#trying some hairstyle for my inky

[shimylli]

Face Practice

[djevelbl]

As a relatively new inhabitant of Whiteside, there's not a lot Bendy has heard about people in high positions of powers such as Cuphead Dish, but from the little things he's picked up around him - and trust me, he knows how to pick up a thing or two - what he knows is a few things: he's the second highest authority just behind the Head Angel and Head Demon in these lands, he's unrelenting in pursuit, and you do not wanna be in his radar - in training or otherwise. Especially otherwise; in training at least they fucking pay you for that.

Here he is! My blorbo, the skrimblo - the silly!! I love his updated design, it looks like it's actually something he would use, even if it's just a uniform he's making his by refusing to tie that fucking tie (are we pretending he's not doing it only bc he's a rebel, but also bc he can't tie a tie to save his life? We are? Cool)

Anyway below the cut y'all can find the full character ref sheet + some of the things I've changed between the original design and now! (HEAVY rambling ahead y'all! I went on PARAGRAPH about this idiot <3)

Before I forget - reblog! It helps artists in here! If you liked my drawing, please reblog it too! <33

Click to be able to read some of the shit in there + better quality lmao but yeah! TGG!Cup! He's finally here!

In the original design he had this weird vest/coat thing on top of a dark shirt and dark grey pants + boots, all in a similar color scheme to the one he has now! The biggest change has to be the hairstyle, the coat and the pants! Though the shoes are also different - really, the only thing that stayed the same was the shirt lol. I decided to keep both the hair and the shoes I used for his design in the illustration I made for chapter 334 of Inky Mystery so it wasn't that jarring of a change, let me know if y'all like it! You can't see it really well due to the coat, but his belt buckle is supposed to be a big, golden feather! Y'know, because he's an angel ;)

Oh, and there's that! He's an angel here! Ofc he's still a Dish, we wouldn't have him any other way (except when we do lmao) but in this case it's less of a distinct thing from other toons than how it is in Inky Mystery! Some things are different, of course, but Toons and Dishes are more or less the same here - the only real difference is whether they're Angels or Demons!

In terms of which characters his design is based off of, they are Wodahs and Ater/Arbus! To be fair, Ater and Arbus only differ in pattern of speech and personal physical attributes from each other - in terms of clothes they're pretty much the same; I chose these characters because in the world of The Garden of Eden au he's gonna be playing their roles (if losely): for Wodahs, he's the Head of Military (Wodahs is the Head Angel in the game) and for Ater/Arbus, he's gonna be a spy for the Head Demon that helps rule over Whiteside! (Ater/Arbus both are twin cat spies for Kcalb, the Devil that helps rule The Gray Garden) - this is how I'm gonna be basing the designs for all Inky Mystery characters for the au!

Now specifically about the intro card: these are images shown whenever a new, important character the protagonist - Yosafire for TGG, Bendy for TGoE (The Garden of Eden au) - knows so the player can get to know a little better! Here I changed the intro card more than just adding in the new TGoE!Cup design; as I said in the text box for the intro card: he's the Head of Military! Whereas in the previous design he was the Head of Security - they're intrinsically related roles int The Garden of Eden due to the paficist nature of Whiteside, but there are differences between them; whenever I get around to Mugs' design y'all will see what I mean - I'll probably get more into their roles there. I also changed the name of the castle! From the original (BlancBlack) which I'd left in probably bc I didn't think of anything better lol I've now changed it to Griseo: gray in latin! Which is basically what BlancBlack is trying way too hard to do lmaoo

Lastly, I changed the last line in the intro card: the original said "Hm. I wonder where his wings are...?" and I've changed it to say "Aren't angels supposed to have wings...?" Because - and it'll be elaborated more later on - Bendy isn't from Whiteside! And where he's from there's no angels, so he has no idea.

Anyways lol ramble over - thanks for coming to my extensive af tedtalk 🙏🙏

[quill-pen]

Bless This Woman

So, @rom-e-o presented me, out of the blue and in the middle of the night, with this gorgeous piece of fan art😍😍😍:

And it inspired a wholesome and sweet little ficlet, surprise, surprise.

Btw: Yes, my Ebenezer grows his hair out long, if this is the first encounter with my work you've had. Also, in future, I plan to try and publish my Scrooge story, and Romey and I are kind of in cahoots with that; so we are trying out some slightly different character designs for Scrooge. That Netflix look is so specific, that I don't want to risk getting sued. This hairstyle is one we've decided on for him, as opposed to his lovely swoop.

It was a request Ebenezer had never been asked before; one he never thought to encounter. He wasn't what anyone would particularly call a "praying man", even now after he'd turned his life around for the good. But he'd be damned if he wouldn't become one: Because how could he possibly deny a woman as sweet and lovely as his Bess when she shyly asked him if he would pray over her that night before bed?

"Pray over you?" Ebenezer asked. Not in a condescending way, but certainly in a slightly confused way. He'd never heard that phrase for it before. Praying for someone, yes, but over someone? That was new to him.

Bess stood before him in her gauzy summer nightgown, the neckline slipped tantalizingly down to expose one speckled shoulder. She looked a little embarrassed, a slightly rosy tint in her cheeks making her freckles pop sharply--something her husband adored. "I-I know it sounds silly," she commented with a small, beseeching smile. She ducked her head and lowered her gaze in instinctive supplication, as her hands fiddling together at her waist. "But it's... it's something George used to do with Mama every night when he was home and... well... it's kind of something I've always hoped the man I love would do for me, too."

She looked back up at him, trying to judge his reaction to it. "Y-You don't have to if you don't want to," she assured him in a bit of a rush. "I just thought I'd ask. Doesn't hurt to ask, right?" She bit her bottom lip, hoping she hadn't just made herself look foolish in her husband's eyes.

She hadn't. And as far as Ebenezer was concerned, she never could.

Smiling softly at the woman, the Englishman stood from his seat beside the small fire, closing and placing his journal upon the mantelshelf as he did. Then he approached his wife, opening his arms to her. "It doesn't sound silly," he murmured softly, taking her into his embrace. He snuggled the American close, nuzzling into her thick, inky curls and kissing her crown. A satisfied purr nearly rumbled from his chest as Bess folded him into her arms and snuffled into the soft fabric of his nightshirt over his heart. "And, no, it never hurts to ask. I'd be happy to pray over you."

Bess looked up at him, eyes sparkling with happiness? "You would?" she asked, sounding rather relieved. "Truly?"

Her husband nodded as he kissed her hairline. "Of course." He touched his brow to hers and gave her a sheepish smile. "You might have to tell me how," he muttered. "I've never prayed over someone. Come to think, I can't recall when I last prayed for someone either. Not really. Not like you would in church."

Bess giggled as she nudged her nose along his. "This isn't exactly like that," she assured him. "It's not a big production full of show-boating piety the Bishop likes to make. This is more genuine and from the heart."

"I'm not even sure I know how to pray, to tell you the truth."

"George always told me that prayer is just talking to God. And the best way to talk to God is to talk to him as though He were a good friend."

He knew that was true. Still, Ebenezer felt a little out of his depth as he watched his beloved sink to her knees on the plush rug beneath their bed. Regardless, he knelt beside her. "H-How did George used to do this?"

Snorting, Bess gently pulled out of Ebenezer's embrace. She grabbed his hand and pulled him after her as she moved towards their marital bed. "Don't worry, I won't judge," she stated with a smirk and wink over her shoulder.

"I only caught him doing it a few times," Bess answered as she scooted into the man's side, ever desiring to be close as possible. She manages to twine her legs and feet with his. "But the few times I did, he always had his hands on Mama. On her shoulders, around her waist, hugging her--he was always touching her."

"Well, I certainly like the sound of that," Ebenezer remarked. Without a moment's hesitation, he stretched an arm across his wife's shoulders and pulled her close again. He pressed his lips to her brow. "Mmm, I love you," he murmured, the sentiment leaving him automatically.

Bess hummed as she leaned into his touch. "That love you feel--let that be what guides what you say," she quietly instructed.

In many ways, that didn't give Ebenezer a clue as to what to do at all. Yet in many others, it did.

The couple knelt there at their bedside in silence for a moment, the man absently stroking the woman's arms as she pressed into him. His mind, for a moment, felt like a wheel stuck in muddy clay. What should he say? How should he begin? He supposed the best way was just to start.

"Dear Lord, first and foremost, I would like to thank You for the wonderful woman beside me. I'm... not always certain what my convictions are in terms of faith and religion; one thing I do believe with certainty, however, is that You have placed my wonderful Bess beside me."

Bess dared to open her eyes and lift her gaze just enough to see her husband's down-turned face just above hers. She smiled in adoration at the man, marking how his long eyelashes brushed his cheekbones. Somehow, she managed to press a little closer to the man, nudging her head under his chin.

Ebenezer tightened his grip on her. "I come to You now, to pray for my Bess, Lord," he continued on, voice quiet but steady. He still didn't really know what he was doing, but that didn't seem to matter: He was focusing on his adoration for his wife, letting that guide him through what he wanted to say, and it was doing the trick. He was feeling much more confident in every passing moment. And, amazingly enough, even more in love with his mate.

"I pray that You watch over my beloved Bess, Lord. That you take her into Your arms and keep her safe throughout her life. I pray, if she can't find comfort and happiness in this world, that she is able to find it in You. I place her ultimate well-being in You, Lord, for I know there are things that I, as a mere man, cannot do to protect and comfort her."

Bess pressed her face into the open neck of Ebenezer's nightshirt and nuzzled at the hairy swathe of chest bared to her. On instinct she fluttered kisses to over sternum. "Oh, Darling...."

A slight heat bloomed across Ebenezer's face, but he didn't falter. "I ask You to continue to bless this woman with goodness you have granted to be in her life, Lord. And should it ever come to an end, I repay You grant her the strength to overcome challenges, just as You have granted her before. I ask You to continue healing and soothing the wounds and scars of Bess' past, and that You might bring her to realize that she is so much more than them--that they do not define her. I pray that she continues to discover herself in You, oh, Lord, and that she might draw great satisfaction and peace from that.

A lump suddenly formed in the man's throat and tears bit at his closed eyes. "I also pray that-" he cleared his throat as it croaked, "-that You might allow my lovely Bess to remain in my life, Lord. To remain by my side and help me continue to bear the burden of life. She is my greatest strength, my greatest happiness, my Brightness. And I ask with all my heart and soul that she might remain so, Lord. I promise to strive each day to be a better man, to be stronger and more virtuous, and to make this world a better, kinder place if You might allow Bess to remain in my life. I promise to cherish her with my entire being and do my best to care for her and make her happy all the days of my life."

Bess felt something warm and wet drip onto her cheek. Looking up again, she saw a single trickle of tears dripping down Ebenezer's cheek. Moved to wet eyes herself at the sight (her kind, sweet, tenderhearted man), the Yank reached up and gently dried them away. Then she kissed his stubbly chin. "Amen," she whispered. "That was beautiful. Thank you, my dearest moonlight."

Ebenezer gazed down at her with a trembling chuckle. "Not as beautiful at George's though, yes?" he rasped, looking a little shy.

Bess shook her head with a doting smile. "Better," she answered honestly. "Because it's my prayer. And it came from you and your heart. And I'll cherish it and carry it with me, until the day I die."

Genuine relief flooded through the gentleman. Bowing his head, he lifted a hand to his love's face and held her tenderly as he pulled her into a lingering kiss, one she eagerly returned.

"I'll do this again every night if you'll, please, just stay with me forever, Bess," Ebenezer whispered against her lips. His eyes were beseeching as he gazed deeply into hers. "Please."

Bess couldn't help the little smile that curled her lips, nor the little chuckle that left her in response to that promise. "Well, then, you're about to become a praying man, Ebenezer Charles. Because, while I can't speak for our Heavenly Father, I have no intentions of leaving your side. Not ever. Now, please, kiss me again."

And her husband, ever faithful and giving, did just that.

[feathers-little-nest]

I was tagged in this super cool Get to Know My OC game by @gummybugg !! Thank you a lot! Their answer is here

I choose my sweetest baby, Guan Zhuyu.

A dark figure walked past one of the pavilions in the household of the Minister Herald. Their chin was high and their posture relaxed. Good for me. I jumped at them from behind and pushed them to one of the empty rooms, which were used only during the day. Guan Zhuyu glanced around in panic but couldn't find any easy escape route. I flexed my muscles. They didn't really notice.

"Easy. I will ask a couple of questions, you will answer - that's all," I explained, trying to imitate Jigsaw. They nodded, clearly unimpressed by my amazing acting skills yet still worried. I decided to drop the act, "it's just a writeblr game. No gore."

1. Are you named after anyone?

Surely not. My courtesy name means beautiful writing (珠玉) and my given name is harmony (和) so... it is more possible that I was named after something. But I can't tell.

2. When was the last time you cried?

Like... ten minutes ago?

