#ofmarx

a triple promo with your marx, kei's marx, and my marx and the caption is something about a threesome

MY TAKUMI *

I DON'T HAVE A MARX

marukumi:

IF I AM ANYTHING, IT IS VIOLENCE.

“Gods.. dammit!”

Frustration laced in her tone, anger mixed with defeat and anguish; once her wielder had fallen, it was only a matter of time before she followed. And now here she was, arrow to her throat just waiting to be released and strike the fallen blade. All her training; all that new power, as well as the power given to Marx.. wasted in moments.

“To us.. was there ever an ‘us’? When the fifth weapon was made- Yato. That’s when it all fell apart.. and why I chose to fight you all..? One answer, you bastard..”

“... loyalty.. you really think I took any form of pleasure from the needless slaughter of hundreds!? There is no glory in slaying innocents; just cruelty and pain!! Where’s your wielder!? Standing now!? Alive!? Does he believe he did right!? He will live to slay more! MY WIELDER- MARX!! HE DIED HONORABLY!! HE DIED FIGHTING FOR THE FLAWED, DAMNABLE THING HE BELIEVED IN TO HIS VERY LAST BREATH!!!”

Teeth grit and bared at the bow; all that rage let out in a single go. And now, she lowered her head once more.

  A haphazard misplacement paves opportunistic roads for accidents aplenty. Whether the binding in a tome unsticks mid-scene or a collection of background items collapses onto the head of a colleague, misfortune is   b o u n d  to happen in a studio so collectively filled day by day.

  Today's mishap? Her Blessed Lance.

  It wasn't unusual for Azura to lose the prop. However tall it was, it had a tendency to become shadowed behind the larger weaponry. Cots for scenes could easily mask its shape, if it was to be dropped beside one, and bookshelves were typically large enough to avoid protrusion of the lance's tip. Even when she had the prop within sight, a single misstep could cause it to fly from her grip, or a lack of energy chipping away the coats of paint as she dragged it across the floor.

  It's why she couldn't blame Marx for a second after he had approached her, apology inherent in his gaze. Her weapon was in both hands, cleaved straight through the middle. Before he could elaborate on its state, she held a finger up to silence him and cleared her throat. A smile hid itself in the corners of her mouth.

  ' Things happen for a     reason. There is no     need to say sorry.

    ...But if you still feel     obligated to, I am partial     to frappuccinos. '

three’s a crowd :3c