brittle / sharp

though she be but little, she is fierce.

[violetscrrengail]

independent, private & selective VIOLET SORRENGAIL of the empyrean series by rebecca yarros. faithfully transcribed from navarrian into the modern tongue by dani / 30+ / est . follows back from @draconisa .

NAV: memes / vis / about / aes /

First and foremost: ALL GRAPHICS USED ARE MINE! I spent a huge amount of time finding my perfect version of Violet. I painstakingly edited them on my laggy chromebook with knock off editing programs and I will come for you if you steal them, but I'll also cry. Please don't copy my blog.

Triggering material will be present, as it is in the source material, but will always be tagged ( ex: torture cw, death cw, etc. )

I typically write in multi paras, with pretty minimal editing. This blog will most likely remain iconless. I have no preference to how you edit your posts, though!

ALWAYS SEND MEMES! Don't second guess it. Just send one in. :)

Despite the rules, I promise that I’m very low key! Come message me. 🤍

[riorsworn]

@violetscrrengail ; you obviously can’t be trusted to take care of yourself, so let me do it for you. ( ask prompts )

he works his jaw with a calloused hand; he'd gritted his teeth long enough to strain. the still-gaping wound in his side had done little to encourage comfort, he'd remind her. her lengthening appraisal, like that furrowing brow of hers, has him redirecting his gaze skyward. ( this was a colossal waste of time, though. ) she prods above his wound as if to prove a point, and he winces. " fuck? " that hurt. ALRIGHT. point taken. —— he surrenders to her with a sigh. ( one? cracked rib under there? feels like maybe ... two. wonderful. ) " ... how pissed are you at me? i'd like to know before you stab me with that. repeatedly. " he regards the needle in her grasp, the thin thread ... she merely hands him a clean rag; as wordlessly, he works to prep his skin for her inevitable assault. " ... so, pissed pissed. " he bows his head, ready to level with her gaze, but she makes quicker work at piercing him. he bites down. god, she's hot. " noted. "

[ruhlare]

from "Our Heartbeats synchronize"

[riorsworn]

there's a great and terrible divide within him. the scar he bears for her splinters in every direction. all that shows for it, outwardly, is the strain in his jaw. this is the last thing he wants: for one of his broken edges to draw blood from her palms. ( DON'T REACH. ) he almost pulls away. almost. —— can the gods not spare them? her? what more can he give? take it. just ... take it. she takes his hand, instead. and he chokes. trepidation, fear, anger, and loss — loss — works in his throat. her name rises there, too, fighting its way though. but he swallows all of it. all but one, stubborn fear.

please. " ... don't regret me. "

if she were to see beyond the red-rim that defines the sentence in his eyes, — if she were to look deeper, as only she could, she'd find: iron in his blood, prayer in his faith, love in his heart, and strain in his bones. for all that he's fought, and all that he's tried ... tell him: this isn't the end. ( he hasn't sat still for a decade. ) he'd bleed again, he'd pray again, he'd love again, he'd move mountains ... for her. please. don't regret him. he regrets many things. but not this. no. not even this. he can't. he'd never regret a goddamn thing done for her. —— his hand flexes before it wraps about her fingers. " i'd rather your rejection, than your regret. if this —— " he cuts himself off. if it doesn't work out. if the cure is never found. if ... if it's too heavy. " if it's too much. "

[violetscrrengail]

The truth is staggering. Even braced upon two, sure feet — the force of admission is a gust so strong that she wavers; but she isn't afraid of a storm. Digs in her heels. Resolution imbues her gaze, offers steel to reinforce her spine with. Fuck that. ❛ I am not giving up on you. ❜ The pale sweep of her eyes lands on his, light and dark, at odds and carefully balanced. Does he think she only sees that ring? That he's been whittled down to nothing more than the very worst parts of him? ❛ Xaden. ❜ Even a formidable warrior had a place his armor couldn't conceal. Is this it? His Achille's heel? Not her love, but the loss of it?

