#his loyalty to scar he expects them to be doing useful things that will make other people fear them/give them power scar is looking to do r

[moon1ee]

its so sad that im the only one who understands 3l desert duo

[ssnowflowers]

Grian's alliance with Cleo and Etho is so interesting to me. Because it's so different from every other alliance he's made.

The first alliance made in the Life Series for Grian is the Blue Sword Boys. And it's simply for a diamond sword. This sets an expectation that Grian needs to be useful for an alliance to be worth it.

His alliance to Scar, his desert friend, is built on him selling his life to Scar. An entire life, one of three deaths he gets before never being able to walk the world again. He gives it all to Scar. Because lives are valuable, useful. Servants are useful.

In Last Life, the Southlands are brought together through resources. You go red, there are no gifted lives bringing you back from the brink like in other alliances. You just go. Grian is forced out of the Southlands first, the home he built no longer his. Because by dying, he has proven he isn't useful.

His alliance with Joel is built on the fact that they are both red. That they need one another to survive. That reds live and die alone. They are loyal, because loyalty is useful. And their alliance ends when they stop being red. And it resumes once they are again.

In Double Life, Grian doesn't want to pair with Scar. He quite literally lets out a guttural scream of no. But it's easier to stick around his soulmate. Build Scar a base, babysit him. It's far more useful.

After a certain point, Grian stops viewing alliances as someone loyal. Someone who has your back. Simply, that it is necessary to have friends.

It's useful to have allies, so he jumps at the first opportunity. In Limited Life, he joins Joel and Jimmy because they invite him. He changes his skin, something he has never done before. He engages with bread bridge, he changes things about himself to look useful.

And then in the final sessions, when he loses Jimmy and Joel, he moves along quickly. He even says that Joel is a 'lost cause' and teams up with Pearl and BigB instead.

His wording is so specific too. Not allies, not teammates...friends. This is how he views friendship. A mutual exchange of usefulness.

It's why he's so desperate to make friends in Secret Life. He begs and pleads with people, when he is forced together with Joel he sticks with him like a clingy child, he builds the egg not because he likes it, but because a pretty base can attract friends.

When he asks if he can join Etho and Cleo. They just say yes. No second thoughts. And Grian is still trying to sell himself, prove why they should want him around. And Cleo just has on screen text (aka, inner thoughts) questioning why Grian is still trying to convince them? They've already said yes!

He's so stuck in the mindset of seeming useful, that he's now doing it even when no one is looking for him to be useful.

This is what sets his alliance with them apart from anyone else. He does not have to stick around, or cling to them. He can disappear for most of the session, and be fine.

Cleo and Etho help him out and he helps them in return. Not because he needs to be useful. But because he wants to. Because he has finally found people who just want him around because it's him.

It's such a large shift in his previous alliances, that I can't help but appreciate every little interaction. Because Cleo and Etho are his friends first. Not just allies.

[comfortless]

What dungeoneer!König wants vs what he gets:

SO TRUE. he just wants a pretty lady that can sew and cook, willing to put up with his nonsense without hissing at him at every turn!! knight!gf simply lives to bully him (she gets good sword practice that way) <3

At some point, he does ask her about her strange demeanor: “Why do you pretend?”

It’s said in a hushed whisper while they’re both fitted beneath a thin sheet at some weatherworn inn along their route, cozy and safe as every night since she took to sleeping at his side like a contented little kitten. He can’t help but want to poke at her when she’s so soft and weary (and her sword is on the far side of the room).

Not that he dislikes her with the sharp edges of her armor, the jostling of her chainmail and her expert swordswomanship— he just can not comprehend why a lady as lovely as she is would want to explore dark crypts full of monsters and bully him into dueling with her! She should be in fields of flowers, caressed by the wind, laughing soft into the mouth of her lover while he strips her of her gown…

She’s already toyed with the idea of courting him as a man would, stuffing flowers in the cuff links of his tunic and kneeling before him as if to offer her loyalty, her blade. It’s always when she finds herself keen on the idea of potentially taking him as her own that he finds a way to ruin the moment with blunt words or a too-eager hand.

“What do you mean?” She drags the words, sleep addled and dumbed down by a pint of mead from the tavern below.

“That you’re…” He pauses.

König isn’t stupid, he knows he’s jabbing at the dragon’s mouth, daring it to breathe fire the second he asks his lady knight things like this. She is what she is, and he’s given up on the hope of ever changing whichever tangled bowstring in her mind is making her this way. Though he would prefer her to be like the soft women he’s seen wearing silken bliauts, eyes shimmering as they shyly avert their gazes from him… She is something else entirely and that both fascinated and unnerves him.