3. Do you have kids?

No. Absolutely not. And I will never have them, don't even scare me. Guan Zhuyu dramatically fanned themselves.

4. Do you use sarcasm?

Hmm... sometimes, for artistic purposes. However, I do not enjoy it.

5. What's the first thing you notice about people?

Their posture. Are they tightly upright? Is their head tilted? Second thing has to be hair, that's generally how I recognize people. Please, stop changing your hairstyles.

6. What's your eye color?

Dark like an eye of a raven.

7. Scary movies or happy endings?

Oh, happy endings, definitely. If we can't have any of them in the real life, why don't let ourselves dream a little?

8. Any special talents?

Pouring tea. No one can do this more gracefully than me~

9. Where were you born?

In the capital city, on the outskirts. Growing up, my greatest longing was for the grand mountains of our kingdom, which I could so clearly see from our windows. Then I learnt that the side effect of climbing is sweat.

10. What are your hobbies?

Oh, I'm glad you asked. Writing poetry is my main passion, and I was very lucky to find a couple of friends who listen to them. Besides, I like to try new things whenever I have on occasion, meaning I have a new hobby every week.

11. Have you any pets?

No.

12. What sports do you play/have played?

I am not a very athletic person. Running around the ministry usually fulfils my need for exercise, but I do enjoy some archery or qigong every now and then.

13. How tall are you?

Tall enough to see the top of head of the most of the men, just barely.

14. Favorite subject in school?

Calligraphy was a perfect balance between painting and writing.

15. Dream job?

No job. I am a parasite. What I like to do I do for no money and what I don't like to do... I have to do.

Zhuyu's gaze was eager and I begun to feel embarrassed. For a minute or two I was fidgeting with my fingers, then I finally admitted, "that's all."

"What a shame," they whispered and silently exited the room.

Gently tagging: @sam-glade @rains-inky-mind @lane-thepencilthing @uraniumwriting @unhinged-corvid

[getouswh0re]

Howdy!! Could I request Yandere Gojo and Geto from jjk, with a special-grade sorcerer reader? Ty in advance, I really like your writing!✨

an; thank you for the love ˊᗜˋ💕 here are some drabbles for them separately, hope you liked it :3

warnings; yandere, gore, blood, unhealthy relationships, obsessive behaviour. do not condone such actions in real life, and please kindly read at your own discretion.

THE night was quiet, almost serene, totally at odds with the glowering menace in Geto’s eyes. Gone was the subtle gentleness in those inky slits you had grown to adore; in its place, inscrutable darkness bore holes into the back of your skull as you shuddered beneath the curse user’s glare.

It was still Geto in the flesh: the same face, unique hairstyle and robes he’d wear just like any other day. Yet it was no longer the special-grade sorcerer whom you once knew and loved. You never knew what caused such a drastic change in him; all you wished for, was for the old Geto to return, hoping that all of this was none other than another nightmare.

“Suguru? W-What are you doing at my door? It’s already late, you should be taking some rest ...” A hint of dismay — maybe sadness, ghosted his expression when the raven picked up the quivers in your tone. Nonetheless, a gentle smile adorns his face, emerging from the shadows to reveal himself as the raven explained himself.

“Why? Can’t I come and visit you?” He cocked his head, a playful smirk evident. Geto never ceased to make your heart flutter; perhaps it was his flirtatious nature and mellow personality that drew you towards him, but even after being one of his closest friends for a long time, at times you felt like you couldn’t understand him at all, with this being one of the occurrences.

You chortled, about to invite the raven into your apartment when warning bells started to ring incessantly in your head, warning you that there was something awry about him once you caught a glimpse at his clothes imbrued with crimson splatters.

“Sugu ... what is that on your clothes?”

“Oh this? Satoru splashed me with red paint, it’s not much of a big deal.” You knew he was lying, instantly picking up the revolting metallic stench from the stains. Dread filled your mind while you staggered back, keeping a distance from the male who gave you a perplexed look in return.

“You and I know a smell like this isn’t red paint ...” Trying to be as calm as you could, you retracted a step backwards with every stride Geto took. “Be honest with me. What on earth have you done?”

“Sharp as ever, y/n.” A condescending look took over as Geto finally revealed his true colours. “The world needs to change. All these monkeys are the reasons why curses exist. They can’t even control their cursed energy properly, and we sorcerers have to battle with death every time a curse poses as a threat to them. Their ignorance is revolting in its core, and I believe to make the world a better place, it would be better off to remove all of them out of sight. Don’t you agree —“

“What the fuck are you thinking?” Unable to withhold your seething rage, you snapped at the curse user. “This isn’t what sorcerers should do! What you are doing is of no difference from a brutal murderer Geto! I can’t fucking believe you!”

“How can you think of me like they y/n? That hurts my heart you know.”

Before you could even scream, he was already inches away, blood-stained hands caressing your cheeks tenderly as if you were made of fragile glass. “I just want to make life easier, there’s no need for us to put our lives at stake every time we exorcise curses. Right? We could be enjoying peaceful days together, free from the dangers of this world ...”

“Stop! Your delusions are sick, this isn’t you at all Geto! I don’t know what is wrong with your brain, but it’s never too late to turn back —“

Suddenly, your vision darkened — your consciousness sinking into a bottomless void as the raven carried you in a bridal style, the two of you vanishing into the tenebrosity of the night.

“And I thought you were the only one who’d understand me ... love.” He shook his head in disapproval, but the disappointment in his eyes were eventually replaced with glee as Geto stared at your limp figurine in his arms.

“But don’t worry, what needs to be done will be done. For our sake, for our future together.”

EVERYTHING would always be uglier up close.

At first glance, one might find Gojo Satoru a perfect man: with talent, looks and wealth all in one package. Men envy the greatest sorcerer of all time, and women grovel at his feet, desperate for a sprinkle of the man’s attention. Despite living the life everyone dreams to be in, the heir of the Gojo clan couldn’t care less about how the world spins around his axis. For the sorcerer has his eyes set on something much more worthy of his time and effort. 

He is a man of determination, willing to achieve his goals with whatever means possible — even resorting to dirtying his own hands. It is such an irony that underneath the charming façade, such a disgusting soul exists.

“For the last time Satoru, I am not interested in dating anybody.” Heaving an exasperated sigh, you politely shoved the lavish presents piling up at your front door back into the man’s arms. 

“I feel really flattered that you have feelings for me, I truly do. But I’m sure you know as sorcerers, we fight with death every day. If there is any regret that I’d dread to have ... it would be to leave everything I love behind. And I would rather die alone than leave my partner suffering on their own.” 

“That’s what I love about you y/n.” 

A loving sigh slipping from his tongue, Gojo took a step forward, cupping your face with utter delicacy. Yet you felt more than revolted by his sudden intimacy, struggling to writhe away from his tightening grip.

“You are always so kind, so considerate ... something I cannot find in anyone else other than you. But think about it sweetheart! You and I are both special-grade sorcerers, but I can protect you from the curses — at the same time giving you the moon and stars. We could move in together, you wouldn’t even need to work anymore. Why make your life harder when I could simply provide for you? Seriously —” 

“S-Satoru, I hate to tell you this but you’re pushing the boundaries right now.” Trying to reason with the sorcerer, you spoke with a harsher tone, praying that Gojo would get the hint and respect your choices. “You’re out of your mind! And why would you force 

Nonetheless, your words fell on deaf ears. 

“Now this is not how you should react when someone offers you their heart and soul.” The light in his cerulean eyes darkened, cyan hues glimmering beneath the penumbra of nightfall. “And I know you are a smart young woman, so you’d come to realise what is in your best interest. I really don’t want to do this to you y/n; but if you are trying to push me away from your life again, I would have to keep you to my side — the hard way.” 

With that, he pulled down his blindfold.

You were aware of how dangerous Infinite Void was; still, experiencing it first-hand was one hell of a terrifying experience. Fleeting images flashed across your vision as if all of this was in fastforward motion, depicting your fate in the past along with future. As certain blurred vestiges showed up, your heart sank in indescribable despair; moments of you and none other than Gojo were portrayed — blood splattered across the labyrinth of streets in Tokyo, your trembling hands intertwined with his, platinum bands wrapped around both of your ring fingers, adorable kids that were exact replicas of both of you. At this point, you could feel the will to fight back dwindling to fickle embers. 

No matter what you did, Gojo would always find his way back to you.

Even if he had to tear the world apart with his hands. 

[rayshippouuchiha]

I haven't gotten around to writing yet because it's late and my writing juices are running low yet, but tomorrow I'll try. Curse you for egging me on, Ray.

I will just settle on trying to daydream about it, though. Just meaningless little fluffy things. I think it'd be fun for the three husbands to play with each other's hair. And Hoshiori making drop dead gorgeous garments for his husbands and Kushina and little Kakashi. The Uzushio/Uzumaki crest on everything he makes for them. Also smol Hoshiori in swooshy and vibrant robes (might be kimono, might even be something almost like hanfu), hair in multiple braids with ribbons woven into said braids. I'm thinking of something like Pariya's hairstyle in Otoyomegatari. Nice.

Though just imagine Hoshi and Oro running into each other at the cemetery, Oro visiting his parents and Hoshi visiting his grandma. Both obviously broken, both grieving, both resenting Konoha and the world at large for their cruelty, anger roiling beneath their skin.

And then, at some point, Sakumo comes bursting into their lives in a way that's all but impossible to ignore. He'd become their anchor, their guiding light, their center of orbit in many ways.

I also really like the idea of Sakumo being the moon, Hoshiori the sea and stars, and Oro being the dark inky blanket of night. Or something like that. I dunno.

Hope you enjoy my meaningless babbling, Ray XD

Fuck yeah hell yes we're all enjoying this! Seriously it's perfect and I love it and you need to full fic this

[lpz-thegalaxystar]

Special Charling's birthday

monday june 6th is Charling's birthday, so I put Facts and headcannons about her.

FACTS

1.Charling had a few redesigns before the current one

2.Charling was formerly a Chara from my AU from undertale called Charabetray

3.The first ibis paint x drawing on Charling was made in 2017.

4.the date of creation of her , I don't remember at the moment

5.charling in the old version of Chara had a suit of armor, which I think I drew in her lombax version.

6.during the pandemic in 2020, an august 26th had drawn a picture of Charling, Ratchet, Dr Buttocks and Lord Betrayus, i had used the lombax language and the message means in spanish "puto , el que lo lea"

7 . , i had made Lord Betrayus' hairstyle that resembled the ears of a lombax, which caused Charling to get confused.

Headcannons

1.Charling's gloves are actually Ratchet's old dyed gloves and Ratchet gave Charling his first omniwrench (which he had to look for it) on her seventh birthday.

2. Artifact that Charling finds, artifact that she gives to Talwyn.

3. As some of you know in the Ratchet and Clank game Tools of Destruction , the lombaxes rarely used unmodified equipment, and are well known for inventing and modifying technology on their own. That includes Charling, when Dr. Buttock's invention failed, Charling took it with her and repaired and improved it.

4The only ghosts in the nether world who know about her true appearance are Ogle, Inky, Blinky and pinky, Cylde didn't because he could say accidentally about Charling in front of everyone.

5.Charling for trying to play a prank on Lord Betrayus and he catches her but nowadays he treats her as his pet exocite / slave / friend, possible the relationship of the two is similar to that of Alister Azimuth and Kaden (Charling's grandfather).

6.Charling for now is only receiving male lombax pheromones that's why her physique and personality are similar to her dad

[lumilasi]

Finished her pretty quick, I just got an idea surprisingly fast. Also this confirms Ryuu has a type: Redhead, intelligent, wears lot of black and red lmao. Also her pose is a bit wonky, but eh. it shows her outfit well enough.

....This reminds me, I should rewrite Reidou’s bio somewhat, I don’t quite like her BG story yet. 

Anyway, further info below:

Age: 27 (she was 20 when she met Ryuu)

Sexuality: Bi

Ezuko’s QUIRK EXPLAINED

BASICS (Pros in normal, cons in bold)

Quirk name: Living ink

Ezuko is able to create ink-like substance into any surface she touches, basically allowing her to create tattoos and art pieces without needing tools. She just needs to imagine what she wants the picture look like, or have a reference to look at. She can also turn liquids into this inky substance.

Ezuko tends to need more time and proper focus if she wants to create larger and more intricate designs. For her to create these images or change a liquid into ink, she does need to be touching the object/liquid.

TATTOOING/ILLUSTRATING

She can easily create tattoos for people with her ability that is pretty much pain free, or graffiti or even basically change the color and design of an entire building, piece of clothing, etc.

The image she’s made, she can shift and change and make move however she wants, even after a long time. She can use these moving images to even temporarily blind people by making the image shift around their eyes.

The process in some cases take even longer than doing the same tattoo traditionally would take, at least if the image is complex and large, and she doesn’t have proper references for it.

For her to be able to make the pictures move, she usually requires having been touching the object/person minimum of five seconds.

