

[terrence-silver]

how do you think what Larusso's relationship would be like! beloved (daniel's oldest daughter in her twenties) and old man! Terry during the Cobra Kai timeline, especially if beloved, was extremely morally similar to Terry? let's say, they "match each others freak." ❤️ I love your blog, especially because I'm also a writer and I love your take on Terry, your in-depth character study of him is terrific, sorry for any mistakes, english is not my first language, I'm Brazilian, lots of love from here!

Hello, Brazil! ❤️

---

Frankly, I think Daniel would just feel downright haunted by one of his kid's proclivities and her character long before Terry ever returns into the picture --- years and years before he does, actually. This is an ongoing process that stems back to the time Mr. Miyagi was still alive; it's like Terry Silver never went away in the first place, notwithstanding the lingering trauma and bad memories that Daniel would have to live with on a daily basis, but that his own daughter is starting to resemble one of his demons from the past in worldviews, personality and behavior now too; it is literally the worst development imaginable. Nothing and nobody in his life is safe. Moving on is impossible when the battlefield is happening under your own roof. This whole city, the passing decades, The Valley itself as a whole and each passing generation feels like it has something of Terry Silver's in them and he's never truly gone. His darkness is stubbornly ever-present.

It's like Terry infected everything, even things and people he never actually touched.

Never came in contact with.

Never interacted with.

Nonetheless, it is there, finding ways to seep into every pore of his existence like an infection, possibly leading to Daniel being strictest precisely with his oldest daughter in the hopes that he'd steer her away from becoming the way she's becoming to overcompensate for her shortcomings and all the things he's expected of her but that she didn't live up to from his point of view. Something she might take to heart, because what child of their parent's wouldn't? Cause her to feel like she's far from her father's favorite. Like he cares for Sam, Antony and Louie a lot more and that he sees them as 'the good children he can feel proud of' because they're incarnations of everything Mr. Miyagi espoused...unlike her', which couldn't be further from the truth because Daniel would adore his estranged daughter too, but still, his stance towards her would be here causing her to wish to rebel, go against the mold even more and willfully embrace every bad impulse she has even more than ever before because it's hard to reconcile the fact that she's incompatible to her family. That she's distinct. Daniel takes a different approach with his problematic older daughter because he loves her and doesn't want her to grow into a morally questionable person, but is simply so afraid of what he's witnessing in her that his methods might be unbalanced, their root found in fear --- infinite parental concern. Meaning, he might snap, he might yell, he might be judgmental and not always be an exemplary, patient parent, because validly, it's hard to be exemplary when your own kid reminds you so much of a past abuser who messed you up for life. He might take some draconic measures with her too. His belief in pacifism and 'letting go' might just vane as well. What choice does he have? She's starting to resemble...someone he knew a long time ago. Someone he'd rather not speak of anymore. Jesus! He doesn't even want to think about it ever again! Hard not to! When she's right there, at the dinner table, in his own house, his own flesh and blood, someone he adores, someone he would do anything in the world for --- anything but accept that she's going down a negative path. What parent worth his penny would? Should he just allow that without doing anything?

So, when she befriends Terry, of all people?

Becomes a little too close for comfort with him?

It's a nightmare.

It's like watching his life's work and efforts at setting a good example literally collapse and history repeat itself except in an infinitely worse way than could ever be anticipated. Daniel would be convinced Terry Silver has perversely planned this for god knows how long and that getting under the skin of his daughter was premeditated, and heck, knowing Terry, maybe it was too and that this is revenge. Some sort of sick scheme. Grooming. The desire to continue ruining his life by hitting Daniel where it hurts most, even decades after everything that's went down and for the longest time, Daniel would feel like he's the only one who understands the unhinged gravitas of the situation, causing him to feel crazy and all alone in the world, with nobody to get his point of view and how eerie and harrowing Terry being with his daughter actually is, whereas Amanda, for example, wouldn't see the full picture for a good while, her concerns being limited solely to the age difference, but not the actual context under which any of this is happening seeing as how she's not entirely aware of what went down between Terry and Daniel because Daniel didn't tell her. In fact, she might even understand why their daughter likes Terry Silver. He's rich, he's handsome, he's charming, sure, a little sleazy, perhaps, but ultimately the harmless, inoffensive kind of sleazy (ultimately being too old for their daughter). She might even see Daniel freaking out as slightly overblown. He's overreacting. Of course, man's old enough to be her grandfather and it's a reason for concern and intervention but surely, not the amount of panic and crisis Daniel's exhibiting --- except, it makes the whole situation only feel the more dizzyingly infuriating, because that, that guy, right there, is also simultaneously the worst person Daniel knows and he knew quite a lot of those. And now, his own daughter is consorting with him. How does Amanda...just not get it!? He would feel like he's losing his damn mind. Terry Silver ruined so much of his late teenage years and the years that followed, influenced by the lingering trauma and trust issues; the last thing Daniel would allow for him to have his daughter's soul too. This whole discourse might just lead to the Larusso's marriage encountering shaky grounds.