❛ I'm not going anywhere. ❜ This man — this beautiful man, so shadowed and sharp — this man that holds the string of fate wound so intricately in her soul — he was hers, faults and all. What will it take, to make him see it? Should she bleed for him? Cry for him? Fingers clench his in the desperation; anchor him there in the moment with her. ❛ And I will never regret you. ❜

[riorsworn]

@violetscrrengail ; ❛  gouge.  wield a sharp object at my muse. ( ask prompts. )

THERE'S AN EDGE. in her tone, in his posture, in the wielded dagger in her hand. ( his. ) —— they'd had this argument more times than he could count; the cure drifting further with each, failed conclusion. sometimes, he truly believes that plummet would have saved them best. he'd teetered at that cliff's edge; and though he stepped back, he never really left it. " —— what? are you going to kill me, yourself? " in truth, he'd let her. but he hadn't lost his sense of purpose just yet. so he leans, bowing his head to level their gazes, to swallow the space between them like the seconds they take. the dagger's tip threatens to pierce his chest; it just, nearly does. ( he'd bear every scar for her. what's one more? ) " it's not a bad way to go. " there's a flicker in her warring gaze; that fire he'd pray to any god that'd listen she never lose. it sparks an similar ember in his. he smiles, savoring it, and with a slow, steady upreach of his hand: he wraps his hand about hers ... and the dagger. " i'm just not finished with you yet. " —— he disarms her; the dagger, falling to the floor beside them. the moment he kicks it aside with his boot, he grabs her by the waist and accepts her fury. in every tangible, godsdamned best way.

[violetscrrengail]

SHE COULD DO IT. Almost. She could almost —— gods, but her tenacity wavers, loses strength the longer they stand, staring. The longer she lets him speak. ( I just want this to end. ) The suffering. The heartbreak. Every part of her had been hardened to pain; she'd been well and truly felled by the one place that had remained soft. Her heart. Maybe it would be a mercy for him to die at her hands. Maybe it's only her selfishness that refuses to let him find peace. No. He doesn't want this. He would let her ( would allow her anything, even the slow, bloody carve of his heart ) but he doesn't want to give in. He is a warrior; they need to fight. And doesn't that smile cut it's way straight through her wavering resolve? He reaches, and she lets him, the line of her body yielding to his, bending like the stem of a flower to sun. Here's the truth: he had her disarmed long before the knife leaves her hand.

In the thrill that lances down her spine, she knows that he has already won — but when has that ever stopped her before? A knee drags up with lethal intent, and he holds her closer still, crushing the movement before it reaches the perilous target between his legs. Fingers twitch for a dagger sheathed at her thigh; the encompassing warmth of his hand stops it before she touches the hilt. Her rage swells, a wave breaking on the shore, every futile attempt swiftly countered, every urge read the moment it's formed. ❛ Fuck you. ❜ Anger, desperation ( love, love, love ). They're all there in the staggering weight of her chest as she struggles to breathe in something but his scent, to find some separation between them both. ❛ You don't get to die. ❜ It's an order. It's a plea, met with fingernails in his skin. And it translates: you don't get to leave me.

[not-withoutyou]

battle couples has gotta be one of my favorite tropes though. The “you got me?” “Yeah, I got you.” The kiss for good luck. Fighting alongside each other for so long they know every strength and weakness. The dichotomy of being fucking terrifying to their enemies, but so soft with each other. When one is in danger and the other goes feral, protects them at any cost. When everything is over and done, it’s all “let me see where you’re hurt,” and washing off the dirt and blood.

[madhousenoir-deactivated2024052]

Xaden and Violet, when noone is looking:

[riorsworn]

@violetscrrengail ; “ you're just going to carry on and pretend like everything's fine when it's not fine. ” ( ask prompts. )

he's forcing his shirt back on over his head as desperately as he is trying to make sense of how the fuck they got so deep into this mess. ( HIS MESS. HIS. IT WAS ALWAYS HIS. HE WARNED HER. ) " violet, " he sighs as if exasperation has him at the edge of a cliff. perhaps he never left it. sweat clings to his shirt; his wet hair, to his eyelids. he blinks against a rising sting. " none of this is fine! " his arms rise on his either side, as if surrendering to the truth would free them from any one, single thing. it doesn't. won't. " but i can't —— i don't have a fix for this. " it'd been over a month and a half; they'd learned nothing. " but i'll be damned if i let you carry the brunt of it all. this is mine to bear. i took it. " his brows rise in silent challenge; he half expects her to charge at him. ( she'd already kicked back at the tangle of sheets about her legs. ) " you have training. i have my missive. the rest, just—. " the rest. his life. gods, spare her.