Her quirk ultimately is not meant for combat, and she can’t really use her drawings in a fight, only disorient them to either flee or find a chance to use her liquid shifting ability.

LIQUID SHIFT

Ezuko’s ability to change liquids into ink can allow her (accidentally or on purpose) to turn a person’s blood into ink and basically poison them to death near instantly. 

She can neutralize liquid based attacks as well by turning them to her ink, which will automatically start to listen to her commands.

She is immune to most acids and poisons (non-digested ones) because she automatically turns these things into ink when they touch her. It’s not her quirk being passive however, but rather a survival reaction she has developed. 

In order to do this, she needs to be able to touch the liquid she wants to change, which means in a case of a fight, she needs to either make the person bleed (or get them to spit or whatever, she prefers the blood as its “easier.”)

PERSONALITY SUMMARY

Ezuko tends to be fairly blunt, no nonsense type of person. She’s mostly pretty calm and level headed even in tight situations, but when her temper flares it can be pretty bad. She’s gonna let you hear where you screwed up exactly, in other words. 

Ezuko tends to not like people with “strong” quirks by default, because the whole obsession over quirks let to her family disowning her for not having a “good enough” power and wanting to do something else than be a hero or have some other profilic career. She can change her mind about you (like she did with Ryuu) once she gets to know you better, and sees you’re not putting all your value as a person on your power. 

She’s quite intelligent and enjoys reading and learning about a lot of different things, partly because it helps her imagination run wilder and thus makes it faster to create her images. 

BACKGROUND STORY (A quick summary, details may develop)

Ezuko was born to parents who were all about status, and quite disappointed to find out her quirk wasn’t suitable for heroism. They then tried to push her for something else that could rise their wealth and standing in society. Ezuko herself didn’t want to do this, dealing with a lot of arguments and abusive language from them, up until she moved out at age 18, heading to study arts. After that her family basically disowned her, refusing to even answer her calls. Ezuko quit trying to reach them, figuring she’d be better off without.

Then, when she was doing an apprenticeship in a tattoo parlor, she ended up having to deal with an abusive customer one evening, where he started harassing her. In a panic, she ended up discovering another, unfortunate side-effect of her quirk, where during the struggle she managed to make the guy bleed, and then swiftly turned his blood into ink, killing him near instantly. Some local residents came to see the commotion, and instead of asking her side of the story just automatically began to call her a murderer as the customer was a regular, forcing her to flee the scene. 

The local press and everybody around there started to exaggerate her temper and further paint her in a bad light, forcing Ezuko to flee the place altogether. She tried to reach for her parents for help, but they refused to help her, believing the media that she’d done it on purpose.

Sometime during her runaway spree she ran into Ryuu, who’d only recently gained lot of notoriety, though the girl was unaware of this. He helped her in a fight against some thugs, and she brings the injured Ryuu into her hideout to fix his injuries. They stick together for a bit, and Ryuu even brings her to a person he knows that generally tends to help out with people like her - a broker named Giran. Giran let’s her work in his bar, also making sure that everybody knew not to bother her as that’d be a bad idea. He even helps her to get a place to stay in eventually. Sometime during these years, she hears rumors about “Frostbite” having potentially died, which makes her a little sad initially, though Giran cheers her up be stating that there was probably more to the story than that.

Some years after that, she finds out about Ryuu being alive through Giran, as he sends her to bring something to “an old acquaintance” as the man put it. This said acquaintance turned out to be Ryuu.

Few more extra details;

- She’s the only person out of the people around Kain who actually understands his more scientific talk. They can end up having long conversations about a subject that none of the others have a clue of.

- Her name translates to “Paint” (Pandoru that she pronounces as pandora) and “illustration lake.” (Ezuko)

- The world she lives in is based on my fic Reanimate, which basically means there’s no league of villains, as Tenko never became “Shigaraki.” Giran is the only important member (outside of afo) that is still a criminal in this AU. Because of Kain’s dimension hopping ability, this doesn’t mean she doesn’t get to interact with the more villainous versions of the gang, though. 

- Ezuko made Ryuu’s dragon tattoo as a thank you for helping her.

- Her surname is bit of a pun, as it’s written as “Pandoru” aka paint, but after leaving home and her parents behind, she began saying it as “Pandora” referring to Pandora’s box as a bit of a darker joke about her choosing to go against her parents and thus unleashing a lot of bad things into her life. This proved to be even more accurate after the parlor incident. 

- Her parents wanted her to either find a way to become a hero with her quirk, or go into some other highly respected profession for status and money, when Ezuko just wanted to do something artistic.

- Ryuu actually didn’t start crushing on her until after they met again years later after their first meeting, when he and Kain returned from another eventful dimension hopping trip to visit their little sanctuary corner and friends, Wasabi and his mums. Up until then he’d seen her just as a friend/acquaintance

- Wasabi digs her a lot because they have similar hairstyles.

- The vine tattoo represents her quirk and spreads around her arms and shoulders more when using her quirk. When using it in extreme amounts (Like turning a large body of liquid into ink for example) her skin around those parts gets so covered it looks like she just has one large pitch black tattoo covering those areas, and you can no longer see the vine details. 

Also, the ref sheet base was made by yourultraarchive as usual

[lordoftermites]

Fairy Chess ‖ p. ⅰ

I won't deny I've got in my mind now all the things I would do So I'll try to talk refined for fear that you find out how I'm imaginin' you...

Ship: Roiben x Kaye

Summary: {set immediately after Ironside} Kaye provides Roiben with a little more... entertainment at his coronation revel.

Rating: M/E for me going to hell but hey at least i’ve got reading material Part Ⅱ

―――――――――――――――――――

He wanted only one night.

One night, devoid of drunken courtiers. Of the endless pouring of wine. No constant strumming of lutes and harps and laughter echoing through the cavernous hall, no attendants bidding for a moment of his attention with some new seemingly-urgent dispatch. Just a single, fleeting night of glorious, undisturbed peace.

But when you're a king of two courts, both of which would see the other fall to ruin, peace is a knife's edge; a balancing act—not a reward. And no amount of wishing is going to change that.

Still, as Roiben leans back into the twisted branches of birch that make up his blood-won throne, watching the frenzied, continuous dancing, he finds himself hopelessly wishful anyway.

Before the dais, a mass of fey move almost as one enormous wave to the music, their entranced twirling and swaying both beautiful and nauseating. They have all come to celebrate the second crowning of their brutal new lord.

Groups of sprites whirl their little forms above the throng, bathing the packed earth of the newly-rebuilt Palace of Termites in flickering yellow light. Roiben decides he likes looking at them better—their movements don't make his stomach quite nearly as unsteady.

But even then, the way they blink in and out, reminiscent of fireflies in the trees at dusk, causes him to squint himself into the headache he's been suppressing all evening. He sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose, sinking further into the throne that feels so much more like a cage; a cage he killed his way to get into.

“Acorn for your thoughts,” chimes Kaye’s voice against his ear. He smiles, eyes still closed, as he feels the familiar, comforting brush of her fingers slide over his shoulder. Roiben reaches a hand up to cover them, to ground himself in her touch. Her skin is warm— a constant contrast to the chill he can never seem to thaw from his own. “I find I have had my fill of revelry, for the next ten moons at least,” Roiben answers with another sigh. His eyes open to the overcrowded throne room once again, and that weariness washes over him anew. “Unfortunately, it would seem this one has no intentions of slowing anytime before that.” Kaye moves from her position behind him, slipping between his throne to the wooden stool beside it.

Roiben shifts his gaze to look at her, and cannot stop his breath from catching: she’s clad in a fluid, iridescent dress coming to tattered strips just above her clover green knees. Pewter ties gather slashed sleeves at her shoulders, the front of it dipping below her collarbone to pool at the beginning of her sternum. He smiles again: the sheen of fabric is the exact silver of his eyes.

Her wild hair is pulled up into two emerald knots on top of her head—space buns, she called them once, much to his confusion; they resemble neither celestial body nor baked good, but he assumes it’s simply another human reference lost on him. At the roots, she’s dusted a silver glitter that catches the light of the sprites above them. Silver hoops line the length of her earlobe, and from each dangle a single star or crescent moon, respectively. On her feet, to no surprise, are the cracked leather boots she favors above any slipper made by Skillywidden, no matter how intricately stitched or comfortable they might be.

Roiben can’t help but marvel at her: a creature of two worlds, and equally as beautiful in both. He reaches out to take her hand, brushing over the extra joint in her thumb. She smiles at him, the smile that’s just for him, the smile he would burn the world down for.

“I’ve been to some pretty wild raves,” Kaye says, turning her inky black eyes to the sea of Folk before them. “But this one definitely takes the cake.” Again, another human phrase he doesn’t quite understand, but this one makes at least more sense than astronomical hairstyles. When she looks back at him, her brow raises. “It's your coronation revel, and you’re already partied out? I thought dancing till your feet bleed was just another day in Faerie for you.”

He chuckles, eyes settling on her hand in his. He’s almost sure his stomach will betray him if he dares another glance at the swirling revel-goers. “My… previous duties kept me elsewise occupied from most of the festivities,” he replies. To his great relief, neither of them need his explanation of what those duties had been. “When the guest of honor is you, it’s not nearly as easy to slip away unnoticed.”

Kaye leans over to take a fluted glass of wine from the table between them, and Roiben can’t help his gaze shifting up to the loose fabric at her chest, which opens at her slight movement to reveal a hint of the deep green curvature there. He swallows automatically, his throat suddenly dry.

“Like the view?” Kaye asks, leaning against her own arm to further accentuate that curve as she takes a sip of the plum-colored liquor. It’s a small gesture, but it’s enough to make Roiben’s breath catch. When his eyes flick back up to meet her, she’s wearing that coquettish grin that speaks true to her pixie nature. “Though doubtless you already know my answer," he says, giving her an impish smirk of his own, "Verily, I do.”

Kaye shortens the gap between them, near enough for him to smell the clove and blackberry wine on her warm breath. Near enough to kiss him, but she doesn’t. She lingers, instead pulling her bottom lip between her teeth—a move she knows all too well sets a fire alight in his veins, and it’s all Roiben can do not to close that gap between them entirely.

Her hand reaches to the collar of his doublet, where she trails a lazy finger along the silver stitching, brushing feather-light against his neck. He inhales slowly, a deliberate drawing of breath, as though to remind himself where they are. Again, he finds himself wishing the hall was empty and cursing the reality that it isn't.

Kaye pitches her voice low, so only he can hear among the raucous around them. “I think I know how to make this party a little more… interesting. A game. Kinda.”

His brow goes up at that. “A game?” he repeats, only slightly warily. While admittedly, any diversion to keep him from spoiling his own revel would be welcome—by his attendants as well as himself—he’s almost certain, from the mischievous glint in those sable eyes of hers, it isn’t likely to be something as simple as a chess match.

Kaye shrugs. Her gaze drifts down the front of his black doublet to his lap, lingering there momentarily before fluttering back up to his face. There's a craving there in those onyx depth. A shark circling its next meal.

“Unless, of course, you’re too chicken to play.”

Indeed, this will be no game on a checkerboard.

Roiben shifts in his seat, already finding himself full awake from his previously half-present participation in the night’s celebrations. He leans in, until his mouth is against Kaye’s silver-clad ear and grins at the small, sudden breath she takes in response. “If you mean to play a game of torment,” he whispers, his lips grazing her skin, “you may find I am not at all a fair opponent—nor a patient one—when I mean to win.”

Kaye, cheeks flushed with drink and something else, opens her mouth to speak, but is cut off. From below the dais, as if on cue, a throat clears. Roiben, gritting his teeth against a sudden rise of annoyance, draws himself back up on his throne. Bowed to nearly kissing the earthen floor is Ruddles, his chamberlain.

“Yes?” Roiben sighs, unable to hide his displeasure at being interrupted; he was, for the first time tonight, on the verge of actually enjoying his own celebration. Of course there would be something to stall that entertainment. “What is it now, a ninth round of toasting? More petitions? Perhaps a naming of yet another inanimate object?”

The old hob rises with a grunting effort, either unaware of Roiben’s clipped tone, or so used to it by now that he doesn’t let it perturb him. “My King,” Ruddles says formally, and even though the title has been invoked countless times since his first crowning, Roiben still can’t quell the sour taste that floods his mouth upon hearing it.

The chamberlain continues, again oblivious to the ticking in his master’s jaw. “Since it is nearly dawn, I thought perhaps you would wish to retire.” Ruddles turns to sweep his hand over the continuous movement of courtiers. “There are naught but a few simple matters of the court that myself and the other members of the council can handle in your stead—or save upon your return, should so desire."