“… not fragile,” he finishes, turning on his side to face her properly.

His little knight pinches her brow at that, throws the covering off of them both and rises to her knees to climb over him. She means to be intimidating, surely, but he can’t help the way his cock twitches in his pants at the sight of her downcast glare and the feel of her fingernails biting into the skin of his bare shoulders, actually thinking that her delicate form is enough to properly keep him pinned.

“I saved your life.” Ever since the gnoll, she’s been using it as leverage, punctuating her words by tracing over the scar with a light stroke of her thumb.

“Ja, but… do you not want to be more…”

“Ladylike?”

If she were, they would already have settled someplace softer; a roof above their heads where he sacrifices every shift of the sun feeding her from his palm and bringing home gifts that make her eyes shimmery and her heart fill to bursting. Every hour of the night squishing her beneath him and bringing her to beautiful ruin.

The concept only further confuses her when König nods his head, a trace of honeysuckle wafting up from his throat where she had pressed them into the collar of his shirt only earlier that day. It eases her, makes her less annoyed when she remembers that this brute is entirely hers, equally devoted even if he is more keen on fucking her in a dress than in the armor she covets.

She tells him a story when she finally retreats to her side of the thin, straw-stuffed mattress. It’s one he’s heard countless times in his own youth, of a knight she seemed to believe a hero. When she finishes, expecting some protest from him about how little girls should have never heard such tales, she’s only met with a silence that further bewilders her.

His stare is less perplexed and more loving, now. So much so, that she isn’t surprised when he pulls her closer with a gentle grasp to her forearm and rests his chin over her shoulder.

“You want to be a little hero then, hm?,” he whispers into her ear, a prideful smirk plastered across his face when he feels her shiver.

“Aren’t I already?” No matter how much cold steel she coats herself in, it could never smother out the gentleness of her laugh, and when she does giggle, he bites his lower lip hard enough to draw blood to keep the urge to squish her tits and toy with her at bay.

“Knights don’t find themselves in bed with beasts,” he rasps, daring to inch his hand further down to her hip.

“You believe that a lady would be more keen to?”

“A lady would want the beast to fuck her, ja?”

Poor König finds himself entirely blueballed once more when she squirms away from him, shooting a glare as cold as a winter storm in his direction before facing away with the blanket pulled taut over the both of them.

She’s only grateful that he can’t hear the beating of her heart or catch sight of the giddy little smile pulling at her lips. It’s not his stature or his prowess in battle that’s caged him up in her heart, only the way he makes her feel as though she truly is apart of some fairytale.

[jellieland]

This is somewhat inspired by some of the fics @theminecraftbee has written.

---

Two figures watch, from a nebulous nowhere, as Scar stands, alone, in the remains of his destroyed shop.

"I'm sorry," he says, mournfully, to no one.

"You Know," says the first figure, "I Really Wasn't Convinced When You Pitched This One."

Scar does not react. He cannot hear them.

"Yes," says the second, with an air of long-suffering patience. "I Do Know. You Were Very Vocal About It."

"...I really wanted to try and make some friends, this time." Scar, simultaneously right in front of them and a great distance away, sighs and looks up at the sky. "Oh, well. Nothing to be done about it now!"

"I Have Come Around To It," says the first.

"Good," says the second. "I Knew You Would."

They watch Scar start to sort through the mess.

"They Forget They Have A Choice," says the first. "It Is Fascinating."

They move on.

The move on to ash.

Skizz and Tango and Bigb stand right in the thick of it, quiet.

"You try to do one nice thing," says Skizz.

His hands curl into fists. He glares at the smoldering remains of the heart in front of him.

"You try to do ONE nice thing!" he yells, and punches one of the last remaining bits of wood.

Brittle from the fire, it breaks.

"Yeah, well! I guess this is why we don't," says Tango, resigned.

"It was always gonna happen eventually," says Bigb, voice level.

"They Always Try," says the first. "They Always Keep Trying."

"Yes," says the second. "They Chase Each Other In Circles Until All Of Them Are Dead. They Give Themselves Their Own Tasks."

"That Is Not What I Meant," says the first. "But That Is Also True."

They watch the three members of the Heart Foundation stand, for a while, in silence.

And they move on.

They move over to the mesa.

Martyn is standing inside his house, that used to be Jimmy's house too, facing the three chests on the wall labelled "TIMMY", "MUMBO" and "MARTYN".

He is talking animatedly, and gesturing. "-and I kept trying to get them to follow me there, but nobody was taking the bait. Honestly, you guys would've laughed at me. But it-"

They let the rambling fade into the background.

"A Good Dog," says the first.

"Yes," says the second. "He Does As He Is Told."

