#syd vicious

[thelasthippie]

I did it my way🎶

[discountsoysauce]

Victor would make poetry by lining up those taco bell sauce packets. Mitch and Sydney would have to keep getting more sauce bc Vic keeps taking them for his poem

[pikslasrce]

MY HAIR IS PROPERLY RED NOW

[one-hell-of-otaku-is-here]

Finished Vengeful. I need to lie down

[dead-as-i-tread]

Syd Vicious

Sex Pistols

[slaasherslut]

@rottent33th this man has me SCREAMING cause he is so nasty and so disgusting but i want him to spit blood in my face

syd + text posts

[pinkwright]

𐙚.ﾟ۪ ๑ ۫ wearing ur cross on my chain for it. —

ellie williams x black female!reader

inspiration ᧓ take care of you by charlotte day wilson w/ syd.

author's note ⌅ awkward fucking ending but that's life ! thought i would drop anotha drabble before the year ends — consider this a happy new years gift <3z.

warnings ⌅ 18+. more ellie focused u could say. scissoring. needy!ellie. readers just happy to be there. lots love bc i love love sawry n ellie's a canon lovergirl idc. dramatic ass metaphors bc it's me. some fluff. pussydrunk!ellie. reader has locs this time round. ellie likes to talk (canon). ellie calls reader 'mama' like twice (well!). cursing. slight dry humping n fingering. mentions of cunnilingus.

.𖥔 1873

maybe it's one of those days, where she's feeling emotionally overwhelmed, her love growing in her throat like the infection lingering in her veins, bordering on painful in the way it digs its branches into her lungs, stuttering her breath as though it wished to suffocate her. and she's just watching, staring you down as you flit through menial activities; humming as you fold the laundry, or sweetly sigh at the sweet smell that wafts from the tray of muffins you lift from the oven, and despite the normalcy of the act, her eyes wash with tenderness, need so vicious it would knock you off kilter, disrupt your center of gravity so the only thing that kept you grounded were the stars in her eyes.

when she's finally had enough of torturing herself, of her heart clenching tightly, borderline to giving out, she stands from the comfort of the knitted rug, controller discarded beside the humming console, not even having to pause because the death of her character had been neglected for the past thirty minutes, thirty minutes that felt like nothing when her gaze drunk you in. her sock-clad feet muffle her approach, ellie slinking quietly behind your idle frame, so quiet that the slide of her strong arms wrapping around your waist trigger your fright, a soft gasp as you freeze before your body is relaxing in recognition, a gentle lull into solace. ellie's so consumed by the ache in her chest, blinded by the way it steals her breath away, to gift to you, that she can't even bring herself to chuckle at your skittish nature, palms sliding up your top to press against the skin of your ribs and you yelp at her cold hands, the press of her fingertips burning into your skin.

ellie sighs, caught in a pink-tinted haze when your scent wafts around her like a cloud, misting her senses as she buries her head in the dip of your neck, breathing in your scent as she allows herself to drown in the aroma of your exaltation. her thumbs mindlessly caress the dips of your ribcage, the delicate skin silken against her calloused fingers, and your eyebrows are furrowing in concern at her lack of response, thoughts ridden by the idea that it might be one of her harder days, one where she just gets too in her head, too swallowed up by the grief that it physically consumes her, almost vulturine in its nature, but, oh, you couldn't be any more wrong. your tender cooing is cut off by ellie's hand sliding into the waistband of your little cotton shorts, not hesitating as her lithe fingers dip into your panties, humming huskily when you jolt, lips parting in shock. she's meticulous, reflexive, with how her other arm tightens around your waist to keep you still, pausing, before skimming her parted lips against the skin of your neck, her heavy pants brushing against the heated skin as your hand shoots out to wrap around her wrist.

and ellie's bringing her fingers to your clit, just barely circling the sensitive nub forcing herself to slow down, to savour you, and the reigns of her self-control slipping from her grasp cue her tells, breathing heavy in your ears as she tugs you against her, a raspy groan punched from her chest, tells of her hunger, her devotion. when her fingertips brush your growing wetness, your breath catches, eyes fluttering as you tighten your hand around her tattooed wrist – if ellie was conscious, sober from the drug that was desperation; she would tease you, drop her voice low, into that taunting lilt that tears you down and simultaneously builds you up, murmuring into your skin, "what, baby? you need something?"

but she can't, too ridden with the urge to have you, feeling the ache in her chest settle a little with the noise that escapes you, bathing in its sincerity like it was a balm slaved across the decaying skin of festering wounds, soothing the ache that blisters across her heart. the sinking of her teeth harshly into your neck when you buck towards the faintest of grazes, touch so slight it fueled the building heat in you, whining when the auburnette simply holds you tightly against her, hips rocking to grind against your ass like some depraved degenerate; ellie's cunt throbs at the thought, soaking her boxers. her voice is low, raspy, rough from disuse when she finally murmurs, calloused finger dipping into your clenching canal as she palms your swollen clit, "let me feel this pretty fucking pussy, mama."

and then you're in the bed, splayed on the sheets you share, at her mercy, and ellie's not even bothering to remove your top, shoving the hem up to your pretty neck, gaze intent on watching your tits spill out of it before harshly lifting your hips to roughly tug your shorts down the silky skin of your legs, squeezing at the soft flesh of your belly, her eyes fluttering in satisfaction. and she drools at the site of your pretty soaking pussy, the strings of wetness breaking from your panties as she tugs them down your legs and as much as she wants to dig her face in the welcoming heat; slide her tongue into your needy hole before wrapping her lips around your clit, the liquid caramel slugging in her throat and the pounding in her chest are her only source of thought, the drive for how she takes you, so she's swiftly pulling her shorts and boxers down, ripping off her tank, looking like a starved animal as she crawls towards your quivering form.

her large cold hand is wrapping under the bend of your knee folding the limb to her will, spreading you out as though you were a bud forced to bloom by her attentive rays, her light – before climbing between your legs, hovering her leaking cunt just above yours, pausing to forcefully exhale a shaky breath to reign in her slipping self-control before she lowers herself on to you. her mind foggy and her chest heaving as she lets out a long satisfied groan, her hips bucking at the warmth of your soft, soaking wet pussy against hers. and she's bending your knee to spread your lips apart, rolling her hips to fuck down on you, her swollen thrumming clit bumping against yours with every insatiable buck of her hips and ellie's hunger flames in gratification. her eyebrows furrow in concentration, rusty hairs scrunching as if the pleasure angered her, her other hand wrapping around your hip when you whimper and try to grind up against her, press closer, deeper – holding you down, feeling too close to insanity to have you grinding back against her so thoughtlessly.