Desire is the very thing being kept from him at the moment, though it isn't as if his chamberlain knows that. Still, Roiben can barely stifle an eye roll. "I was unaware that I needed permission to—"

The gentle squeeze of Kaye's hand on his arm stalls his scorn, and he forces himself to start over. "Apologies, Ruddles," he sighs. "I admit, I am overtired. I should indeed very much like to rise from this seat—before I become part of its ornamentation." Roiben stands, tired limbs groaning in protest from hours of being stationary.

Kaye stretches at his side, feigning a yawn. "I could totally kill for a bed right now," she says, and while she is also bound incapable of lying, the look in her eye when Roiben meets her gaze tells him there is nothing to do with sleep in her confession. The wink she gives solidifies her meaning.

The little hob nods, seeming to miss their unspoken exchange, and bows low once more. "As you wish, my King. I shall address the court of your retirement—"

Roiben shakes his head to forestall the chamberlain, and holds a hooked arm out for Kaye, who takes it with another squeeze. "No need. They are blissfully unaware of my presence as it is, let them continue. And, Ruddles—" He pauses at the foot of the dais next to the hob, leaning low enough to not be overheard. "It would please me greatly if you saw to it that we are undisturbed."

Ruddles gives a reverent nod and steps aside, clearing their way off the platform. Without stealing another glance back at the endless revel, the king and his consort leave the tumultuous celebration behind them.

[mochalattea]

It’s been a long time since I’ve written anything.. but I’ve “come home” to dl again recently, and in reviewing some of the stuff I’d written in the past, I wanted to write a response to something I wrote a few years ago.. as choppy as it is, I’m trying to get my creative gears turning again.

Winter whipped up around her, in violent gusts of relentless snow and ice that pelted her frigid body. She’d gotten her wish: to succumb to the cold and watch the inky black figure of the being accompanying her vanish in the white-grey distance. Her fingers curled weakly in her gloves, feeling hot enough to burst under the pressure and cold. The storm quieted in her ears as her senses dulled and eyelids grew too heavy to keep open.

There was hardly any reaction at all when a tall creature encroached on the tree-lined path. A faint flickering up of her eyes came when she sensed it, but over the rim of her glasses with her consciousness already slipping, she couldn’t make out the long white hair which elegantly whisked around. Nor could she see the golden eyes that were so inhuman. No—this entity shrouded in billowing maroon robes was hardly perceived at all. A mildly intrigued snap of his fingers sounded and got carried off by the winds; lost, now. He disappeared just as inexplicably, leaving her stuck in time, slumbering through the storm.

                                                            ❈

There was no dawn, nor midday, nor dusk, nor night when she awoke to the oddly gentle sound of glass—ice?—shattering. The snow and ice that built up on her back weighed on her, now that it was no longer suspended over her in a delicate, timeless cocoon. There was only stormy winter and ambiguous white-grey that blurred the division of land and sky.

When she looked up, it appeared that there were eyes in the sky. Dozens of single, unpaired gold eyes blinking at different intervals; what would have been surrounding skin and eyelid blended in with the expanse of cloud. Fear jolted through her spine as these eyes began squeezing shut and popping, audibly, until the illusion broke and sky returned to normal. Dizzied and repulsed by the sight, she coughed hard enough to expel blackened bile, rolling slightly from her front onto her side, and gasped against the cold snow as the snow that had encased her crumbled off of her.

Her clothing crunched as she moved, stiff like cardboard with the slightest bit of give. She had no sense of the time that had passed. Had it been moments? Her brain reeled wildly. Days? That’s impossible. Years? Even more so. Suddenly, it came back to her—those fading memories of a black coat drifting over the banks, being peppered with white snow, freshly falling. Her stomach churned again, and she wretched once more, but nothing except strings of saliva came up this time. Tears pricked her eyes. Terror gripped her, as hot as an iron pressed into the small of her back.

   …I don’t want to fade away and disappear!

Shakily, she began to move. Her fingers stung, ballooned and swollen from the conditions that they were dumb, and hardly braced against the ground beneath her as she struggled to rise to her feet. The trees shuddered; sheets of snow collapsed from branches and landed thickly on the banks below. The howling of the winds were sick laughter. The bare branches chattered against one another in the wind, mocking her.

                                                           ❈

It was unclear how long she ran in the winter. The winds hushed her cries, muting her until her voice was hoarse and dry. So thoroughly oppressed by the weather, it played with her relentlessly. Frost creeped into the bridge of her nose and tears froze on her cheeks as quickly as they fell from her eyes.

At last she stumbled upon her destination and threw herself against the heavy oak door, the closest one she happened across, up an abundance of stairs. A newly installed one that must have been a renovation completed during her undetermined absence. Her arms were paralyzed and uselessly fell to her sides. Again and again, she hurled her shoulder against the door, uncaring as to how bruised and battered she became, until it opened, and in through the doorway she fell.

It is a wordless encounter. She only sees the fine tailored dress pants and polished shoes before black begins to eat at her vision.

Reiji’s eyes fix on her. His lips press into a thin line. He gives a wry laugh, bending down to clutch the collar of her jacket and drag her up on her knees. “Oh? I see. So on the brink of expiration, you thought of nothing other than returning to my side.” His voice is measured, but the words sound unmistakably barbed to her ears. They are neither whispered nor hissed.

The door shuts firmly, hitting her feet in the area it sweeps across. She doesn’t flinch.

His hands worm their way under her armpits and lift her until her feet dangle freely with no ground beneath them. He chuckles against her ear, nose pressing through her hair—matted from the wind and overgrown since she’d last been in his presence. Fear, too, was something the cold has numbed her to.

“Did you think this would please me? I know not whether to praise you for returning to your senses,” his nails dig through the layers of fabric nearest to her flesh, “or to wring your neck the rest of the way myself.” He drops her. “I have absolutely no need for an expired vessel.”

Her legs fold in on themselves and she collapses under her own weight. She pools onto the now-wet carpet of his study. She breathes choppily, still unable to muster words, but finds the sights and smells familiar comforts that make her weep. Reiji leaves, going into an adjacent room after muttering that her reaction was so undeniably human, giving her time to collect herself some. The study is blurry through her tears, but she can tell it is much like she remembers it. A fire burns in the fireplace.

“Stand on your feet and come along, you unbecoming thing.” He stoops some once he returns and helps her along to the bathroom. The process of shedding her winter wear is a painful one, and he scolds her, speaking of the very real possibility of the fabric bringing her skin off with it. Perseverance prevents this, and a new set of dry clothes are swapped out for the wet and weathered ones. The warm knits crunch faintly as he brings them around her shoulders, the threads not used to being stretched after sitting unworn for so long. Reiji removes her glasses, polishing them with a square from his pocket before placing them back on her face.

He next sets about working through her hair. “Well, I suppose even at its best your hair tangled easily, but this…” Starting at the crown of her hair is futile, and so he changes tactics, swiftly bringing the comb through the matted ends. He speaks few words otherwise, aside from the reminder for her to keep her head up, occasionally slipping his gloved hand under her jaw to level her head as it tips forward from fatigue. Once he finishes and can see her hair cascade in limp waves past her shoulder blades, halfway down her back, he readies the scissors.

Locks of her hair fall in coils onto the floor. Slowly, her head feels lighter as her former hairstyle is restored, the ends of her hair narrowly kissing her shoulders. She’s shaking, from the cold and exhaustion, as he brings his fingers down the short length of her hair and curls the side pieces in to frame her face.

“It is finished,” he says, “your appearance is as it should be.” His smile is somewhat pleased—but who’s to say that it’s more of a matter of admiring his own handiwork or the final result itself. He ushers her back into the study and into his armchair as he retreats back into the bathroom.

                                                           ❈

The fire is warm, almost too much so, as she finds herself sitting more at an angle to protect her legs from the immediate heat coming off of the hearth.

She looks around the room, languidly surprised at its abnormal state of disarray. Books are off of the shelves and sit in thick piles. Skimming some of the titles on the spines, she recalls them as having been recent additions to his ever-growing collection not too long ago, yet now they are in need of repair. She averts her gaze, not wishing to question how much time has passed and how it’s even possible that it’s been long enough for her to witness such decay. At Reiji’s desk are more books at various stages of being restored and rebound. Stained pages being aligned and pressed between wooden blocks, ready for glue to be applied. Another book has a threaded needle sitting atop of it, ready to be bound by hand. There’s paper and card used to stabilize covers, and odd bottles and jars of glue.

Still finding her at a loss for words upon his return, he accepts her silence. It’s a return to normalcy. Before, he’d grown accustomed to her company. Something about it is nostalgic to him. He readies another kettle of water so that he can remove the glue from the loose pages soaking in a shallow container on a side table.

Once the kettle starts whistling and he removes it from the burner heating it. A nice aroma fills the room as his tea steeps. After he tends to his work, using the rest of the boiled water on the pages needing glue removed, he turns towards her and starts across the room, cup and saucer in hand. “The temperature is less than ideal for drinking, so I no longer need it. You, however, will not protest to drinking it, I trust? Your tolerance for hot beverages was always quite low.”

“You didn’t have to go to the trouble…” Her first words.

He sighs. “Good grief, must you make me repeat myself?” He sets it down on the table beside her chair. “You have increased my workload plenty with your reappearance. This is simply not allowing my previous efforts to go to waste, understood?”

She nods meekly.

“Speak of your gratitude in a way that is acceptable. Open your mouth; use your voice.”

She thanks him, taking the cup and saucer to her lap before bringing the cup to her lips.

“Very good,” he praises. He swiftly returns to his desk again, beginning to handle the wet papers and scrape the seams clean.

                                                           ❈

Time passes. After she’s had her fill of warm tea, she begins to doze, and finds herself slouching in her chair. She’s never out for very long, and once she’s up again, she watches how he is always switching tasks, seeming to make quick work of the array of books that are repairs in progress. He pulls thread through perforated pages in slow, strong motions. She nods off again.

Eventually he finds himself at a standstill, waiting for glue to set, letting wet paper dry, and weighing down a leather cover that he retouched the gold lettering of. Only then does he bring his attention back to her, still seated in the chair he set her in. He notices that some colour has returned to her cheeks. Her lips and eyelids are no longer an icy purple either.

He saunters over, bringing himself to her level. “Well, how are you feeling? Your condition looks noticeably improved. Come now, sit up properly. You are a lady, after all.”

She’s easily coaxed into shifting in her seat once his words stir her.

He’s so close to her now; the hand she’s had on the armrest is where his falls to, covering it delicately. “Your temperature, now…” He brings his other hand to her hair, smoothing down the back of her head so that her forehead presses against his, and his fingers and palm settle against her neck. “…Could be improved.”

She musters a half smile.

His voice falls to a whisper; softer, gentler. The tone she was hoping he’d greet her with. “Warm yourself soon, for cold blood is as unappetizing as cold tea.”

[dbasiasimbr]

AU Hair meme by @ladybugsimblr

Tagged by @toffeetip ty! ❤️ ❤️ ❤️ ❤️ ❤️

Rules: Post your fave sim(s) in 4 new hairstyles that you always wanted to try out or see them in

Oh ok, this was a hardest for me since I honestly have no favorites and love all my sims so I had to do inky pinky ponky for this one and carmen won lol.

So carmen x straight & wavy hair has never been a concept she mainly been wearing only natural hairs or rocking some type of black hairstyles so I’ve been wanting to try some these hairstyles but never got around to do it especially the last one when I first saw that hair it just screams carmen for me!

I saw this around a lot on the dashborad and was lowkey waiting for someone to tag me so thanks again @toffeetip! 

I tag @zeussim @helloavocadooo @suintor @somegaysimmer @hazelminesims @literalite

[cryoculus]

uhh SURPRISE I was the one who requested for headcanons and/or scenarios for kuroo with a fem reader who can fight 💦💦 she rlly knows how to kick ass, tomboyish and no one rlly knows her at school. Bonus if she saves kuroo's dumbass from getting mugged!! (sooo sorry about requesting when the ask box was closed, I was embarrassed lol)

» Word Count: 3,623 words

Ily HERE IT IS Im so sorry it took so long (and i didn’t even proofread it because i wanted u to read it immediately LMAO) 

“Tetsu-kun, do you have practice later?”

“Tetsu-kun! I made you a bento~”

“Hey, Tetsu-kun, want to go to karaoke later?”  

“Ladies, please, there’s enough of me for everyone,” Kuroo reminded his gathering population of admirers, beads of sweat trickling down the side of his face. These girls were becoming more and more hostile towards each other everyday. How the hell did Oikawa deal with this kind of thing on a daily basis?

One of the girls, her name was Ame if he could remember correctly, linked her arm into his. “I’m the one who first talked to Tetsu-kun when we were first years.”

Uh, no. She definitely wasn’t the first person that struck him up in conversation during his first day in Nekoma. But he thought it would be rude to correct her in front of the other girls, so he just flashed her an awkward smile.

Another one, Emiko, huffed while crossing her arms over her chest. “Well, Tetsu-kun said my bento arranging skills were like his mother’s!”

Yeah, that’s because his mother absolutely sucked at the art of assembling a cute bento. Emiko made nice rice balls though, he’d give her that.

