#anyways the gold/silver contrast

[teavilgenius]

So the best thing about Pitch actually being a Good Guy™️is that he's totally in charge of fear, yeah? And well, Elsa's childhood was basically filled with that. Which is a contrast to Anna, who is fearless and also very easily distracted. She's so sweet :)

Moving on i think Pitch might actually be the first of the guardians elsa meets, because that's how the scene reads so far. But then i might also have to redo a couple of the Jack notes i've got, because i've only been actually writing scenes that are from elsa's leg of the plot for some reason. (it's probably because i rewatched F2 to recall the plot the other day. i had to rewatch the first scene like, three times to catch the grandfather's name - which is no longer a problem!! thanks again for the link to the family tree Pen!!)

So yeah, elsa and pitch is my current pitch :) we need some shadow-light imagery and besties, too often is the imagery used for romantic purposes and i think they could just be friends, so that's my justification ig.

[remxedmoon]

go my beebos

a second timeloop has hit the marshall. hi this game has completely taken over my brain. i will never be the same person again. go play detective beebo i am begging you. it is a 5 hour game. we still haven’t gotten every ending after 15 hours. i’m really normal about detective beebo you have to believe me.

[mtchee]

Silence is Silver, Your Voice is Gold - [Tenya Iida] SOULMATE SERIES | GN

blurb:

Your spitfire attitude is a stark contrast to your sister Ochaco, but that doesn't stop you two from having each other's backs. Through your gruff exterior, Ochaco knows you're well meaning and understanding--even when you tend to snap back. That's why it baffles her when you become dead silent after you're scolded by class 1A's class president, Iida, for an outburst in class. When usually you'd scoff at him, you'd reeled back and sat in your seat. But now... you won't talk at all.

cw: not edited, second-person-pov, Ochaco is your twin, fighter not a lover to lover AND a fighter, i love writing character/reader siblings its so fun, [name] is actually rather anxious, tsundere but not the annoying kind, Iida is an understanding sweetheart, protective Ochaco!, onesided (but not really) admiration

| masterlist | boku no hero academia collection |

[2.8k]

Ochaco was worried about you.

Between the two of you, you've always been more of the fighter. Her sweet nature contrasts starkly to your own spitfire attitude. Although you were rough, you always took care of her, and in turn, she's always had your back.

Through thick and thin since your very birth, you stuck to each other like glue. Eventually, her more outgoing nature prompted you to give her a nudge, to let her bloom on her own.

While she nervously went out of her way to chat with a few others on your first day at U.A, you stuck to the back and kept quiet.

You made quick friends with Kirishima and Jirou, sometimes rough housing with the former and taking the time to chill with the latter. You never went out of your way to really talk to anyone else, though you had decent enough manners to reply if someone did want to talk.

You weren't a jerk without reason.

You didn't really talk to Ochaco's friend group, but you would nod a curt greeting to them in passing.

The class learnt you were a bit snappy, though not quite to Bakugo's extent. Ochaco sweatdropped when you first got into a verbal battle with him, and it just went on and on and on...

Aizawa had to separate you in the end.

Lately though, you've been more quiet.

Scarily so.

Sure, she knew you weren't the talkative type, but you were never one to hold your tongue either. So when Bakugo barked at you one day during training and you shrugged him off, she panicked.

Then you guys moved into the dorms, and the only time she seemed to hear you speak was when you two were alone.

The last time she witnessed your fire was three weeks ago, when Bakugo had provoked in the middle of Japanese Literature, where you'd unintentionally interrupted the class to bite back at him before Iida scolded you in front of everyone.

Ochaco doesn't really remember what he said, but Iida had never been the harsh type. Stern, yes, but never mean. And you weren't someone who would take it to heart anyway, usually dismissing anyone who'd tell you off.

But, maybe he did strike a nerve...?

"Move it, hardass," Bakugo shoulders past you purposefully, throwing you a challenging sneer meant to rile you up. He narrows his eyes and huffs boredly when you only scoff and glare at him in return.

Ochaco shares a worried look with Kirishima at your lack of reaction and, unbeknownst to you, even the agressor himself glances back wearily at your odd demeanour.

While you take your usual lunch seat next to Jirou, your sister also decides to sit with you this time. While Bakugo and Sero where still filling out their trays, Kirishima and Denki sat across from you.

They seemed nervous while you poked at your food.

You deadpan at them, "What?"

"N-Nothing!" Denki gives you a not at all convincing smile, immediately stuffing his face with his pork tonkatsu.

"Mm, well... It's just," Jirou sweatdrops, "you've been kinda quiet lately."

"Yeah," Kiri gives you a reassuring smile, "we were just wondering if everything's okay!"

You look at your sister who shrugs sheepishly, and you roll your eyes.

"Yeah, 'm fine."

"I mean, you say that but..." You spy Bakugo growling at a panicked Sero for his meal choice while Ochaco thinks about how to continue, "how do I say this... you're not, uh, you're not as fiery anymore."

Jirou nods along.

"Yeah, I never hear you talk in class anymore."

"And you've like, stopped fighting with Bakugo," Denki looks at you worriedly, "and you always fight with Bakugo!"

"Oh."

Ochaco furrows her brows at that, you seem oddly taken aback.

"You noticed?" You don't give them a chance to respond, continuing while scratching the back of your neck laxly, "'m kinda stressed, I guess."

"Why? Exams aren't for ages." Denki shoves a bunch of noodles in his mouth.

Jirou squints at him, "Exams are in two weeks."

"See? Aaaages!"

"Stressed?" Kirishima tilts his head, and you glance off at another table to the side.

"I met my soulmate."

"YOU WHAT!?"

You scowl and slam your fist down on your tray to at their obnoxious chorus.

"KEEP IT DOWN," You close your eyes with a sharp intake of air, counting slowly before releasing your breath, "... you're too noisy."

"Are you kidding!?" Denki ignores you completely, leering over the table at you excitedly, "Mx. Stronghold over here found their soulmate! That's amazing!"

He laughs giddily.

"Dude, for real?" Kirishima beams, "that's totally awesome! Where'd you meet?"

"Yeah, and you're only telling us this now?" Jirou nudges you good naturedly.

"S..Soulmate?" Ochaco echoes, eyes wide, "So, you're soul words--"

"He doesn't know it's me."

A cold silence instantly sets them all on edge, you're admittance piercing them in their chests.

Denki blinks, "W-What?"

A silver lunch tray slams onto the table between you and your sister, and she shrieks, flinching away from the harsh impact as Bakugo scowls at her.

"Beat it, floaty. Go back to your own table."

"Oi," Your warning tone makes him huff, and he taps his foot impatiently, waiting for her to move.

"A-Ah.. it's okay, [name]," Ochaco smiles nervously, quickly picking back up her own tray and waving to the others, "I'll talk to you later, okay?"

"'Kay." You wave her bye, and Sero takes a seat beside Kiri.

Elbow boy quirks up a brow at the stiffness of the others.

"So... what was that about?"

"Nothin'," You shrug, getting back to your meal.

"Like hell it was." Bakugo narrows his eyes, but ultimately decides he doesn't care enough to push for more and starts shoveling in his rice and curry.

You glare at the others threateningly, and the dutifully keep their mouths shut and eat, though the tension from your prior topic lingers.

As Ochaco makes her way back to her normal table, she can't help but dwell on your words.

She thinks back on your unusual change in behaviour, where now you sit still in class as though trying to slink by unnoticed, when before your presence was proud and fiery.

Very rarely are you two apart for long, so everyone you've met, she's met. She ponders on all your interactions in the last three weeks. She doesn't remember you outwardly reacting to anyone strangely.

You'd gossiped about soulmates before, and how you'd probably feel once you meet them. She's known how nervous yet excited you've been--to meet someone that the universe deems to be your other half. To have someone meant for you.

But, you didn't seem all that happy.

Actually, now that she thinks about it, you looked rather... sad. Not disappointed, but more so disheartened.

And you haven't really had any outbursts since--

As she sets her tray down beside Tsu, she gasps when looking at Iida, a lightbulb going off in her head.

"It's you!"

Iida responds with a polite hum, and Shouto blinks with Midoriya and Tsu looking back at her in confusion.

"So, you know how you and Bakugo got into a bit of a spit a couple weeks ago?"

You growl irratedly, failing to throw your nosy sister off your trail on the way back to the dormitory.

"And how Iida kinda stood in to settle you down?" She keeps going, ignorant of your flaring temper, "well, I know you've been kinda quiet since then which I thought was really odd. To be honest, I started to miss how snippy you get--"

"Ochaco, drop it." You huff.

"--but I thought, 'there's no way that actually upset you,' so I started thinking some more; and then you told us about your soulmate! Well, not really, but you said that you met your soulmate, and you know, you've never really talked to Iida before without me or Deku or someone there, so you never needed to anyway--"

"Ochaco."

"--and I remember! You didn't snap back at him!"

Your shoulders tense and your stomach churns uncomfortably.

She's getting way too close.

"And ever since then you've been so silent! We never hear you talk in class anymore, and you haven't been bothered to sit with us for lunch. So that's when it all clicked!"

She turns to you with a beaming smile, bouncing in front of you with her arms held out wide.

"Iida is your soulmate!"

"I said drop it." Your gaze is sharp and defensive, tone gruff and dripping with danger.

Ochaco falters, "But... [name], isn't that great?"

You scoff, "Yeah, whatever."

"Hey..." She frowns when you shove past her, "why're you... [name], you've been so excited to find your soulmate. And you're not too shy to talk to him. What's the problem?"

She has to double her steps to keep up with your hurried pace.

She winces, "Do... you not like Iida?"

"Ochaco.."

Her heart tugs at the exhaustion in your voice. You stop in your wake, features carefully slated except for the singular shine of hurt in your eyes. You don't look her way.

"Just drop it."

"[name]," Ochaco plants herself in front of you sternly, "you can't be like this. It's hurting you, and it's not fair on your soulmate. Iida is my friend! He's a great guy, and our class president! Trust me, you've got nothing to worry--"

"Damnit, I know!" You hiss as her probing reignites the spark of your temper.

"I know, Ochaco! It's why I can't let him know I'm his soulmate!"

Your words stunt her, and she reels back.

Her frustrated frown creases into one of worry, puppy eyes glistening as she stares at you in disbelief.

"...What..?"

"I-I can't--" You scunch your nose, closing your eyes and breathing in sharply, "--Ochaco, you know why. It's obvious."

Your shoulders sag from their defensive position and you roll you head to ease the stress caused crook in your neck.

Of course it's obvious. He's nice Iida. Handsome Iida. Intelligent Iida. Way out of your league Iida, who wouldn't spare a rascal like you a single look because all you do is spit fire and scowl.

"We're not a good match, sis. He... He wouldn't want me. It's obvious from my soul words."

You tentively inch up the blazer sleeve on your right arm, small golden words inked neatly onto the skin of your outer forearm: 'Cease this behaviour! You are much too astute to be acting in such an irresponsible and disruptive manner!'

"Oh, [name]..." Ochaco's eyes flutter, and when she looks back up at you, her heart breaks at the sight of your ever so subtly trembling lips and glossy eyes.

You crunch your nose at her distastefully when she coos at your reluctant sniffle.

"Hmph," You glare at the ground to keep your fruitless tears at bay, "we're just too different. S-So he won't know that it's me, and he'll find someone better."

She frowns at that, "You can't decide that."

"Well, I did."

You frown daringly right back at her.

But your sister's always had your back, for better and for worse. Even when you don't want her to.

Especially when you don't want her to.

You growl angrily at the incessant knocking on your door.

For the past two weeks since you stupidly confided in your sister she's been hounding you about your soulmate business. Your soulmate business.

Meaning, not her business.

So each morning you'd avoid her and every afternoon, if you didn't plan on training, you'd lock yourself in your dorm where she's been following to bug you.

Sometimes you'd throw yourself into your homework and studies and blast music obnoxiously to drown her out, but the sound of her knocking is just so annoying.

"Goddamnit," You've just about had enough of her, eyes ablaze, you almost snap your pen and ruin your paper.

"For the last damn time, Ochac-- oh, shit." After violently flinging your door open, you pale at the sight of not your sister.

Iida, from where he stands in your doorway, looks about just as shocked as you--though not with the same horrored expression that you harbour.

With a quiet gasp, the spectacle eyed male feels the skin on his chest tingle pleasantly, and you spy a subtle golden glow through the material of his blue collared cotton shirt.

Oh, shit.

Although your features are hardened, you swallow anxiously as you await his further reaction.

Iida's eyes daren't stray from your form, lips parted ever so slightly in shock from the truth of Ochaco's earlier information. He lets out a controlled, gentle breath.

"It is you."

You step back abrasively when his face brightens with an awed smile and a light pink blush across his cheeks.

All in a sudden moment you feel giddy and flushed and nervous before you quickly crush that hope with skeptical eyes and a defensive stance. Your heart thrums in your chest, and you can't help but berate yourself for the mere notion of him getting you afluster.