the room is thick with tension, riddled with the slews of desire and devotion, both in filth and adoration, and ellie's panting heavily, her lips parted as she focuses on the feeling, breathless as she keeps her moss-darkening gaze on where you two meet, grunting a pathetic moan when she sees how much your kissing cunts glisten, a shiny mess of translucent sticky essence that makes her throat tighten, "mmmh... god, f-fuck, baby, fucking perfect pussy for me, jus- just lay there and fucking t-take it for me, yeah?" tongue unhinged as she continues with raspy chuckles of "making a mess of me, angel, can't help it... pretty cunt's so soft, and wet, and mine to use, yeah? fucking gonna make me come for you, baby."

and ellie's dizzy, can't hear passed the blood in her ears or the squelching presses of her pussy against yours and the heat is thrumming under her skin, her eyes fluttering before she forces them to look down at you. the twinge of guilt at her possibly neglecting you thwacked by the sheer pleasure on your face, the slurred begging and pleading slipping passed your swollen lips digging into the muscle in her chest as if every word were a venom-tipped thorn finding home in the beating muscle. the sight has her pussy clenching, her warm juices leaking onto your messy bud, her hold on your waist subconsciously letting up as though her body knew the reprieve was the push you needed, a coo to the pitiful way you begin to fuck against her. symphonised whines and murmured odes a sensual musicality of your bodies, metaphysical atoms destined to bond; ellie rolls her hips to drag across your clit just right, "come on, baby, fucking give it to me." and you're exploding, a shriek ripping out of your chest as your body freezes then thrashes in waves.

the leak of juices against ellie makes her pussy flutter, tightly clenching your leg in her hand, branding the skin like it was all she was meant to do, continuing to desperately roll her hips against you as she follows your crest – her chest seizing as her eyes roll back into her head, blinded by the pleasure as her cunt clenches and spasms almost violently, following the rhythm set by her racing heart, a needy low moan passing her lips when she comes down. but god, that fucking ache comes back full force when she sees the fucked out look on your pretty face; lips bee sting swollen, dark eyes lidded, and god, she doesn't mean to she doesn't even think but her hips are starting up again. a low whimper escaping her mouth in sensitivity, eyebrows scrunching when she hears you whine, your pussy trying to tug away from hers and she coos at your gentle sob, "i know, baby, i know just... just let me use you please, too fucking perfect for me" the pleasure aching so fucking good, she's anguished for it. her blunt nails dig into your hip to pull you back against her, her mouth parting on a fucking whine as she uses you, her movements aggressive in their desperation, and fuck she's gonna pass out, fucking against you so hard and deep, but slow, like she wants to fuck her cum into you and make sure it sticks. "god, fuckin', just like that... i'm gonna come again for you, baby, fuck my shit so deep into you, mama, into this stupid little fucking cunt."

and she makes a sight; her head thrown back, lithe, toned body slick with sweat as her muscles tense and tighten with her harsh movement, pretty perky tits bouncing but what really gets you there is the auburn happy trail slinking towards her pretty cunt, the hairs glistening with slick as her abs tighten n shift, and oh my god, you were coming, stars bursting behind your lids as you fall limply against the bedsheets, pretty locs spreading across the pillow like a halo, angelic in the way you absolutely lose yourself on her pussy and that makes ellie spiral. the girl throws her head back when her orgasm sneaks up on her, shocking a needy whimper from her lips that you have never heard, ellie's eyes widening in shock as her hips buck in a way she can't control, fucking against you like she need the friction to breathe – and in a way, she did. "fuckkk, i'm coming, baby, god."

౨ৎ.tags... @abenomeiiii @naomis-daydream @littlegingerperson @lppriceisright

[puppymask]

According to a post on his son's (Gunnar) Facebook, Sid Eudy passed away today at age 63 after a many years long battle with cancer.

He will be remembered fondly by wrestling fans throughout, whether as "Sycho" Syd, Sid Vicious, or Sid Justice: Master and Ruler of the Universe.

At the beginning of his career, he tagged with Dan Spivey as the other half of the Skyscrapers. Later in the WWF and in WCW, he would go on successful solos runs. He held the WCW Heavyweight belt and the WWF Championship belt twice each.

[rotworld]

11: Last One Standing

art by @exorbitantsqueakingnoises

a talented and fiercely loyal assassin, you serve as the living weapon of a daring pirate captain operating in the koronus expanse. when your skills catch the attention of his most dangerous ally, you're forced to make a seemingly unthinkable choice.

->warhammer 40k. original drukhari/reader. contains graphic descriptions of violence, gore, sadism, murder and implied torture.

.

.

.

First maxim of the Vazra: I am the blade that hungers. Captain Strenger points you at prey, and you feed.

He wants an Imperial transport vessel, an unwieldy behemoth trundling slothlike and vulnerable through the black of space, so you will lay it at his feet. This isn’t something you do alone. It has naval escorts, artillery-studded and knife-prowed. Attack cruisers chase and harry while ponderous battleships obliterate anything that streaks across their path.  This is a fight for Captain Strenger’s fleet and its fearsome accomplices, thorny hunting ships that slip from their cloaking along the steel underbellies of their prey like knives in the dark. Precise sniping shots unravel voidshields and disembowel engines. Heavy artillery bursts into slow-spinning clouds of debri before they fully emerge from their ports.

Only then does Captain Strenger order all ships into the fray to pick off lingering resistance. Only then does he dart for the prize. His personal craft, the Vicious Dancer, was once an Imperial interceptor. It can mimic the signal needed to pry open the transport vessel’s hangar bay and slot itself inside, followed by its stealthy siblings and the sleek, sickle-winged predator craft of your allies. Alarms blare and emergency lights flash as heavy metal doors and barriers seal shut and the chamber pressurizes.