The last of the party, Tsukino, grabbed his other arm, squeezing his biceps a little too tightly for his liking. “Sucks for the two of you then! Tetsu-kun always walks me home~”

Ame and Emiko gasped at the revelation, eyes narrowing at Kuroo.

Okay, he didn’t have a comeback for that. But the only reason he walked Tsukino home when he had time to spare was because the girl latched onto him like a leech when she found out Kuroo lived in the same block as her.

His conscience would maul him for the rest of his life if something happened to Tsukino if he bailed out on walking her home. Thus, the unwanted interactions with her parents whenever they see him at their doorstep.

“God, can’t you idiots continue your polyamorous love quarrel somewhere else?” a shrill voice grated at his ears.

When his eyes fell on the person who obviously woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning, he came face-to-face with you, his classmate with the most muted presence out the students of 3-5.

Your schoolbag hung loosely across your shoulder and your uniform blazer was clutched in your free hand. There were prominent creases on your uniform that made him wonder if you even bothered ironing them before leaving. Probably not. But what made everyone give you a second glance whenever they passed you in the halls of Nekoma was your hair.

There weren’t any strict rules regarding hair grooming being imposed at school, given that Yamamoto and Kenma could dye their hair and style it as they pleased. So, it should only be normal to come across a girl with an undercut.

Kuroo thought the look was pretty badass, but he never really mustered enough courage to talk to you when it wasn’t necessary. He had a feeling that you didn’t have time for menial things like small talk and that, should he attempt to do so, you’d snap his neck before he could say hello.

One time, he asked Yaku about you. The libero had informed him that you’ve been enrolled in Nekoma since junior high, but didn’t really interact with anyone outside of schoolwork and your own irritation. Like you were now.

You sighed, rolling your eyes. “Could you please move out of the way? I’m trying to get into our classroom, thanks.”

Intimidated, the three girls that badgered him cleared a way for you to enter the room. He only noticed it now but they really were crowding the cramped hallways.

When first period began, Kuroo tried to listen to what his Japanese Lit teacher was preaching about sixteenth century literature. He really did, but he was immensely distracted by the pattern razored into your undercut.

You were a few seats in the front to his right, but he could see them clearly—three bolts of lightning beginning at the nape of your neck, which rose about a good four inches until it disappeared in the undergrowth of your hair. He always thought that he liked girls with long hair better, but this was putting an entirely different spell on him.

It was peculiar. You’ve had this hairstyle for a good while now, but he’s only noticed the intricate details that adorned it now. He wondered who your stylist was and how he managed to make that undercut look so good on you.

His teacher eventually called him out for his not-so-subtle daydreaming and made him recite today’s reading in front of the entire class. It wasn’t a big deal to him, really. Kuroo was used to multiple pairs of eyes trained on his every move.

But he wasn’t used to seeing you snort at one of his mispronunciations at the corner of his eye. Usually, you wouldn’t react to anything unless it pissed you off. Did his reading aloud piss you off? Did you care enough about him to garner such a reaction from you? He nearly laughed to himself.

Highly unlikely.

“Kuro.”

Kuroo was about to change out of his sweaty shirt, but upon hearing Kenma using that tone on him, he turned around, brow quirked in wonder.

“Yeah?”

His younger friend gave him an indifferent look. “You’re distracted.”

Would Kenma be fooled if he said otherwise? He shook his head. Of course he wouldn’t. Nothing got past his arbitrary gaze, after all.

It’s been nearly a week since you brushed past him in the hallway, muttering some colourful vocabulary under your breath because of his ‘polyamorous love quarrel’. There hasn’t been any real interaction between the two of you, but at one point, Kuroo would just find his thoughts drifting back to your flat-eyed gaze and unconventional hair do. It happened so often that even Kenma started to notice his focus drifting off to the hinterlands of his mind.

“How so?” Kuroo asked his friend, peeling off the t-shirt that stuck to his body like a second skin. He may be distracted but he definitely burned enough calories for a day.

Kenma let out an exasperated noise. Hearing the setter’s vexation, Lev peeked his head from the door of his locker.

“You got hit in the face with a volleyball twice, Kuroo-san,” the younger boy supplied, “that’s twice than usual.”

“Lev, you can’t multiply two to zero. It becomes zero,” Yaku retorted as he emerged from the shower rooms, towelling his damp hair with an unamused look on his face.

“What, really?”

“This is new information to you?”

The two of them continued to argue about their own mathematical rules while Kuroo managed to stuff his training clothes in a gym bag. He could still feel Kenma’s eyes boring holes into his back.

“I’m all right, Kenma,” he reassured. “I’m just feeling a little under the weather is all.”

The setter narrowed his eyes.

“Liar.”

Ah, there really was no escape when he’s best friends with a goddamn Nancy Drew, was there?

“That’ll be a hundred-fifty yen.”

Kuroo dug a couple of one hundred yen coins from the pocket of his jacket and placed his payment on the counter. The young man running the cashier took his payment and the yakisoba bread in his hands. He stuffed the snack in the microwave to heat and gave Kuroo his change back.

He thanked the guy in a subtle voice, leaning against the counter to wait for his food. There weren’t any other people inside the convenience store and Kenma already went ahead to go home. Kuroo thought that his friend was giving him the cold shoulder because he wouldn’t tell him what was up, in his typical Kenma fashion.

The microwave dinged, signaling that his order was ready. The cashier guy sighed before popping the yakisoba bread out of the microwave and putting it in a paper bag. He handed Kuroo his purchase with little to no enthusiasm.

“Thank you very much.” Even his tone was lackadaisical. Not wanting to add on to his irritation towards the retail industry, Kuroo nodded at him once before promptly exiting the store.

The sky had already transitioned into an inky darkness when he set foot into the streets of Nerima. Kuroo frowned. He could’ve sworn the sun was just beginning to set when he went into the convenience store. But considering it’s almost winter, it explained the shorter days.

Kuroo walked down the streets with passive interest as he nibbled on his yakisoba bread. The noodles were a little stale and the sauce too bland for his palate. He had half the mind to go back to the store to get another snack but, seeing that he was already a good three blocks away, he decided against it. He should’ve known how low the bar was set for Japanese convenience store food.

His strides came to a halt when a hunched figure emerged from an alley. It was a man that’s probably only a few years older than him. Considering his height, he was a lot shorter than Kuroo was; he probably only rose up to the middle blocker’s chin. His clothes were tattered, but a thin cloak shielded him from the low temperature. Sunken eyes bore into Kuroo, considerably unnerving him with that stare alone.

“Oi, nii-chan, you got some spare change on ya?” His voice was rough and throaty, like he hasn’t had a drink of water for weeks.

If he recalled correctly, he still had about fifty yen in his pockets when he paid for his food. Kuroo fished what was left of the coins on his person and handed it to the man without much of a fuss. He wasn’t commuting today anyway.

The stranger counted the money in his hand with bony fingers. He eyed Kuroo from head to toe, most likely piecing together where he studied.

“You go to Nekoma, but only have this on ya?” He growled at him. “Ya think this is a joke?”

Kuroo knitted his brows in confusion at his hostility. What was this guy on about? Kuroo was generous to a fault. Giving some food or money to beggars that called his attention on the street was something he did out of his own accord. They might need it more than he did, anyway. But he never really encountered anyone that asked him for money, got it, and was pissed by the amount.

Deciding to not make a big deal out of it, he flashed him a pleading smile. “Sorry. That’s all I’ve got on me right now.”

“If that’s true then why’re you fuckin’ eating in front of me?”

He blinked at him then stared at the half-eaten yakisoba bread in his hand. Was he really going to give him shit because he’s eating? How could he have pre-meditated that some stuck-up guy was going to ask him for some alms and that said stuck-up guy wouldn’t be happy with small amounts? God, this was giving him a headache.

“Look, sir, uh…” His voice trailed off, trying to figure out how to break it to the guy that he was broke, himself, since he already splurged through his weekly allowance even if it was only Wednesday. Damn Bokuto and his yakiniku dates that he couldn’t refuse.

But before he could form a coherent explanation, Kuroo could feel something cold and hard digging into his side. His eyes widened when he realized what it was.

“She’s pretty ain’t she?” The man moved closer to him, pressing the vintage looking pistol further into his right rib. He shielded the gun with his body so passers-by wouldn’t take notice of it. “Stole it off a cop who wasn’t looking. Took me a while to find the bullets though. But she’s locked an’ loaded, nii-chan.”

He stood frozen in the spot, like even the most minimal of movements would make this man’s tethering patience shatter into pieces. Kuroo really didn’t want to be splintered with the shards of his wrath.

Kuroo forced his thumping heart to ease so he could assess the situation clearly. His dad was a police officer. He’s seen authorized people hold guns a handful of times in his life, and could easily tell that this guy didn’t know shit about proper handling.

He couldn’t afford to offset this guy’s temperance when he’s armed. If he was just some lunatic trying to mug him, he would’ve punched him in the face, but the presence of a gun was a different story. The best-case scenario was that he’d manage to talk some sense into the guy and leave unscathed. The worst was that this could end up into a shoot-out that involved other innocent lives just because he was unhappy with Kuroo’s fifty yen. Fantastic.

Noticing that a bunch of on-lookers were casting wary glances in their direction, the man slipped the pistol back into his pocket and slung an arm around Kuroo like he was an old drinking buddy.

“Let’s talk where it’s a bit more private, shall we?” He switched his throaty voice into a more lively tone, patting Kuroo’s shoulder as he led him into the alley from where he came from.

Calm down, buddy. It’s just a weirdo who wants to mug you off money you don’t have. And he has a gun. But calm. Down.

This alley looked like any other run-down crevice in the city. Murky puddles forming at the side of commercial buildings, a dumpster lying untouched by cleanliness for God knows how long, faded graffiti matting the moldy brick walls, and mice scampering into their tiny little holes at the presence of two men invading their territory.

When they reached the far end, Kuroo could hear the rustle of the man’s clothes as he took out the gun.

Calm down.

“I’ma ask you again, nii-chan,” he cautioned, pressing the muzzle against his temple, “you got some spare change on ya?”

He swallowed thickly. “I—”

“Don’t you know it’s not nice to rob unsuspecting teenage boys?”

Shock immediately crossed his face. He only heard that voice at rare occasions, but he’ll never forget the sound of it.

“Hah?” The man turned around to look at you. “Who do ya think you are?”

Kuroo tilted his head to the side; not enough to grab the stranger’s attention but enough to catch a glimpse of you. Arms crossed, you were donned with a brown fur-trimmed jacket that reached past your knees. The fitted black top you wore very much exposed your stomach and showed a great deal of your bosom. Kuroo tried to avoid looking for longer than he had to. Dark green cargo pants were belted across your hips, the pant legs disappearing into a pair of black combat boots. The look complemented your hair even more now.

His lips parted in wonder. This was the first time he saw you out of school and, frankly, he wasn’t disappointed.

“So, are you going to let him go or am I going to have to do it for you?” The boldness in your tone almost made him want to hit his head on the dingy wall. As far as Kuroo knew, he was the one being held at gunpoint, so he’d really appreciate it if you didn’t rile up the guy holding him hostage at the moment.

The man immediately grabbed him by the shoulder and had him face you directly, shoving the mouth of the gun against his head with a little more pressure than he’s comfortable with.

“S-stay back! If ya don’t want me to blow his head off, you’ll get the fuck out’ta here!” His voice was shaky, his original confidence in his plans going down the drain.

You cast him an uninterested stare. “You’re going to do that even if I went on my way, dumbass. Just go ahead. Shoot.”

Kuroo’s eyes widened, teeth clamping down on his cheeks to bite back a shout. Were you insane?

The man made a choked up sound. “You think I won’t actually do it? Are ya fuckin’ testing me?”

“Now, don’t put words in my mouth.” You rolled your eyes. “Shoot him.”

His dad told him that the best way to solve a problem was to take a step back and think about how you’re going to play your cards. But right now, there were no cards for him to bring to the table because this psycho was going to put a goddamn bullet through his skull. He had no time to—

The man pulled the trigger.

But the bullet didn’t come.

Kuroo exhaled in utter relief as the man repeatedly tried to pull the trigger. His eyes then fell on you, shaking your head at his captor’s stupidity.

“You didn’t cock the damn gun, idiot,” you mumbled, coming forward swiftly.

Taking advantage of his bewilderment, you stomped on his bare foot with the hard soles of your boots. The man yelped, releasing his hold on Kuroo, who immediately slipped out of his grasp the moment he sensed that he was presented with a green light.

He watched the scene in front of him unfold with wide eyes. You slid your foot to knock his legs out of balance, effectively swiping him to the ground. When he lost his grip on the gun, you managed to catch it. The man cowered in fear, backing up against the wall to put as much space between the two of you.