"-and I've honestly been feeling a bit left out today, isn't that funny? But- Bdubs said, he said he would join me next week, so-"

They move on.

They move to the cobblestone castle, in the side of the hill.

Grian is cooing over a small magma cube named Etho's Dishwasher.

Cleo and Etho are leaning against the staircase watching him.

"Are you both alright?" asks Cleo.

"Sure, I'm fine," says Etho.

"Me?" says Grian, turning around. "Oh, I'm good, I was being a total coward. I just hung around at the top of that tower by the Secret Keeper for ages and none of them ever thought to look up."

"Really?" asks Cleo, amused. "Some of them I would expect that of, but I'd think Gem would be a bit more on the ball."

"Well, apparently not," says Grian.

He turns back to the magma cube, and they settle into quiet.

"I Would Have Expected More Of The Alliances To Have Fallen Apart, By Now," says the first.

"Loyalty Is At Its Most Interesting When It Is Stretched," says the second. "These Three Know It Will Never Last. They Know That All Of Them Are Aware Of This. That Is Why They Are Still Here. They Know How Much They Can Care Without It Being A Lie. And Then Privately, They Care More Than That Anyway."

Eventually, Etho sighs. He looks tired.

He glances from Cleo, to Grian, and back, and after a moment of hesitation, speaks. "I, uh. I'm glad you two survived." He shifts awkwardly, and continues before they can respond. "I thought they were going to try and make me kill you, at one point, and- Grian, I don't know if you know this, but Cleo is scary when she's getting revenge. I did not want to have to worry about that."

Cleo laughs, slightly, and gives Etho a look of the deepest affection. "Well, I did die, is the thing, so thanks for reminding me of that."

"No, no, you knew what I meant! See, Grian? See what it's like?"

"Uh huh," says Grian, raising an eyebrow. "Well, thanks for not killing us."

Cleo frowns at him, suddenly curious. "Grian?" they ask. "Are you the only one who didn't die today?"

Grian opens his mouth, then stops to consider it.

"Or- no, wait. Martyn." says Cleo. "Well. Well done either way."

They watch the trio for a little longer, and then they move on.

They move to Scott.

He is alone, in a forest somewhere.

He is leant up against a cliff face, staring down at the floor.

"None Of Them Even Died, This Time," says the first. "Not Permanently."

"No," says the second. "It Was Controlled. Directed. There To Even The Playing Field. We Can Just Ask Them To Do That, Now, And They Will."

Scott draws his knees up to his chest, and rests his head on his arms.

He doesn't move, or shout, or cry.

He just stays there, quiet.

Eventually, they move on.

They move to the Secret Keeper.

Gem is standing there.

She is looking at it.

"If She Had Decided To Fail At The Start," says the first, "She Most Likely Would Have Lived. She Lost So Much More, Taking Things From Other People, Than The Nothing She Would Have Lost In Failure."

"Yes," says the second. "That Is My Favourite Part."

They watch her.

"Anyway," says the second, "She Would Not Do That."

"She Wouldn't?" asks the first.

"No," says the second. "She Understands Why It Is My Favourite Part."

Gem smiles.

"Thank you!" she says to the Secret Keeper. "That was a lot of fun!"

"You Are Welcome," says the second.

Blood on her hands, Gem turns and leaves, grin as bright as the sun.

They watch her go.

[thetomorrowshow]

“Griiaaaan! It’s cold.”

“It’s not cold. Be quiet.”

And the stupid thing is, it is cold. Grian’s never lived in a desert before, but he’d expected it to be hot all the time, not just during the day. It’s the desert, after all—the only things that grow here are spindly leafless bushes, and all the animals that he’s spotted spend most of their time in the shade of sand mounds and rocks.

Most of the nights have still been a bit warm for what Grian’s used to, but apparently the winter’s coming on fast, and it surely has nothing to do with a certain Red King. An execution had occurred just this morning, and now Ren is Red, and apparently the rest of the world has been suffering from it.

“Yes it is,” grumbles the pile of blankets beside him, and Grian sighs.

He’s supposed to be on watch alone, for half the night, then wake up Scar to watch the other half. Scar, however, thinks that keeping watch is stupid, even when Grian has repeatedly stressed that he is no longer the only Red on the server, and one of the others is a very dangerous enemy to them.

“If you’re cold, get in bed,” Grian tells him, and Scar shifts and bit before speaking, teeth clacking together exaggeratedly.

“It’s c-cold there too!”

Grian rolls his eyes, wraps his arms a little tighter around himself. His sweater’s getting pretty scraggly these days. He just had to darn the elbow last week, but that’s about the extent of his knitting skills. If it falls apart completely, he’ll be stuck in just his undershirt, nothing to keep him warm in the approaching winter.