Amanda could easily be taking her daughter's side, because ultimately, she'd see her daughter as a free person (and she'd critically misunderstand how awful this whole thing) is and Daniel would become more and more volatile seeing as how he wouldn't feel empathized with in the least bit. ''It's the man who tortured me when I was just eighteen!'' he'd yearn to scream out. ''He made me believe he was my friend. That he had his best intentions at heart. And then he tortured me and I trusted him, Amanda! He and John Kreese! They did it together! And now, Terry Silver's got his hooks in our daughter and she's letting him! You're telling me to calm down!? I can't calm down!''

Daniel would fight against the situation with all his might.

He'd argue.

He'd get his hands dirty.

He'd ironically show that bit of Cobra Kai he had in him all along.

He'd do things he'd do in no other situation if it meant changing his kid's perspective.

But, he'd under no circumstance accept his daughter being the way she is.

Just like he wouldn't accept her being with the enemy.

Terry Silver can't have his family.

Terry Silver, though? He'd manipulatively and very sweetly expertly exploit this pre-existing rift in the family to masterfully to divide the Larussos even further and get exactly what he wants by being the (seemingly) understanding, concerned supportive shoulder for Daniel's daughter and offering the camaraderie she doesn't feel she ever had at home. He becomes her support network. Her only support network, eliminating everyone else who isn't him because there's 'no matching the freak' of someone who has a couple of decades of experience in malice ahead of you, who fought in a war and who could, effectively, push came to shove, kill and die with relish. Daniel's daughter might think she can go toe to toe with Terry where being chaotic is concerned (and he'd fuel and enable her belief that this is true) but is there really anyone who actually can? Heck, he might even encourage her to keep a good relationship intact with her folks all while effectively sabotaging said relationship purely so he'd seem guiltless in the matter, playing good cop, bad cop accordingly. But, ultimately he's cool! He's awesome! He lovebombs! He lavishes! He's generous! He's seductive! He can give the spoiled Italian princess the life she's used to and so, so, so much more. He takes on whatever mask and personality is best suited for the situation to draw people in! He's older and by extension, probably makes a younger woman feel more mature and 'cool' by comparison too, appealing to whatever mommy and daddy issues are present! He's all about embracing instincts, impulses, holding nothing back which feels liberating to the otherwise Zen and possibly stifling teachings of Mr. Miyagi! He's rich! He's knowledgeable! And he's Terry Silver, which automatically could mean a world of damage. Never doubt the man's an influence that would entirely destroy what little stability's left in this family and turn Daniel's daughter against her father, mom, brothers, her sister and literally everyone she ever knew. In the end, she'd get more than she's ever bargained for. She thought she had control over the situation. She didn't, though.

Her dad would've been correct all along.

Terry Silver corrupts and devours.

Nothing's for free.

[vikwrites]

Money, Money, Money - Tony Stark

CHAPTER 1 Summary ➣ Starting off as simple, transactional love during the height of Tony’s alcoholism, devolves into something real. Pairing ➣ Tony Stark x Reader Word Count ➣ 1.2k words Warnings ➣ Slow Burn, Power Imbalance, Enemies to Lovers, Large age gap, Mildly Pretentious Narrator. Author's Notes ➣  The first, full-fledged Tony Stark series, so excited for this! I've always wanted to write a Materialistic!Reader so here it is! Happy readings <3

On the 86th floor of Stark Tower, atop a mini-bar, sat a delicate glass of Vodka Martini, 3 fluid-ounce Yamazaki, 1 fluid-ounce dry vermouth, with 3 small olives minutely pierced onto a thin gold-plated skewer. 

The thin stem of the crystal glass was passed to your gauzy, manicured fingers, in exchange for a crisp stack of ten dollar bills surrendered to the bartender, you didn’t bother to count. 

The plump skewer of olives swirled freely in your nearly full martini; minute drops threatened to spill over the edge of its fine rim. Luckily, you had caught the droplets before they had been discarded onto the carpeted floor.

Figures adorned in hues of gold and silver flitted about the lavish parlor, each mirrored the twinkling lights of the Manhattan skyline outside in their respective shimmering gowns, each one more expensive than the last. 

The atmosphere was lively, yet the main attraction has yet to arrive. You had heard mentions of the infamous Stark around; his name carried a certain mystique, spoken under hushed whispers amongst the attendees. You had never really met him face-to-face, considering he was the CEO of the company, but your position at Stark Industries held up a pretty good reputation, earning you enough, and granting you an invite to the party.

“Do you think he’s seeing anyone?” You picked up on the conversation between a few women sitting next to you on the barstools. The woman in question, doused in the overwhelming scent of Chanel No. 5, was dressed in a form-fitting Valentino dress. Her voice carried through the air with a thick New-Yorkean accent, a bleak resemblance to her flashy, ostentatious appearance. 

“Quit it, stop trying to get into Stark’s pants. You never will.” The blonde next to you responded, patting the other on the shoulder playfully. You caught a glimpse of her manicured nails, adorned with a glossy velvet finish in a similar fashion to your own. However, unlike yours—which were neatly trimmed, the cuticles of her nails were a bit messy. A detail that wouldn't normally matter, but for some reason stood out to you in that moment.