he drops his arms with a gutting sigh. " i'm trying, vi. "

[violetscrrengail]

He cracks, and she feels it first: relief. The layers upon godsdamned agonizing layers of armor that he’s built up finally snap, finally relent, allow her access to that most protected vault. HIS HEART. It had been so much easier to strip him of his clothes than his skin, but even now he draws the protection back, unraveling, hasty. He seeks escape — solitude to lick his wounds in peace, a feral beast snarling at well meaning fingers. Too bad. She’s not afraid of being bit. Not by him.

The only thing that saves him ( she’s shoved back the sheets, tugged on the nightgown; he won’t leave this room without a fight ) is that one, singular sigh. It leeches the fight from her bones. The attack prepared on sure feet now falters, a few steps away from him. Irritation melts down and changes shape, exasperation in its place. ❛ When will you realize? ❜ The urge to reach out suffocates her. Would it anchor him there, or send him away? In her mind, Tairn answers: give him space. But Violet knows that given an inch, he’d run and escape with it. ❛ There is no you and me anymore. There’s us — whether you like it or not. ❜

To hell with it: she crosses that space of no man’s land separating them both, latching onto his hand. The heaviness carried in her heart from that day has never been more present. ❛ I’m not asking to carry it all. I’m asking to carry it with you. ❜

[fibro-memes]

[autumnallunaphotos]

Bookstore date 🤎

[jdbieberxo]

Fifty

[sydneymack]

I’ve never been this out of control over a single kiss. Never wanted someone the way I do him. It’s exhilarating and terrifying at the same time because I know that in this moment, he has the power to break me.

Violet and Xaden - Fourth Wing

Artist: @ksenita_art / @ksenitaart

[riorsworn]

@violetscrrengail ; we're not gonna make it. ( ask prompts. )

if he'd the ability to stop time, itself, he'd have white-knuckled every, last second they had. ( all that's left of kindness, it would seem. ) their proximity carries in stark contrast to the war about them. where panic ensues, so does their embrace. for all his hands had clung onto, their harsh reality forced perspective and brutal consequences. but above all, and despite his desperation, circumstance forced dire lessons in letting go. HE GRITS HIS TEETH; BITING BACK AT THE GODS THAT LAUGH DOWN AT THEM HIM. ( the wards have since fallen; the walls above their heads tumble, too. ) basgiath is mere rubble, and all of navarre: soon to match its destruction. —— but instead of veering on his heel, he plants it. no. fuck this. " we're gonna make it. " he cranes his neck, shooting a quick glance skyward. sgaeyl flies overhead with andarna, shadowed by tairn; they all protest his next step, but his path is set ... and his objective is as clear as fucking day. ACT NOW. REFLECT LATER. he reels violet into his side, anchoring her there with unwavering strength. " you trust me? " she breathes, and the syllable left dangling on her tongue is understood; his aching lungs heave in response. " good. " good, because in the realm of possibilities left for them, this one is ... it. tairn roars, sgaeyl quickly maneuvers beneath him, and xaden, with violet in nothing more than his arms, charges for the ledge —— and jumps.

