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Hey, fictionhearted here! Can I get a moodboatd for The Narrator (Slay The Princess) moodboard with any of the following themes?
Violin
Sheet music
TW daggers
Writing/calligraphy/cursive
TW real hearts/blood
Cabins
Crows
Fancy pens
Thank youuuu
HOLY SHIT THIS IS NOT A DRILL PEOPLE
ARE THEY TRYING TO REDO THE EVIL ARC OR SOME SHIT!?!?
AFTER ALL OF THE ANGER WE HAD OVER THE TEEN TITANS RUN THEY PULL THIS BS!?!?
GAUTER THY LOINS CUZ WE MIGHT NEED TO REMARCH INTO BATTLE 🗡️🗡️🗡️🗡️
pencil emoji, also could you please turn on anon?
Have a murderous clown man.
(And sorry I had to turn on anon over my pc so I couldn't get it done yesterday TTwTT)
Virgil: I shit you not Remus, it was *this* big!
Remus: There’s no way. Impossible! I’ve had hundreds of those in my hands, and they’re *never* that size!
Virgil: Would I lie about something so critical?
Patton: I’m afraid to ask but... What are you two going on about?
Remus: We’re discussing knives, of course. Well, daggers, technically. I never remember the difference.
Virgil: Why? What did you think we were talking about?
Roman swung his signature sword experimentally, testing the balance as he always did. The straight backed sword gleamed in the light, showing its razor sharp edges, a result of him sharpening it every night. It wasn't his katana, but a sword that he was arguably more skilled with. He saw Patton watching curiously and grinned.
"Up for a spar?" he asked.
Patton raised an eyebrow, "And have you chop me in half? No thanks, Ro." "Aw, c'mon. You have wind powers and the sword's blunted! You'll be fine," he grinned once more.
The super huffed out a laugh, "Roman, you sharpen that thing every night. It's nowhere close to being blunted.”
Roman examined the edge of the sword before shrugging, "Well, I won't hurt you if that's what you're worried about. Plus, you have your daggers."
Patton gave him a long suffering look, leaning back in the chair. Roman let out a sigh, muttering something under his breath before speaking louder.
"I can use a wooden one," he finally relented, sheathing his sword inside its scabbard. "Thank you," Patton muttered. "I'll get my wooden daggers as well."
Roman muttered more under his breath, which Patton wisely chose to ignore.
"Alright, fireboy," Patton said, crouching slightly as he held the two wooden daggers in a ready position. "Bring it on."
Roman swung his wooden sword in tiny circles as to keep his wrist from tiring, along with keeping it fluid. He snorted, "Do your worst, Aang."
Patton shot a mock glare at him before becoming focused again. "3," they both tensed slightly.
"2," their grips on their weapons tightened for a fraction of a second before relaxing.
"1."
"GO!"
just a small little one-shot (ig?) i wrote for the superhero au whilst bored
So a weird thing I realised a few days ago: I decided my Micheal Schmidt/Afton’s bday was going to be March 14th, this year I realised that is the day before the Ides of March.
Now his bday is March 15th and everyone always trolls the shit out of him for it (most of his bday presents somehow involve Caesar’s death and he probably gets given cookies shaped like knives/daggers)
you know if you don't want to talk, i understand. but i just don't think there's anything wrong with getting a little bit of help. ( maisie roth )
At sixteen years old, Maisie Roth had been lifted from the arena, bathed in a sea of scarlet blood and clutching onto her daggers with so much force that no one could pry them from her cold, reddened fingers. Her body, once beautiful and unmarred, had been covered in scrapes, cuts, and bruises, the marks paying homage to the battle that had gone down in the arena. Her lip had been split, painting the bottom half of her face in blood (or mayhaps the blood had belonged to another; there was so much that no one could be sure). The public never learned of how scarred she had been, though, because only a handful of hours later, she had been pushed onto a stage with Caesar Flickerman, forced to play the part of a charmer, a jewel.
An oh so charming interview had followed, causing the capitolites to eat out of the palm of her hand. Later, though, once she was left alone within the seemingly, safe secure confines of her quarters, she broke down, letting her facade dissipate, flying away with the breeze.
“There is,” she breathed, her eyes glued onto her hands. She had scrubbed and scrubbed, trying to cleanse them, but they felt muddied, marred beyond words. “If I start crying, I don’t think I’ll be able to stop, and then . . . then they’ll have no use for me.”