Is she wearing a Cartier bracelet? Your jaw clenched at the sight of her bracelet, sparkling with diamonds and catching the light in a way that made your own bracelet pale in comparison, it was obviously more expensive than yours. The fact alone pissed you off. 

The room was filled with a swarm of pretentious individuals, each one flaunting their wealth and superiority. It was suffocating, being surrounded by so many egotistical assholes with their holier-than-thou attitudes. They may have money, but it didn't make them any less shallow or arrogant. You had this sixth-sense of being able to tell how much of an asshole specifically by what adorned their money-laced wrists—whether or not they wore a Patek Phillipe or a Jaeger was enough insight into their entire persona. 

“I’ve got a better chance than you at least, Stark would love me!” The first woman's voice snapped like a taut wire, dripping with disdain. Her eyes narrowed and glinted with malice as she shot dirty looks at the others, her loathing almost palpable.

Holier-than-thou attitude, as you had said.

You thought their behavior immature, not wanting to pay attention anymore to such infantile arguments. Fighting over some uber-rich billionaire who could give less of a shit who you are after you had warmed his bed for a single night? 

Pfft, fuck no, you were just here for the cocktails.

You brought the crystal glass to your lips, and took your first sip. The alcohol burnt as it cascaded down your throat, leaving your mouth with a spicy aftertaste, you could never really get used to a Martini. 

A part of you was contemplating asking for more, but the sensible side knew that ending up slobbering drunk at a party and waking up at the ungodly hour of 2pm with missing jewelry and a killer hangover was not exactly your idea of a good time.

The smooth sip of your drink is abruptly halted by the sharp sound of glass shattering, followed by the shrill voices of the ladies engaged in a vicious argument. Their heated words and swinging arms in-turn send glasses crashing to the ground, littering the once-pristine carpet with sparkling shards of broken glass. 

“Did you just call me a bitch?” The blonde's voice rose to a screeching crescendo as she yelled, her face flushed with anger. With a loud thud, she slammed her purse onto the table.

“Yeah, I did—bitch!” Another responded, her voice a bit more high pitched than the other, yet still carrying the same sanctimonious attitude, standing up and facing her with a smug smirk on their face. 

“Now, ladies. Must we really be resorting to calling each other names?” A voice echoed from atop the stairwell. The women’s dispute had been abruptly quelled, the whole room seemed silenced, and all eyes seemed to be glued onto the figure.

There stood Tony Stark, dressed in a perfectly-styled, deep-burgundy suit, no doubt Tom Ford, the barchetta pocket gave it away. His hair was styled in his signature quiff, slicked back to a T. And of course, he topped off the ensemble with a pair of red sunglasses, which you’d always found amusing since he'd wear them indoors. 

“Welcome, everybody. I would introduce myself, but it seems that you know who I am.” Each step he takes down the glass staircase, each time his Louboutin boots hit the glass stairs, resulted in a loud, echoed clap, which resonated across the room. “I’d personally like to thank all of you for attending. As you know, it happens to be my anniversaire today, so I thought to myself, why not throw a party?”

"What's with all the staring, is my suit on backwards?" Tony joked, his eyes scanning the room as he flashed his signature smirk. You knew, however, he thrived on attention, as if it were fuel for his larger-than-life persona. Flamboyant was practically his middle name; Tony Flamboyant Stark does have a nice ring to it, you chuckled.

"Jarvis," Tony’s voice carried a hint of excitement as he spoke to his AI, "let's crank up the music and get this party started." The monotone response did as so. 

After Tony made his grandeur entrance, you retreated to your lone seat at the bar, grateful for the temporary escape from the chaos. The previously bickering women had vanished, leaving a few neighboring barstools conveniently open for your solitude. You took a deep breath and savored the cool air conditioning and the soft murmur of conversation floating around you.

But just when you thought you had some peace and quiet, you heard the shuffling of a chair being pulled out next to you. Expecting one of the argumentative ladies to return, you turned to find Tony  Stark himself settling into the seat beside you, nonchalantly pulling out his wallet and fishing out a few bills.

"So, could I buy you a drink?" 

⎊ back to masterlist

[fiercehildr]

So happy to share this absolutely stunning Rhorlaith piece (to bleed a crystal bloom - Sarah A parker) @kayrakhan did for me as a commission! I just loooove it 😍

[rayroseu]

This line is making me sad akjdkakdks its making me imagine that once Malleus sees that his overblot causes pain rather than making the people of his life happy... he'll realize that "he is no good as a king at all since he harmed his people"😭😭

"Seeing you all worry helped me calm down..." ARGHH IT MAKES ME THINK OF THE SCENE WHERE HE SAW HOW ANGUISHED SILVER WAS ABOUT LILIA'S DEPARTURE... Like... I CANT??😭😭 HE'S SO CARING ABOUT THE HAPPINESS OF OTHERS BECAUSE THATS AN EMOTION HE RARELY FELT SO HE VIEWS IT AS THE MOST PRECIOUS FEELING ??

but sadness and partings and goodbyes..."harms happiness", thats why he just created a world where it never exists... He's not just doing it for his own desires KSJAKDJWKD plus if "all dreams come true" none of the previous overblots wouldve occured and they'll live a peaceful life... but living that way would stagnate their growth... they'll be living the same life repeatedly without any improvements towards themselves

that's why even if Malleus' overblot stems from a good intention, his vision is not applicable to a human life as we all require growing up, overcoming hardships, admitting our mistakes and developing out from that... Those painful feelings are what makes a human life more meaningful and allows a person to give themselves a genuine good life. 🥲🥲🥲

But Malleus who's still in the state of "learning to be human", he cannot naturally perceive that kind of moral.