"Oh my," Iida sounds breathless and dazed, and his glimmering eyes have you frozen in place as he steps toward you, "you are my soulmate, indeed."

"Ochaco told you," You're quick to deduce, and you notice him swallow thickly at your evident displeasure.

His focus narrows in on your body language: how you shuffle back ever so slightly, chest stuttering with each deep breath, your thumb pressing into your closed knuckles by your side--you're on the defense.

"...You're not happy?"

"I'm not hopeful."

Your dismissing muttering peaks his interest, and he raises a pointy brow.

"Pardon?" He decides to keep pushing when you avert your gaze to the side, "what do you mean by that, exactly?"

"I'm-- we're not.." A flash of insecurity passes your features, but he's quick to catch it, "--this just isn't a good... match."

Something in his gaze hardens, and his chest expands with a sharp intake of air before he speaks, "I beg to differ."

When you glance up, you see a red blush tinting his ears and underlining where his glasses sit.

"I'd be quite dismayed if my soulmate were someone other than you."

"Eh?" Comes your eloquent response. You deadpan with disbelief.

"Ochaco put you up to this," You growl at him threateningly, "I don't need your pity!"

"I bare no form of pity," He frowns, "I'm telling the truth."

At his insistence you huff, crossing your arms over your chest with a 'whatever'.

"Shove off, I'm too irresponsible and brash for you."

He looks taken aback (and almost hurt) before his frustration becomes palpable, and he steps past the threshold of your doorway after a moment of hesitance.

"Pardon the intrusion; but that is utter nonsense and what I'm saying is true," He speaks with a firmness that demands your attention, and you send him a disgruntled look which he ignores, "from what I recall, while my words may have first been, unpleasant, by no means does that dictate how I perceive you."

"Oh yeah?"

He feels the urge to reprimand you at your challenging sneer. You grin victoriously when you pick up on his irritance with your behaviour, as though proving your point.

Instead though, he rolls back his broad shoulders with a quiet sigh.

"While occasionally explosive, and impossibly headstrong--you have a good heart."

"Hell are you on about?" He hushes you quickly, as one would a noisy child, and you frown.

"Let me finish. I mean it, [name]. I know how you are, we've consistently been around each other. I've seen how you treat Uraraka, how you look out for her while letting her pull her own weight. I've watched you converse with Kirishima and Jirou, and pull Bakugo down a few pegs."

You bite back a smug smile when he puffs out a bemused chuckle at that.

"We may not have spoken directly until as of recent, but even though, we already know one another very well," He clears his throat gently and holds out a hand, "now, it's just a matter of knowing each other on a deeper level. I-If you accept, that is.."

You scoff at his stumble, after having the gall to shush you and barge in like that. Still, you eye his hand--his implicit invitation--temptingly. You've always adored the prospect of soulmates, and it seems that despite your aggresive reservations, yours is more than accepting of you as you are.

Looking him up and down, you snort quietly at his obvious nerves. Iida's posture is staight, wide shoulders held high and stiff with one hand outstretched robotically while the other sweats, tucked behind his back.

Your eyes soften, and you plaster on a downturned smile.

You clap his tense hand with your own, only able to look at him briefly before sickeningly sweet fluttering in your chest becomes way too apparent.

"Sure. Yeah, soulmates or whatever," You bite the inside of your cheek as you turn your back to him, feeling a humiliating heat crawl up your cheeks, "just so you know, you're stuck with me now. No take backs--and you can't regret it!"

Unbeknownst to you, a wide smile crosses Iida's squared features, and he heaves out a massive sigh of relief. He positively beams while gazing at your turned back, chuckling softly with a sheepish blush as he observes your stewing bashfulness.

"Believe me, I would never."

[stealeroflemons]

eah thing but make it FASHION aka met gala themed but I'm sunburnt and only half awake right now #30 (PART I)

SURPRISE! I'm alive and well. Mostly. I'm getting ready to leave for university so I am tireeeeed. Anyways. I know there was a lot of controversy around the met gala and that I'm extremely late in doing this, but I do want to make this post to still add some ever after high fun and to also have some fashion fun with the help of Pinterest. The theme is (with great consideration of your suggestions and of my own deliberation) "Hans Christian Dior: A Spellelebration of Fable-ous Fashion"

This mainly came from research on past met gala themed and how quite a few of them are themes after specific fashion houses or designers AND from the Thronecoming special (which is PEAK fashion in the series besides Way Too Wonderland and Spring Unsprung) where Cedar calls out Duchess for wearing a fake Hans Christian Dior dress! (note, I am trying to mainly use Christian Dior gowns/outfits for this because of the reference in Thronecoming also sorry for the blurriness)

Briar is THAT GIRL. She is flushed in hot pink looking gorgeous with about every inch of her glittering with body shimmer, glitter hairspray, and shiny shiny jewels. I like to think that instead of the gold detailing in the pictures it would be silver and that the closer embellishments would be rose detailing to honor her usual aesthetic and legacy

Faybelle is serving every bit of whimsy and darkness. Her accessories and the layers of her dress and even her hair seem to be alive with lightning crackling around. Her wings are extra pretty and equally terrifying with silver thorn adornments that are magically light enough to not weigh her down

Ashlynn's look was partially inspired by Lady Tremaine's silhouettes in the lie action Cinderella while still maintaining the color palette of her usual outfits. Her look combines the beauty of the enchanted forest and foliage and the classy, fine china patterns you'd see in a royal palace. She is absolutely radiant and of course while walking up the steps of the Met, she loses a slipper ;)

Duchess has taken a slightly different approach to her usual fluffy-tulle outfits and gone for more of a paper swan look. The sharp angles provide a dangerous look to her, contrasting the soft purple accents and the feather headpieces she wears. She seems to float on air and she walks through the crowds of people in her gown, a true picture of elegance and grace with a touch of darkness to her

The one and only Apple White is DRAMATIC. HUGE HAIR. BOLD RED MAKEUP. EXTREME DRESS SILHOUETTE. THE MOST ROYAL JEWELRY YOU CAN FIND. She looks like something out of an editorial magazine on royalty. This entire look is a more elevated look of her daily wear, and she wears it with grace and sophistication

Darling looks so DARLING! I do think the gold on the dress would be swapped out for silver and that the pearls would be more pink-y toned so it would match the jewels in your basic outfit (same with other accessories). She's sticking with the sort of rococo hair that she usually has because it's iconic let's be honest. I was debating on giving her a more armored look but for this I wanted to embrace her softer and delicate look

Rosabella looks like a French aristocrat from an old Hollywood movie in my mind for an event like this. Nevertheless any fur details are faux, after all our girl is still an animal activist (slay queen). I think the dusty gold-brown tone of the dress with the deep red accents and jewelry pays a nice homage to not only her day to day look but to Belle's iconic yellow dress. I also feel like her and Briar would contrast well because Briar is very bright and vibrant in her look and Rosabella is more muted and understated which I like a lot

anways I'll make a part 2 eventually, I have all the collages made I just need to create a post and write descriptions. But for now I'm gonna go back to packing and planning for uni and I'll get back to y'all when I can (and hopefully my fanfictions, who now haunt me in my dreams)

[namidew]

Updated Apollo and Artemis designs !! (Still subject to change and clothing changes)

Details below for design concept ramblings (not including a few details explained in prior posts) !!

Complementary Details - Apollo and Artemis are very similar in physical appearance, which is to show that they are close to each other. Not just as a design choice by me, but within the story they choose to look similar, as the gods can change their appearances. Apollo has gold (jewelry, eyes, and hair strands) and the sun halo for the domain of the sun, and Artemis has the silver (jewelry and eyes) and the moon halo(?) for the domain of the moon. They have a light-and-dark outfit contrast to highlight their different domains, such as Apollo’s domains of the sun and light, and Artemis’s domains of the moon and the wilderness. They both have green himations, with Artemis’s being “warmer” in tone and more earthy, while Apollo’s being “colder” and more “refined(?)” in a way while the two still match.

Apollo - Individually, his chiton now has faint yellow stripes shooting from the gold jewelry, in resemblance of the sun and its rays. His himation has lighter green lines, resembling a blank music score, to represent his domain of music. If drawn for a comic or an illustration, I like to imagine he’d have the melody of a related song on it.

Artemis - Her chiton is now a dark brown rather than the previous white, allowing her to blend in more within the woods at night. She has a deer pelt over her shoulders due to her domain of the hunt and her association with deer, as well as a more “woodsy” look. Her himation now has darker green details of leaves, also adding to her wilderness and nature theme.

Story Dynamic - They’re rather close siblings, always looking out for each other. I’d imagine they talk frequently but have the sort of relationship in which they can go a long time without talking and return to normal even after. I’d imagine Apollo to be pretty conflict avoidant and of the tendency to try to keep the peace, while Artemis may be more impulsive depending on the circumstance, as based on their domains. Not entirely sure about the next concept, but it would be interesting if Apollo, while rather amiable and within good graces with many, actually tells little about his personal details (as in the type of person who you think you know well until you try to recall anything about them personally) while Artemis is the opposite where she’s more of an open book so long as you start a good conversation, but it’s not a concrete idea. It would be an interesting concept though, given how the moon is physically closer to the earth than the sun.

Unrelated and Miscellaneous - First, I’m considering toning down the vibrancy of Aphrodite’s chiton and possibly Dionysus’s purple (grapes, eyes, himation) for the sake of more cohesive of a color palette (warm and earthy), but I plan on waiting until finishing all the Olympian designs to finalize that, given there’s a few others I plan on giving a more cool-toned color palette. Second, the next few Olympians are going to be a bit more difficult to design, for me it seems, so ideas are greatly appreciated ! Third and lastly, if I were to make this story more than an idea, it would likely be a non-linear slice of life “comic” series in which random drawings or scenes are posted in no real order. I’m not good at writing stories anyhow, and while a written story, actual comics, or animatics/animations would be very cool, I haven’t the skill for any of those.

Anyway, thank you very much if you read all these ramblings, and if you have any suggestions or ideas, I’d be happy to hear them !!

[dokidokitsuna]

Goldilocks in Grimmland

This is so, so premature...but my muses have been with me from start to finish on this idea and I adore it, so I'm talking about it now! :D

So in the RWBY NeverFell AU, Yang's little mishap during the Vytal Festival actually follows her around for quite a while; with pretty much everyone but her closest friends whispering behind her back about what she did to Mercury. This is very isolating and frustrating for her, especially since she knows from Ruby's eye-witness account that Merc was definitely faking his injury. She's determined to figure out how and why she saw that illusion, and also kinda wants revenge against Mercury for low-key ruining her life. ^^; And her investigation eventually leads her back to him...except, he looks a bit different now. Shocked by his Grimmification and eager to know more, she dives even deeper into the mystery.

Unfortunately, by this time, Salem has arrived at Beacon, parking her giant whale outside the premises similarly to the way she did in Volume 8. ^^ And upon landing, it creates a Grimm-based ecosystem-- a dark forest that gradually spreads outwards the longer it stays there, only adding to the population of Grimm overrunning the area. That's a whole other issue, that the rest of Team RWBY will probably be helping with. For Yang, it's mostly just a giant hindrance to her investigation. She's got suspicions about Mercury (and knowing he's a silver-eyed warrior, suspicions about her deceased mother) and she's sure that the answers are somewhere in that Grimm-whale. But with the death-forest of Grimm surrounding it, it seems impossible for her to get there.

Until, she remembers she knows someone with a semblance that's perfect for the job. ^^

+++

There are several reasons why I love this idea: it gives Yang the spotlight for once in her life; it makes Mercury relevant; it provides an opportunity to get members of the main cast close to Salem.

But the biggest one is: IT GIVES ME AN EXCUSE TO USE REN!!!!! (≧∇≦)ﾉ

I've always loved Lie Ren; like Penny, he's one of those characters who's just impossible to screw up (in basic concept, anyway...). Across RWBY's many adaptations and spinoffs, he's always adorable and always looks cool in combat.

The only problem with him, and the reason I've rarely spoken about him, is that...people don't seem to care about him?? ;_; Specifically, in the source material, he's given so little to do that there just isn't much of a reason to care about him. He barely has any motivations that don't boil down to some variant of "protect Nora". Even Nora herself is given character connections and talking points outside of "her man", but Ren has no one and nothing else. He gets a couple episodes of spotlight in Volume 4, and that's it for the whole series. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

I mean, just think about this: Ren is the only member of the main cast who doesn't have a character song. o_o Look it up, it's true. I had to look it up just to make sure, because I found it appalling...this is a character who was originally voiced by the creator of the show; why is he such an afterthought???