“I didn’t realize they’d be joining us,” Reyna mutters, watching cockpit hatches open and armored xenos slide out with unnatural grace. They are beautiful in an eerie, severe way, their features sharp and their ears pointed. Proportions stretched to lithe and willowy extremes, the drukhari never fail to unsettle Captain Strenger’s crew in their manner of fighting, moving, or simply existing. You’re not completely unfamiliar with them. They were a common sight on your homeworld of Qepek, frequent visitors and tenuous allies against the Imperium’s encroachment into the Koronus Expanse. They remind you of jungle cats; slinking lethality combined with a cruel, playful nature. You see them checking their weapons, testing the sharpness of poison-tipped daggers and calibrating splinter rifles. One catches Reyna staring and smirks, waving a claw-tipped glove.

“They have their needs and we have ours,” Captain Strenger says. He unfastens himself from the pilot’s seat, the first one out with his boots on the metal walkway of the hangar bay. You’re quick to follow, assessing your surroundings for threats. Nobody’s come to greet you yet. This strikes you as odd. No Imperial vessel would give up without a fight, however hopeless. “You know the drill. Stay behind them, let them soak up the lasfire. We need a cargo manifest and access codes.” 

“I don’t like this,” Syd hisses. He’s clutching his plasma rifle in a shaky grip. “What are they getting out of this partnership? They obviously don’t need us, so there must be something else. Just because they haven’t stabbed us in the back yet—”

“Now’s not the time,” the captain says.

Syd doesn’t take the hint. He turns on you, gesturing wildly. “You’re fine with this? They don’t look like a threat to you? You’re supposed to protect us!”

You spare him just enough attention to ensure he isn’t going to do something impulsive and foolish. “I’m supposed to protect the captain,” you say. Second maxim of the Vazra: Loyalty first to the hand that wields me.

“Don’t bother,” Reyna grumbles. “Let’s just get this over with. I hate when we have to look at them.” 

“Believe me, the feeling is mutual.” A familiar drawl commands the attention of the entire hangar bay. Captain Strenger’s crew assemble as the drukhari step aside to allow a towering figure to the front. Like the others, he wears form-fitting armor that seems to bristle with spikes from head to toe, but his attire is more elaborate than the rest. An enormous crescent blade juts from one pauldron, the cape at his back lined with spotted fur that drapes over his shoulders. A red warrior’s loincloth is tied around his waist concealing the codpiece of his armor. A collection of heavy pendants dangle at his waist, each gemstone dull and cracked. You don’t have to understand the complex hierarchies of drukhari society to recognize he’s in charge here—the archon who leads this raiding force.

“Archon Erzhylak,” Captain Strenger says. 

“Strenger,” the archon coos, as though speaking to a child. “Your continued survival never ceases to amaze me. So few of you out here, so far from the charnel fetishists of your corpse king.” His gaze wanders like he’s already bored, scrutinizing your crewmates who try to avoid his gaze. He wears his hair down, one side shaved, the other long and limp over his shoulder. You can tell this is unusual just by looking at the others. High, tight ponytails that make your scalp ache to look at are the norm for those with hair long enough. You know from those tense negotiations in the courts of Qepek that Erzhylak’s appearance is casual to the point of disrespect. The long, unruly bangs hanging half in his face imply he feels unthreatened and unwilling to impress Captain Strenger’s crew.

Inevitably, his eyes find yours; deep violet and adorned with dragging black lines like a spider’s legs stretches across his skin. “He has you to thank for that, doesn’t he? It seems like a terrible waste to me. Such a precious, faithful blade in the hands of a clumsy little boy.” Erzhylak’s gaze falls to the dagger sheathed at your thigh. He clicks his tongue and shakes his head in disapproval. With the snap of his fingers, one of his subordinates rushes to his side and presents a bundle wrapped with luxurious red fabric. He unwraps it with a flourish, revealing a short blade with a slight, talon-like curve. “A wych knife,” he muses. “A simple but elegant weapon, favored by the traditionalists of the arena. I had this one commissioned to better suit the hands of a human. The proportions of the blade and grip have been altered, but it should be no less deadly. I can think of no one better to have this than a Vazra assassin.”  

You avert your eyes. Erzhylak’s interest in you has been unnervingly persistent ever since Captain Strenger first struck a deal of mutual benefit. “I can’t accept it,” you say.

“Truly?” Erzhylak asks, feigning great disappointment. He picks up the knife, almost comically small in his long-fingered hands, stroking his thumb against the curve of the blade. “Ah, you mean your wielder would not allow it. What a shame. You’re more puritanical than I realized, Strenger, denying yourself the advantages of superior weaponry simply because your stagnant empire did not create it.” He pauses and you can feel his eyes burning into you. “If you served me,” he purrs, “you could have anything your heart desires. Only the best for my faithful blades.” 

Captain Strenger steps forward, putting himself between you and Erzhylak. It makes the archon smile, sharp and cold. “We’d better get on with it,” he says brusquely. “The longer we wait, the more time we give the transport crew to build barricades. I don’t think either of us wants this to take longer than it has to.” 

“You’re not particularly good at reading the room, are you?” Erzhylak drawls. He tucks the wych knife back into its velvet wrapping and hands it off to someone else. “Very well. As you say—let’s get on with it.” He waves his hand dismissively and his forces begin filing out into the corridor leading further into the transport vessel. “The agreement is the same as always. Everything alive on this ship belongs to me. I care not what happens to the rest.” 

“Fine with me,” the captain says tersely. 

Erzhylak glances at you again, his expression deceptively calm. You’ve learned to be wary when the drukhari look at ease—it simply means they’re considering how best to catch you off guard. “I’ve been to Qepek, you know. A refreshingly sensible place, for a mon-keigh world. The strong rule and the weak are trampled underfoot.” He saunters closer. 

Captain Strenger is tense beside you, hand resting on the holster of his laspistol. “That’s close enough,” he says.

Erzhylak calls his bluff. He looms over both of you but he pays no attention to the captain, his attention solely on you. “Remind me,” he murmurs. “What is the sixth maxim of the Vazra?” 

A jungle cat isn’t the only apt comparison. He’s like the titanic serpents of your homeworld’s forests—the venomous, lunging sort, and also the slower, more sinister constrictors. It’s said they mesmerize their prey, swaying in a hypnotic dance that leaves small mammals entranced until the moment they’re devoured whole. 

