yarnfreak-06

[yarnfreak-06]

Name him .......

[yarnfreak-06]

infinite tea dragon for all your tea needs:)

[prompt: tea, butterfly, wyrm]

kinda following @kmccaigue 's list:)

[yarnfreak-06]

put neil josten in solitary refinement that man needs to learn some manners

[yarnfreak-06]

Does anyone have good book recs about dragons? I mean books from the perspectives of dragons, not just having dragons in them.

I was a HUGE wings of fire fan as a kid, but now that I’m older I can’t really find books like that anymore. There’s not really books with dragons as the main characters.

Also please don’t recommend fourth wing, I have weird feelings about those books.

[yarnfreak-06]

T4T jayvik my beloved

[yarnfreak-06]

andreil rkgk 🦊🚬

[yarnfreak-06]

can't believe neil basically said "me being with you doesn't change my sexuality because the ONLY person i want is YOU" (paraphrasing that scene in the bus in TKM).

no wonder andrew thought he was a hallucination, imagine being picked by an objectively gorgeous boy who everyone wants and has NEVER felt sexual or romantic attraction towards anyone until he met YOU.

[yarnfreak-06]

i was rereading aftg and i always found it really interesting how andrew purposefully takes neil to talk to katelyn, and maybe it's because he doesn't trust himself ('take these or i'll use them') and even at that his acknowledgement that neil is the most likely to mitigate his violence is really something, but it's also insane when you think he knows he's having this conversation because he's just chosen neil, and is having neil there as a physical reminder, so every time he feels his resolve breaking neil is right there to remind him why it's worth it

like it's not just andrew having neil there so 'he'll intervene if this turns to violence', it's andrew being able to look at neil and feel neil with him and go 'this is why i'm doing this, this is what it gets me' and then proceeding to show neil just how much it means to him moments later ('no/that's why')

[yarnfreak-06]

They Don't Make Them Like Her Anymore - VTM Bloodlines 20th Anniversary

Commissioned art by @medeaft

Author's Note: I wrote this to celebrate the 20th anniversary of Vampire: The Masquerade – Bloodlines and for a Gallery Noir server event by @vampemoqueen and @bigswordenergy.

Step into the shoes of our favorite sick freak, Vandal Cleaver, as he ruminates on the recent happenings in his life. Pliers and blowtorch included. Terms and conditions apply.

Content Warnings: Violence, torture, self-harm, body horror, mild gore, mild sexual content, obsessive behavior, blood bond, Hannah Glazer and Therese Voerman mentions, murder.

Hannah, Hannah… oh, Hannah. They don’t make them like her anymore, do they? It was sad actually—tragic—well no more tragic than another dead hooker found in a soulless apartment Downtown. Nothing that would make the headlines, not even worthy of a back page obituary in the local paper. Heh, I may be a sap for saying this, but she was good enough for me.

You see, they don’t make them like her anymore. No shit. The new girl? She can’t quite do the job like Hannah did, but since when were beggars choosers? Yeah, I know my place in the pecking order. At least she has the stomach for what I request of her. Doesn’t outright scream, “You fucking freak!” in my face, leaving me high and dry. I need my fix afterall, like the rest of you… Hiding dirty little secrets to dig out between your sorry sack of bones with a scalpel—do you know what a skilled hand can do with a scalpel? Have you ever run your finger across the edge of a blade? Any blade—come on, don’t lie to me now, we’re friends, aren’t we? Everyone’s done it once in their life, lost their innocence as blood blooms from the vulvic slit like a bouquet of roses. Sometimes it gushes like a torrent, depending on how deep you sliced. Shh, it’s okay to get carried away. Your secret’s safe with me.

Anyway, she does as I ask, like a good enough girl, then pukes her guts out—politely—in the bathroom next door. I know, because I hear it. Her chest concave and hollowed, heaving, organ crushing against organ as she squeezes her lungs, gagging on saliva and air. They don’t make them like her anymore, you get what I’m saying?

Earlier, I watched as the flimsy fabric of my skin peeled away, acid pink flesh melting from bone, and the charred layers curling under the blue flame like burning plastic. What remains blisters and festers. I’ve done it so many times I think all that can be salvaged from me are deadened nerves and an empty husk. I like being empty though. Sprawled out on the floor, naked and clean as a newborn while the world around me spins in circles. For a moment, everything feels attainable and unattainable. 

My queen… queen of all queens—

And just like that, it’s gone. I’m left with the chick who has a blowtorch in one hand and her nose in the other, pinching it as though the fumes are toxic. Her hands are always trembling, like an addle-brained patient, maybe because I don’t know whether I’m laughing or screaming half of the time.

My body is already mending at twice the speed when she brings out the pliers. I am a god and a shitty mistake all in one—not quite like the bitch goddess who owns me, but almost. Give it another hundred years, and I’ll be standing in this exact room, cutting myself open with my bare hands, alive and kicking to see the process. Imagine tucking my fingers under the sagging flaps, flaying skin from tissue as I pull it apart. Wet, stinking clumps of flesh and its sinewy tendons will stick between my nails, overstaying their welcome, yet impossible to scrub out. And that smell—mmm, that smell! A putrid, cloying tang of filthy pennies, assaulting my senses like a hammer to the head. I want to untangle my entrails like the wires in my brain that got crossed somewhere, just to check and see if they’re the same as everyone else.

