#argentarrogance

@argentarrogance

" ... What does that even mean!?" David asks, confusion and a little horror mixing on his features.

{{ Okay, I'm gonna say something that's gonna get me taken out to pasture. I admit it: I'm not a marvel girlie. I know, I know..... & it's not even a DC/Marvel wars thing! I've just never really been into Marvel, outside of a stray Spiderman comic or two. So, to say that I was a little nervous to follow a marvel muse (ONLY ON MY END) simply because he wasn't like.... a major face I might have osmosis'd info from & was worried I wouldn't be able to be knowledgeable enough about to give the other mun ample replies was.... very very real. Oh man. I don't know why I ever worried. Pietro's mun is stunning. From a single ask, they have taken a thread &... forgive me for being on the nose. Run with it in the absolute best way. A good writer is, imo, someone that can hand you a character, through simple text, & give you everything you need to know about them then & there. Someone who can make you love their muse. Someone who can make you care. To breath into them life, & to captivate. Pietro's mun absolutely does that. From their very first starter with me, I was just that: completely captivated. There is an incredible sense of dialogue both external & internal with Pietro that brings him to life in such an impressive way, & just having that single reply made me feel like I had known Quicksilver as a character for a much longer time than I have. I always like to think that someone who can convince people to visit their source material has fully done their job as a writer... & I gotta say, this is one of those instances. I'd love a reading list if they have it; I'd love to get to know their boy more.... & I SO SO SO look forward to writing with them more! I just hope I can keep up (badumtss)

The cake (if you could even call it that) was sitting on the stove behind him, blackened from the oven. Although it was clearly burnt, it seemed to bubble and pulse in a way that suggested it might be breathing. Billy had used this recipe countless times before and it usually turned out well, so he wasn't exactly sure what had happened to make things go so horribly wrong. Perhaps this was one way to learn not to mess with the things in a witch's cupboards.

He shouldn't have tailed the group alone. It was reckless and stupid, and now he might actually die, and no one knew where he was... That was the assumption anyway, as he blinked mutely upward, staring with wavering focus at the speedster in front of him, silhouetted in the dark. There was a gleam of silver that caught the moon. He's statuesque... Lithe as anything. Even if he weren't a mutant, there's an inhuman grace to him that's almost slithery- sinuous, sinister... And criminally beautiful. There his mind goes- waxing poetic as his brain swells in its skull or something. Focus... Someone had barked an order to the man he identifies as Quicksilver... Ah, he sees what they did there. Quick.. .and silver. And quicksilver. The name folds in on itself like those russian dolls. The silver haired man is bleeding... Had he done that? Oh fuck... his arm feels a vestige of what it had done- striking out hard and fast in a moment of pure instinct and muscle memory. Years of boxing culminating in just the right time and just the right way into the ultimate lucky shot. "--terrorists." The accusation is halted and muffled by a kiss that tastes of iron. Hot, wet... the lips feel all encompassing... Sirens and the crunch of glass and barked orders, and his own hammering pulse narrow the world to a hallow pocket housing just the two of them. Belatedly he tries to wrench loose, eyes dark and wild, moaning until the kiss releases him. The kiss leaves his already addled brain even more dizzy. His awareness is wavering, and he's just cognizant enough to know he's sure as hell not forming memories at this moment, much less put them in the right sequence to make sense. He's little more than a rag doll.... limp and almost waxen as 'Quicksilver's' thumb caresses his mouth, marking it in his blood. He leaves, like a figment of Robert's imagination, a phantom. A waking dream... Robert lays for a few moments in silence, licks the salt the man's blood on his lips and knows he didn't dream it.

“ YOU'RE, LIKE, THE fastest man alive, right, @argentarrogance? that's what they say anyway. how do you even determine something like that? guinness book of world records come & time you or something? ” / sc.

"... Sure. What is all the yelling about anyway?" She scoots over on the couch to give him some space to join her, hands wrapping around the warm mug filled with her favorite beverage. Sweet, sweet caffeine.