I just hope that after Book 7 there's no narrative implication that Malleus' coping was flat out purely wrong lol Bcs as Yuu said, everyone wishes they won't lose anyone important to them either...

Going back to the fact that he feels responsible for the happiness of others... I think Malleus lives his life very literally...

I think it was Lilia who said this...(?) That Malleus' power (or the Draconia's power in general) gives happiness to the people of Briar Valley (as their power can protect the dark faes) 🥲✨

Maybe this is the reason why he's "so desperate" in keeping the happiness of others and also giving them blessings that'll surely make them happy...

Okay separate theory... Maybe I'm just overthinking lol But the occurence of "falling" in TWST is so fascinating to me since thats a heavy reference to "Alice Falling In Wonderland" yk

Book 6 we already had Idia falling to the Underworld because he wants to follow Ortho, There's this implication that Overblots "falling to a deep sleep/darkness" thats why all overblotees "wakes up after their own overblot... I wonder if Overblot Malleus will take a fall as well??? His overblot title is "The King of Abyss" but I doubt that the "timeless Sage Island" is the abyss yk? What if we actually learn about the origin of Overblots through Malleus Overblot?

Because in the trailer we can see him snapping out in awareness(waking up) before he's trapped in thorns in what seems to be an Abyss--- So maybe, we won't defeat Malleus Overblot bcs he'll wake up from it (presumeably once he realizes that his overblot caused Lilia and the others pain???) but him breaking his overblot wont be possible bcs the "darkness" will engulf him of smth

I'm thinking of this because the existence of Overblot is so weird. General Lilia should've recognized the blot when it was taking Silver because of his despair since before Leona's overblot, he knew the vibes of whats occuring yk and same thing with Malleus with how he knew that he's planning to overblot, plus he knows the existence of STYX whos focused on overblot too

But strangely, the mages of the past (Meleanor and Knight of Dawn even Lilia and Baul) dont seem to possess any magic limitations concerning blot accumulation, additionally they dont even have magestones (that they use to gauge their blot consumption like NRC pens). Which makes me think that "blot or overblot" was not a "trait" that existed naturally in mages???

Since TWST world's history is implied to be changed... I wonder if blot existence was something that "a being" made up/cursed upon all mages lol

Idk where Im going with this tbhhhh ajsjaj but I just think its suspicious that only human magicians is heavily concerned with blot accumulation... whereas Malleus and Lilia never worries about using magic too much...

So wild guess, maybe Maleficia (since shes the only powerful person here lol) cursed "magic in general" so humans will never be on par with fae's magical abilities no matter how hard they develop it

Ig its to never repeat the "occurence of another Knight of Dawn" who's magic is even stronger than faes since he has no limitation so she created blot to curse humans to limit their magic else they'll fall into "darkness" idk

[lorei-writes]

Arsenic Green

Gilbert von Obsidian x Reader Yandere (?) ~1.3k words

In which a certain lord dares think about courting you...

Content Warnings: blood, poisoning, food, biting, side character death

“To our friendship,” Gilbert toasts, his smile unwavering, beaming brightly in cold light. The man seated opposite of him shifts in his chair before too raising his drink to his lips. Absent-mindedly, Lord Bassewitz takes a sip, to then promptly set his cup aside. Slice of lemon sinks under the weight of the turbulent alcohol, yet that is overlooked. He steals another glance at you, so very faithful in his adoration of your every gesture. His mellowed eyes take in your smile with barely concealed elation, a thin veil of dreamy mist setting over his features whenever you as much as concisely reply to any of his questions. An Icarus enchanted by the allure of a sun, he dares to bring your attention to himself.

Tendons give under the knife’s edge, roasted skin willingly parting for meat to be cut. Gilbert rips the pheasant thigh from the roast, claims it for himself. He plates it over silver, eye as red as the finest of Benitoitian wines studiously searching for any signs of change to the metal. Gloved fingers grip the cutlery with cautious elegance. The process repeats, steamed vegetables, smoked fish, minced mint roulades, salads, cheeses and other dishes gradually gathering around his place by the oaken table. He lifts his glass, the alcohol contained within it eagerly dyeing the dining hall walls in splashing crimson. Black leather caresses the fragile stem as delicately as if it was you, not a fraction of him, of his being, betraying his desire to snap it in half.

“To our friendship,” Gilbert toasts, his smile unwavering, beaming brightly in cold light. The man seated opposite of him shifts in his chair before too raising his drink to his lips. Absent-mindedly, Lord Bassewitz takes a sip, to then promptly set his cup aside. Slice of lemon sinks under the weight of the turbulent alcohol, yet that is overlooked. He steals another glance at you, so very faithful in his adoration of your every gesture. His mellowed eyes take in your smile with barely concealed elation, a thin veil of dreamy mist setting over his features whenever you as much as concisely reply to any of his questions. An Icarus enchanted by the allure of a sun, he dares to bring your attention to himself.