You swallow hard. “Should the hand that wields me tremble, it is my right to seek another,” you recite. 

“That’s right.” The archon affords Captain Strenger a moment of attention, a smug glance in the corner of his eye. “Does he tremble, faithful blade? Do you feel dulled and wasted in his hand?” 

“Do you have something to say to me?” Captain Strenger asks. 

Erzhylak laughs. He raises his hands in a pacifying gesture and backs away one slow, deliberate step at a time. “No, no. I think I’ve said everything I care to say. Except, maybe, to tell you that you should have listened to your men.” 

The moment he takes one last step and joins his soldiers in the corridor, a metal grate drops in the open doorway, cutting you off from the rest of the ship. The lights in the hangar bay flicker, dim and finally die with a burst of glass, leaving only the menacing red of the emergency lights. Someone opens fire on the drukhari and manages to aim through the bars, but their shots fizzle out on the translucent, shimmering walls of a forcefield. You stay close to Captain Strenger, guarding his back, but nothing comes for you. The drukhari locked themselves on the other side. They watch your crew descend into fear and panic with satisfied expressions.

“Wow, what a surprise! They double-crossed us,” Syd hisses. “None of us expected that to happen.”

“What’s this about, Erzhylak?” the captain says. 

The archon shrugs. “I’m bored of you, Strenger. This arrangement has been an amusing diversion but you’ve wrung all the fun out of it with your baffling and unearned overconfidence. You didn’t find it suspicious to have such exact coordinates for when and where this vessel would appear? It didn’t strike you as strange that they were subdued so easily?”

The captain frowns tightly. He hadn’t found it suspicious, but the others had. They’d confronted in him in the days leading up to this raid, begged him to listen to reason, and he’d ignored them. It was good intel, he’d insisted. More importantly, the potential haul—a shipment of luxuries bound for a newly established pleasure world—was too good to pass up.

You’d said nothing. It wasn’t your place to question your wielder.

“You’ve had a mutiny brewing for a little while now, did you know that?” Erzhylak presses. “Of course you didn’t. Too busy believing you’re indestructible. I set this stage with help from one of your own.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Captain Strenger isn’t paying attention. He doesn’t see how tense Reyna just became, the wide eyes and hard swallow as she slowly, subtly reaches for the weapon at her hip. 

But you do, and you don’t hesitate. 

It’s a single stroke. The crew probably doesn’t even see it as anything more than a blur. You unsheathe your dagger and slit her throat in the same lightning quick motion. She pitches forward, both hands clutching at the gaping red maw in her neck, gushing blood slicking her fingers. The others scatter with startled shouts but Captain Strenger simply looks back and nods appreciatively. 

“Marvelous,” Erzhylak sighs. The look he’s giving you, the desire, the hunger, makes a shiver run down your spine. “This is what I want. Perhaps you can still entertain me after all.” He spreads his arms in a grand gesture, smiling broadly. “I have a proposition for you,” he declares. “Kill each other. Whoever is left gets to leave here alive.” 

Stunned silence fills the hangar bay. Someone starts to hyperventilate. Reyna shudders and chokes on her own blood with arrhythmic wet wheezes. “You’re not serious,” Captain Strenger says. 

Erzhylak regards him with exasperated impatience. “Do you need encouragement? I suppose we could kill you ourselves. But if I’m being honest, Strenger, this isn’t just about you. It takes more than one person to stage a mutiny.”

They go for you first. They have to. The first is nervous, too slow lining up his aim. You’re on him long before he knows what’s happened. One stroke and his fingers are gone, plopping uselessly to the ground like pebbles. You don’t have time to close the distance before the rest throw themselves at you, brass knuckles and knives and firing wildly with no care for whoever else they might hit. It’s not even close. They’re stressed, exhausted, overworked and underfed. At best, they’re deserters, ex-Imperial Guard who vaguely recall their close quarters training. 

You were born and raised for this. Your dagger paints a scarlet streak through flesh and air. You dance and leap and stay in the thick of them so they do half of the work for you, stray shots and clumsy strikes dislocating limbs and splattering skulls. Bodies unravel and entrails spill in your wake. You feel eyes on you. Captain Strenger watches with cool confidence, knowing this isn’t a fight you can lose.

The archon is watching, too. You can feel him all the way across the room, the weight and the heat of his eyes drinking in the sight of your artistry. It should only be your wielder whose attention emboldens you. It should only be your wielder who guides your steps. That doesn’t make you any less aware of his presence. 

What’s left of the crew realizes the tide has shifted. They run, or at least they try. One sprints for the Vicious Dancer but he never makes it. You tug his head back by the hair and don’t waste more than a moment opening his throat, but a moment is all the other one needs. She’s steadier, a much better shot, but nothing moves as fast as a Vazra assassin when their wielder is watching. You spin with the choking man in your grasp and he takes the brunt of every shot, riddled with smoking, cauterized wounds by the time you reach her. “Fucking knew you were trouble,” she spits, the last thing she ever says. You have time and the prickling thrill of your wielder’s eyes on your back so you are thorough, meticulous, sawing and hacking through old scar tissue, shredding flesh until the last slash severs head from body. 

You grasp it by the hair. The ragged neck wound oozes and drips across the floor. You turn to present it to your wielder and find him much closer now.

The muzzle of his laspistol is cold against your forehead. You drop the head and it splats wetly, rolls onto its side. 

“It’s you,” he says, quiet horror dawning on him. “You’re what he wants.” 

You stare back at him, uncomprehending. Behind him, the barrier lifts with a clatter of steel. 

“All those raids he helped us with. All the intel he gave us. All this time, stirring up discontent behind my back.” Captain Strenger’s voice quivers with fear and rage. His finger curls around the trigger but his hand is shaking, his aim jittering around in the air. He doesn’t want to shoot you but he’s afraid of what might happen if he doesn’t. “Just so we’d tear each other apart and he could take you from me.”

“So he does have a brain,” Erzhylak muses. “What else could I have possibly wanted from you? You didn’t think we really needed the help, did we? I’ve been raiding since long before you were born.” His footsteps grow slowly closer. “What I want,” he says, “is loyalty. Nothing is harder to come by in Commorragh. Nothing is more priceless. And here you are, squandering it.” 