“You know, there’s a way to make us both warm,” Scar teases, his head emerging from the blankets to wink at Grian. Grian shoves him.

“Scar! Stop it and go to bed!”

“Oh, come on, I didn’t mean anything!” Scar says innocently. “I just meant if we were both in bed right now, we could be sharing body heat! I don’t know what you thought I meant. You have a dirty mind, Grian.”

Grian buries his face in his hands. He never should have signed up for this. Out of the ten-some other players in the immediate vicinity, why couldn’t he have blown up anyone else? Why couldn’t he end up with loyalty pledged to Tango, or Etho, or literally any other player on the server?

“C’mon, Grian,” Scar wheedles. “Nobody’s gonna attack! We have the cactus walls, and the lava moat, and the alarm system you rigged today! Even if someone did try to take some sand, we’d know.”

“Right. The alarm system that consists of a bunch of bells and string, which goes off at the slightest breeze. I have so much faith in it.”

“Great, we’re on the same page! So it’ll be totally safe for us to sleep together.” “Scar! I will push you off my mountain!”

“Hey! I resent that—it’s as much my mountain as it is yours.”

Grian lifts his head. Enough of Scar is visible that he can see the self-satisfied smirk on his face.

And somehow, he’s half tempted to agree with Scar just to get him to go to bed.

It is pretty chilly out, after all. And he’s very tired. He’d only volunteered to take first watch because he really didn’t want to be woken up in the middle of a sleep cycle. First watch just means staying up a couple of extra hours and then sleeping soundly.

He glances at Scar again, who—oh, he’s making the puppy-dog eyes—

“Fine,” Grian grumbles, hauling himself to his feet. Scar scrambles up as well and runs for the house, sand flying behind him.

“At least shake the blankets out!” calls Grian. Scar ignores him.

Does he really want to get into bed with a madman? All it takes is the Red haze getting to Scar, and he’s dead in an instant. No armor, no weapon, nothing to protect him from being stabbed in the gut by his supposed ally.

Then a bitingly cold gust of wind blows sand in his nostrils, and Grian decides he’s rather fed up with all this desert stuff and would much rather be asleep, Scar or no. They should be safe to not worry about watches until tomorrow—after all, Scar’s done nothing to torment anyone (other than Grian) this week! Never mind that it’s Monday night. 

He heads inside, shucking off his sweater right outside the door to shake it off. His bedroom is the first one on the left, putting Scar deeper in the house and therefore safer, so he turns to go in there—

Of course. Scar’s in his bed.

He’d held onto some strand of hope that maybe Scar had been joking about sleeping together, maybe he’d just been trying to get Grian to go to sleep so he could set out on some dastardly scheme without anyone to hold him back. But Scar’s there, blanket pulled up to his chin, a nightcap (where did he get that?) on his head.

“Why, hello there, Grian!” Scar grins at him. “Ready for some sleepy-times-with-Scar? I’ve been warming the bed up for you.”

Grian almost walks right back out the door. Suddenly, being on watch doesn’t sound that bad.

This might be the last full night of sleep he gets for a while.

“All right. Ground rules,” Grian says, shutting the bedroom door behind him. Scar cheers, arms up in the air, the blanket falling off to reveal a grey six-pack and copious amounts of sand.

“Scar! Put a shirt on! That’s the first rule, wear clothes!”

“But-but-but skin contact, Grian!”

“I am putting my foot down! Clothes on in bed!”

Muttering darkly to himself, Scar rolls out of bed, wearing nothing but his nightcap and a pair of shorts. Grian takes the opportunity to tear the sheets and covers off the bed, shaking them out before stretching them back over the thin mattress. He really ought to change the sheets, but he doesn’t have the wool nor the time to make an extra set. They’ll have to make do with this for now, and maybe he can take a moment tomorrow to wash them.

Scar’s put on a t-shirt, which Grian supposes is the best he’s going to get. He kicks off his shoes and socks, strips out of his jeans and dusts his legs off. There’s enough sand clinging to his leg hair that his skin has practically changed color, a clear line separating the brown and starkly pale from where his socks had been. That’s just awful. Of all places, why on earth did Scar have to pick the worst one?

He can dip into the river to bathe tomorrow, and maybe he can convince Scar to wash off as well (not likely, seeing as Scar has as much aversion to a bath as a feral cat, but it’s worth a try).

He’s washing the sheets anyway. It won’t be a problem to get them this little bit dirtier.

Grian climbs into bed, and Scar hops in next to him immediately. “Second ground rule—” Grian starts, but before he can finish, Scar has almost entirely enveloped him in a burning hot hug.