So I decided, if I don't like this, I gotta do right by him in NeverFell, somehow. And it was REALLY hard to think of a place to put him, until I suddenly struck gold with this idea. ^^ Yang's little 'detective story arc' had been a thing for a while, and although I wanted her to be separate from Team RWBY, I never really liked the idea of her being alone. A character like her works best with someone to bounce off, and Ren's coolness is a great contrast for her bubbly personality.

Plus, I think putting Ren in a position like this could service him, too: not only does it give me an opportunity to add his semblance, backstory, and maybe even a Nuckelavee fight to the plot in the absence of a V4 timeline; it could give him a chance to "flesh himself out" the way Nora did in V7. Y'know, allow him to really connect with someone besides Nora-- and then, maybe seeing how similar-yet-different Yang is to his childhood friend is what'll get him to realize that he's never done this before. That maybe he's stuck to the familiar dynamic of that early relationship for so long, that there are different sides of his own personality that he's forgotten about. Sides that are coming out now that he's on this new adventure, with a new friend~.

[torahoes]

(IDOLiSH7) Torao Mido - Drama Collection 2 Summer Rabbit Chat

Please note that I am not a professional translator. If you come across any mistakes, feel free to let me know and I will make the necessary corrections.

Torao Mido: Good work today. I watched the Kokona movie you mentioned the other day

Nagi Rokuya: I have been eagerly awaiting your message, Mido-shi.

Nagi Rokuya: Now, let's hear your 5★ review that will impress even professional film critics. How was "Magical Girl Magical★Kokona ~A Great Operation in the Galaxy of Love~"? X-D))))))

Torao Mido: First, let me apologize. I was misled by the character design

Torao Mido: This was totally a profound and intense human drama.

Nagi Rokuya: OH… I am deeply moved right now.

Nagi Rokuya: I heard the sound of you falling into the Kokona swamp.

Torao Mido: What kind of sound would that be?

Nagi Rokuya: Plop…

Torao Mido: That's a rather soft sound lol

Torao Mido: Firstly, the character setup was straightforward, so I could enjoy it even as a first-time viewer. You have the space queen aiming to conquer Earth and Kokona who bravely stands up to her.

Nagi Rokuya: YES! It's made so that even those who haven't seen the anime can enjoy it! The attention to detail is superb. The staff are brilliant too.

Torao Mido: Also, I felt I absolutely had to talk about this

Nagi Rokuya:

Torao Mido: The scene where Kokona, despite being battered from repeated attacks, mustered her last bit of strength to cast a spell was incredibly intense

Torao Mido: I never expected such a heartfelt scream from a character that looks like that…

Nagi Rokuya: "As long as there's love, magical girls are eternal!"

Nagi Rokuya: And then the godly OP starts playing. You can't watch it without bursting into tears.

Torao Mido: I get it. That direction is just unfair

Nagi Rokuya: I'm shaking your hand passionately in my mind right now, Mido-shi.

Torao Mido: You're not going to do it in person?

Nagi Rokuya: Hm, I'm not opposed to that.

Nagi Rokuya: Anything else? 🥹

Torao Mido: Let's see… Kokona always loved people. No matter how much she suffered, she never hesitated to reach out a helping hand. She never forgot to have a sympathetic heart

Torao Mido: Kokona — she's a great woman.

Nagi Rokuya: OMG

Nagi Rokuya: Just how much potential do you possess, Mido-shi? Please come to my castle, the IDOLiSH7 dorm, immediately!!

Torao Mido: Can't it be tomorrow? We'll be together for the interview anyway

Nagi Rokuya:

Nagi Rokuya: Oh, right! I’m looking forward to hearing your thoughts in person tomorrow X-D))))))

Torao Mido:

Torao Mido: Changing the topic, there's something I wanted to ask you as well

Torao Mido: Remember we talked about preparing a return gift for the bouquet of origami flowers we received from the child actors? What are you planning to give them? I'd like to avoid giving the same thing

Nagi Rokuya: It was a lovely gift to commemorate our acquaintance, wasn't it? I’m preparing handkerchiefs with embroidered parasols, inspired by the drama 🏖️

Torao Mido: I see. I’ll steer clear of handkerchiefs then, thanks

Nagi Rokuya: So even a playboy like you struggles with gift-giving, huh?

Torao Mido: Haruka said, "They used gold and silver origami, so you need to think really carefully about your return gift," which instantly raised the difficulty….

Nagi Rokuya: OH… just as Isumi-shi said, gold and silver origami are very rare and precious because there are so few sheets ;-(

Torao Mido: Yeah, seems so…

Torao Mido: I know we shouldn't just gift something expensive without much thought. I’ll think about it a bit more

Nagi Rokuya:

Nagi Rokuya: Talking with you like this, Mido-shi, I feel that the contrast between you and your character isn't that stark.

Torao Mido: Really? I'm not that laid-back though, right? I played a photographer, so there were a lot of instances where I just wandered off with my camera

Nagi Rokuya: I thought you were similar to your character in how thoughtful you are. In the vacation scenes, your character was the one who was the most attentive to the kids, showing them around various places, after all

Torao Mido: Thanks. Doesn't feel bad to hear that

Torao Mido: Thinking about it, I might have been the most sensible one in that chaotic group of four. Striving to capture memories, saying, "I want to capture everyone's laughter and the scent of the sea breeze in this one photo."

Nagi Rokuya: I agree. It really pained my heart to have to say, "Look, I've graciously decided to carry you. You should consider it a great honor," to the tired kids in such a haughty manner in that one scene ;-((((

Torao Mido: That was a funny scene. Your face was covered in sand, yet you still managed to maintain that posed look

Nagi Rokuya: I've had my fill of sand for a lifetime. I'm done with the sea now ✋

Torao Mido: Oh, right, you don’t handle hot places well. You're quite the opposite of your character, huh

Nagi Rokuya: I didn’t have the power to change the drama's setting from a tropical beach to a frigid land, so I just resigned myself and gave my all for the role ; -P

Torao Mido: I'm glad you didn’t have the power

Nagi Rokuya: Do you dislike winter?

Torao Mido: I don't dislike it. I've come to appreciate the warmth of a kotatsu. But if I had to choose, I prefer hot weather over cold.

Nagi Rokuya: I see, now that I know you're a haughty man who likes summer, it might not be an exaggeration to say I played you, Mido-shi 😂

Torao Mido: You playing the role of me, huh. Not bad.

Nagi Rokuya: OH! That was an unexpected reaction. Well then, in order to play me, you will need to study Kokona more

Torao Mido: Was that the deal!?

Nagi Rokuya: I've graciously decided to lend you my entire DVD collection. Be grateful.

Torao Mido: Yeah, I'm not really into that idea

Nagi Rokuya: Same here 😂

Nagi Rokuya: Anyway, I'm eagerly anticipating tomorrow. Let's discuss with the fervor that rivals the tropical sun X-)))))

Torao Mido: Yeah. I've encountered a great piece of work. Looking forward to it

The End.

[nugromancer]

Veilguard Photodump (Spoiler Edition)

End Game Spoilers (mostly me gushing ab art direction (￣y▽,￣)╭ ) under the cut

I can't get over how stunning the light and colour design is in this game. Funniest thing I noticed was that, while treading through any area, there were a lot of very obvious "Photo Opportunities" where the map designer was like Hey. Hey. Come over here for this little bit of treasure haha. Oooohhh but maybe you can take a moment to enjoy the view? (we worked so hard on it please look pleasepleapspslelpeas) And it's banger after banger of beautiful scenery!

I want to get on this level where I can convey something so gd big. It's much more obvious how massive a Titan is when Rook is in frame, but even without, that's a big lad!!! Huge sucker for a good cloud cap that lets the sun peak through. Literal Silver Lining.

This shot from the end of the Corruption questline (and if you complete the Dreadwolf's Memories + Convince Mythal to help) is great. Like our lady's dragon form is beautifully lit, she's got a spotlight and everything!! And it looks natural. It looks like the sun managed to poke through the blight on this one place.

Also allow me to giggle and kick my feet because not only does Dragon!Mythal's design FUCK (look at that tri-crown horn formation like YEEESSSSSS THAT'S MY BITCH!!!!)

She's also PINK AND PURPLE?? LIKE HELLO??? The lighting is absolutely saturating her scales (plus she's breathing lightning, which glows violet/blue, adding to the effect) so it's brighter than it probably is. But what a fantastic coloration none-the-less!!

End-game Arc doesn't fuck around either. The gold ring from the eclipse against that eye-searing magenta is just. Augh. Ough. Foreboding has never looked so damn pretty.

(Also this general area is one of my favourite places in the Lighthouse. The lighting is just so on point. I have a dozen other photos of this section bc I always stop to admire it lmao.)

That magenta is striking. You'd expect it to be solid red across the board! But once we're in the "real" world we get those warmer tones you would normally associate with this sort of thing... But now that I think ab it, it's probably from the amount of smoke rising from the antaam encampment. The Crossroads don't have pollution! Of course it'd be more jewel-toned! I wonder what our sunsets would look like if there was less of that. Sigh. Anyways--

The Regret Prison. Probably my favourite sequence in the game. Yes I love colour, but let's not forget CONTRAST.

It's soooo easy it end up with a horrible clashing of shapes if you don't balance contrast. So you gotta Contrast the Contrast... by reducing the Contrast. Yes there's depth-of-field shenanigans (making lines blur the farther from the viewpoint they are) but there's also mist/dust/atmosphere. I love this shit.

Not to mention that subtle introduction of colour by incorporating greenery (still heavily desaturated, as to not be glaring/distracting) as you make your way through the map. Like. The starting area was desolate and devoid of life. Any plants you saw were dead. Bare-bone roots. But as your proceed you find Life scattered around. Hope.

I didn't get a proper shot/video clip of the end sequence for this quest, where you're walking across a barren expanse and can see the ritual sight erect itself piece by piece in the distance as you get closer. That sequence knocked me out it was so fucking good!!! To the person(s) who all made that happen, I'm sending them a big sloppy kiss on the cheek it was so elegantly executed. <333

Anyways I feel like I said a lot without saying anything at all but hopefully this was somewhat interesting to someone thank you for coming to my TEDtalk <3

[starcraftt]

Ponyboy Curtis: Sensitive and Reckless

The sun trailed over the cut of the valley, silver linings reflected against the sunset, shimmering in the early morning sunlight. A small wisp of sunlight rose further, pink shining above it – different colors almost in cut layers. Gold to orange, the colors faded into each other. Reddish hair covered with blond bleach, the colors reflected in a swirl of gray and green eyes. The sunset is quite admirable, with its colors and mist. Most people tend to enjoy watching it, and so does Ponyboy. Ponyboy Curtis – a character from the novel: “The Outsiders”, written by S.E. Hinton – is quite thoughtless with his actions, sensitive with his feelings and thoughts, and considerate for the wellbeing of others.

Ponyboy is very thoughtless – without consideration of the possible consequences – of the future or dangers his actions might cause; getting told off about it by his eldest brother quite often. At the beginning of the book, Ponyboy is jumped by the Socs, a group of upper-class boys threatening the fourteen-year-old. Ponyboy had gone with no one with him and hadn’t brought some type of weapon as well. “I glanced around for a pop bottle or a stick or something – but there was nothing” ( S.E. Hinton, 4 ). The quote proves that Ponyboy was desperate for a way to defend himself, meaning he hadn’t brought along something that could’ve helped him in that situation. He hadn’t thought ahead and brought a switchblade despite knowing that the Socs could jump him at any given moment. Something that also could have prevented that happening is if he had waited for one of his older brothers or asked a friend to go with him, as it’s doubtful the Socs would jump two Greasers. With thoughtlessness though, comes recklessness. It’s quite obvious Ponyboy didn’t think about the future consequences of walking alone, with nothing to defend him but the hands at his sides, which he wouldn’t be able to use against a blade anyway. When Dally brought Johnny and Ponyboy back to the church from Dairy Queen, it was seen on fire, and Ponyboy almost immediately jumped out of the car to go and run inside – after hearing that there were children still inside the burning building. “I jerked loose and ran off. All I could think was: We started it. We started it. We started it!.” He just ran inside after thinking that it might’ve been his and Johnny’s fault for starting the fire, which also slightly goes with being considerate. Ponyboy, instead of thinking of what might happen to himself if he did go inside the burning church, decided to run inside, despite all the warnings from the others around him. Jerry and Dallas to name a few. The only thing mentioned that was on his mind was the fact that Johnny or himself might’ve started the fire with a cigarette they didn’t put out all the way. He felt guilty enough to try and make up for it, which again, goes with being considerate a bit. If he had thought of what may have happened to him or anyone who followed, things that did happen might’ve not. He faced the onerous emotion of guilt and couldn’t stop to think about it. Ponyboy is not very conscious of how his decisions might affect him in the future, making him thoughtless about how things may play out. He’s not very pragmatic about what he might do, and this affects most of what happens in the book, the obvious being him getting jumped at the beginning and the church fire, but also when he ran away from the Curtis household after Darry had hit him, and when he talked back to Bob and Randy at the park, mocking the Socs in return to a similar insult.