Again.

Yet again.

Gilbert could never forget about any of his dear friends and likewise, he does not forget about any of yours or any who dare consider themselves as such. He cannot. You are his. His alone. Tigers are territorial beasts and since you’ve chosen one, you havenot meant to be shared. Not that you truly had much choice; regardless, the dinner must go on, so go on it does, silver shrieking against silver as Gilbert cuts into the fish to then oh so slowly chew the slice, savouring the acidic marinate with obstinate thoroughness. He lets out a hum of approval and you turn your face towards him, candle light casting shadows into any concerned creases that mark the space between your brows.

“Hm? What is it?” he asks, so innocent despite being anything but.

“Is… everything well?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?” Gilbert brings another bite of fish to his lips. He consumes it slowly, intently, never once dropping your gaze. It is as if he wanted to reinvent the sacrum, to turn the act into a binding vow between you two, an enchantment or a curse that would always return you to him. It slows the time, has the breath solidify in your lungs, passing seconds turning to dust and drying out your throat… And then Gilbert swallows, the bobbing of his Adam’s apple shaking your world. “Are you upset, little rabbit?”

“What? No, no, of course not,” you assure, shaking your head vehemently, long hair bouncing over your shoulders. “I’m enjoying this meeting. Really.”

“Give me your hand.”

The world greys again to then completely fade away. It is just the scarlet, that of his smouldering stare and the one buzzing in your veins, each thud of your heart thundering through your ribs. You are as if hypnotised, phantom hands combing through your waves, pushing them aside to descend over your neck. Frigid breath envelops your skin in white frost, lips that are not there just barely kissing the marks you’ve so diligently covered with make up. You have to obey him, the choice a mere illusion dreamt by your trembling arms. So you do as he says and give him your hand, the pads of his fingers brimming with electricity as they brush against your palm. Gilbert brings it to his face, his very real cool replacing the invisible ghost from before, leather caressing your skin to then grip it tightly, coil around you wrist like a snake.

You are his.

You are his.

You are his when he kisses the back of your hand, when he turns it around and sucks at your wrist until it bruises, and you are his when he punishes you for being so willing to entertain another man. Your nerves sizzle as Gilbert takes your ring finger into his mouth, hot tongue wetting your skin for his teeth to immediately sink into it. Hard. He drinks from you like from a chalice, relishing in your pain and fright alike. You are his, his to do with as he pleases, his to crave loyalty into and his … His… For all eternity. Only. His.

***

Lord Bassewitz is undeterred.

***

Lord Bassewitz is insistent.

***

Lord Bassewitz… still is. But why? Why is it not Lord Bassewitz ‘was’?

***

A tap at a time, Gilbert walks down the corridor. His step has gained a certain spring, a kind of lightness it has not possessed in years. He’s pleased or relieved, or perhaps both – or maybe it is just the sun, so warmly inviting in its bright affection streaming through the tall windows. Regardless, he is satisfied and in this satisfaction he magnanimously overlooks the shivering doors he passes by. All until one.

The cane strikes the granite floor, just short of producing sparks. Gilbert readjusts his cloak, an impeccable smile on his face, and knocks on the wood. His hand moves towards the knob by itself, his fingers turning it without waiting for any reply. They – he – cannot possibly postpone the moment any further. He’s grown tired of that.

Hinges move soundlessly as Gilbert steps inside the room, a speck of obsidian against the carmine wallpaper. He lifts his cane, the walnut floor squelching under his boots. He wipes the soles on the carpet. Gilbert strides forward nonchalantly, almost as if unaware of Lord Bassewitz knelt over a puddle of bloody vomit. Pale-faced, the man has become a mere shadow of himself, shrunken and sunken to the point of being less the phantom that haunted you during that dinner. Not that he haven’t strived for that. After all, he has hoped, craved, to be even as much. Ruthlessly wayward in his foolishness, Lord Bassewitz raises his head. Ignorant, he sins with arrogance.

You, he mouths silently, bloody red staining his yellowish purple lips and soft sheen of sweat covering his brow. Short of breath, Lord Bassewitz can only claw at the ground with his brittle nails, memories escaping his mind with each garlicky huff of air.

“A-Anti —”

“There is none. It’s already too late.” Gilbert sits down in the chair by the window, sinks into the shade provided by the backrest. He relaxes into the plush cushions, one leg crossed over the other and a hand resting on his knee. As if taxidermied, his face is twisted in eternally joyous smile, unreadable save for the scalding cold coagulated in his eye. Gilbert taps away a lively, joyous melody.

And he remembers.

He relishes his memories.

Gilbert recalls Lord Bassewitz’s hand brushing against yours as he brazenly appeared in your path. He remembers his longing gazes, the lovesick sighs, all the questions and greetings that should have never been thought nor spoken out loud, let alone exchanged. He remembers your lovely visage, infidelicly presented to somebody that was not him. He recalls the many days he’s waited and the many meals you’ve shared and the orders he’s issued and that sweetly acidic taste so prevalent on his table ever since you’ve considered straying – and he relishes, he relishes the scene displayed in the room now not only wallpapered in red, almost wishing to too experience the heavenly coppery taste that brought him to this end. Gilbert’s jealousy is the colour of arsenic green, equal parts venomous and poisonous.