[violetscrrengail]

Reality as she knows it is in flux all around them. The wards, gone. Basgiath, but stone and dust — and doesn't her heart crumble right alongside it, the one true home she's ever known? No, there's no time for that. Take that treacherous despair and shove it down, urging it into the box for leisurely perusal later — that is, if they're still alive. The very ground beneath them crumbles; all that keeps her on her feet is him, tethering, holding steady, her sanity within his clenched fists as he keeps her from falling apart. This can't be the end. They need more time; she should have kissed him more, loved him harder, and to hell with the secrets held close to his heart. Do you trust me? he asks, and in that moment of dark uncertainty, she has never been more sure. ( Yes. )

And then he spins into action. The world blurs, a single snatched breath stolen before she's crushed to his chest. SILVER ONE! Tairn roars; Andarna gasps. Violet has a single moment of agonizing clarity as she divines his intent at last. ❛ Xaden—! ❜ And then he leaps off the fractured ground and out into open air. Clutches her as gravity tears with sharpened nails at them. She holds him back. Thinks: if this is how we go, at least it will be together.

They freefall.

[riorsworn]

SILVER THREAD GLEAMS AT HIS COLLAR, EVEN IN THE DIM MAGE LIGHT. —— he's above this, now, by rank and character. sober as a judge; which is fitting for every, passing sentence served by the sweeping of his gaze. garrick, to his left, vehemently combats the sentiment, pushing yet another drink into his chest. " all yours, man. " his focus had been well and set upon the members of his wing; his wing up until this very evening. ( freedom remains to be but a length of rope. ) he's tethered. in ways he never anticipated, he's tethered. and amidst the rest of them, he's hooked by her littlest finger. violence.

fuck him, but he cracks a rare smirk. she's an absolute lightweight, swaying in her seat. ( he'd hold her steady; easily. ) her squadmates are under the influence of opportunity, alone, and they chase it as quickly as she does, one lemonade at a time. his throat bobs; he still remembers the taste of that pitcher coming back up over a year later. —— garrick prods at his side again, poking fun at a second year in third wing, but violet's just flashed a grin of her own ... and quite suddenly, everything beyond her is utter bullshit. insignificant. but dain seems to agree, and that elicits a muscle to flex in his jaw. and hand. to garrick, he finally surrenders with a sigh. " ... you still have that flask? "

... one shot, two shot, three shot, four. half of his weight rests just beyond the door. —— vi's still hooked by conversation, and habit has him keeping to the room's perimeter. divided as they'd remained, her influence washed over him as easily as the near-empty flask in his hand. by the time he'd caught her attention, ( she'd held his since he stepped in ), she was flushed in the face. and her intent warmed his skin better than any drink. —— oh, she's feeling good.

his eyes darken, harboring a budding notion. ' i'm open to suggestions. and persuasion,' he winks.

[violetscrrengail]

❛ Are you? ❜ Everything around her loses meaning. The party is nothing but a chaotic din in the backdrop of her mind, movement in periphery. Rhi makes a quip at her elbow, unheard, unaddressed; follows Violet's line of sight to the man looming in the shadowed doorway, exasperation on addled tongue. ( You two... ) She snaps back. Has the good grace to offer a fairest slip of a blush, rose swept over porcelain skin already heated from drink — and him. Oh, but he has her attention now. Conversation resumes around her, but her eyes haven't left his. Legs swing down, boots scuffing the floor. She rises, unsteady as a newborn deer, that singular line of tension drawing her inexorably to his side. ❛ I'm — I have to... ❜ Words slip through her mind like so much sand trickling out from cupped hands. A small mercy, that she's obvious in her intentions; a chorus of laughs, knowing grins, commentary usher her. Riddoc catcalls her — get a room! — loud enough that she knows he can hear, and she answers to Xaden alone: ❛ I just might. ❜ Violet smiles as she weaves through the room, predatory, cross hairs set on her prey. Liquor offers both help and hindrance; she doesn't feel nerves once, but nearly stumbles twice, breathless as she reaches him ( gravity drawing her to his side, caught in his orbit, the moon to the sun ) Her grin is star bright, fingertips on his. ❛ Hi. ❜

[imissthembutitwasntadisaster]

What if you loved me so much it literally undoomed me haha jk unless

[imissthembutitwasntadisaster]

What if I had so much faith in you it literally reshaped the narrative into a happy ending HAHA JK UNLESS

[willgrahamscock]

t-shirt that says 'touch starved' and on the back it says 'for violence'

[virtuallyinsane]

Photo by Kübra Arslaner