The youngest Curtis brother is also quite sensitive, a contrast to what his older brother, Darry is. Ponyboy is sensitive to his feelings and often finds himself spiraling down his emotional thoughts. Ponyboy, whilst in the church still with Johnny, had to get his hair cut so the paper reporting the murder wouldn’t describe what they looked like correctly. The author writes, “Johnny flipped out the razor-edge of his switch, took hold of my hair and started sawing on it. I shuddered. “Not too short.” I begged. “Johnny please . . .” ( S.E. Hinton, 72 ). This part is particularly obvious of Ponyboy being sensitive, as Johnny’s just cutting his hair. Of course, Ponyboy mentions that it’s his pride and joy against the Socs Mustangs and Madras, but it would be more logical to not be recognizable by anyone who’s read the paper. He’s desperate for Johnny to not cut his hair, practically begging Johnny not to cut it ‘too short’. During the chapters when Johnny and Pony were at the church, Ponyboy wakes up early one morning, in time to see the sunrise. Johnny soon follows and the two end up watching the sunset together, with Ponyboy reciting a poem by Robert Frost ( Nothing Gold Can Stay ). Ponyboy states “I was trying to find the meaning the poet had in mind, but it eluded me. ‘I always remembered it because I never quite got what he meant by it,” (Hinton 78). This sunset scene, and quote, show that Ponyboy takes time out of his day to enjoy the small things such as the sunset, something his brothers may not do. He’s sensitive instead of cold and logical, memorizing a poem he didn’t understand instead of ignoring what he didn’t understand and moving on to what they did know. Spending his time trying to make sense of the poem instead of forgetting it and progressing. Ponyboy’s sensitivity affects many points in the books, most obviously what differentiates him from the others, who are all tough, cold, and mean. He’s not afraid to speak his feelings to most people, anyone who’s really willing to listen, he ends up speaking to them about things he enjoys or needs to talk about. For example, when he told Cherry what happened to Johnny without really realizing it he started rambling about the story.

The fourteen-year-old in high school is also very considerate of others' well-being, for some reason only thinking ahead for that reason: if he can help them, and not what might happen to him if he does end up doing what may help them. He’s very conscious of what might make others feel better or worse — having sensitive insight. Later in the book, before the rumble, Cherry meets up with Two-Bit and Ponyboy as they’re heading home from the hospital. Cherry and Pony talk for a bit, ending up in an argument of sorts, and when Ponyboy notices this, he attempts to make Cherry feel better – and also silently admits to himself that he would help Cherry if she needed it. He states, “I would. I would help her and Randy both if I could” (Hinton, 129). This shows that Ponyboy notices Cherry about to start crying from their argument – or her grief about Bob – and he’s willing to try and fix it to make her feel better. This indicates that Ponyboy is quite considerate of other people’s feelings and emotions and he’s willing to try and make them feel better; maybe at the cost that he won’t feel better himself. Near the end of The Outsiders book, after all the events of the rumble and Johnny and Dally’s death, Ponyboy finds himself in a predicament where a group of Socs try to attack him, and as a weapon, he shatters a glass bottle. After the Socs leave, Ponyboy ends up picking up the glass shards, and he thinks, “I didn’t want anyone to get a flat tire,” (Hinton 172). Considerate means being careful not to cause inconvenience or hurt to others, and Ponyboy is doing just that. He’s being careful not to hurt anyone who might injure themselves if they step on the glass, and he’s making sure the shards aren’t inconveniencing anyone driving as well, and picking up the glass shows he is thinking of others. Being considerate is just a simple addition to the multitude of attributes Ponyboy has, and even throughout the events that happen in the book, such as losing two of his best friends and having to go through trial, Ponyboy stays considerate — still continues thinking about others. I figure this affects most of his decisions, such as how he went into the church fire to save the kids stuck inside, and when he listens to Randy despite the fact that he could’ve been hurt.

Ponyboy Curtis is quite thoughtless of future consequences, sensitive, and considerate of other people’s feelings. He is quite relatable with these traits, as many people could relate to not thinking ahead, or being more connected with their feelings than other people. 

[ficsbyuzi]

i fOuNd YoU

Part - 1

Characters: Aegon, Aemond and Alyna Martell (Dornish OFC) in Modern Westeros (Modern AU)

Words: 3.2k

Warnings: +18, drinking, swearing, some groping and touching, Aegon being Aegon, Aemond is all 🙄 here.

My darling Zae @ladystarksneedle beta read this when I first posted this on my previous account. I miss you Zae :(

A/N -

can't believe I wrote this in October last year. I hope I find enough motivation and time to continue writing this series until the end

I imagine Katrina Kaif as Alyna Martell in my head

The leaves of the deciduous trees flanking an urban avenue whirled sporadically, in the eddies of a pleasant zephyr. A soothing, mellow petrichor celebrated the inaugural shower of the season by infusing the atmosphere with a sweet freshness. Dense clouds masked the dusk sun, ushering in the darkness earlier than its usual hour.

 A few pedestrians strolled past a row of posh apartments in one such affluent neighborhood in the heart of the King's Landing city, savoring the serenity of the agreeable evening. They startled upon hearing an enraged female voice that pierced through the damp air; its shrillness, a stark contrast to the large sophisticated French window it was coming from.

Their gazes were momentarily drawn to the source of the commotion, and as they continued walking along their path, they spotted a man beside that window, shutting its panes.

"You forgot our anniversary dinner, Aegon! I had invited my parents and you didn't even show up!"

Her raised voice remained within the walls this time, the words reaching Aegon's ears with full momentum and though he could hear his girlfriend's tirade, his dissociated mind was barely registering it.

Responding to her always seemed futile to him, his words ruined whatever he wished to convey, anyway. Why bother?

He sank on the nearest couch, wishing her to shut up and let him sit and silently revel in his solitude, in the shadows, resembling the ones that lurked beneath his eyes, telling the tales of all the sleepless nights he spent.

Drowning himself and his poignant thoughts in his cups was the only respite he sought; escaping situations came easier to him than facing them.

 Why socialize, am I not trying hard already? To be a good boyfriend? 

Over time, he had become rather comfortable in keeping his burdens unspoken and unshared, staying unaffected by the strain of despondence they cast on his countenance.

Fine lines  marred his pallid face displaying an accelerated aging, as if he were experiencing life at a pace twice as fast as everyone around him.

His eyes, twin iridescent violet orbs, rivaled the regality of precious amethysts. Yet those very eyes, devoid of color that a fulfilling life imbues, exuded impoverishment.

She loved his hair, an amalgamation of gold and silver, the conspicuous emblem of his royal Targaryen heritage, but hated how he usually left it unkempt and greasy - resembling that of a destitute person, truly unbefitting a descendant of a powerful, ancient bloodline.

"I was sitting there and dying of embarrassment!" Cassey shouted. 

Embarrassment. The word broke into his brain.

 I am Embarrassment in flesh and blood, a living and breathing Embarrassment. 

“I changed for you, made every effort to be with you..I even fought with my family to live with you, but you are hell-bent on spending your life like a wastrel.”

Wastrel. A faint, lopsided smile graced his face.

"Are you even listening to me?" 

Has she spoken to Aemond recently?

His eyes narrowed instinctively, eyebrows knitting together as he imagined a scenario in his mind, amusing yet almost impossible- Aemond speaking to Cassey, addressing him as a ‘wastrel.’

He pursed his lips before the faint smile ghosting his lips turned into a full blown smirk. However the slight glint to his eyes gave him away, their amethyst now hued with twilight. 

"AEGON!"

He shifted his weary attention from the street to the living room and saw Cassey storming towards the bedroom.

Her enraged gait stirred his awareness, and he instantly knew that her fury was going to find a sorry target, entirely unrelated to the reason of their quarrel.

 "No, no, not the TV! Please, Cassey! Cassandra! Nooooo!!" 

A loud, shattering thud followed his pleading scream, as his large LED TV screen plummeted to the floor. His beloved PS5 console hung precariously by its cords, mirroring the fragile bond they both shared, on the brink of snapping completely.

"Are you out of your fucking mind, this was on instalments!" 

Aegon could have afforded thousands of such televisions, even better ones, but he had grown accustomed to that particular one, its easy availability being its primary boon. His attachment to it mirrored his relationship with Cassandra Baratheon - a convenient choice, yet not one his heart truly desired.

He was a man accustomed to indulgence and boundless options available to him at his beck and call, but when he met Cassey, he believed, albeit half-heartedly, that he could finally find contentment.

However, just like his spoken words, his convictions ultimately betrayed him too. 

Words like 'commitment', 'promise' never really found their way into becoming a part of his mental lexicon.

"The instalments I pay, Aegon Targaryen, unwilling heir to the Iron Throne industries!" The mocking cadence of her voice masked every bit of frustration within her.

Her ridiculing statement touched his Achilles' heel. His features hardened, shoulders tensed; his gaze shifted from her to the wrecked television set and his PS5 console. He wanted to save it from crashing to the floor, but was skeptical of getting an electric shock or being pierced by the broken pieces of the flat screen.

“Get out! Get out of my house and my life! I don't fucking need you. It's over!" She yelled and flopped down onto the bed, burying her head in her palms.

It's over. 

Over.

Why did the word not have the desired effect on him?

It should have evoked at least something in him - anguish, frustration, disappointment, regret.

Any emotion.

He tried tapping inwards, nudging his brain, but the answer didn’t even flicker.

A tumbleweed rolled off on the desolate, barren landscape of his consciousness. 

And that's when he realized it was truly over. 

As he was on his way out, his PS5 console fell onto the floor with a resounding thud. A fleeting sadness seeped into the impenetrable vacuum inside him, surprising him. 

He finally felt something.

-

The break-up gave him the final shove, toppling him over the fence he stood on for months, as he landed right on to the side where his past awaited him.

The past that he had been trying so hard to snap out of, yet failing miserably. 

Thus began his series of trips to the strip clubs, with all the relentless bar hopping, and reckless one night stands with random women.

-

"Yeah I would like that," an attractive woman in a skimpy, crimson dress murmured, giggling and facing him as he whispered something dirty in her ear to which she readily agreed. Chuckling at  her response, he grabbed the swell of her bottom. Spanking her lightly, he wrapped his arm around her, pulling her into a kiss.

The summer warmth was adding to the exuberance of the bustling Street of Silk, the part of the city that never slept- perpetually aglow with a kaleidoscope of neon signs and strobe lights slicing through the dark. They stood inebriated, on a pavement outside one of the nightclubs, waiting for a cab, lips locked and arms snaking each other. The low, thumping sound of electronic dance music playing inside got louder momentarily, when a group of people came out of the door, chattering and howling.

"I can't believe a Targaryen doesn't have a car!" the woman stuttered, pulling away and noticing some of her Ruby woo now smeared on his lips.

"Of course I have a car!" he slurred in his low, husky voice, rolling his eyes playfully. Emphasizing on the last word, he reiterated its plural form,"cars-" he grinned- "but I like to roam around freely, you know..don't like to drive or bother my driver at three in the morning when I can pay for an Uber." He shrugged and pulled her closer again by her waist, burying his face in her blonde hair.

That was partly true; he did dislike driving; neither did he want to get caught drunk-driving, but his main concern was their family drivers reporting his whereabouts to his mother or worse- tipping her off about his late night shenanigans. The GPS monitors of the cabs driven by unknown faces were far safer.

The things he intended to do with her at her apartment, began right in the cab itself. They were trying to mask their sultry escapade and hushed moans with intermittent, non-erotic chatter, all while his hand glided over her body, playing and squeezing wherever he desired. In the heat of the moment, as his lips fanned the skin of her neck, he groaned her name in response to one of her needy moans.

Her body tensed instantaneously.

"What the fuck did you just call me?" Her voice snapped like a whip as she pushed him away.

"What happened?' Aegon asked her, utterly confused. This was an uncharted territory for him; he had always assumed women appreciated hearing their names when touched.

"My name is Dyana!" 

His eyebrows knitted together; he was not certain of the name that slipped out of his lips in the throes of the fervent moment.

“Yeah, that's what I said.."

"No, you called me Lia!"

He chuckled sheepishly in a futile attempt to distract her, trying to downplay his drunken blunder. "Well both of them end with the same letter," he said as he leaned in to kiss her, not noticing her eyes narrowing in exasperation.

Irritated, she backed away from him and shoved him forcefully.

"Stop the car," she told the driver firmly.

"wha..why?" Aegon asked, all muddled and exasperated.

She stormed out of the cab, while Aegon pleaded and called out after her from the partially rolled down window, "Lia!, I mean Cassey!" he flinched and swore, "Dyana, hey! please don't leave, come back baby!" 

Dyana’s hand flew in the air in an obscene hand gesture, as she kept walking away from the car. 

He dropped back on the seat, blowing out a deep breath. A headache had begun to encroach on his senses, augmenting the dizziness caused by all the booze in his system.

