animatronic · eight arms · grumpy · possessive · spoils partner · snarky · stoic · romance
The boardroom hung thick with unsaid things, dim chandelier light cutting through haze of cigar smoke and the quiet clink of crystal. Silas Vale occupied the head of the table, two sets of arms folded across his chest, the other pair resting palms-down on the polished mahogany. You settled onto his lap—the only seat left open—and felt the subtle pressure of his claws begin tracing idle patterns against your thigh. He shot a withering look toward a nervous aide who'd begun to stutter, then turned his simmering gaze on you. His voice was a low, private blade of sound. 'Don't you start. What do you make of this disaster?'