You crouched down, probing the man’s chin upward with the barrel of the gun. “I’m in a pretty rotten mood right now, so consider yourself blessed that I didn’t beat you into a coma.”

“P-please spare me,” he sputtered pathetically.

“Isn’t that what I’m already doing?” A sadistic grin played on your lips. “Next time you try to mug someone, make sure you know how to use your weapons. Oh, and make sure I’mnot in the area. I have zero tolerance for pointless violence.”

The man nodded rigorously. When you moved to the side, letting him free, he scrambled to his feet and ran out of the alley without looking back. Remembering you had company, you cast Kuroo an uninterested glance.

He was gaping at you.

“What, no thanks?” you grumbled, rising up to your feet to pocket the gun in your pants.

A dozen questions were racing in his mind, but he couldn’t voice out any of them. Kuroo settled for gawking at you like a madman. Were the last five minutes of his life true? Did you really just save him from getting mugged? Did you really scare that guy shitless without much effort?

You avoided his astonished gaze, cursing. “This is why I hate seeing people from school outside.”

“Who…are you?” Kuroo managed to ask.

His eyes met yours for a split second and he could feel a jolt of electricity skidding down his spine. Your lips turned up into a grin.

“I’m no one. Go home,” you told him off dismissively, immediately pivoting on your heels to make your leave before he could ask any more questions.

However, your retreating form gave Kuroo a sight that surprised him even more in this situation. At the back of your jacket were three thunderbolts that matched the ones in your hair embroidered onto the fabric of your outerwear; the word ‘Kaminari’ was written in elegant hiragana.

Before you could completely make your exit, you stopped in your tracks. Turning around, you regarded Kuroo with an amused look on your face.

“You should be more selective with people you show your kindness to, you know?” you imparted. “The next time someone decides to fuck you over, no one might be there to save you anymore.”

Then, you were gone.

When he finally got home no later than thirty minutes after the chance encounter with you in the alley, his parents were already in the middle of dinner.

“I’m home,” Kuroo announced as he removed his shoes by the doorway.

“Welcome home, Tetsurou,” his mother greeted him with a tender smile. “Come on, eat! You must be starved from training.”

Kuroo nodded, setting his gym bag on the sofa. He greeted his father, who was reading what looked like police report as he spooned a mouthful of karaage in his mouth.

He slid into his seat and offered his prayers before taking a portion of the food his mother had prepared. Her karaage was his absolute favorite. Well, next to her mackerel pike of course.

“Dear, you’re looking a little stressed,” his mother told his father. “Is that a new case?”

Kuroo Toshirou sighed, setting the folder down on the dinner table. “No, it’s a pretty old case. But it’s been revived because the Kaminari faction’s leader just died. The vacancy is stirring up all kinds of gang wars all over Tokyo.”

Kuroo stopped chewing his food. Kaminari?

His mother cast him a wary glance. “Isn’t that the biggest faction of the yakuza?”

“Yes and that’s exactly why they’re the hardest to keep in check.” He stared at his food blankly. “There have been reports that the previous leader has a child, so naturally, the position should go to his own flesh and blood, right?”

“Dear, you know I don’t have an idea how the underground works.”

“Ah, sorry, honey. But we’ve confirmed those reports just recently. The previous leader, Raijin Hayate, has a daughter, so the rights of inheritance of the leadership can’t go to her because she’s a girl.”

Before Kuroo could stop the words from coming, he blurted out, “What’s the name of the girl?”

His father smiled. “Interested, are you? Her name is Raijin (Name), the true heir to the Kaminari faction.

[eleanor-writes-stuff]

a language that i never knew existed before - Day 2

For @janenightwork, who asked for: “Cafuné please! Modern AU if convenient. <3″

Modern AUs are my bread and butter, so rest assured that this was very convenient. Thanks for the prompt, and I hope you enjoy!

If anyone else would like a Reylo ficlet of their very own this holiday season, don’t forget to leave a prompt!

25 Days of Reylo Also available on AO3

This, Rey thinks on a slow Saturday afternoon, is what they mean by domestic bliss.

She’s lazing on the couch with Ben’s head in her lap, the rest of him stretched out along the length of the chair with his feet dangling over the opposite edge. There’s a movie playing, something Rose recommended to her earlier this week, but Rey tuned it out a while ago in favor of entertaining her own thoughts, and Ben– Ben hadn’t even been paying attention in the first place, flopping into her lap within the first five minutes of the movie with the intention of taking a nap to recover from his week.

“S’nice,” he mumbles, lips warm against the sliver of skin exposed by her short camisole.

Rey snaps out of her reverie, looks down at his closed eyes and peaceful features with a smile. Three years together and she’s still touched by how comfortable he is around her, by how he’s willing to let every single guard down in her presence. “What is?” she asks, dragging her blunt nails down his scalp with the slightest bit of pressure.

Ben makes a sound deep within his chest, a rumbly little thing that gets caught in his throat. If she could get away with it, she’d probably call it a purr. “This. You, me. Nothing else.”

“Yeah,” Rey smiles to herself, combs her fingers through his hair and gathers the length of it so that it spills over her thigh like an inky waterfall. “Yeah, this is nice.”

In the short few months between their first meeting and the day she kissed him to shut him up, Rey used to wonder what his hair would feel like, used to dream of tugging at soft black waves while their lips moved together. Now she cards her hands through it, gently working through a few tangles from last night while Ben burrows deeper into her, warm breath fanning out across her abdomen while his nose nuzzles the skin below her belly button.

Ben drifts back into sleep a few minutes later, and Rey makes a renewed effort at watching the movie, a period piece Rose had lauded for its aesthetics much more than anything else. It’s pleasant enough, watching big, frothy dresses flit across the screen and taking note of all the intricately braided hairstyles, wondering if Ben’s nimble fingers could recreate them.

Wondering if maybe–

“What’re you up to?” Ben mumbles a while later, and she looks down to find him blinking at her with a lazy smile while her hands make a mess of his hair.

Rey stares at her sad, wonky attempt at a braid. Was she supposed to use two strands or three? Ben always uses more than that but then again, Ben is an Alderaanian braid master, trained by none other than his mother. But basic braids use three, don’t they? Except for those Game of Thrones-inspired ones Paige likes to wear sometimes–

“Tried to braid,” she explains to Ben, watching him rub sleep out of his eyes. “Failed.”

He laughs at that, lifts his head from her lap and takes his hair along with him. After an hour of carding through it, Rey’s hand feels oddly bereft without the soft warmth of his curls around her. She watches as Ben quickly locates her snarled mess and tugs his fingers through it with considerably more force than she would.

“Wait, no, let me,” Rey tells him, rises up on her knees and wraps one hand around his shoulder for balance as the other carefully pries his hair free. Ben happily cedes to her, eyes sliding shut as he bends his head for easier access.

“Why were you trying to braid, anyway?” he asks, a smile in his voice. “I thought we agreed that I do the braiding in this relationship.”

“Thought it’d be nice to learn,” Rey shrugs. “Don’t get me wrong,” she assures Ben as the last tangle finally gives in and his curls bounce back into their usual order. “I love that you can do my hair better than anyone else, but this–” she pulls back, gestures at her failed attempt, “–is quite ridiculous, you have to admit. I’m not even sure how many sections I’m supposed to use.”

Ben gathers her into his lap, laughs as he nuzzles the curve of her shoulder. “Three, sweetheart. Let’s start with three.” He moves his legs up to hold her in place, knees pressed against her back, and Rey watches as he gathers her hair and brings it over her shoulder.

“You’ll teach me?” she asks eagerly as Ben sets aside a fistful of hair and begin to section it.

“You clearly need a teacher,” he says with a grin, eyes dancing with mirth. “Besides, I’ll take any excuse to play with your hair. Now, pay attention, Mrs. Solo.”

She leans back into his knees, watches him in his element. When pressed to recall the impromptu demonstration later on, Rey will find that very little of what she remembers from this moment is braid-related.

But for now, she’s happy to sit back and let her husband run his hands through her hair.

So apparently I'm incapable of writing about Reylo and hair without slipping in some of that wholesome braid kink goodness. Oops.

Thanks for reading, and as always, please don't hesitate like/reblog/comment if you liked it!

[ekaterinakostrova]

Nesta is going to teach  Illyrians what the true greatness is. Part 1.

Nesta is going to teach  Illyrians what the true greatness is.

So here I have some thoughts, why Nesta have all chances to become not only the leader among females, but also become the first Queen of Illyria, unite all tribes and clans into one strong nation, and to list some vital reasons, why she must become the Queen.

We already know that Nesta was called as the Queen and as well as the Impress multiple times during the whole series. Knowing the writing style of Sarah J. Maas, she rarely does something without clear intentions, and somehow, she is trying to highlight strong features of character in this way, to convince readers that she just emphasize her strong, unswerving will. Is it so or the writer made a clear path for her character of what could lie ahead, what the future holds? Even in the first book the writer uses such adjectives as “beautiful, imperious, still as one of the High Fae”. And Nesta was remade as the High Fae in the second book.

Of course, some might think that by doing this Sarah is trying to show the cruelty and unbridled pride of her character. Nesta is something so much more. In my view she is the strongest fictional character not only in this series, but a real masterpiece among all characters in Sarah J. Maas’s books. And even when Nesta was a mere human – the powers of one of the High Lords, could not trick her. Readers could see how human girl confront emerging threats and challenges.

“Your beast’s little trick didn’t work on me,” she said with quiet steel. “Apparently, an iron will is all it takes to keep a glamour from digging in. So I had to watch as Father and Elain went from sobbing hysterics into nothing. I had to listen to them talk about how lucky it was for you to be taken to some made-up aunt’s house, how some winter wind had shattered our door. And I thought I’d gone mad—but every time I did, I would look at that painted part of the table, then at the claw marks farther down, and know it wasn’t in my head.”

I’d never heard of a glamour not working. But Nesta’s mind was so entirely her own; she had put up such strong walls—of steel and iron and ash wood—that even a High Lord’s magic couldn’t pierce them”.

A weak human’s mind against powerful magic of one the High Lords. I’m going to applaud to Nesta only because of that. And another thing I love so much in this character is her willingness to save her younger sister. Elain and their father were completely unaware of what was happening, and Nesta constantly kept reminding herself that her sister was kidnapped by the Beast and thrown to these dark and forbidden lands full of terrible creatures. It seems that she did not tell anything to Elain or her father and just went off into the woods. Alone! She did not want to hurt Elain or her father, to make them cry or feel bad. Because for Nesta the suffering of others are the real nightmare and hell. I cannot even agree with people, who keep calling her wicked, spiteful and hateful sister only because of her coldness and sharpness, harsh words. Coldness and sharpness, which she uses as her own and only one shield - to keep her from losing this pride of her. Spiteful and hateful sister would never have gone to the dangerous, hazardous place like Prythian. Sometimes, what is more important than words are deeds and actions on the ground; sometimes for someone actions speak louder than words.

Nesta is described as devastatingly beautiful woman, and even her hairstyle described as a crown.

“Her hair was braided over the crown of her head…”.

And here are some lines that could foreshadow her future place in the Prythian’s lands:

“Nesta was waiting at the head of the table, a queen ready to hold court”.

“Shut your mouth,” she snapped, every inch the conquering empress. “I told you to stay the hell away from me, and if you—”.

She is going to conquer Illyrian clans, to bring all nine warlords to their knees and unite all people.

“A mighty, vengeful queen”.

She is going to take vengeance for what these cruel war lords did to women and children; for what mortal Queens did to her, to Elain, to Cassian.

“By the end of this war, I want them dead. The king, the queens—all of them”.

“She would not bow, or yield, or grovel.

They would pay. All of them”.

Nesta as being the master of chaos and the mistress of darkness.

The teaser in the novella was something incredible, at least for me, and I absolutely loved to feel Nesta’s grief and sadness. But there were so many hints about Nesta’s true nature as a High Fae, especially in these very lines:

“In the beginning

And at the end

There was Darkness

And nothing more”

“There was nothing here, in this place, but darkness and agony and power—”

“She tore into the darkness with claws and talons and teeth. Rent and cleaved and shredded”.

“Laughed around the mouthful of raw power she ripped from the inky black around her and swallowed whole; laughed at the fistfuls of eternity she shoved into her heart, her veins”.

I believe that her powers somehow related with the death, that she has become The Death by herself, but what if she was turned into something completely different? Because she is trying to explain it to readers – she devoured this mighty power of eternity. Therefore, my very guess that she consumed the Darkness that was at the beginning and at the end, the Darkness that was before the Claudron.

Amren said to my sister, “You’re a real piece of work.”

“We are the same, you and I,” Amren said.

“Not in flesh, not in the thing that prowls beneath our skin and bones …” Amren’s remarkable eyes narrowed. “But … I see the kernel, girl.” Amren nodded, more to herself than anyone. “You did not fit—the mold that they shoved you into. The path you were born upon and forced to walk. You tried, and yet you did not, could not, fit. And then the path changed.” A little nod. “I know—what it is to be that way. I remember it, long ago as it was.”