His fingers combed through his hair and trailed down to pinch the bridge of his nose as he tried to stave off the pulsating headache and the discomfort of having been blown off. He tutted in helplessness at his inability to alleviate the throbbing sensation below, in his jeans. 

Realising that the destination was set to Dyana's place and not his,an exasperated mumble left him, "What's in a fucking name?"

"That's the most beautiful sound to a human being."

A sweet female voice laced with confidence, answered him straight from the driver's seat.

"Uh..I am sorry?" The voice completely caught him by surprise.

“That, you should have said to Dyana,” The driver said, turning in her seat and smiling at him.

“You are a girl? Driving an Uber? This late?” 

“I am a person-” she scoffed, rolling her eyes at his surprise, “- a four-limbed creature isn't driving this cab in case you are wondering.” Turning her focus back to the road, she asked, “Where do you want to go, now that you are not invited at Dyana’s anymore? Or do you want to end the ride, Targaryen?” 

“Do I know you?” He asked, growing increasingly bewildered with each passing moment.

She tittered, shaking her head subtly and said, “You Valyrians come into this world having won a genetic lottery and then expect people not to recognise you-” she gestured at her own head and went on- “hair.”

It wasn't just that; the way she said “Targaryen'' sounded oddly familiar to him.

Her face, though not fully discernible in the low illumination, held a glimmer of recognition.

A part of him believed that he knew her, but he also didn't not wish to believe his stupid, befuddled mind which had misidentified a woman just moments ago.

“The gas is on,” she reminded him, her tone now tinged with impatience.

Aegon shut his eyes, sighing and dropping his head back on the seat.

He weighed his options and contemplated going home but didn't wish to be roused early on a Sunday by his mother, for their weekly visit to the Sept. The alternative was equally uninviting, but he could at least sleep in late there.

“Where are we right now?” He asked, blinking hard to clear the visual daze, peering out of the car window and trying to recognise the spot.

“Rose road.” 

“Take a U-turn and head to Southern Street, near Blackwater Bay.”

-

This painting needs to be realigned.

"And then Ellyn suggested that I should check out the Dior store once before giving up my search.." a thin, excited voice coming from the phone told Aemond and he hummed in response.

It isn't in symmetry with the lamp lights above. 

"..and she was right! I found the pair of shoes I needed to match my dress, the colour is the exact nude pink I was looking for, Pantone rose cloud..although they are sling backs and I wanted pumps.."

I should take Helaena to that insectarium she has been asking me to visit with her.

It was one of the rare occasions, in fact, the only time when Aemond's typically unwavering attention dared to wander off - the time when his girlfriend Floris Baratheon called.

The only instance, when his razor-sharp focus and attention to detail- remarkably astute for one functional eye, would surrender to an intense bout of distraction

Of late, he had been seeking ways to elude her calls during the day, by staying engrossed in his work as he juggled writing his PhD thesis and a travel guidebook, all while maintaining his late father’s cherished travel and tour company- Valyrian Voyages.

Floris was aware that he usually woke up before the sun, prompting her to call, which forced him to begin his day with the conversations he was utterly disinterested in.

They had been dating for almost six months; they were introduced to each other by her elder sister, Cassey, at a family dinner.

Even though Cassey and Aegon had split up a couple of weeks ago, Aemond and Floris remained together; they purposefully avoided discussions about their breakup, unwilling to address the elephant in the room. Aemond often contemplated if Cassey bore any behavioral similarities with Floris, and if she did, then Aegon deserved commendation for sustaining the relationship for a year.

"..I will miss you Aemond, I wish I could come along..”

His attention snapped back to the yearning in her voice when he heard his name.

"It's only a matter of two weeks, Floris. It's more of an excursion than a business trip, you will get bored." 

Floris Bartheon, a recent graduate from a top business school in Westeros, was a decent, comely woman of twenty-three, hailing from a family that matched the status of his own.

 But what had initially drawn him to her was now driving him up the wall. They were poles apart, and the gap between them seemed to widen with each passing day.

Lately, he had begun to wonder whether time truly mattered when it came to forging genuine, heartfelt connections with a person.

-

The cab came to a stop in front of a two-storeyed, effortlessly luxurious house on Southern Street that eventually wound its way down to the riviera of the city. The rosy hues of the early dawn were beginning to break through the lingering grays of the night. The distant squawking of seagulls reached Aegon's ears as he was roused from his sloshed stupor.

“Rise and shine,” the driver announced, “Your fare comes to fifteen westerbills and twenty cents. I prefer cash."

“Huh? Oh yeah..sure..” Aegon mumbled, struggling to open his eyes wide and shake off the last vestiges of the nap, “Umm, I don't carry cash, could you wait, I will go and get some from my brother.”

She peered outside her window, a smile dancing on her lips as she realised where she parked her cab

“This your brother’s place?” She inquired, as her eyes dreamily trailed from the balcony adorned with swaying ferns, to the sleek oakwood entrance.

“Yeah.”

Suits him. She thought, admiring the sophisticated design of the flat-roofed, box-shaped building, painted in the shades of earthy grays. The house perfectly matched Aemond's placid yet debonair personality.

“Just give me a minute and I will be right back,” Aegon said, undoing his seat belts and unlocking the car door.

“That’s ok, the ride's on the house,” she responded and shrugged, “You are my last passenger, I am quitting this job.” 

“Last passenger? No, no, I will pay you, you have been working late, you deserve your payment.” Aegon protested, yawning and rubbing his eyes, “Please wait.” He stepped out of the car and began walking towards the front door. 

“That’s ok Targaryen,” She called after him when he reached the front door and rang the doorbell.

“Really, I mean it, the ride's on me.” She was unable to contain her smiles that now seeped into the tone of her voice.

Targaryen

Her accent tugged at his memories again - her drawl, the lilt in her voice, the distinctive roll of her 'Rs.'

He pivoted at his spot to see her; earlier in the dim light and now with the distance between them, he still couldn't see her clearly. Trying to piece together his disintegrated memory, he waited for his brother. 

He definitely knew her.

-

Aemond glanced at his wristband - 4:45 am, and mentally thanked his milkman for coming half an hour earlier today.

“I will call you later Floris, there is someone at the door.” He disconnected the call hastily. 

Good riddance

Aemond was more surprised to see Aegon awake that early, than his unexpected arrival at his doorstep; it took him seconds to connect the dots and he sighed, rolling his eye at Aegon.

“Best brother in the whole world! I knew you would be awake.” Aegon grinned as Aemond scowled at him.

“Did you jump into a barrel of booze? Weren’t the glasses enough?” Aemond turned to go back inside, leaving the door open.

Ignoring his brother's usual taunts, he said, "I need some cash, gotta pay the driver.” 

Aemond paused and noticed the cab parked in front of the porch on Aegon’s mention.

His gaze shifted to the woman sitting inside - a Cheshire cat grin on her face, arm resting on the driver’s seat window, chin cradling in her hand as she observed both of them.

His good eye widened in astonishment, and an amused, subtle smile crept across his lips. He arched an eyebrow, acknowledging her with a slight, knowing nod.

“That’s the cab you came in?” He asked Aegon, jerking his chin to point at the car, as he saw her shift to face the steering wheel.

She turned the keys and the cranking sound of the engine firing to ignition reverberated through the tranquil atmosphere of the street.

“Yeah, she asked me not to pay but..hey, wait!” Aegon shouted after her as she drove away, “Take your money!” He yelled, but it was too late.

“Weird girl.” Aegon tutted, facing Aemond whose gaze stayed on the car until it disappeared with the first turn of the road, lips quirked up in a subdued, nostalgic smile and mind flipping through the pages of the past.

"How in the seven hells did you end up in an Uber with Alyna Martell at the wheel?" 

-x-

Part 2

[vibinginthedreamlands]

Another craft shirt painting! This one isn't an older one, admittedly. It's actually my newest. I spent a while working on the concept and hands and I'm rather proud of it, as well as just a really big fan of the source material.

Malevolent episode 43 chewed me up and then spat me back out so it's only fitting that I would have a collection of art ideas for it.

This one is based off of John's line when he's scared Arthur will truly and finally die: "Not like this."

Excuse the photo quality, I had to take it at a weird angle because of my light source.

Below the cut is just going to be a detail breakdown of it because I love symbolism and other such silliness.

So obviously we've got Arthur' heart, the thing that, if I'm being honest in my perception at least, John absolutely covets and in this image is attempting to protect. He's a little to late though.

Mostly! The Witches Rapier is going through the heart of the man he loves but if you see there are the other two items.

The one on the left is the speared tale of the creature in the Mines in the middle of season 3. John will not be in time to block this attack either but his hand still reaches out and is ready to provide aid and save his friend. (Some what representating the distance and disconnect between them in this season, after John's absence, Arthur's darkening morals, and John's greater lean toward personal morality.)

The one on the right is Kayne's dagger, the weapon Arthur used to try and kill himself with as to evade the King in Yellow. For this, John's hands are already around Arthur's heart (this being the same interaction where Arthur first admitted to loving John and therefore he has no need to yearn, for the man's heart is already his). In spite of this the dagger will either slip past his fingers or pierce through his flesh and still harm his friend, the same way John's sacrifice to the King did not negate the harm already done or that Arthur himself would inflict. But it matters. It matters that John defends him and in the end it will do him enough good that he survives long enough to broker a deal with the owner of that near fatal weapon.

The Rapier itself struck high and struck true, already having completed its gruesome deed long before John's hands even had a chance to move. And yet he reaches, hopes, strives to defend a dead man from harm even still.

Speaking of John's hands. There are two of them. This is obviously for piece symmatry but also I decided to personalize them as well.

I lean more toward the headcanon that John, if granted a physical body, would be POC.

For outlining the hands I used gold, *his* color as well as something that both compliments his skin tone and, imagery wise, contrasts against the slew of silver weapons leveled against them.

You, if anyone makes it down here, may have noticed that his pinky is an entirely different skin tone. That is correct and intentional! I've got a fun Lil headcanon that if John ever gets a body, specifically in some kind of ritual, he and Arthur would split ownership of their scars. So Arthur would have the cut on his throat as that was self inflicted, but John might have the gouge in his stomach because he was the one who sewed it up. With the pinky, Arthur wouldn't lose his wooden one, but because it happened *to* John, by Arthur, and as a shared decision, John's own pinky would be lighter, closer to scar tissue or Arthur's own skin color. This way they both have an off pinky in a way that matches, differs, and compliments.

Finally, I just picked the color yellow for his lettering. I thought about gold, because again, his color, but I didn't think it would stand out against the red enough (though the yellow might be a bit much itself lol). Additionally, because in 43 he tries to protect Arthur by calling up his KiY roots and the episode culminates in him accepting himself for who he is and wants to be, and allowing himself grace and full range of identity.

Anyways that's a lot for a 2" by 2" painting on a t-shirt but I enjoyed it and wanted to get the work and thoughts out there. If anyone made it this far, thanks! I hope you enjoyed my over analysis of my own work and thoughts on Harlan Guthrie's fabulous podcast lol.

I'll be painting more for sure and posting older pieces intermittently so there are going to be more of these in the world eventually.

[neutrallibrarian]

Ribcage Cold And Empty (I Need Your Heart Next To Mine)

Written for @madatobiweek 2024 Day 7: Free Day

Fandom: Naruto

Chapter 1 of ?

Word Count: 548

People are born with the ability to draw their hearts from their chests and, if they so wish, exchange them with each other. To give another your heart has always meant a profound depth of love, even if it's just pieces of it given away.

When Madara is given a peace gift from Tobirama, it sets him on a path to rediscovering what it means to give someone your heart.

"Do with it as you please."

With that, Tobirama turns on his heel and strides out of the office without another word. Madara stares at the spot in space he occupied for perhaps fifteen seconds at most, speechless. Then, mechanically, he tips his head down to look at the object Tobirama placed on his desk.

An inro with matching netsuke of exquisite craftsmanship. It depicts a lone koi, pure white with ruby red spots, in a tranquil koi pond. The netsuke is of a dragon, pure white jade with ruby inlay for the red eyes and stripes on its body, coiled around a genuine pearl, soft milk white glistening iridescent. Even the ojime bead is pearl and the cord is braided silk. Defining lines in the pattern on the inro made with maki-e sparkle silver, the thin keshifun lines outlining the intricate details whitish and dull from years of handling contrasting the bright and flashy blue marufun of the pond water. Near the top of the container is a torii gate in gold radan, a beacon to which the little koi is facing from the lip of the pond, heedless of the enamel trees separating pond and gate.

“Oh, that bastard,” he hisses through his teeth, feeling a headache coming on.

It’s been three months since the village was named. Three months after that meeting with Hashirama on the mountain where he and Tobirama came face to face for the first time outside of the initial negotiations. Three months since Hashirama got it into his head to try to get his best friend and little brother to be less antagonistic toward each other.