And it could have been only him or Lord Bassewitz.

So Gilbert watches.

Until the very end.

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[voxaholic]

The Worst Day

A ficlet that got out of hand for @randomly--accessed--memories

Vox accidentally stumbles into the basement studio where he was tortured into insanity. Velvette finds him and Valentino is forced to leave mid-shoot because Vox needs him.

Part 1 of 3

Content Warnings: It's Valentino's pov, I feel like that's a warning in of itself.

Beta-read by the lovely @redladydeath

Vox is missing. It’s not exactly an uncommon occurrence, especially on his more lucid days when he remembers that he can travel through electricity and therefore that Valentino and Velvette can’t actually stop him from going anywhere. He never ends up going far and they’ve finally managed to make it so that he mostly can’t leave the tower, but that doesn’t mean it’s not stressful enough to give Val spiritual grey hairs every time it happens.

Velvette is the only one searching for Vox this time because the film he’s currently supervising is gonna be a big moneymaker and apparently the useless idiots he has under contract can’t do their damn job right without his constant fucking supervision. So, instead of helping Velvette, he’s stuck sitting next to a prattling Travis trying to hold himself back from wringing the fucker’s feathery neck since Travis is the director and he unfortunately kind of needs him in one piece today.

Then, his phone rings and he holds up a hand right in Travis’s face. He’s at the very least smart enough to take that as the sign to shut up that it is. Before he even answers the phone there’s already a sinking feeling in his stomach. If Vel had found Vox and he was okay, she would have just texted.

He answers the call, holds the phone to his ear and immediately has to jerk it away when the sound of electronic screeching nearly deafens him. “I found Vox, we need you now. We’re in the studio basement, bring the kit,” Velvette shouts over the sound of what Val now realizes must be Vox freaking out in the background.

He stands up abruptly. “I’ll be there in five,” he says before he hangs up and shoves his phone in his pocket and turns his attention briefly to the useless fucks gaping at him. “Shows over. Keep on task. I’ll be back when I’m back and I’ll fucking know if any of you’ve been slacking,” he snaps before he turns and leaves.

In the hallway, he stops to pick up what he and Vel have begun calling “the kit”– a Vox specific first aid kit that they’d put together shortly after Vox first “woke up”. He knows where to look at this point- doesn’t even have to squint to see it. 

Kit in hand, he leaves the main area of the tower and squints down at his phone following the directions that Velvette gave him to where she and Vox are. The tower really feels too fucking big sometimes.

Valentino thinks he can count the number of times he’s stepped foot on this level of the tower on one hand. Why does he even have a creepy basement studio anyways? Whose idea was this? Was it his? If it was, he must’ve been high as balls to think of it, and if it wasn’t, then he should find whoever’s idea it was and shoot the fucker.

It’s dark as shit down here and the light of his phone isn’t doing much. He’s making progress though, he thinks. The gps seems to think he’s going the right way and he’ll trust that over his shitty eyes.

All unrelated thoughts are pushed from his mind when he spies the vague blob in the corner that he knows must be Vox and Velvette. He can’t make out any details but he notices that both figures are covered in an alarming amount of the horribly distinctive blue of Vox’s strange blood. Suddenly, the pungent, chemical scent of coolant is overwhelming.

Valentino breaks into a sprint and quickly closes the remaining distance between them.

Velvette has Vox backed up into a corner, a hand on each of Vox’s wrists, trying both to hold him still and stem the bleeding. Holy shit, that’s a lot of blood. Vox did a fucking number on himself, those gashes are deep. Something silver glints out from the mess of blue and Val suddenly feels nauseous. Vox had never clawed himself to the bone before.

“The hell are you doing just standing there? Fucking help me!” Velvette snaps, screaming to be heard over Vox’s panicked electronic gibberish. Vox is fighting her the best he can considering how weak he must be from blood loss. Velvette is holding her own,, but even in his weakened state, Vox still has over two feet on her heightwise, so she’s struggling.

He hurries over and kneels down so that he’s at eye-level with the struggling, panicking ex-overlord.  “Voxxy?” he calls, voice softening into a tone he pretty much only uses with Vox on his worst days.

Vox stops thrashing when he sees him. Velvette releases Vox and moves aside to let him half stumble, half crawl into Valentino’s waiting arms, absolutely covering him in that neon blue blood of his. For some fucking reason, despite being either scared or confused by him on his more lucid days, when Vox is like this – out of his mind, terrified, vulnerable – Valentino is the only person able to calm him down; the only one he seems to trust.

Velvette leans forward to snatch the first aid kit he’d dropped. He tactfully pretends not to notice the way her hands shake when she opens it and pulls out a needle and thread. “Keep him calm and as still as possible. I need to try and fix the bloody mess he made of himself,” she instructs and it’s a testament to how serious the situation is that Val listens to her without complaint. There’s little he hates more than being ordered around. 