“They won’t go with you.” The captain tries to steady himself. He takes deep breaths. You clutch your dagger, your heart aching. This isn’t how it’s supposed to be. You did everything he wanted. You went where he pointed you, fed on the prey laid in your path. “They won’t abandon me. I won’t let them.” 

Erzhylak is right behind him now. His shadow falls over both of you. His smile is wide and his gaze is expectant. Waiting. Wanting. He’s wanted you from the start. “The sixth maxim,” he reminds you. You look at him. You look at Captain Strenger. You know the captain sees the answer in your eyes because he lets out a frightened sound and pulls the trigger. 

Too late. Nothing is faster than a Vazra assassin in the gaze of their wielder, even if that gaze is fearful and betrayed. You slap his wrist and the shot goes wide, and then you’re on him, knocking him to the ground and straddling his waist. You freeze, realizing where you are and what you��re about to do. He looks at you with tears in his eyes. This is your wielder. You clutch your dagger harder. Erzhylak’s spiked boots step into view and he kneels beside you, an eerie, spider-like hand settling on your shoulder. He leans in, his breath warming the shell of your ear. 

“Does he tremble?” he whispers. 

He does more than tremble. Captain Strenger sobs and thrashes and begs for his life. More than pity, you feel revulsion. 

Erzhylak wraps you in his arms. His armor is sharp, the edges and spines painful where they dig into your body. His hands, clad in black, claw-tipped gauntlets, slide down your arms in a sensual caress. He plucks the dagger from your hands. In its place, he sets the wych knife, closing your fingers around it in soft reverence. “Then it is your right. Isn’t it?” 

“Yes,” you say. You test the weight of the knife in your hand. The feel of the metal, the curve of it against your palm. 

“Don’t be afraid,” he murmurs, pressed against your side. “I’m here. I will sharpen you to the most perfect edge and I will wield you as he never could.” He wraps a hand around yours, easily engulfing it. He moves your aim higher, the tip of the knife poised right above one of Captain Strenger’s wide, watery eyes. He inhales deeply and sighs with a delighted shudder, feeding on the endless waves of despair pouring from the man beneath you both. “Slowly,” he urges. “Carefully. Take your time. Leave him alive as long as possible.” It goes against your instincts to avoid a killing strike but you’ll try. You’ll learn. It’s what your wielder desires. 

Captain Strenger begs, and then he weeps, and then he begins to scream. Erzhylak laughs and you feel his joy as your own.

You are the blade that hungers.

[opposums-love-arson]

Scream Queen Book 1: Conventional Final Girl

Chapter 5

Chapter 4 / Chapter 6

P.S. lmk if y'all would like to be added to the tag list

  “Sidney Prescott and (y/n) (l/n) both escaped a vicious attack last night but one of them is the daughter of Maurine Prescott, who was brutally murdered last year when convicted killer Cotton Weary broke into their home and savagely raped and tortured the deceased. Cotton Weary is currently awaiting an appeal for the death sentence, handed down after the young Sidney testified against him…” The reporter just went on and on through the tv screen. Tatum was rubbing Sid’s arm as a sign of everything will be okay. I held Sid’s hand to signify the same message, gently squeezing it so she knows she’s not alone. “It’s never going to stop is it?” She asked with a small chuckle. 

As Dewey sat across from us he notified, “Billy was released.”

Sidney’s face faltered once she heard this, I think she’s still afraid of it all. I on the other hand slouched back with a wave of relief. 

“His celular bill was clean, he didn’t make those calls,” Dewey said as he sat back in the chair, “We’re checking every celular account in the county. Any calls made to you two or Casey Becker are being cross referenced, it’s going to take some time but we’ll find 'em.” 

I squeezed Sid’s hand again and Tatum lightly punched her arm. “Okay,” was all Sid could really say right now. 

“We’ve got this, Sis.” I said to her with a small smile. 

  I guess pulling up to school in a patrol car was cool? Kind of gave a real “Back off” vibe when we stepped on the school grounds. “Don’t worry girls, it’s school. You’ll be safe here.” Dewey reassured us...but if there’s a possibility that the killer is another student, is it really all that safe? Reporters swarmed us once Sid and I were completely out of the car. One woman going as far as asking, “So how does it feel to be almost brutally butchered?” Seriously what thee fuck? Sid and Tatum walked ahead of me right as I was ready to hook it to another reporter like I did to Gale. Sadly enough though I was stopped by two pairs of arms holding me back while my legs went swinging.

“Let me at ‘em!” I exclaimed to my mystery captors. 

“Not a chance little Nancy Thompson,” I could hear Randy’s voice from my left. 

“Yeah these reporters are worse than any Freddy Kruger!” And then there was Stu’s cackle from the right. 

“Fine screw it, I just don’t want to see anymore of them haggling Sid again.” I said as I slightly jumped out at the flock of reporters. 

“Uh, where did Sid go anyways” I asked the two boys as I spun around. Finally seeing her talking to Weathers I tried to beeline but Stu held me back. 

“Dude, (y/n) slow your roll. Syd’s just talking to her,” Stu said as he secured me against his chest. I did my best to hide the red embarrassment all over my face. 

“Yeah probably fixing the mess you made last night,” Randy said as he rolled my eyes. 

His words struck something in me, I just calmed down and stopped fight Stu’s hold, if anything I was holding myself now. 

Stu punched Randy in the arm before said, “Way to go man.” 

“Wha- I-” Randy was about to pick his own fight with Stu again. 

I beat them to it when I turned around still in Stu’s grasp and said, “No he’s right, what I did last night was reckless and now Sidney is the one who has to clean it up.” I leaned my head on Stu’s chest. 

“C’mon (y/n), it wasn’t that bad?” Randy backpedaled on his words to try and make me feel better but lets face it, when you punch someone on national tv… it’s pretty bad. 