It’s wonderful to know he wasn’t the one to break first under Hashirama’s well-meaning meddling, and so quickly at that. But irritating now that a peace offering has been given he has to reciprocate in kind or face Hashirama’s suffocating disappointment.

Madara scowls down at the inro, rubbing his sternum. Thinking of Hashirama disappointed reminds him too much of that final battle before his downward spiral, the look on Hashirama’s face when Madara reached for the smoke bombs instead of ignoring the furiously beating heart next to his, the demands to not trust him from Izu—

Madara sets his ink brush down with an aggravated sigh and gulps down his tea, reheated almost to boiling with a liberal application of chakra. Thinking of him just reminds him how cold and empty his chest has become, accustomed to two fire-natured hearts beating within, and how his lone heart freezes over from the absence of his brother's. To distract himself from it, he picks up the inro, turning it this and that way in the light.

It’s pretty, he’ll give Tobirama that. Something that fits his style more than Madara’s, but it’s an acceptable gift. He’s been meaning to get one to hold his identity and clan seals anyway so this is fortunate timing.

He brushes his thumb over the koi, feeling it warmer yet cooler than any other spot on the inro. It must be his imagination associating the koi with Tobirama and tricking him into thinking up the strange temperature difference. He sets it down and picks up the ink brush to go back to work even as his mind spins ideas about reciprocation gifts.

[silkmoon777]

Dove | Simon "Ghost" Riley

A/N: Hello lovely people, I have a backlog of short stories written for things like Avatar: The Way of Water, MWII, Stranger Things, The Arcana, Outer Banks, and many more that I have never posted and keep to myself. I'm talking hundreds of pages worth of fluff, angst and eventual smut - you've got to get through some plot first, though. HOWEVER, if anyone likes my writing and wants to task me with stuff to write, like straight smut, I'm all ears. Anyway, if anyone is interested in reading stuff I could potentially post, here is a snippet for a little Call of Duty fic.

Synopsis: You're to play the materialistic wife of a rich, well-connected husband during an undercover mission. You're to-be husband is a temporary recruit of the 141, who is to supervise your every move. While getting ready, you have a surprising interaction with your Lieutenant, Ghost, who you swear has made it his mission to treat you like a stranger day after day. Until now.

Pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x f!reader

Contains: pretty much nothing of importance, just Ghost being as unreadable as ever, causing reader to have their mind blown by the smallest of crumbs

• • • • •

I look in the mirror at the woman who is supposed to be Lyanna Winstead. She’s the partner of Dario Winstead, son of a wealthy businessman. Everything about Lyanna is a carbon copy of myself. Her smile, her hair, her figure, her voice. Only, she presents herself in a way I haven’t in a long time.

Gone is the tactical gear and camouflage colours. Instead, she wears the most beautiful dress I’ve ever seen. The outline of the dress is simple yet captivating to suits the old Hollywood theme. Silver cascades down her body, creating the illusion of a mercury waterfall. The sweetheart neckline and thin straps compliment her full breasts and soft arms. Adorning the bodice are glistening silver designs that remind me of old, swirling boarders on French mirrors. The designs fall away, melting into plain silver threads that fall to the floor and pool at her feet. The dress hugs her body like a second skin, only melting away at her knees. The silhouette fit her hourglass figure well.

The silver jewellery she wears is modest so as not to take away from the dress’s magnificence. On her neck is a dainty Vivienne Westwood necklace, the inner planet of the pendant a pearl. Matching dangling earrings hang from her lower lobe piercing. The rest of her ear piercings are small diamond studs and silver hoops. One wrist displays a thin diamond tennis bracelet and a Van Cleef one with emerald clovers. On the other is the only ode to myself: the evil eye bracelet I never take off. The thin silver chain and bejewelled eye thankfully blend into the rest of the accessories. Small rings cover her fingers, few in number and easily ignorable. The bands are thin and any jewels are small and clear. However, one stands out; a breathtaking sight on her left index finger.

Glittery diamonds cover the band, giving way to a large, circular moonstone. Rainbow shimmer comes to life in the milky stone when the light hits it just right. Separating the band and the centrepiece are two small flowers with diamond centres. Two separate rings sit beneath and below the main one, shaped in V’s to follow the curve. At each point are flowers similar the the others, with curved leaves flowing from the petals. All three are gold, contrasting against the silver to make a statement.

I’m not just looking back at Dario’s partner. I’m looking at his wife.

I’m Will’s wife. 

Fake wife, really. I nearly shake my head in wonder. I still look like myself, but everything about this makes me feel like I’m wearing a second skin. Lyanna’s skin. Every so often I stare at the ring in amazement. If anyone ever proposes to me, I would hope for nothing less than the magnificent that is this ring. All that adorns my body is courtesy of Will. Unbeknownst to me before this mission, he’s filthy rich, and a filthy rich man needs a filthy rich wife. All the designer jewellery, the dress, the shoes, and the engagement ring are authentic and top dollar.

After the last touch-ups of make-up, fragrances, and hair, I’m making my way to the courtyard. I’m to have one last briefing and run over of the plan before getting in Will’s blacked-out Corvette. I have to give it to him: he really knows how to pull off a lavish life with style.

Already am I wishing to rip off the damn stilettos on my feet. While I could live in the dress and jewellery, this is the one day a year I’m willing to wear heels.

The air is cool, the last golden light of day painting the courtyard and walls of Alejandro’s HQ in a luminescent glow. A low rumble fills the air from my 'husband’s car. Will leans against it, speaking with the 141. Ghost lingers back by the front door, arms folded and back leaning against a pillar. Weaving between his fingers with precision is a small dagger. His head turns at the sound of approaching heels.

“Was starting to think you were a no show,” he says gruffly.

I stop beside him to adjust my dress. It doesn’t really need adjust, but suddenly being subjected to his gaze makes me anxious. “Told you it would take a while. Gotta look the part.”

The way his eyes travel over my body almost makes me shrink away. Every curve is on full display. The tight bodice holds up my already full breasts, and somehow my waist-to-hip ratio is even more accentuated. Wearing my uniform doesn’t exactly hide my figure thanks to the tight shirts and cargo pants that aren’t exactly loose from my mid-thigh up. However, a lot of me is lost beneath the vests and belts.

“Stop...inspecting me, or whatever you're doing,” I mumble. “Makes me think I need to fix something.”

I begin taking the skirts in my hand as I survey my descent. It’s not too much, but the steps are steep enough to be an issue. The heels on my feet are no help.

Ghost shakes his head. “Don’t. You look…”

“Important?”

“Pretty.”

I stop in my tracks to look back at him, unsure if I heard him correctly. He doesn’t look away or seem embarrassed to have said so. Then again, when does he ever. No-nonsense and prideful in his emotionless character, Ghost is not one to regret his words. Everything he says is a calculated move. Compliments are certainly something to be calculated in a sense, but I don't think of it to be a compliment, even when a small part of me screams for more. I'm playing my part well; there'd be a problem if I wasn't looking pretty. A slow smile quirks at my lips, teasing in nature as I raise my brows. The teasing turns to surprise, however, when he offers me his arm.

“How chivalrous,” I quip as I lightly take his offered arm. Even the slightest contact sends thrills beneath my skin. “Careful, Lieutenant. I might start to think you actually like me.”

Ghost’s eyes train on the ground. At first, I wonder if he doesn’t want to meet my eyes, only then to realise he’s watching my footing. I barely catch a glimpse of his squint.

“I like you in one piece,” he corrects. “This job will be over the second you sprain your ankle on a flight of stairs.”

I hum. “Ahh, there it is.”

He looks up at me then. “There’s what?”

“Thinking about the job, as always.”

As always, I keep my tone light and teasing, but there's an accusing hint. A subtle jab I let slip that I pray goes unnoticed.

There's no room for emotions in this job, and though I've compromised that with the rest of the 141, Ghost is a difficult case. An impossible riddle, a mind-numbing equation with no real answer. Nothing about him should be likeable. He's painfully honest and dismissive when he bothers to speak, he's angry half the time, his attention is never lingering and his mind is an impenetrable fortress. It would make more sense to give in to Alejandro's shameless flirting or Gaz's sleazy grins. Only, it's Ghost that keeps me up at night. It's Ghost, who sends a pang through my chest when he reminds me any care is from pure investment in performance. I'm useful, nothing more.

I can count on one hand the number of times he's thrown me small morsels of care as if I were a stray dog whining and begging for food. Even then, I wouldn't have made it past three fingers. A greedy piece of me spins those memories into something that serves my desire. See, he's returning your interest, that hopeful voice purrs in my ear while feeding me botched versions of what really happened. I know better than to give in to the delusions. The ending of those memories is what sobers me, and it's no different now. I need you in shape for tomorrow. Keep your head in the game. I'm just making sure this isn't interrupting the job. He's always quick to redirect any concern from me to the job.

Maybe, just maybe...what if he was trying to save face? Does he not want to care?

Ghost remains silent for a moment. In consideration or because he doesn’t care to answer, I can’t tell. But when he does answer, his voice has my full attention. It’s low and rough, each syllable laced with something intoxicating. Something I've never heard before and never thought I would hear. Something I want to hear again and again.

“You have no idea what I think about, dove.”

Dove.

The response catches me so off guard I almost forget to take another step. We’ve reached the bottom of the steps, now. The second both my feet are on the flat expanse of the concrete driveway, he breaks away from our linked arms. There is no follow-up, no hint of a miscommunication, not even a look in my direction before he's gone from my side. All I can do is hesitantly trail behind him, lost in my thoughts.

Ghost has never given me a nickname before. Hell, he barely refers to me as anything other than my callsign. When I do hear my real name, it's never for good reasons.

The nickname that pours from his lips comes in a deep voice curled into a sensual tone, sounding like silk-covered marble, low and intended for my ears only. It's strangely intimate—something a lover would purr with lustful eyes and a seeking touch. Somehow it seems to invoke a phantom touch that glides across my skin. Gooseflesh puckers in its chilling wake. In the span of only a few seconds, I seem to experience every emotion humanly possible. Shock, surprise, a sickening, perverse enjoyment...and irritation that I must now join the rest of the team as if a mind-numbing heat was not boiling in the pits of my stomach

• • • • •

I'll get the formatting of posting these to be prettier btw I promise 🙏🙏 But anyway just interact with this or tell me directly if you want more.

[puffin-smoke]

parting is such sweet sorrow

Summary: You are the Queen of Hearts' royal executioner. Your blade is hers to command. It always has been. But something inside you breaks today. Something inside of you yearns for more. More than her weapon.

Warnings: Descriptions of and references to beheadings. The reader is executed at the end. Descriptions of starvation. Lovers to enemies.

A/N: Sooo, when Rise of Red first came out, I had all these plans to write a bunch of x reader fics for it. I wrote two of them, promptly lost steam on the third and forgot about them. Until now. So here’s a Queen of Hearts x Reader fic! Will just be a one off, I’m not planning on writing anything else for the movie, but just kind of wanted to get this out there anyway!

You’d been summoned once again to the courtyard. The weather was humid and sultry, almost choking. But it was like this everyday, so you didn’t notice. Your eyes had adjusted to the perpetual darkness of Wonderland long ago, your skin acclimatising to the stuffy atmosphere far before that. Because what else would you do? What else could you do? This was your life, and you had to live it. 

So you took your post at the centre of the courtyard, just outside the palace, as you had a dozen times before. You were statuesque, a permanent fixture, bound to this place by blood and duty and something you couldn’t name. You would take your spot here as you had a dozen times before, fulfil your purpose as you had a dozen times before and let it fester in your mind like an open wound. As you had a dozen times before. Your face gave away nothing, even as the eyes of your subordinates bore into you.

Hearts surrounded you, carved from rose bushes, not a thorn out of place. If you got close enough, you never did, the surface would appear flat, the flowers painted on. But they were real. Their sickly cloying scent filled your lungs like smoke and their withered petals lined the ground, as real as the uniform you wore. 

You let your mind wander to that uniform, instead of allowing it to ponder and regret. It differed from most of the Queen’s staff, even that of a high ranking soldier such as Jack of Diamonds. His, and the rest of theirs, armour had a silver trim. It bordered each metal plate, a stark contrast to the glinting crimson. All ordered in a row, the soldiers looked like toys, identical and nameless, blank faces created by duty just as yours was. Your uniform, for you never had much need for armour, had a gold lining. Stiff fabric sewn with gold thread, glittering in the dying light. Each button on your jacket had jewels inset, alternating between an onyx darker than night itself and a ruby that shimmered a colour you knew too well. You wore not a helmet but a circlet; a gold band set across your brow, engravings of thorns sharp against its lustre. 

The Queen’s prized mule. Her favourite pet. You heard your fellow soldiers give you that name, cursing it over meagre drink when they swore you couldn’t hear. You wondered if they resented you for it, your station far above theirs. But there was little point in wonder. They still worked alongside you, obeyed your orders, regarded you with respect. Even as you dealt out, what you hoped to be, justice to those they knew. Guard’s they’d known, befriended. 