He adjusts his hold on Vox, so that Velvette can grab Vox’s right arm and then reaches into the kit to grab some gauze, which he immediately wraps around Vox’s left, putting pressure on the wound by wrapping his hand around Vox’s thin – and so fucking fragile – wrist. It’s going to take Vel time to get one arm done, so he should probably try and make sure Vox doesn’t bleed out in the meantime. 

They’ll have to call up one of Vox’s on-call repair guys later. Vox doesn’t really heal like normal sinners– doesn’t heal at all, in fact. He has to be repaired, his broken parts replaced. They don’t have the knowledge or equipment necessary to replace the damaged panels on his arms, so the bandaid solution of stitching the torn, synthetic skin back together is all they fucking can do for now.

Vox, for his part, is remarkably still and pliant, screen buried in Valentino’s ruff. He’s shaking like a whore going through withdrawal though and making these awful little staticky whimpering noises that Val is trying hard not to pay too much attention to because they are kind of breaking his heart a little bit. He previously wasn’t even aware he had a heart capable of breaking, but he’s learned so many fun new things about himself since that radio bastard ruined Vox, ruined everything. 

“So, you have any idea what set him off this badly?” Val asks, mostly to try and drown out the pitiful sounds Vox continues to make whenever Velvette makes another stitch. He is curious though. Vox can get bad, but usually not to this extent. He’s torn up not just his arms (although they certainly got the worst of it) but his whole torso, with what little remains of his shirt hanging in blood-stained shreds off his frame. 

“No clue,” Velvette replies just a little bit too quickly, her shoulders tense, eyes averted. Oh, she’s lying through her fucking teeth. Really, she’s usually better at lying than this. Valentino considers pushing but decides against it– he really does not care right now. She’s lucky that he doesn’t because usually he fucking despises being lied to, especially so poorly. 

Instead of replying, he watches Velvette work with morbid fascination. Her stitches aren’t neat exactly– hard to be when Vox is shaking and the synthetic flesh is ripped so jaggedly and uneven– but they’ll do until Vox’s nerds can fix him up properly. The red thread really pops out against the dark blue of Vox’s skin, it’s almost pretty in a really morbid way. He wonders if stitchplay is a thing. This could be pretty sexy in a different context.

Vox’s shaking suddenly transitions into violent full-body spasms and his background staticked noises of pain turn into a glitched out, inhuman screech as he tries to jerk his arm out of Vel’s grasp, causing her to reflexively tighten her grip and yank Vox’s arm back. That only freaks Vox out more and now he’s struggling in earnest, almost to the point Val can’t keep a hold on him.

“Val!” Velvette snaps between curses as she struggles to keep Vox from reopening his brand new stitches. That’s his cue to do something because he’s supposed to fix this some-fucking-how.

With the one hand that’s not occupied with keeping hold of some part of Vox, Valentino grabs the edge of Vox’s screen, forcing him to look up at him. Vox’s face is flickering in and out, pupils darting, mouth twisted in either agony or terror, probably both. 

“I’ve got you,” he soothes, fingers tracing gently across the glass that makes up the equivalent of Vox’s cheek. He continues to murmur soothing nonsense and pet names to him. He really doubts Vox can understand a thing. It doesn’t seem to matter what he says as long as he’s the one who’s saying it. 

There’s a whoosh of air from Vox’s vents before he goes limp in Val’s arms again, head only supported by Val, expression dazed. Valentino carefully guides his face back into his neck ruff, grimacing a bit at the way his fur immediately puffs up due to the static. Aah, the things he endures for this man.

“Don’t stop talking,” Velvette demands and he’s struck by how novel it is for her to ask that of him. Usually, she’s one of the few people who can get away with telling him to shut up and she abuses that privilege liberally. “He freaked out because you shut up. I’d like to get this done without any more meltdowns,” she explains because of course she couldn’t just let him think she enjoyed the sound of his beautiful voice.

“Hmn, what should I talk about?” he muses aloud, fingers idly tracing the back of Vox’s monitor. “Liiike, should I just talk to myself or am I gonna get the privilege of having you as a conversation partner?” he asks teasingly.

That gets him a frigid glare in return and Vel sighs like she’s carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders. “It doesn’t fucking matter. Just– I’m really not in the mood right now, Val.” 

Okay, well, fuck him for trying to lighten the mood. Talking to himself it is since Velvette’s being such a bitch about the situation and not even in the cool way she normally is.

He settles on bitching about the useless fucks back at the studio, because that is a topic he’s always willing to go on about and it’s not one Velvette’s usually willing to listen to, but he kind of has her hostage now, so fuck her. Valentino allows the annoyed scowl on her face to soothe the bubbling rage in the pit of his stomach as he rants about how Angel Dust has been taking over three fucking minutes to respond to his texts recently.

He’s on his sixth Angel-related story when Velvette finishes stitching and begins winding gauze around Vox’s arm. He hates how the bandages make Vox somehow seem even smaller, more visibly broken. He holds Vox a little tighter.

Velvette brushes some of her hair out of her face and God, she’s a mess. Her hair is all fucked up and she’s absolutely covered in blood– mostly Vox’s but a little bit of her’s from where Vox’s claws nicked her in his struggle.