  At our lockers we waited around for the bell to ring. “This is a mistake, we shouldn't be here,” Sid said as she gathered her books. I’m honestly with her on that, it’s a total scare fest in the halls today. “I want you to meet me right here after class, okay Sid?” Tatum addressed my step sister but left me out of the question. Peaking my head over my locker door I arched an eyebrow. “I’ll walk you out of class (y/n),” Stu pipped in before looking at himself in a mirror. “Yeah okay Chicken Stew,” I rolled my eyes, trying not to laugh at my own pun. I thought Stu would’ve laughed but before he could Sid said, “Hey I haven’t really seen Billy around, is he really pissed?” What the fuck Sidney? I thought. “Oh after you branded him the Candyman? No, his heart’s broken!” Stu exclaimed, earning a punch from Tatum. He said “ow” as Tatum said his name in a stern frustrated manner. 

  Someone came running down the hall in what’s now been dubbed the ‘Ghostface’ costume as they screamed bloody murder while jumping out at people. I let out a squeal before grabbing hold of Stu’s tan and white over shirt. Feeling heat rise up to my face I quickly let go and lightly brushed out my hair to compose myself. Stu turned around and pinched my cheeks, “Awe is (y/n) scewed of da big bad boo-gy man?” I swatted his hands away while saying, “Given recent events, yeah obviously.” Shuffling past Stu and over to Sid I notice his expression change for a split second for playful to envious. “Come on (y/n), you punched Gale Weathers on live news, I think you’ll be fine if you get yelled at by a kid in a costume,” Tatum said as she playfully rolled her eyes with a smirk. I couldn’t take it anymore, whether it was the embarrassment, the fear, the secrets, or the regret. I just couldn’t. I ran off from the group as both Tatum and Sid shouted after me. 

  As I ran down the hall I bumped into another figure. 

“Shit!” I exclaimed as I pushed off of them. 

“Hey it’s just me,” I heard an all too familiar voice say to me.

 “Oh-oh… Billy,” I said as I backed away. 

Waving his index finger between us he asked, “You still think it’s me?” 

I reassure him I don’t by saying, “No, I don’t I was just shocked to see you.” As I fiddled with my shirt. 

“I swear it’s not me (y/n),” Billy said stepping forward. 

Looking up at him I said, “I know Billy, there was still someone in the house that night though. So can you please-” I cut myself off seeing the lack of inches in the space between Billy and I. 

“I know, I know, the cops say I scared him away. It wasn’t me (y/n).” He said as he looked down at me a little. 

“I know, he called us again when we were at Tatum’s…” 

“See! Couldn’t have been me, I was in jail,” Billy said as he turned over his hands to reveal inky fingerprints. “Remember?” 

“I’m sorry, but please understand,” I started as I looked up. 

“Understand what? My girlfriend and her little step sister would rather accuse me of being a psychopathic killer than touch me?” Billy looked back down at me, I could smell the spearmint gum roll off his breath. 

“You know that’s not true…” I said as I knitted my eyebrows together and grabbed a hold of his arm. 

“Then what is it?” He asked, hurt and confusion heard in his voice.

“Billy, Sid and I were attacked and nearly filleted last night?!” I asked, slightly appalled he’d even ask as if it weren’t clear. 

“I mean between us…” Billy said as his eyes stared down into my soul with an intensity I’ve never seen before. 

“What do you mean between us?” I asked at this point very confused as I let go of him and take a step back. 

“Isn't it obvious (y/n)? For the past five months, the smirks, the glances, the nudging, the little notes, Stu and I being practically all over you?” Billy said as he used his free hand that wasn’t on the banister to wave around. 

“No it wasn’t obvious! I mean Stu I knew about but you?! Billy, you’re my sister’s boyfriend!” I exclaimed, getting justifiably annoyed and upset. 

“Not anymore, she practically broke up with me the night at the station!” He raised his voice, making me flinch a little, he must’ve noticed since he let his body relax a little. 

“Look Billy I’ve had a crush on you and Stu for months but I know for sure this isn’t the way to go about things. Sidney didn’t say she broke up with you and I’m not going to just be a rebound to make her jealous.” I said resting my hand above his on the banister. 

Billy scoffed before saying, “(y/n), be real here Sid doesn’t want to see me anymore and like I said, the past five months…” Billy let his words trail off as he came closer to me, placing his hand on my forearm. Just like at the lockers my head was racing and everything felt so wrong, I just couldn’t take it. I just stepped away, shaking my head while I walked off letting Billy shout my name. 

Turning around to look at him I said, “I’m sorry if me having good morality for my sister’s relationship is an inconvenience to you and your perfect existence!” I exclaimed before turning back round. 

“What? What do yo- Nobody said that, (y/n)!” Billy shouted after me but it just faded out as I ran away. 

Stomping my way into the bathroom I make my way over to one of the sinks, I dig in my backpack for an aspirin or something. 

“They were never attacked, I think they made it all up,” I heard one of the bathroom stalls say. 

“Why would they lie about that?” A girl in another stall asked

“For attention, the girl and her sister have some serious issues!” The first girl replies. 

Part of me wanted to hide in the bathroom stall like the sad girls in the movies always did but then I remembered, this is life. In life you just gotta roll with the punches, so I’m doing just that, except this time I might punch back. Right when the two walk out of the stalls their faces dropped. Yeah I assumed seeing the face of one of your gossip subjects will do that to ya. I kept staring at them as they washed their hands, too scared to even look in my general direction. As they walked out I did that stupid petty way where you swish your fingers up and down. Finally I can cry in peace, I thought as I walked into an empty stall. Deciding that the short few seconds I’ve been in here were enough for me to feel refreshed I walk out, my eyes red and puffy while my lashes stick together. 

“Pathetic,” I said into the mirror. I always thought I held myself to a higher standard than this, not really with the crying thing. More so with the Stu and Billy thing… 

I don’t have time to think about it much when I hear a strange noise in the restroom. Getting low to the ground I check underneath all the stalls. Empty. Looking around I notice a loud vent in the wall, that must’ve been it. As I go back to shuffling around my bag I could’ve sworn I heard someone whisper my name. Maybe it’s better to ignore it? Slowly and carefully I get back down low to check again. This time I’m met with a pair of beat up leather work boots dropping down from the stall. “Oh shit,” I whispered to myself. 

  The stall door unlatches quickly and I try to make a run for it but I’m caught by the Ghostface. 