He can feel the tension just ooze out of Scar’s body as they lie there, Scar’s body burning his at every place they touch. The man sighs, burying his nose in Grian’s hair.

And Grian. . . .

Grian relaxes too.

Just a bit! And it’s just—it’s really just because he’s lying down, and he’s been so terribly tired. No other reason.

Still. He’s hesitant to push Scar away. He does, of course, sitting up to pull up the covers and thereby disrupting Scar’s hold.

“Second rule,” he repeats. “No touching. No cuddling, hugging, or anything of the sort.”

“That’s a bad rule.”

Grian sighs. “Oh yeah? Why?”

Scar gestures wildly, almost knocking the candle off the bedside table. Grian leans over him and grabs it just in time, blows out the flame. “Well—well, the whole reason we’re sleeping together is for shared body warmth! No touching totally ruins that!”

Grian shouldn’t give in easily. He really shouldn’t. But now bereft of Scar’s touch, he feels even colder than before. All the burning points of contact are just numb, now. And Grian really wants to be warm.

“All right, fine.”

Scar tackles him before he can even lie all the way down. Grian decides to just accept it, honestly. What else can he do?

“Third rule: no talking. We are here to sleep.”

Scar nods, releasing Grian for a moment to mime zipping up his lips.

Good. Grian lays back against his pillow, pulling the blanket up to his collarbone, and sighs. It’s not too bad, really. At least this way, if someone comes to kill them in their sleep, they’ll go out together.

That’s . . . a weird thought to have. Grian’s in the middle of decidedly not analyzing it when something ice cold presses against his legs.

He definitely does not screech as he kicks against it. “Scar! Get your cold feet away from me!”

“I’m sorry! It’s just that I’ve been so cold ever since I died, and you’re like a mini space heater over here!”

Grian groans, trying to maneuver his legs in such a way that as much of the covers as possible are between his legs and Scar’s. “I’m about to bring back rule number two, so behave.”

Scar falls silent again, and Grian tries to relax (in his arms). It’s not difficult to feel the pull of sleep. It’s not difficult to let sleep claim him, his limbs heavy and brain slowing to a soupy mush. It feels so nice to not be poised for battle, not be planning their next move. He hasn’t felt this peaceful in weeks.

“Grian?” comes a whisper from beside him.

He’s suddenly aware that he’s been drifting. He's not sure how long it’s been. Hours? Minutes?

“Rule number three,” he grouses.

A shifting of the covers, pulling them taut. “Sorry. Don’t worry about it!”

Reluctantly, Grian drags his eyes open. The world is still dark, the air as still as before. Scar had started to ask a question, and curse him for it because he knows that Grian’s too curious to let it go now. He has to know what Scar wanted. “No. Wha’ is it?”

“What do you miss most about Hermitcraft?”

Hermitcraft. He hasn’t properly thought about it in a while. It’s not that he’d forgotten it, but the longer they spend in 3rd Life, the farther away it is in his mind. This is—what, the sixth week?

Six weeks since he last did anything with his mansion. Six weeks since he restocked the Barge.

“My diamonds,” he says after a moment. “I was so rich, Scar. I had stacks of diamond blocks. Not that I don’t miss other things,” he adds. “Good community, and my mansion, and all that. I just miss the security of so much money.”

Scar hums into his hair, a shiver running down Grian’s back at the tingly feeling. A minute passes, and while Grian’s still barely keeping his eyes open he’s also still curious.

“What about you? What do you miss?”

“Jellie,” Scar says instantly, some sort of wistful longing in his voice that Grian hasn’t ever heard from him.

It’s understandable, of course. It’s his cat. It’s just that the entire time they’ve been playing this death game, Scar has never wanted something as badly as he wants Jellie right now. It’s touching, in a way—the idea that his love for that cat is so strong that even his Red name can’t make it waver.

And in another way, it’s annoying. Because somehow, Scar has retained the capacity to love and want and he’s only felt that way about a cat.

And Grian is definitely not jealous of a cat, of all things. That would be—that would be ridiculous. Wouldn’t it?

If he were fully awake right now, he’d probably stomp off to his creeper farm or go dig sand for a couple of hours until he's completely forgotten about these gnawing feelings and can focus.

But sleepy Grian acknowledges them, holds them close to his chest, and lets himself feel how desperately he wants to be wanted.

Right now, he’s as close to Scar as he can get, head pressed against his chest and strong arms around him. If anyone happened upon them right now, they would instantly assume the obvious.

Yet Grian’s never felt more alone.

“Scar,” he whispers before he can stop himself. “If I wasn’t here, would you miss me?”

Scar's been shuffling around every couple of seconds, so it’s apparent when he goes utterly still.