Oh, so the new girl needs a bit of encouragement, does she? Lingering there slack-jawed and taking her sweet time. The missus—no, I mean, Hannah never needed to be told twice. Deep down, I think she even enjoyed it, the sick fuck. They don’t make them like her—

“Do it,” I hiss, saliva drooling from my lips like a rabid dog.

I hear bones snapping before the pain hits me, rattling my teeth as an excruciating jolt shoots up my arm. For a split second, I’m blinded by a searing white light. My thumb is dangling at an awkward angle and I must be howling, because the look on that girl’s face… well, what wouldn’t I give to have a picture as a keepsake? Frame it up on the wall like a goddamn Picasso.

Sometimes I feel the hairy legs of spiders skittering around my skull. It tickles like the high strings of a violin being plucked—faintly, daintily, as if it were never there. Sometimes I say things, but my words aren’t my own. And it’s happening right now. The girl before me is no longer a girl, but the queen bitch herself.

“Therese,” I weep and moan. It’s lewd and urgent like a fever prayer falling from my lips. I swear I could cum from her name alone, and I hate myself for it.

“What did you just call me?”

Therese in body and blood, spirit and flesh. Therese in all her unbearable glory. The cold metal clamps down on my trigger finger and her grin is so wicked I can only grovel and lick the dirt off her boots. She’s inside of me. When I hurt myself, she hurts too, and I enjoy it.

“Yes, please! Oh, mistress, oh fuck—”

My eyes shut as I throw my head back, mouth in the shape of an “O” that’s simply ridiculous. I try not to imagine how it looks like one of those snuff tape suckers in post-coital, or should I say, post-feast bliss. Disgusting and vile. I remember mocking them with Phil as I forced him to watch every single Death Mask film in that dingy basement of the Santa Monica Clinic.

When I come to, my balls are no longer heavy and aching, like an oppressive, shameful need. Semen trickles down my leg, pooling in my pants as though I wet myself. It smells of rotting fish and I’m trying not to cry. I wish it were the Nectar of the Gods instead.

A flash of anger rears up in my chest and I tear my eyes open. Therese—no, the new girl lies like a crumpled doll on the floor, mouth agape in that stupid “O.” Good enough like a pair of single-use gloves to dispose of in the trash without a second thought. Except, I used mine again and again. What’s the point if they break apart so easily? They don’t make them—

I yank her face towards me. The whites of her eyes loll back as I squash the fat of her cheeks within my bloodied hand, and her lips mime a fish sucking in breath.

“Tell me I’m good enough! Say it!” something that sounds more akin to a pig squealing explodes like a burst tap.

The stumps of my fingers move her mouth like a ventriloquist, but she says nothing. Blood smears across her dull skin. She doesn’t wake up. That can only mean one thing: useless. They don’t—

I let her body fall to the ground with a thud. Whipping a phone out from my back pocket, what’s left of my fingers fly over the keypad, punching in a line I’ve rehearsed a thousand times.

“A special order for the mistress.”

Tears cloud my eyes as I hear my quivering breath. It’s shallow and erratic. I still can’t tell if I’m laughing or crying half of the time.

Dividers by @diableriedoll

[yarnfreak-06]

midday reading

[yarnfreak-06]

I did matching drawings of these freaks to a song I was listening to months ago and I FINALLY finished it

[yarnfreak-06]

Blessings Of The Wool Dragon

[yarnfreak-06]

Dumb thing that would not leave my brain

[yarnfreak-06]

thinking of neil's pause before asking jean what happened to him in tsc. the five second window where he was probably like: "kevin might kill me for this but i think i might have to beat the shit out of jeremy knox if he's done something to jean."

[yarnfreak-06]

just thinking about domestic andreil little moments

imagine neil spending almost an hour to hang a picture frame of the foxes, only for andrew to say that it's crooked when he walks past it and neil knows it is but he refuses to admit it so he just snarks back "what do you know about straight things anyway?" and andrew chokes on his drink

imagine they're late for practice and neil is just running around their home looking for his keys while andrew is by the door, on his phone, waiting. and it drives neil crazy so he asks him if he's planning on helping him find the keys anytime soon and andrew just looks up from his phone and silently points to the little bowl where they always put their keys

imagine them decluttering their place and making piles of "keep", "donate" and "trash" only for neil to rescue items from the trash pile when he thinks andrew isn't looking. a couple of deflated balloons from wymack's surprise birthday party planned by dan and allison. an outdated magazine with an article on matt's pro career debuts. faded tickets for a terrible movie nicky dragged them to when he found out neil never went to the movie theater. andrew obviously knows about neil's little rescue mission but he'll be damned if he's the one making him throw things away when not too long ago neil didn't own anything that couldn't fit in his stupid duffle bag

andrew organizing their bookshelf by height, genre and alphabetized, only for neil to sneakily change the place of some books just to mess with him and also to test his eidetic memory

neil climbing on top of any and all furniture to reach for something high while andrew deadpans "if you fall, I'm not catching you" and yet he'll subtly hold the chair's leg to stabilize it or he'll tighten the screws of the furniture when neil is not around

[yarnfreak-06]

I’m feeling for the first time x

[yarnfreak-06]

old west silly cat + envy demon