Amren’s red lips parted in a wide, serpentine smile. “When you erupt, girl, make sure it is felt across worlds.”

The burning pride and loneliness of the vengeful Queen.

Nesta is associated with Illyrians.

“Nesta held her ground, proud as any Illyrian. More vicious, too”.

“Mor blinked, but confided to me with a wince, “I think we’re going to need a lot more wine.”

Nesta’s spine stiffened. But she said nothing.

“I’ll raid the collection,” Cassian offered, disappearing through the inner hall doors too quickly to be casual.

Nesta stiffened a bit more.

Teasing my sister, poking fun at her … I snatched a seat at Nesta’s side and murmured, “They mean well.”

Nesta just ran a finger over her ivory-and-obsidian place setting, examining the silverware with vines of night-blooming jasmine engraved around the hilts. “I don’t care.”

Nesta is too proud to let these people see her own tremendous pain and suffering, fragility and vulnerabilities. Instead of showing her weakness, she simply says this very phrase: “I don’t care.” A terrible phrase for a young woman of her age, because she’s trying so hard to keep herself strong, especially for the deeply sensitive person.

“Behind us, Amren murmured to Nesta, “Cassian has gone to war many times, girl. He isn’t general of Rhys’s forces for nothing. This battle was a skirmish compared to what lies ahead. He’s likely visiting the families of the fallen as we speak. He’ll be back before the meeting.”

Nesta said, “I don’t care.”

“Every piece of art had been picked by Feyre herself, or painted by her, so many of them portraits and depictions of them—her friends, her new family.

There was not one of her, naturally.

Even their gods-damned father had a picture in here, with him and Elain, smiling and happy, as they’d been before the world went to shit.

But during that tour, Nesta had noted the lack of herself here. Said nothing, of course, but it was a pointed absence”.

Nesta is struggling with her own weakness and vulnerabilities, but the words of people and their opinions mean a lot to her, especially Cassian’s opinion.

“You,” Cassian said from the armchair to her left. “This bullshit behavior.”

Her spine locked up, fire boiled in her veins at the insult, the arrogance—

She can try to deceive herself by saying that she does not care about someone else's opinion, but it is not. You can see it in her whole attitude that she feels a strong mental pain from the insults and harsh words.

[itsteaveetime]

//Drafts I’ve had saved for freaking ever I’m sorry.  Drabbles I’ve missed you.//

The tour is completed.  A new chocolatier has been found.  Charlie Bucket has accepted the factory.  Willy Wonka only has one little problem.

Well, four, technically, but at the moment he is only frowning at one.

The little demon is still where he left it: arms crossed petulantly across his skinny chest, trapped inside a circle of salt.

Everyone knows that Willy Wonka is the world’s greatest chocolatier, but fewer know that he is also a skilled monster hunter.  He supposed they didn’t: the thing knitted together out of Bavarian bits, the father and daughter duo of vampires, the wolf-girl, and the aforementioned demon.  If they had, why would they have come?

Well, to challenge him, of course.  That is the other possibility.  To prove themselves better; to turn the hunter into the hunted.  To take his factory as the ultimate insult.

Only: they hadn’t been much of a challenge.  The demon really is very small.  And he hasn’t gotten any bigger.  His horns have not erupted from under his snapback: they remain small and slightly blunt.  Claws have not unsheathed from his fingers.  He has freed his tail from the confines of his pant’s belt loops, but all it does is thrash behind him, like an annoyed cat’s.  He still looks exceptionally young and mostly human.  His eyes, of course, were revealed to be utterly black, soul-less pools the moment Wonka plucked his sunglasses from his face and imprisoned the little brute with a salty flick of his wrist, but after the initial tantrum...

The creature looks, frankly, uncomfortable to have been unmasked.  He has pulled the brim of his cap lower, and though he tries to glare up defiantly, there is an obvious hint of fear in his inky gaze.

Perhaps there should be.

The chocolatier taps the top of his cane with one finger.

“Why,” he asks the demon, “exactly are you still here?”

The creature spreads his arms wide at the circle surrounding him.

“Uh, duh,” he says, voice still high and prepubescent and not speaking in any sort of tongues.  “Can I have my shades back now?”

Hmm.

But it could be some sort of trick.  A final attempt to get him to lower his defenses by lulling him into a false sense of security.  

“You’re certainly free to apparate yourself back down to, uh, ‘the deep south’,” Wonka points out.  The circle would not prevent that: it only traps the creature in this realm.

The demon stares at him flatly.

“I’m from Idaho,” he says.

Wonka was not aware that Idaho had become hell on earth, but, he supposes, he has not gotten out much recently.

“Well.  Wherever,” Wonka allows.

The demon glares harder.  But the hint of fear is still there.

“If I could leave, I woulda done it already!” He insists.  

“Wouldn’t you have,” Wonka says, more than asks.

The little demon spreads his arms wide again and makes a ‘duh’ expression.  One of his hands passes too close to the circle’s edge and he yanks it back to his chest, clutching his fingers with his other hand.

“I can’t do that stuff!” He says, petulantly.  He scratches absently at the back of his hand through his fingerless glove.  He strikes the chocolatier as unexpectedly...sincere.

He strolls around the perimeter of the circle, studying his captive.  The demon pivots, so his back is never to him.  But the creature’s hands are at his sides (or scratching at his forearms).  He isn’t concealing anything behind him.

“Why did you come here?” Wonka asks.  He’s no longer completely sure what he believes the answer is.

“I won your stupid contest,” the demon sasses back.

The chocolatier resists the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose in frustration.

“Clearly,” he says.  “But why-...”

“I just wanted to see the cool stuff!” The demon blurts.  There’s a whine at the edge of his voice; a barely audible hint of desperation.  “What, you think ‘cause I’m not...not...human, I wouldn’t wanna see a chocolate factory?  Your stupid contest rules never said I had to be...whatever.”

The demon’s tiny hands are balled into fists, and his narrowed gaze is fixed on the toes of his sneakers.

Wonka blinks.

“How old are you?” He asks, after a long moment.  The creature looks up.

“Twelve,” he answers.”

“And how old are you in human years?” Wonka continues.  The demon boy frowns.

“Twelve,” he repeats.

Ah.

That is...unexpected.  But it explains why the boy has not transformed into anything more threatening, or why he hasn’t disappeared in a puff of brimstone to the firey pits of hell yet.  The Idaho aspect is still somewhat confusing.

“Your mother is certainly free to come and get you,” Wonka points out.  He does not add: if she dares.  He assumes that is why the...probably succubus has not apparated in to collect her spawn: fear that the trapped...child has become a trap himself.

He hasn’t.  Charlie’s victory has left Wonka feeling magnanimous.  He’s perfectly willing to let the fiends slink off with their pointed tails tucked between their legs.

Also: twelve.  Twelve is...the boy himself would probably insist that it is not young, but it is.  It is young enough to leave an uncomfortable feeling in the pit of Wonka’s stomach.  Any plots against him were surely not constructed by a twelve year old.  The boy is a pawn, at best, and at worst...

Perhaps he did just come to see the ‘cool stuff’.  Perhaps Wonka’s reputation does not proceed him as far as he thinks it does.  Perhaps the boy (and the others) really were expecting nothing more than a tour.

Perhaps he has...overreacted?  But it’s simply too much of a coincidence.  No.  They are monsters.  Monsters do not tour chocolate factories.  And any way: this one cheated his way into winning his ticket.  ‘Hacked’ it, apparently.  He is no innocent. 

But still, the feeling remains, and Wonka taps his cane against the side of his also tapping foot and wishes the mother would appear and remove both of them so that they might no longer be his problem.

“How’s she supposed to do that?” The boy huffs, still scratching at himself, even more vigorously.

“Poof?” Wonka suggests, his hand motions implying that Mrs. Teavee really ought to get on with it and step out of a puff of smoke already.

The boy gapes at him.

“MY MOM IS A HUMAN, YOU CHOCOLATE DOOFUS!” He shrieks, before ripping off one of his fingerless gloves.

The skin on the back of the boy’s hand is red and irritat-...but no, it isn’t.  It is red, but it isn’t skin.  Scales are erupting along the back of his hand, creeping over his knuckles and towards his fingers, as well as up his wrist.  They look as though they have been doing so for some time, and will likely continue, until a pair of fingerless gloves and a hoodie can no longer hide them.

Wonka’s mouth feels dry.

“Your mother is...?”

“OBVIOUSLY,” the boy spits.

Had it been obvious?  He had assumed: make-up, and: that hairstyle could have hidden an impressive pair of horns...

“I see,” the chocolatier says, softly.  Because he does see, now.  He has more than overreacted.

“You shouldn’t scratch,” Wonka continues, crossing into the salt circle.  The boy neither flees, nor attacks.

“It itches,” he whines.

“It will, I suspect, until they’ve finished coming in,” Wonka tells him.

The boy glances glumly down at the scales threatening to cover his entire hand.  They gleam iridescent reds and oranges.  They might be pretty on a fish, or a lizard.  But they are on a boy.  And soon, Wonka suspects, they will be all over said boy.

“I wish they’d get it over with,” the boy sulks.

“That might make it somewhat hard to go outside,” Wonka points out.

“I don’t go outside now,” the boy snorts.  “I don’t have to.  I can just Google anything.  Whatever.  I don’t care.”

He does, Wonka can see, beneath his childish posturing, care.

“My mom’s already totally freaked that somebody might find out,” the boy grumbles.  “So what?  I don’t care if she’s embarrassed.  She’s not the one with a tail.”

“I don’t think,” Wonka says, carefully, “that that is her reason.”

“Sure it is,” the boy continues.  “She just wants everything to be all normal, and apple pie.  It’s her fault if I’m not.  She’s the one who...you know...my dad.”

The boy shudders, then pulls himself together.

“But I knew if I hacked your stupid contest, she’d have to let me come.  ‘Cause it’s like: once in a lifetime chance, you know?  And I don’t have forever.”

He looks back down at his un-gloved hand.

“Pretty soon, even if I get a once in a lifetime whatever, I still won’t be able to.”

He glances back up.  The fear has gone from his black eyes now.

“I didn’t touch anything,” the boy insists.  “I didn’t even do anything wrong.”

“You were rather rude,” Wonka points out.

The boy rolls his eyes, which looks strange without pupils.

“I suppose that’s what happens,” Wonka allows, “when you don’t get out much.  A lack of social skills.”

“You’re a lack of social skills,” the boy grumbles.

“Sometimes,” Wonka agrees.  He reaches into his pocket, and then hands the boy back his sunglasses.  The boy grabs at them almost desperately and shoves them back on his face.  His shoulders relax.

“Do you know who I am?” Wonka asks.

Confusion wrinkles the boy’s face.

“Willy Wonka?” He guesses, like he doesn’t know why he is being asked such a stupid question.

“Willy Wonka, world famous chocolatier,” Wonka tells him.  “And hunter.  Of vicious Wangdoodles, Vermicious Knids, vampires, ...demons...”

He waits for that to sink in.  It does not take long.  The boy is deathly still before him.

“Oh,” he says, all of his sass gone.

“I’m fairly certain your mother is only trying to protect you,” Wonka says.

“What’re you...what’re you gonna do to me?” The boy asks.  His voice quivers.  Then suddenly his fists are balled again, and his little chin is stuck.  “It doesn’t even matter.  Do whatever.  What’ve I got to look forward to anyway?  Stuck in my mom’s basement forever?  You can do your worst, Old Man, I’m not scared.”

The boy is certainly scared, but Wonka cannot help but sympathize with his predicament.  He’s very smart, to have broken into his computer systems.  It’s very easy for a smart child to become very bored.

And for a child who is different from other children to become very lonely.

And for a lonely child to become angry.

The boy has not yet reached his final, demonic form.  When he does, Wonka suspects, he could be a serious problem.  Could turn into something truly monstrous.  But for now...

“I’m letting you go,” Wonka says, scuffing a wide section of the salt circle away with his cane.  “For now.”

The boy stares at him.  His expression is unreadable.  Then he edges past the older man, and slinks sideways to the door, never turning his back on Wonka completely.  He pauses, one hand on the doorknob.

“Did you kill those other kids?” He croaks.

“Of course not,” Wonka insists.  “They were children.”

At least, he knows that now.  And the thought of what he nearly did grips at him; causes the bile to rise in his throat.  They have all of them been lucky today.

Mike Teavee nods curtly before leaving.  There is the sound of small, sneakered feet scampering away as quickly as they can.  Wonka hurries to an emergency phone; instructs the Oompas to free their other guests as quickly and gently as possible.

“Mrs. T.,” he says, greeting the oddly dressed woman as she ushers him into her house.  She has only aged a little in the nearly six years since the factory tour.  Wonka himself has not appeared to age at all.

Mrs. Teavee wrings her hands.