“Um. You’ve taken me a bit by surprise here, G,” Scar laughs nervously. Sleepy Grian takes that exact moment as a chance to listen to the rational side of Grian’s brain, which is screaming for him to shut up, run away, hide.

“Sorry,” Grian immediately says, face burning. “I—forget I said anything—”

Then Scar presses a kiss into his dirty hair, and Grian’s brain short-circuits.

“Of course I would miss you,” Scar murmurs. “I mean, we all would, but I would miss you the most. I didn’t put you on a llama and carry you away to the desert for nothing.”

Scar’s voice sounds so very fond that Grian can’t help it when his stomach flips a little. He pushes his head up against Scar’s chin, curls a little closer into his body. Scar really is as cold as he’d said. Grian finds himself wondering if he runs warmer normally, which of course makes his brain send him all sorts of ways he can find out when they get back to Hermitcraft.

Not that that will ever happen. This is—this doesn’t mean anything. It’s just two bros, cuddling and falling asleep together. Hermitcraft—and even just tomorrow—will be back to normal.

And perhaps most importantly, Grian cannot allow Scar to become a weakness. He cannot let their enemies see him like this, exhausted and yearning and lonely. He has to be strong to keep the both of them safe.

For now, though, he can just pretend like the game doesn’t exist. He can press closer to Scar, his skin burning in such a good way, and live in Scar’s arms.

In the morning, things will go back to normal.

And when Scar whispers, rasping words loud in the silence of the room, “Grian, I really really like you, I think,” Grian pretends to be asleep.

[sky-kiss]

Hello my friend!! My stinky cheese!

Do you think Raphael would bond at all with a Tav who also hates their father (cough cough kinda like Durge cough cough)?

If so, could I request a prompt where Raph reacts to Tav (female) just getting really angry/upset about that familial void that he can so relate to.

I know this isn't gonna be easy, but I wish you luck wrangling the beast 🫡

A/N: I opted for mother vs. father. Since you vetoed me from using Durge, it’s a Tav. A Lolth-Sworn Drow. This….is not quite the prompt. I’m sorry, love.

______________

In nearly two thousand years of living, Raphael has welcomed all sorts of souls to his door. Spurned lovers, vengeful rulers, petulant children; he is all things to all people, as any devil worth their salt could attest. And for all those souls and all those years, he can say he has felt true camaraderie only a handful of times.

He counts the drow among them. 

Tav regards him with interest from the start. No fear, only a culturally conditioned lust. He is power and ambition made flesh; he is a steppingstone and tool, or so she imagines. Bless her little heart. She will use him and expects to be used in turn; it is a charmingly simplistic exchange. 

Tit for tat, love. Information for the Orthon. A hammer for a crown. He comes to her in the aftermath of the invasion, surprised to find her languishing in the Elfsong. She has talked of naught but her return to the Underdark. 

“You linger, little mouse. Have we grown fond of the surface-dwellers?”

She smiles, teeth too white in the elegant darkness of her face. A curtain of platinum hair falls over her shoulder. Tav is a stunning representation of the breed. She steps aside to grant him entry to her suite. “Don’t be foolish. My delay is purely practical.” Tav settles in one of the rich wingbacks, looking for all the world a queen. “I wanted to make certain you’d find me.” 

“Oh, always, sweetling. Wherever you go, rest assured I will find you.” He plucks her hand from the armrest, kissing the back of her knuckles. “That lovely little soul of yours bears my mark.”

“Lolth will not be pleased.” 

“The Spider Bitch was long since defanged. Her dissatisfaction means nothing to me. ” Tav’s expression softens. Her eyes remain the rest of those sworn to the mistress of the Demonweb pits, but her loyalties have shifted. “But your satisfaction, my little treat, means everything. Tell us what you need.” 

“I’ve been absent from Menzoberranzan too long. Before the,” she hesitates a moment, “incident. I had intended to wrest my House from the Matron Mother’s control.” 

“Matricide, is it? How delightful.” 

“You know how parents can be.” 

“Don’t I just.” Raphael chuckles. He seats himself beside her. The proximity of the chairs and his size leaves his knee fetching up against hers. Tav shifts, hooking her foot behind his ankle. Brave girl. “And you are lucky, pet. I have a soft spot for rebellious princes and princesses.” 

She rests her chin in the palm of her hand. Lovely and so willing to treat with him. He’s struck again by how odd it is to see yourself reflected in a mortal vessel. There are scars across the pretty things back, left by lash and more inventive forms of torture typical to the species. And he sees the same hate in her eyes. A burning desire for more, to take what she's owed. “Let us discuss terms, love of mine.” The endearment makes him laugh; there is no love, not even an echo of it, in her voice. Only hunger. “Passage to Menzoberranzan.” 