Thrashing around as he holds back my arms I asked, “Alright real funny, who is it? Stu, Rand, Billy? If this is some sort of pay back then it won’t work!” The man behind  the mask said nothing, but he violently jerked my face to the bathroom mirror. “What?” I ask, my face clearly showing malevolence towards whoever it is pulling the prank. That was until he pulled out an eight-inch long hunting knife. He slowly and lightly dragged the knife along my torso, from the collar of my cropped shirt all the way down to the button of my low rise jeans, applying extra pressure near my zipper. “Ya’ know if I wasn’t so skeptical about you trying to kill me right now we could probably take this in a very different direction,” I said as a more matter-of-factly sentence. I’m not sure if this shocked the masked murderer or gave him a change of heart but his grip loosen and I BOOKED IT!  I slammed the bathroom door open passing by a couple of teachers but I really just wanted to get the hell out of here. 

  After calming down a little bit I got outside of the school just quick enough to hear Principal Himbry say, “Attention now kids, due to the recent events that have occurred effective immediately, all classes are suspended until further notice,” Holy shit, “The Woodsboro police department has issued a citywide curfew beginning at nine o’clock tonight.” The whooping and hollering cheers that were so loud just a second ago died down into monotone boos. At least we’re out of school? 

“It was just some sick fuck having a laugh, sue me.” Tatum said as she rolled her eyes at me. 

“No, it was him Tatum I know it. Or else he wouldn’t have had a huge ass hunting knife!” I exclaimed in a huff. 

“Okay well, you're not to be alone anymore. If you pee, we all pee. Is that clear?” Asked Tatum

Sid and I looked each other up and now simultaneously say, “Ew, please no.”

Spooking up from behind us was Stu as he blabbered nonsensical words that most likely would’ve made sense if we were paying attention. 

“I don’t know what you did girls,” He said handing each of us flowers, “but on behalf of the entire student body we all say THANK YOU!” Stu shouted full force from his lungs.

“Stop it Stu,” Tatum said as she hit him with the little purple flower. 

I was so distracted by the two that I didn’t notice Stu change targets and come barreling towards me, hoisting me over his shoulder. 

“Stu! Oh my god asshole! I’d like to be returned to the security of my feet on the ground!” I shout at I hit his back with my palms. 

In the midst of my one sided battle Stu announces, “To celebrate this impromptu fall break, I propose we have a party. Tonight at my house!” 

Looking over to my right I see my step sister’s face contort into an emotion of unease, “Are your sure?” 

“Yeah as long as this little vixen doesn’t invite the entire world!” Stu exclaims as he motions to his girlfriend who is currently keeping me company by swinging my free hand. 

Stu goes on by saying, “Intimate gather, intimate friends,” whilst poking my thigh right below my ass. He should be glad Tatum didn’t see that one. 

“What do you say Sid? I mean pathos could have it’s perks?” Tatum piped up just as Stu let me down. Now Tatum and I have switched spots beside Stu. 

“Could totally protect you, yo I’m so buff, I got you covered bro!” Stu does a macho man impersonation as he twirls around Tatum. 

I fall a little back from the group, wondering if Billy will be there… he most likely will, won’t he? 

“I mean c'mon Sid? (Y/n), you with me? It could be fun.” Tatum says as she turns to us both. 

While the girls were focused on each other Stu looked over at me and snapped me out of my thoughts, literally. The loud noise made me look up. 

“Huh?” I asked, looking at the trio in front of me. 

“The party (y/n), you in?” Tatum asked as Stu kissed her neck

“Yeah fine, whatever. I’m in,” I said as I walked up in front of them. 

“Niiice,” Stu growled out, “Cool, you guys bring food, alright?” 

I don't know what it was but Stu did something which prompted me to shout, “You’re being weird Stu!” 

[thelasthippie]

Lemmy

Syd Vicious

Cliff Burton

Cris Squire

Dusty Hill

We miss you all guys ☮️🎸

[i-needserotonin]

my unpopular villains series opinion is that Victor was manipulating and using Syd in Vicious, and that he only really started to show care or "affection" at the end of the book and in Vengeful.

[miooaa]

Max and Rachel are living my dream

MY FAV LIS SONGS!!

[fluentmoviequoter]

I'm a tiny lil bit struggling rn, do you have any random Victor thoughts to share to cheer me up? Could be anything, headcanon, random thoughts, does he insist on wearing only black socks so they fit his aesthetic? Also no worries if you don't have anything to say or don't feel like it, no pressure!

So sorry to hear that! Hope everything gets better quickly and talking Vic can help you!! There’s a bunch of my random, borderline incoherent thoughts and rambles below the cut!!🩶

I’ll start with the black sock idea! I feel like the answer is probably yes; every detail of Vic’s look (no matter how small) fits his aesthetic. Playing off of that, his style seems to be very sophisticated and dark, sort of dark academia-esque, so it all begins with the base and for Vic that means having one solid color, head to toe, to build his Parisian debonair look!!

Alternatively though, I think if Vic was going to wear something a little more colorful or wild (likely after persistent teasing and prodding from Syd) that he’d limit the colorful expression to his socks or some other piece that’s not visible to others!

One thing that I almost always think about when talking/writing/reading about Vic is that he has trust issues but he’s also an incredibly good judge of character. He trusted Mitch and Syd relatively quickly despite the number of people who have hurt him, so those two aspects of being hesitant to trust but understanding people so deeply allows Vic to choose both his allies and enemies quickly and with almost frightening accuracy.

Building off of something we’ve talked about with Vic’s sophisticated tastes, if he was a car he’d be an Aston Martin DB4GT Zagato!! It’s sleek, classy, and dangerously beautiful.

I also think that Vic is numbed to the emotions of others. Not necessarily lacking empathy, just unable or unwilling to read people’s feelings as easily as their personalities. (Like he figured Eli out really quickly but seemed to struggle with determining what Eli was thinking or feeling.) However, I think the opposite is true for Mitch and Sydney. He’s so attuned to their needs, because he is their first line of defense, their protector, their safe space, that he can look at them and know what they need to hear or receive based on what they seem to be feeling.

This one is probably wrong but in my mind Vic laughs when he reads his parents’ books in private! Especially if they happen to mention anything about parenting or being good/kind to the people around you.