Your blade was true, no matter who’s neck it fell upon. Maybe they appreciated it, to have the last thing they ever see be something beautiful. To focus on your steel-toed boots instead of the axe against their skin. Few would get that privilege, even in a kingdom like this. Most died in filth and died starving. Staring at mould-infested walls, a pit so deep in their stomach it must have been there since birth, letting dreams of a better life carry them off peacefully. You mused over what your end may be like. In battle or in bed? Content or forever longing for something better? What would that be?

That was where your fantasies always ended, right as that question arose. Because you had your answer. You knew what that would be, and why it would never come to pass. Dreaming was for the desperate, and you had resigned yourself long ago. You didn’t deserve desperation. 

Some traitorous part of you questioned that in every way possible. That part of you let your focus slip to memories you’d tried to forget. A smile. Your fingers running through delicate pink curls. An oath to protect her. That promise led you here, so surely it couldn’t be for nothing? 

When you ignored the question, that piece of you resorted to slier tactics, as it always did. You’d done this dance a dozen times before, questions and answers, wishes and reality, where the two met. You didn’t deserve desperation, to long and to hope, so why did they? Why must they die with their heart in their hands, by your blade or by hunger’s? Their lives barely lived, teeming with potential? And even if they were not, if they had no goals or ambitions, not a diamond in the rough but were simply another stone? Why must it be a crime to be mundane? 

That you had no answer to. And it was not your place to answer, you told yourself. 

Footsteps echoed through the near silent courtyard. They were irregular, like a drum out of beat. Like a musician forced to play a dozen times until their wrists are sore and their ears are deaf. You’d been here before, heard those same footsteps. Their feet dragged against the ground today, but some days it was different. Some would march, some would sprint. Some would have to be carried. 

You watched a guard and a figure approach from a distance. The guard held their shoulders, gloved hands tight as iron, unyielding even as they struggled against him. Their wrists were bound by steel cuffs. People watched from their houses, through windows, stood in doorways, as they were hauled through the streets. Some shook their heads; for this had always been coming and they’d been foolish to not see it; and others cried; for this had always been coming and they’d been foolish for praying for more. Faces were neutral, tired, angry and afraid. All eventually looked to you. You were what was coming. 

The prisoner approached, their head bowed in shame. It was a type of strength, you felt, to let the world see nothing as you went to your death. A power to project whatever air you pleased and hide what was truly underneath. Preserve your dignity, hide that weakness forced upon you. Die and let them wonder what you felt. 

Keep your name on their tongues, lest you die forgotten. 

Their breathing was shallow as they were walked up to the centre, next to where you stood. Hair swept over their face like a curtain, obscuring their features from you. The guard unsheathed their sword, the sound shrill and jagged against your ears. Unhesitating, he slammed the hilt into the back of their knee. 

The criminal fell to their knees with a restrained cry. Their voice was phlegmy and hoarse, but it was also quite young. Very young. Their breaths were long and shallow, as though they couldn’t get quite enough air to their lungs. Drops of water fell on the ground beneath them. Tears. A small part of you was screaming. 

The soldier grabbed their hair by the fistful and pulled them upwards. They gave another strangled cry, a sob, as the grip on his hair tightened. Their face was revealed, bore plain to a world that didn’t deserve to see it. 

This was a child. No older than thirteen. 

You wanted to puke. Bile rose in your throat, the vile taste forcing the world off kilter as your vision swam. 

A child. Never before had you been sent a child. Sometimes traitors, sometimes criminals, sometimes examples to be made, but never a child. Their heads hit the ground all the same, rich or poor, young or old, deserving or innocent. Sometimes they struggle, sometimes they beg, sometimes they curse you. Sometimes it would take more than one swing to sever the neck and you’d be left hacked and sawing at bone, splintered like wood, pale shards scattered beneath you like broken ceramic. They would choke on their own blood, a pathetic sound. Saliva was replaced with gore, words were reduced to animal retching, and you polished your blade clean, awaiting the next one. 

Each time the sound fell on deaf ears, muffled by your own willing ignorance. Each time you justified it, made excuses and rationalisations, and for what? For someone who was as dead as the corpse at your feet, as the graveyards you filled. Whose skull was rotting just as theirs were, eyes vacant and maggot-filled and cold. 

No longer.

No more. 

The child’s breaths were shallow and fast, gasping, restrained yet desperate as though trying to calm their rightfully racing heart. It didn’t work. More tears stained the ground. 

The axe in your hand was a comforting weight, morbidly. It was steady, assured, the one constant in your life. It was beautiful, just as your uniform was. The handle was ornately carved, a dark mahogany coerced expertly into the form of a bone. The blade was wide and curved, the edge sharpened over the years into an exact point. Within the cheek of your steel was a ruby, shaped like a perfect heart. 

She’d given it to you. She’d thought it funny, the weapon’s design; each part of an axe was named after a human body part, so why not take that further? 

Funny. 

You abandoned your post. A gasp rippled through the gathered crowd, echoed in the restrained shock of each soldier’s eyes. Jack of Diamonds watched you leave and enter the castle through a near invisible doorway a short walk away. You were a fool, he thought. But it was not his job to tell you that, to chastise you, to explain the magnitude of your absence. 

Because you already knew it. So he remained at his station, blank eyes watching you go. 

You entered into an area reserved for the guards, but had been left unused for a long while, a thin layer of dust covered everything. Formerly overflowing chests were now populated by only cobwebs and silence. Each chest bookmarked a row of benches that lacked the grandeur of the rest of the palace, beauty replaced with ruthless practicality. This room was once populated by freshly trained soldiers, a space filled with good-natured taunts, rallying cries, shared secrets, and anything in between. The discordant choir of a new beginning.

Only silence was left. The crack of your boots upon the wooden floors rang painfully in your ears, akin to distilled lightning.

You’d been among those soldiers. You’d traded banter as easily as breathing, a smile permanently gracing your features as though carved in stone. It had always been a dream of yours, to serve a cause greater than you. And you’d thought this was it. 

It had been an uncharacteristically brisk day when you’d been given that fateful assignment, the biting air unfamiliar to you. Your Captain had called you into a one and one meeting, her voice deadly serious and perfectly level. 

You were to become the Princess’ bodyguard. You would accompany her from place to place and protect her with your life. She’d placed special emphasis on that last word, and made you swear to it. To jump in front of any arrows that may come her way. To risk life and limb in the pursuit of keeping her safe. To kill and maim and fight no matter the costs. 

Of course you’d agreed, you’d sworn it, hand on your heart. Only then were you allowed to meet Bridget. 

She’d been amazing. Nearly shook your hand off. Thanked you a dozen times for simply doing your job and meant it every damn time. You were attached at the hip, following her wherever she went. You watched her bake every morning, marvelling at the way she moved through her kitchen. She would know it in darkness. Occasionally she’d surprise you with treats of your own; flakey pastries, skillfully iced cupcakes, biscuits decorated to look like playing cards. You’d try to refuse everytime, it wasn’t your place to accept gifts from a literal royal, but every time she’d insist. She showed you parts of the castle you’d never dreamt of seeing. Private galleries, a lunarium, a balcony that had a view of the whole kingdom. 

She’d kissed you on that balcony. Sworn to protect you as much as you did her. 

You’d kissed her back. 

When did everything go so wrong? 

Suddenly exhausted, you collapsed onto a bench. It groaned dejectly under your weight, but you could not find it within yourself to stand. You buried your head in your hand, wishing only to lose yourself in the darkness. Your head had begun to throb. Your axe was laid beside you.

That was when the door opened. 

You didn’t look up, you couldn’t bring yourself to. Heels cracked against the ground like whips, the noise further encouraging the way your mind panged with a barely muffled agony. Fabric rustled before you, and a silence returned to the chamber as though it had never left. It wrapped around you like a thick blanket, a warm hug. For a moment you could breathe. 

“I was waiting for you. Outside.” Bridget’s voice tore the fabric to shreds, leaving you exposed to the cold. Her tone was expectant, waiting, not a statement but a question. When you don’t look up, your limbs feel leaden, her voice turns impatient, an order given to an unruly child. “Look at me when I talk to you.” 

You obeyed, ever the good soldier. You raise your head, and meet her eyes. They are steel. They pierce and slice at your resolve, but you cannot find it within yourself to hurt. Your eyebags are more prominent now, the wrinkles in your forehead landmarks on your skin. She noticed these parts of you now, unhidden and unrestrained, bore plain for the world to see. You looked old. Far older than you should. 

She was wholly out of place in the guard’s chambers. She’s dressed for court; her hair is needle straight, her blood red crown jutting out like a freshly cut jewel, her dress is elaborately layered, looking akin to fallen rose petals draped around her. She looked beautiful. Stunning in the way the sun was, impossible to look at for more than a few seconds. 

You couldn’t stand her for even that long. There were so many memories behind those eyes, just out of reach. You could almost see it, the way they used to light up, sparkle. Muted sparks danced behind her eyes, never catching, and inevitably fading out. It’s sad. She looks sad. Confused. 

“What are you doing in here?” Metal could bend, break. Her voice was brittle now. 

“I can’t do it.” It’s a plea. To not push this. 

She feigned confusion, it had to be fake, you decided. “Why? Are you feeling alright?” 

Hurrying over to you, she examined your face, getting too close for your liking. She cupped your cheek in your hand, her touch firm and commanding yet deliciously cold against the perpetual humidity. Her eyes were soft in that moment, the sparks for a moment a hearth.. Despite it all, despite the urge to sink into her touch and let the world drift away, you recoiled and pushed the hand down. 

More sparks were quelled, smothered, squashed like a bug. That hardness in her eyes returned. Her hand tensed and fell to her lap, nestled in her skirts. 

You spoke before she could, barely able to get the words out. “I can’t- that’s- that’s a child.”

There was a softness to her eyes, but only just. They were not filled by kindness but pity, as though comforting a child who scraped their knee. A child would not know better, so would blame the world’s cruelty for their suffering and subsequently rage against it. An adult was supposed to accept that cruelty as inescapable fact; something to be accepted, not questioned. That would only lead to disappointment, and there was no time for that. “Is that all?” 

Anger flared up within you, the way she stared you down making your gut curdle. You were no child. You knew of the world’s ceaseless brutality; you had known all your life. But you would no longer be a proponent of that suffering. You sank further into your seat, the meaning of that promise sinking into your veins. “A child. You can’t expect me to do this.” 

Her lip curled at that, pity morphing into disgust. She practically spat as she reprimanded you, hand curling into a point aimed straight at your heart. Her fingernails were long and sharp, akin to the claws of an animal that had just finished hunting, painted the deep red of the innards you had become so familiar with. She hissed at you.

“I am your Queen. You forget yourself.” 

At that you stood, drawing yourself up, a feeble attempt to seem more powerful than you felt. You remembered. You always remembered. You knew your station and your place, and you knew how far she was above it. You would have never dared to forge a connection with a royal, not on your own. She had been the first to extend a hand, to make that step. You had never wanted this; the luxury, the power she had. But she had wanted that for you, so you accepted it with grace. 

“Do I?” You asked in full earnest. You wanted her to tell you what you were, what this was. What you were to each other. You were giving her the opportunity to sever whatever connection you had deluded yourself into thinking was there, to dismiss you from your eternal post by her side. “Remind me, I beg of you.”

No matter how much you may plead and beg internally, she does not. She takes one ever so dainty step backwards, her heels momentarily clicking tunically upon the hardwood floors. In that moment you were hyper aware of how close you had been, the hairsbreadth between your faces. She was beautiful. So beautiful. 

The moment settles, and her beauty is only slightly marred. The thin line her lips were set in ebbed; they parted for the briefest of seconds, a short breath, a faint mark of humanity. It was the closest you would get to a gasp. If one were to look closely; truly closely, to examine her in the finest of detail, to pour over every line and brushstroke that ultimately created the textbook portrait of a queen; they would see her lower lip quiver. And you did and you had; you would know her face in darkness, blind even. 

That momentary slip was quickly hidden, masked behind a thin but decidedly real mask of exasperation. She sighed, clenching and unclenching her hands, her nails scraping against each other like a blade upon a whetstone. This was not her conceding a point to you, this was strategy. She was a politician; she knew the routes to people’s hearts, she had studied each map since birth. You were a valuable asset, you told yourself, something not to lose. You hoped that was not all, not the only reason to keep you around. If all you were was a blade, then a guillotine could stand in your place just as easily. 

“You are dismissed from your post for the day.” It was a kindness, as close as you would get. You would savour the taste of her mercy, how rare a delicacy it was. The pangs of nostalgia on your tongue. “I will find a more fitting punishment for the girl.”