“Only passage? I might offer you power. And more.”

“And more?” She arches a brow, stroking his calf with her foot. “And the cost?” 

“Negotiable, pet. We might even defer it…a Matron Mother will not lack resources. Power today for payment tomorrow. A generous offer, no?” 

Tav chews at her lower lip. “And if I proposed an alliance? To swear myself to you for this power, to pledge my House to your service…what would you offer?” And it is odd, so odd, to feel a pang of lust after so many centuries. “I would see my mother consumed by her damned spiders. After that…” she shrugs. “I’ll admit to having a fondness for rebel princes, myself.” 

“How convenient.” 

And she enjoys his words from so many months prior. “Isn’t it just?” 

[acourtofthought]

"wicked slashing scar"

"brutal scar"

"brutally scarred face"

"cruel beauty"

You know, SJM made no mention of Elain's beauty in ACOTAR outside of her desire to still look lovely despite poverty.

It wasn't until ACOMAF, once she realized Elucien would be mates, that she noted Elain's looks were a defining feature of hers.

And by then, we had already been made aware that Lucien had some insecurities regarding his scar:

While Elain and Lucien are extremely similar in personality and personal beliefs, the most important reasons for making them mates, I kind of love that SJM took her most scarred character (because a fake eye and scar running down the length of his face, not to mention the scars he has from when Tamlin was forced to whip him, are pretty intense and the first thing someone notices when looking at Lucien) and paired him with someone whose beauty was first described as "soft and lovely" then "devastatingly beautiful" after being made.

Something about that contrast (her soft and lovely beauty with his cruel beauty) gives me the feels.

It's not a contrast that forces them to give up the parts of themselves that matter, for example, Elain being troubled by cruelty but ending up with someone who is extremely violent, but a contrast that shows how appearances are only skin deep.

Personally I really dislike the idea of "the prettiest" Archeron with the "prettiest" batboy because it seems extremely shallow. Like someone expecting that two people must be together because they were rated "most attractive guy and girl" in the yearbook (is that still a thing? It used to be) and that's the vibe I get when Feyre thinks of how handsome Elain and Az would be. The only reasons she could picture them together was because they'd share "peace and quiet" and both possessed certain physical attributes. That is definitely not enough to build a relationship on.

Make no mistake, Lucien is handsome but his is not that of an air brushed perfection and there will always be a stigma that comes along with those who first meet him. Curiosity, shock, maybe a bit of fear.

And it's something I'm sure he's already dealt with many times over, cataloging the very many reactions others have the moment they set eyes on him, their constant stares.

Jesminda knew Lucien before Amarantha forever scarred him and while I think the majority of his closing himself off from emotional connection had to do with loyalty to her, I do think we'll find that he doubts whether anyone else could even want to be with him, knowing that he's basically the only fae around with facial imperfections. Many characters have voiced how attractive he is however once an insecurity takes root, it's difficult to weed out.

Sure Ianthe wanted him but that was for own self serving purposes, a way to get ahead.

So if Elucien were to end up together, it would be powerful for them both.

Everyone is under the impression that Elain is a bit shallow and is only concerned with looking her best, Nesta even remembers her mother saying Elain would marry for "beauty" and love and that she did not dream beyond her "pretty dresses".

So falling for a male who, while truly handsome, has some very major imperfections (which make him all the more perfect to us Lucien stans), would show that Elain cares more about what is inside. Because Lucien is pretty perfect in that department.

And with Lucien's insecurities about his face, imagine what it would feel like to know that the most beautiful female he'd ever seen was the one who chose him regardless of his perceived "imperfections". That she wanted him just as he was.

Not that that would be his reason for wanting her, just as it wasn't Rhys's reason for wanting Feyre. However it would definitely be the cherry on top of it all.

❤️

[wri0thesley]

mark of ownership - childe x reader (6.3k)

you and childe have unfinished business.

cw: not sfw. reader is afab, but no gendered pronouns are used. reader is chubby/bigger than average and expresses a very small amount of insecurity about it. both reader and childe are sadomasochist switches but reader is in charge in this particular interaction. restraints, face sitting, riding, blades and marking with blades, bloodplay. pet names including 'sweetheart'. a sequel to this work.

this was a commissioned work.

It is your duty to rail against the Fatui. That is what your organisation expects of you; that you will meet with Fatui soldiers doubting their loyalty in secret, convince them to defect and join your operations, that you will tell them all of the horrible things that the Fatui do and make them see that they are being used as pawns in somebody else’s games. You will bring up the bloodshed, the inhumanity of raising children from the Home of the Hearth to be nothing more than machines for the Tsaritsa’s use, the fact that every occupied seat on the council of the Fatui Harbingers is occupied by someone who cannot be trusted an inch--

Inevitably, that last part of your impassioned conversation brings memories flashing to the forefront of your mind.