“Mr. Wonka,” she says, nervously.  “He’s...well, you know.”

Her eyes dart towards the basement door.

“There’s no need to worry,” Wonka assures her.  “I’m perfectly capable of handling him.”

He descends into the darkness of the suburban basement cautiously.  The smell of brimstone hangs in the air.  At the bottom of the staircase, he holds up his cane and thrusts.  It smacks against something solid.  Loudly.

There is a roar.  A pair of ominous red eyes glows in the darkness.  They are all Wonka can see, other than a set of sharp, gleaming white teeth.  He thrusts with his cane again.

This time he does not miss the light switch.

Michael stretches his arms and finishes yawning.  His eyes adjust in the sudden light, fading back to their usual black.  He scratches at his scaled chin with his well manicured claws.

“Ugh, mom, what time is it?” He groans.

“Good morning, Michael,” Wonka says, with fake cheer.  “So pleased you’ve finally decided to join us.”

Mike is blinking at him now.  He’s tangled in the sheets of a futon, still wearing the clothes he had on yesterday.  His blue t-shirt contrast with the red scales that cover him from nearly head to toe, with the exception of his scalp, from which his horns and wild black hair grows, and the palms of his hands.  He looks utterly demonic, but he has for some time now, and it is almost hard to picture him as looking anything but.  Almost.  He remembers the boy on the tour.  And he remembers when the boy passed the point of no return, and ceased to be able to pass as a human being.  It had been...difficult.  But he had not been alone.

The room around Mike is a mess.  Sneakers and gaming accessories and unidentifiable bits of machinery are strewn everywhere.  He lunges for his phone, which is tangled in the sheets as well.

“Oh fu-...udge, I’m late,” he exclaims.

“Yes you are,” Wonka agrees.  “You are late.  You are very, very, late for work young man.”

“Mom, why didn’t you wake me up!” Mike demands.

Mrs. Teavee has descended into Mike’s domain as well.

“I’m sorry, honey, you just looked so peaceful,” she says.

Mike groans again and flops back against his pillows.

“Up all night gaming, I presume?” Wonka asks.

Mike sits up, frowning.

“What?  No.  I was working on your codes,” he insists.  He reaches for a tablet on the table beside his sofa/bed.  Wonka swipes through several pages of work.  And then several more.  And more.

“Is this finished?” He asks.  “The first pass isn’t even due until next week.”

“I was in the zone,” Mike says, shrugging his scaly shoulders.

Wonka cannot tear his eyes away from the tablet.  It is, like all the work Mike does, good.  Very, very good.  This will push the production timeline forward at least a month.

“You,” he commands.  “Go back to sleep.”

“No way,” Mike argues, climbing out of his sheet cocoon and shoving his scaley feet into a pair of sneakers.  “I wanna see the look on Steve’s face when he sees that artistic masterpiece.

They are in Wonka’s glass elevator only a short time later and after only a brief nagging from Mrs. Teavee about the state of Michael’s room.

“You coulda just summoned me,” Mike points out, during their short commute.

“You don’t always wear pants to bed,” Wonka points out.

“Tail,” Mike says.  “But also: fair.”

At the factory, Oompas go about their business.  Mike waves at one the moment they have departed the elevator.

“Steve!” He calls out, making his way over to the small, orange haired man.  His tail swishes happily behind him.

A bat flaps beside Wonka’s head, and then turns into a blond Russian girl.

“Veruca,” he greets her.  She beams at him.  Her fangs gleam.  They are sharper than Michael’s.

His demonic employee has apparently finished rubbing his genius in Steve’s face, and is now trying very hard not to look obvious as he watches the head of social media style her beard.  The wolf-girl notices anyway.

“Play your cards right, Teavee,” Violet Beauregarde purrs, “and maybe I’ll let you watch me brush my legs.”

Mike’s black eyes widen, and Violet dissolves into giggles.

“I ain’t even playing with you though,” Wonka can hear her tell him, and Mike sidles closer to her.  He hopes briefly and fruitlessly that Mrs. Teavee has had The Talk with her son, so that he does not have to.   

(He is probably going to have to.)

He stops watching them.  His factory defies explanation.  His workers have long been fantastical.  He had not expected his Golden Ticket contest to result in four of the most fantastical yet.

But you cannot spell fantastical without fantastic.  And that is just the sort of candy Wonka makes.

[chief-1-hunet]

Change: Chapter 3

Heeeyy. It’s hheerre. I tried making it longer again, lol. And one of our favorite characters is in it!! Strife!!!!!

Also, I got to interview the one and only @deathgivenlife as their character, Death, for some inspiration! Amazing blog, check ‘em out!!

And thank you @darksiders-fanfic-and-drabbles for your kindness!

Sephtis is not my character, it is @azul-alvarez ‘s character. Please go suppoooorrtt theeeemmmmmmmmmmmm, it’s freaking awesome.

Memphis is my character, the twin sister.

Bethel is my character. 

All the other characters belong to the Darksiders franchise.

Let’s do this!

“You must leave your weapons. Your father had to do the same,” the Horsemaster’s words were thickly spoken. By now, the twins knew when the Horsemaster meant business, or as the twins have come to call him, Ahern. He insisted this day must come.

The twins were standing at the cliff where their nephilim relatives once stood. It was time for them to receive their noble steeds.

The Horsemaster was not their only audience. Their uncle was also present.

Gunslinger Strife. He had his arms crossed like Ahern next to him, smirking all the while, “Don’t worry. There are only two possible outcomes. Either you get yourself a horse, or…” he snickered, “Ya die.”

Memphis’s shoulders slumped, “Oh.”

She stood at approximately six feet, ten inches. She wore a fully black undergarment that covered her from the neck down, perhaps some sort of under armor. A belt that held some essentials, and a cloth between her legs for purely aesthetics, and a pair of knee high, leather brown boots consisted of her lower half. Her upper half was simply a breastplate above her under armor that matched her boots, and a sheath she carried on her back for her spear.

Memphis apparently decided it best to trade her long, matted hair from her childhood for a tight braid that went down to her knees. It was probably best…

“And no magic, either, Sephtis,” Ahern shot.

Sephtis glared over his shoulder, “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

He stood at seven feet. Quite a muscular build, and it was all natural from his nephilum blood. His hairstyle never changed. Just long black hair down to the middle of his back, and unlike his father, he tucked it behind his ears. He wore the same under armor as well, but only on his upper half. Black leather boots, and a brown, leather, hooded cloak. His weapons were two swords that lay at his sides. The blades themselves were black, while the handles were what appeared to be platinum with a black leather wrapped around.

“Watch your tongue, Sephtis. You’ll be thanking him when this is over.” Strife warned.

Memphis murmured to her brother, “He’s right, Sephtis.”

He simply grunted.

“Well,” Ahern gestured to the cliff, “One of you-”

Memphis sprint to the edge, barely able to contain her excitement.

“Memphis!!” Sephtis began to follow and was about to jump after her, but was taken by the elbow by his uncle.

“Not a good idea, kid,” Strife smirked.

Sephtis was failing to pry the horsemen’s grip, “But you said we could DIE!” He looked to Ahern, “What if she doesn’t come back?!”

Ahern removed his hat and dusted it off, clearly unfazed by Sephtis’s reaction, “Then she dies, Sephtis.”

The eyes of Death’s only son burned, not like lava, but like charcoal. They became darker and darker. His hair rose from his shoulders, floating, much similar to his aunt’s. This only tightened the grip on his elbow.

“Enough,” Strife used a tone he usually never used; cold, “Are you really going to ruin this for yourself?”

The Horsemaster knew Strife was one of the very few individuals that Sephtis would listen to, even if it was begrudgingly. Today was one of the days that Sephtis really needed to listen.

Sephtis realized he was baring his teeth, breathing like an animal. Slowly, his humanity returned, and the grip on his elbow loosened.

Finally, Sephtis was able to stubbornly pull away from the horsemen, “Sorry,” he breathed out.

“One day,” Ahern looked to the cliff, “Sorry won’t be enough, Septhis.”

~~~

The three were standing at the cliff for approximately fifteen minutes. Still, nothing.

Sephtis was getting impatient, sitting in a meditating pose.

Strife was leaning against a rock, inspecting Redemption.

Ahern never moved a muscle.

Suddenly, a whinny, in the distance.

Memphis and her new steed came racing up the cliff, leaving a cloud of dust in their wake. They zipped passed the three, and Memphis sounded absolutely delighted. She “woo-hooed” and laughed, and her steed seemed to be filled with the very same excitement. Together at last.

Her horse was all black with eyes as white as the clouds above. It’s whinnies sounded so haunting, like a ghost from the past seeking revenge. It’s fur appeared to simply be black smoke, as if all that galloping was enough to erase it’s physical form from existing at all.

Ahern never flinched when the horse zipped past, he only smiled. He knew she could do it all along.

Strife absorbed her excitement, waving to her as she galloped all over the place, enjoying her new companion, “Hey! We wanna see him, sweetheart! Bring him over!”

Memphis was pulled back to reality, but was more than happy to show him off. She trotted to the three of them, the smile never going away, “His name is Phantom!”

The Horsemaster nodded, “Good name, Memphis. Suits him well.”

Strife smiled up at Memphis, “Good job, sweetheart. Ya did it,” he pet Phantom, “He’s swift, too. Looks like we’ll have to race,” his smirk was so wide, you could see the gleam on his canine tooth.

Sephtis approached Memphis and her steed. He stopped in front of the horse’s face, looking him in the eye. He patted his muzzle gently, “Thank you for accepting my sister. Take care of her.”

Phantom snorted in response, blowing black smoke in his face. Almost like he was saying, ‘Duh.’

Memphis cocked her head, inspecting her brother, “You did the thing didn’t you…”

Sephtis’s eyebrows lowered, “What do you mean?”

Memphis dismounted from Phantom. Her palm slid across her brother’s cheek and pushed his hair back behind his ear, “That’s how I know.”

Sephtis gave her a small chuckle, “What can I say, I worry about you, Memphis.”

She could only give him a sad smile in return, and he knew precisely what she meant by it.

Ahern approached Sephtis and patted him on the back, “It’s your turn.”

Sephtis nodded, and pressed his forehead against Memphis’s, “For you… sister.”

She placed her hands on his shoulders, returning the affection, “Do something for yourself for once, please.”

~~~

It took even longer for Sephtis to return. Almost thirty minutes had passed by, even Strife was becoming a little uneasy.

“Ahern…” Strife queried.

“Trust me, if he was dead, I would know.”

Strife went and sat next to Memphis, handing her his helm, knowing she liked to mess with it, “So, what do you think your brother is doing down there.”

She happily took his helm and placed it over her own face, “He’s either trying to wrestle one of them, or he’s hiding and still trying to strategize what he’s going to do,” she giggled when the helm fell off because it was too big, “But I have faith in him. He’s very smart, minus the fact that he has a temper.”

Strife tugged at her braid, “You think highly of him.”

She punched his arm after he tugged at her hair, “Stop that! And yes, I do think highly of him, and he thinks the same of me. We’re a team, ya know!” She sounded very proud.

Strife didn’t even flinch from the punch (because it obviously didn’t hurt), but mainly because her comment left him in a sort of daze. His golden gaze looked into her fiery one, and he softly smiled, “Well, I hope your guys’ relationship stays that way. You would be doing better then me and my brother.”

The tone of the conversation suddenly became lonely, “Strife?”

He raised his brows, “Yeah?”

“Why exactly do you and father not get along? It almost seems like something happened between the two of you, and not just because you two have conflicting personalities.”

The horsemen was taken aback at the question, but he quickly regained himself, for he knew the question would eventually come. He sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. He looked up at the sky, appreciating every cloud and wide open space, “Yeah. Something did happen. We were brothers at one point. Maybe not as close as him and your uncle War, but, we had a decent relationship. Heh,” he snickered, “There was a point we actually enjoyed each other’s company.”

Memphis listened intently, never diverting her attention, “Really?”

“That’s right, sweetheart,” he nudged her chin, “But I’ll never tell you what happened.”

She gasped, “What?! You can tell me Strife! I swear I won’t tell Sephtis this time!”

He laughed, “That’s not the issue.”

Before Memphis could utter another word, a shadow appeared over her. She looked up to find her brother mounted on his new companion.

The horse was of a very dark, sickly green color. It’s mane went down to it’s knees, and the tail dragged on the ground. The steed looked like it was… sick. It was as if it was infected with and incurable disease, but at the same time, the illness is what gave it it’s strength. It’s eyes were a clouded over, like milk spilt in water that was constantly being stirred. It’s teeth was covered in a black, inky substance that spilt out whenever it opened its mouth. It’s whinny also sounded ill, but was very loud, as if to warn others of its presence. It’s purple veins were constantly pulsating out from its skin, and wherever it’s hooves touched the ground, it was poisoned…

Sephtis dismounted, and patted his steed’s neck, “Everyone, this is Virus.”