Along with reading and editing his parents’ books, I think Victor has lots of poetry in his mind!! Whether it’s poems he’s read or come up with himself, he has a poetic reference for everything. Sometimes he just thinks them, other times he says them under his breath, but he has a deep understanding of how life’s beauty and ugliness blend together to create reality! His thoughts are formed poetically too; he can’t just think “that looks cool” it’s something deep and melodic, relating it to whatever he considers to be the most beautiful or interesting part of life.

(This is getting long. I’m sort of sorry.)

Victor is a human cat!!!! You of all people know this for sure, but it needed to be included. He likes having his head rubbed or hair played with (he’d never admit it and figuratively bite someone he doesn’t know well for trying), he 100% knocks things off tables on random impulse, and… it’s perhaps my strangest headcanon, but Victor purrs!! When he’s really happy or likes something a lot, he can’t show it because he has an image to maintain, so he purrs instead.

If Vicious came out in 2012, and we’re assuming that Lockland era scenes were ~2002, and he was approximately 22… then Vic would have been born in/around 1980 right? Even if he wasn’t! Vic likes 80s movies!! (I’m projecting.) He surprisingly likes The Goonies because it’s about a group of friends (which he didn’t have) who go on an adventure to save their town. All of the kids also think about their parents and their wellbeing (which Vic couldn’t understand but could appreciate the beauty of). He also likes Real Genius because of course he does, he’s like a more stoic version of Chris Knight!! (It’s one of my favorite movies and I’m still projecting.)

I think if/when Vic listens to music it’s probably alternative and moody/meaningful. He chooses songs and artists with poetic lyrics and then draws even deeper connections and ideas from them.

I’m not accepting any questions about this one (LIE) but Vic would look incredible in the outfit Pedro Pascal wore to the SAG Awards. Victor looks good in everything, but that disheveled pirate look would… I can’t even put it into words, just trust me.

Last one for now! Victor obviously has a soft spot for strays, so I think if he could go back to school, start over, whatever, he may consider vet school! It still plays into his traits of needing to be in control and have an incredibly meaningful and impactful job, but he’d get to help animals too.

Okay I lied one more. Victor Vale makes people work to see his smile! He smiled when Sydney brought him back to life but that’s one of the only times we get to see it. However, I wholly believe that after that, he sometimes just smiles at Sydney. More so when she isn’t looking, but he needs to do something to let all of the words he can’t say to her get out. But also! He has one of those smiles that is so pretty it will make you fall to your knees but you can also tell that there’s more behind it, that he’s not smiling just to smile but to communicate (or in some cases, foreshadow something that will happen to you).

[lesbianamalvada]

Let's talk about Vengeful. Most of the book is dedicated to:

-Marcella, her character, her revenge, her taking over the city, how she's gonna change the way EOs are seen.

-Eli, his tragic back story, honestly idgaf about him.

-Victor trying to stop his pain

-Sydney trying to bring back Serena

-June is there

-Mitch is there

-Dom is there

-Johnathan is there.

The people the book was mostly about, Marcella and Eli, die. Honestly love the way Eli went but Marcella's death was so anti climatic and pathetic, especially since she took up so much of the book. She was an interesting character, but her "kill a man in perfect make up and six inch high heels" shit was annoying yet Schwab presents her as the pinnacle of feminism.

Sydney's whole arc about being strong enough to bring back her sister goes nowhere. She thinks about bringing her back, but doesn't. She thinks about running away with June, she doesn't. The whole Serena plot line really pissed me off (forever a Serena Clarke stan she had a good heart how can you like Eli and not Serena fuck you.) Like okay, I get it. Serena was broken after the lake and even though she saved her sister (and tried to spare/save her later), she still abandoned her and wasn't there for her. The whole point is that even though Serena was a great sister all those years and loved Syd, Serena wasn't there for her so Sydney feels like she shouldn't bring her back. Unlike Victor who she brought back, who was always- wait what?

That brings us to Victor, he acts like an asshole the whole book. The bit we got in the beginning with him interacting with Syd and Mitch was my favorite part, but I just don't get why Sydney and Mitch stay with him. Okay, I get why they stay, they have nowhere else to go, but why do they take his shit? Especially Mitch. He kills good people for 5 years. Sydney, Mitch, and Dom relentlessly help him find a cure. Syd blames herself even though she's the only reason he's alive. Mitch's hacking is what keeps them afloat. Dom is the only reason Victor is safe from Eon, he gets killed. Then Victor finally gets what he wants, a cure. Plus not only did Sydney save his life again, she killed his mortal enemy, Eli. So after all that, now that he has everything he wants, he ABANDONS Mitch and Sydney. And it doesn't even seem like they're that mad about it.

June was interesting but we found out 0 about her. How did she die? Why did she want revenge? What got her here? What are her motivations? Why is this grown woman obsessed with Syd? She exists as Marcella's henchwoman and then is just a plot device so Victor attacks Marcella and not Eli. (The way her and Marcella fell out was contrived)

Johnathan was just there. Why the hell would he team up with Marcella? He had no motivation, he's probably happy he died.

TLDR: Vengeful really can't stand on its own for me and doesn't live up to the masterpiece that is Vicious. Instead of the woven timeline feeling poetic, like in Vicious, it feels contrived. And too much time is spent on characters idgaf about, or who don't matter.

[amelias-zelda-calamity-quintet]

WIPWednesday

I'd like to try to do these, the problem is very much that my current WIP is a book ahead of what's out. I'm going to put spoiler tags onto this as well as the book in MoaH these quotes are from, but feel free to send in asks for specific books. I don't think we'll get through the whole book with this kinda thing, but I may limit how many asks I accept for it or how many quotes per book.

          “What’s a Lesha?” Syd asked, looking between the Marksmen.

          As if invited, the woods began to shake. Trees swung to the side to make room as something raged through the forest. What escaped the canopy was as tall as a house, the massive antlers fanning out to either side not included. It was quadrupedal, the back half the heavy-footed hooves of a moose, the front the vicious claws of a bear. It roared from a face that couldn’t decide between man or beast, before it began to pick up speed.

          “That,” Ambrose said as the group was already tensing for action.

         “Get in the wagon, get in the wagon!” Link insisted, practically pushing Syd back up onto Beedle’s traveling shop.