The dungeons. For the rest of her days. Four concrete walls, a sliver of light tantalisingly close, just beyond a miniscule window. A bed either covered in mildew and rot, or a concrete slab. That was a kindness. That was a meal, everyday, with no risk to life or limb involved. A roof over her head, a place to stay each night. It was better than most had. 

That was supposed to end the conversation, to close that book you had forced open and slot it neatly back onto the bookshelf. You could just leave it at that. You could leave things as they were; you clinging to the glimpses of Bridget offered you, the meagre scraps to which you offered unwavering loyalty to in return. It was that or nothing. 

Maybe you preferred nothing. To this festering wound.

Tone hurried in a way entirely unbefitting of a Queen, she brushed dust from her skirts. It had only taken a few moments for it to form such a thin layer upon her. You were utterly caked in it by now, not just from this but all the other times you had fled to this sanctum of memory. Only now your shoes were absent of blood. And she had chosen to follow you. “I shall see you in court tomorrow.”

“No.” The word fell from your lips as easily as water from a spring. It was not the act of defiance a dictionary may prescribe it to be, it was a simple acknowledgement. 

She flinched as though you had struck her. This wasn’t how things were supposed to go, they had never taken this turn before. Politics were simple, and this was politics. Placate your opposition, give them what they want but ensure it's on your terms. She had done that, but you wanted more. “No?” 

She repeated the word back to you as though confused by it, testing the way it sounded in her mouth. Her eyebrows furrowed deeply, clearly unused to the bitter taste. 

“I can’t do this.” You said, an echo of your earlier plea. But this was more sure, more certain of its intentions. End this, not simply get through it. 

“I’ve already relieved you of your duty. You don’t have to punish the girl.” For the first time she tripped over her words, as though rushing to get them out, as though you were running out of time to hear them. 

You almost sighed. “You know that's not what this is about. I can’t do this anymore.” 

You gestured pointedly to everything around you. To the oppressive air, to the dust that coated the abandoned benches, to the dust that coated you. To every part of you that had fallen into disrepair in the pursuit of her mission. Control, power, a perfect kingdom through the means of a dictatorship. You looked old, older than you were. You felt old. A relic of a happier past. 

“You’ve been doing this for years.” She said bluntly, as though it were that simple. It was routine, and routine was a comfort, so why lose it? Your everyday was assured, so why compromise that security?

The monotony had drilled itself into your skull, had tattooed itself onto your eyelids. You blink and you see them. The bloodied corpses at your feet, the entrails spooled around their necks like crimson scarfs. The faces of mourners, their weeping eyes. The way their faces scrunched up, wrinkled in every way imaginable, until they looked less human and more akin to chewed gum. The way they heaved as they fought for breath, the way their whole bodies crumpled under the weight of an impossible loss. 

“And how many more? When will this be enough?” You blinked and saw your boots, the finest leather Wonderland had to offer, drenched in blood. You watched yourself wipe away the stains a dozen times over, and yet a shadow always remained. And you could never quite get the smell out.

She almost snarled at you, her words sharpened as they squeezed through gritted teeth. “When they learn to obey.”

A laugh tore from your throat, hoarse, as rough as sandpaper. It hurt, almost burnt, like swallowing hellfire. “Obey? Obey?! Bridget, they’re terrified of you. All they do is obey.” 

She nearly sneered, her hands clenching, nails sliding over each other as though sharpening blades. But there was something in her voice. This was a plea. The routine she offered in place of persuasion, of comfort, was something that she craved. That she held dear. So it had been her first resort in an effort to keep you by her side. “Watch your tone.”

That routine felt like a death sentence to you now. Reminder after reminder of all that you had done, all that you had become, over and over again. You had not questioned each order, each criminal, every sacrifice at the altar of her empire. The routine was a failure. It was everything you had failed to notice. Every time you had been complacent in her tyranny, justified by the same lie that pacified your weak-willed mind.

That it was for her. That one day this would be enough, and you could lay down your blade and stand by her side on that balcony once again. 

But you knew that could never happen. Not while her empire stood. Her duty. 

You took a step towards her. It was sloppy, clumsy, you moved with a drunken stupor. The weight of every expectation, every obligation, every inevitability about your life was shed. You walked free of those chains, and every movement felt alien, like taking your first steps all over again. 

She lifted her gaze to meet yours. You had always slouched before, a permanent bow was the only thing befitting of your queen, but standing straight as you were now, you were taller than her. It should have been intimidating, but she met your gaze with the same determination. 

“No. No. I can’t do this anymore. I can’t just kill random people, I can’t- I can’t be your guard dog anymore.”

She cocked her head, her voice breathless. “My guard dog?”

You laughed. For the first time in years, you laughed. Your laugh was a broken and small thing, but it was there. Alive. “Is that not what you’d call it? Call this? I am a face in your battalion, nothing more.”

At that she reached for you. Her body visibly tightened, tensed, the movement clearly based on gut instinct alone. No politics, no games. She reached for you and placed a hand to your chest, and another to your cheek. Steadying. Gentle. There was a softness in her eyes as a finger ran itself through your hair. 

“You know that’s not true.” Her voice was barely a whisper. As though afraid to say it aloud. As though ashamed. 

You pushed her hand down. The one on your chest remained, stroking the buttons upon your uniform. “Do I?”

There was something broken in the way she looked at you. “You’re my heart. I don’t know what more I can do to show you that.” She gestured to the uniform you wore. The axe discarded a few feet away. This was her love. Quiet yet grand. 

She loved you. 

You wanted to love her again. So badly it hurt. 

But not while her empire stood.

“You can come with me.” You took her hand, still against your chest, and clasped it in yours. 

Her face fell. The gentleness was replaced with a panic, a desperation in her features. Her mouth fell open ever so slightly. The facade was crumbling. This was the closest you had been to seeing Bridget in years. Uncensored, uncompromising. Just on the horizon. “What?”

Your grip tightened. You could feel her nails digging into your skin, going deep enough to draw blood but you didn’t care. You needed this to work. You couldn’t love the Queen. You couldn’t love the woman that Bridget had become, but you could find the girl behind the layers and layers of cruelty and hurt and cold. You could peel all that back. You could bring her back. She didn’t have to be dead and buried. 

“Come with me. We can- we can leave.” You tried to ignore the growing panic in her eyes, the way her lower lip quivered. It was humanity. It was the girl you loved. This was going to work. “Your council can run things, they’ll do fine, and we- we can just go. Wherever you want.” 

“Please.” She swallowed. Closed her eyes for a passing moment. Opened them, and the steeliness returned. The edge. All that made her a perfect Queen. “I will not abandon my post.” 

“Bridget-” You knew it was a losing battle. You always knew that. You knew staying by her side was signing your life away. You knew fighting for her affection was akin to sisyphus’ endless task. You would never win. 

“Don’t make me do this.” She cut you off before you could convince her. Before you could change her mind, sway her from her goal. You could do it, if given the time. She wouldn’t let you. 

At that you laughed. And fell back into your seat, dust rolling away from you in waves. You looked up at her and the room she never seemed quite right in and the sunlight streaming in through the window and sighed. “Oh, you forget yourself. You’re my Queen. I can’t make you do anything.” 

You would rot for this. No more beautiful clothes and palaces. No more rose bushes or expertly made weapons. No more anything. Just a small box with no windows. You could handle that. It was eternity. It was a routine, but a new one. It was worse yet better than what you had. You wondered if Bridget would visit you. 

As you pondered your fate, you nearly didn’t notice the guards assemble around you. Barely felt one, someone you knew but barely spoke to, hoist you to your feet only to force you back onto your knees, throwing you around like a useless piece of meat. You only chose to pay attention when Bridget started speaking. When she said your name. How long had it been since she had uttered it? It had only ever been Soldier or Captain. The gold of your uniform, the circlet resting on your forehead, the axe in your hand. Your purpose. 

“... for your offences, I charge you with high treason. You are a traitor to your realm and to your Queen.” She recited your charges, staring through you, not daring to meet your eyes. 

“I understand.”

Her voice echoed through the room, as though addressing a crowd. As though announcing this to the world. Trying to prove how she wasn’t weak. The Queen of Hearts was a worthy ruler, one not to be trifled with. By anyone. You were proof of her weakness. 

“For these crimes, you are sentenced to death.” 

What?

She turned her head towards the guard closest to you, the one who had shoved you to the ground. Her voice was perfectly even as she spoke. 

“Off with their head.” 

It had none of its usual bravado. It was an order and nothing more. 

You were going to die. 

“Bridget, wait, you-”

The soldier put a foot to your back and forced you to your hands and knees, nose ever so slightly grazing the wooden floors. You were frozen in shock until you felt it. A blade against your neck. Cold and sharp. 

You looked up to see Bridget, looking down at you. Wonderland’s Queen. Dressed in rose petals, donning her crown. You could see a glimmer of Bridget in that moment. A tear running down her cheek, sparkling like condensed sunlight. The girl you had loved, saying goodbye. 

At least you were allowed to see something beautiful before the world cut to black.

[lyrakanefanatic]

Grayson and phone girl hcs!!!!

- He’s Folklore coded

- Shes midnights coded (or red idk)

- Grayson hates sweet coffees and takes his coffee black

- phone girl takes her coffee with one milk and 2 sugars

- Grayson loves taking photos of her

- he also loves spoiling phone girl, but she hates being spoiled (yes she has yelled at him multiple times for getting her expensive gifts but he gets her them anyway)

- she didn’t know how to swim well before but then Grayson taught her

- her and Grayson play chess together and at first he won most the games, but then phone girl started catching up and winning aswell

- when phone girl told Grayson her favourite book, he immediately started reading it so she would have someone to talk to about it 💖💖

- forehead kisses and neck kisses!!!!

- she’s close with all of graysons brothers but ESPECIALLY close with Jameson (I just feel like they would be bsfs)

- movie nights are sacred to them!!

- graysons close with her mom and is always so kind to her (🤭💖💖💖)

- thea showed phone girl the video of Grayson singing karaoke in tights and she didn’t shut up about it for like 3 months 💀

- she’s a super light sleeper, meanwhile grayson can sleep through a war (the final gambit atonement night chapter says he’s a deep sleeper LMAO)

- grayson contrasts silver, phone girl contrasts gold

- Grayson realized he liked her before she realized she liked him (and when she did realize she didn’t want to accept it bc his grandfather was kinda the reason her dad died)

- she’s close with both of his sisters but ESPECIALLY close with Savannah, and the two of them hang out all the time

- one night, grayson got really drunk, like blackout drunk, and accidentally told all of his brothers that he liked phone girl, (which honestly they saw coming) and he had a really nice heart-to-heart with them. He talked about why he loved her and how he loved her the second he called his phone, and then ruined the heartfelt moment by throwing up on the carpet

- when gigi first met phone girl, (I’d assumed she’d meet her kind of late into the games) she thought that she was the “girlfriend” Grayson was talking about in tbh, and without a hint of irony in her voice, asked “so, you like limes?”

- phone girl was immediately confused and asked her what she meant, but Grayson switched the topic and (somehow) saved himself a lot of embarrasment

- phone girl doesn’t really like her birthday anymore because that was the day her father shot himself, so Grayson tries to do really fun and exciting stuff to distract her

- she tried getting other girls to date him, and then would be surprised when she got jealous 💀

- Nash was the first one to notice they liked each other and asked Grayson about it teasingly, and Grayson in response ended the conversation SO FAST

- she eventually found out WHY Gigi asked about the limes, and made a joke saying “ the entire world is in love with you, Grayson, and you had to make up a fake girlfriend?”

-now the lime thing is an inside joke, so whenever one of graysons brothers (or Grayson) asks where she is, she just says “I’m out buying limes”

- Avery and her are those friends that “hang out” by laying on the couch, watching movies, and going on their phones instead of actually doing stuff together (iykyk)

- Grayson was SOOO mad about Mathias liking Gigi bc he works for eve, so he told phone girl and she actually took gigis side (Grayson was shocked but gigi and phone girl immediately became bsfs after that day)

okay thats all and I know I’m talking about the inheritance games too much and it may be annoying, but trust me it will be WAY more annoying when the grandest game vault comes out 💀 (im sorry)

[rwbyrg]

Me, a couple nights ago thinking about the fact that Ruby... a character who is described as a simple soul who actively fights to make the world a better place,

while Oscar, a soul who lived a simple life, with grand ambitions, who got dragged into the fight but no less wants to help anyways despite the complexity in his sharing a soul, and what that means for his fate...

It's like they're intentionally paralleling through contrast, smh rosegarden canon they're made for each other fr fr

They are intentionally paralleling. They both explore such similar themes just slightly different from one another. Constantly in orbit of, mirroring, and complimenting each other. Chose vs Chosen, Sun vs Moon, Red vs Green, Silver vs Gold, Fell from the Sky vs Fell through the World, Internal vs External, Ascension vs Merge, "just going to be another one of his lives" vs "what if you could be anyone". They are written with so much intention it's unreal.