“Okay, fuck, one down, one to go. Flip him over for me,” she instructs and Val knows what she means but he’s immediately hit with the mental image of flipping Vox over with a spatula like he’s a pancake.

He doesn’t tell Vel about his hilarious thought because he’s apparently not allowed to even try and make this shitty situation even slightly less miserable. He just does what she tells him to, even if the high-pitched noise of alarm Vox makes when he pulls his screen from his chest to reposition him makes him desperately wish there was someone or something around he could maim.

It takes at least another half an hour for Velvette to finish with his left arm and she does so not a moment too soon because somehow, Val was about to run out of people to complain about. He was really scraping the bottom of the barrel there for a sec.

“You’re not gonna let me flake out on the shoot, are you?” Val asks as Velvette puts the thread and gauze back in the kit. The last thing he wants is to go back to the shoot with Vox in his arms, but with the state he’s in, they both know he’s not going to be able to be left alone. 

“I can’t make you do shit, but we both know how much is riding on this movie selling well,” she responds and Val can’t help but groan. She’s right. They both know she is and he fucking hates that.

“Ugh, fine, but you can’t bitch at me if I shoot a bitch or two,” he concedes as he stands up, Vox still held securely in his arms. God, Vox is hot as Hell, in a literal sense. It feels like he’s hugging an overheated laptop. The rest of this day is going to suck, but whatever, it’s not like the past several years of his afterlife haven’t also sucked. It’s not like he has much hope left of it - of Vox - getting any better.

->

[heartfullofleeches]

why can’t we have monster sheriff reader and horny ass town mayor and bandits

(Werewolf sheriff? Werewolf sheriff.)

A picture frame crashes to the abyss as you tumble into the nightstand. Those god damn idiots. Robbing someone blind on today of all days. The rage visible in the venom dripping from your teeth only upped their ante. None the wiser to your curse, the little demons damn near fainted when a growl slipped from your throat as you chased them about, catching the bastards in record time so you could return home before it was too late.

Your spine curves against the floorboards as you fall onto your side. You barely made it back before the transformation began. Your fangs assault your gums in trial to force out your human canines; the smell of the blood flowing from the vacant holes sending you into a furor. Course hair sprouts over your entire body, stemming from the deep claw marks on your bicep. The scar flares with a white hot pain in similar burn to when you first received it, the fruit bearer of your blight.

You drag your body across the floor as your limbs extend; fighting to reach the basement before the haze clouding your mind traps your brain in its fog. Vision spotty, the soft moonlight on your back doesn't register until you're facing it fully as you writhe in pain. Your talons rip the wood to shreds as your conciousness slips; heartbeat hammering through your maw. The last thing you hear before everything fades is a door handle rolling across the floor.

-

"You moron! Now they'll know we're here if they're home."

"Sorry! I'm still excited from earlier. Coulda swarn they were tryin to take my head off with that swing."

Shaking off the fuzzy shutter the memory brings, the lockpicker joins the rest of the group in piling into your home. The bandits were worried about you after your public display. While you losing your shit was a welcome surpise, they feared you had a bad week and wanted to cheer you up in the only way they knew how. Stealing things and dumping them off in your shack.

As they place their goods in various directions, a shout comes from the bedroom.

"Hey, guys- come quick!"

Rushing inside your room, the bandits stumble across the scene of a crime that looks like a tornado blew in armed to the teeth in blades. The nightstand was knocked over and blinds torn from the rack. Claw marks splintered the floors, walls, and even the ceiling. The moonlight centered on the bloodstains in the carpet; four teeth embedded in the wool.

The leader kneels and picks up a tooth. "What the hell happened here?"

"Is the sheriff okay?..."

"Look outside, I saw something move!"

A large shadow slinks away from view. Reflecting the natural light, the pin on its tattered clothes could only be one thing. The sheriff's badge.

"What was that?"

"Whatever it was, it has something to do with the sheriff. Follow it."

Fueled by anger and fear, the bandits barrel out the backdoor and after the creature. It's long gone by the time they tumble outside, but footprints and broken leaves lead them directly in its wake. Their adrenaline makes the chase as close to a match as possible for a beast of such calibre; broad shoulders easily the size of at least two of the bandits' torsos.

The pursuit comes to a halt as the group approaches the old farmer's gate. Fool spent a fortune on silver wiring after the lawsuit he lawsuit. As it stands still, the bandits get a good look at the creature. Fur as black as midnight, jaws and dentures that could snap some clean in two, familiar eyes. Looking closely at the beast, it becomes clear that the torn clothes on them aren't from them ripping someone to shreads, but from someone growing to large to wear them. A sheriff hat sits tucked bewteen its ears.

"S...sheriff?

The wolf's ear twitches in recognition. You huff in warning.

All at once things become clear to the group. All at once - that fear they each felt blends with something else. Those claws. That build. You could annihilate whoever you pleased. And that was one of the hottest things imaginable.

"Holy shit."

The human part of your brain wonders if now would be the best time to use the silver bullet tied around your neck as they approach. The weight of nearly a dozen humans jumping on you is about the same as a fly in your hair, but to avoid any casualties you allow them their fun. You have enough control for that, you think- till hands start wondering where they shouldn't.