You hope that when these Fatui soldiers hear your voice crack, they’re mistaking it as the crack of emotion of someone who is impassioned to their cause. You hope when you speak of the Harbingers, the way that you sometimes stutter over your explanation of the battle-crazed eleventh is misread as disgust and not some kind of longing. 

But late nights in safehouses with your hands between your legs, you have to admit that is not the case at all. 

You are practically haunted by the reminder of what transpired between you and Childe - although this is a haunting in only the most pleasurable way. You are constantly thinking and daydreaming of the way his breath hitched when he kissed you like he was fighting you, the strange refraction of light in his empty eyes when you’d used your mouth on him and his pretty boyish face hadn’t held back an ounce of the pleasure you were bringing to him. The way the air had crackled with electricity between you both as you’d bit and bled and played a strange game of ‘fighting or fucking’ . . .

Oh, the emotion that licks at your voice when you talk about Childe is certainly not disgust. 

You hate yourself, sometimes, for how much you want to see him again. The lingering memory of your last promise to him - that next time your paths crossed, he would be the one at your mercy - hangs in the air, waiting for you to make good on it. You daydream about it when you should be thinking about other things; imagine scratching your nails down his cheekbone, biting the soft flesh of his neck until he groaned, running a blade slowly slowly across his chest--

Giving him a little scar, to twin the faded one on your thigh that reads “A” for “Ajax”. A mark of belonging, perhaps - you think that Childe deserves to have something you carved into his skin somewhere on him, too. 

For the sake of fairness, naturally. 

Despite what you might want and fantasise about, though, you are actually rather devoted to the organisation that you work for - you want to help in their work, and you wouldn’t be much help at the mercy of a Fatui Harbinger that you might not escape from quite as unscathed the second time you met him. You also value the work you do over your own pleasure and sex drive - mostly - and so you push those thoughts to the side and you get on with things. Your own base of operations is closest to Liyue, because of all of the Fatui delegates who get sent to work in the Northland Bank . . . and recently, the tide has rather turned against them. Liyue citizens remember that the Fatui were an integral part of them almost losing their lovely city - and so, Fatui members have begun to wonder if they’re really on the right side after all. 

You still keep your head down and your alibi - a shop assistant, nothing more, of course there aren’t codebreaking tools in your pocket and a dagger, sheathed on your thigh beneath your clothes - but you don’t worry quite as much as you once did, because you don’t need to. 

Life, though, has a way of giving a person what they want in the strangest of ways. 

For you, that strange way manifests in the middle of Liyue Harbour on a hot summer’s day, as you stand and chat to Granny Shan about some new plush that she’s selling for a craftsman in one of the little valleys - a cutesy replica of Rex Lapis’s Exuvia, with paws curled beneath its chin and huge sparkling eyes. As you’re talking about it, a gloved hand reaches over to pick one up. 

“Oh!” says a familiar voice, bright and boyish, “My little brother would love this.”

You turn, and there he is. Granny Shen stiffens a little, but Childe doesn’t seem to notice at all - he’s far too busy tipping the plush this way and that way, looking at the little paws and claws and the tail with the wire inside of it so that the child can pose it in all different ways. He’s smiling down at it, and your heart bangs against your ribcage at the sight of him. Your insides clench at the sight of his leather-gloved fingers, at the long limbs. You remember how it felt to have those fingers run over you; to have them pry your mouth open so he could kiss you deeper and deeper and deeper. 

Your cheeks are hot. Childe rustles in his pocket for Mora, still clutching the Exuvia plush. You wonder if you should slip away whilst you can, but your feet are rooted to the spot you’re already in, Childe’s magnetism (and the reminder of all of your fantasies) making it impossible for you to resist. 

Whilst he is passing Mora over to Granny Shen - who you’re certain is overcharging him - he turns his head, and then . . . he finally sees you. 

It takes a minute for him to remember where he knows you from - you see it in the way his eyes flash and his mouth curls quizzically - but then, the memories come back to him too. His cheeks flush pink beneath the freckles and he smiles, wide and bright and more than a little hungry. 

“It’s you!” He says. “Hmm . . . if I remember correctly . . . this is not supposed to be the way we meet again.”

He tucks his plush under elbow, and forcibly takes your arm with the other - his fingers strong like iron as he steers you away. You let it happen, still so surprised to see him that you don’t have it in you to spit out anything clever or witty. 

“I’ve been looking forward to seeing you again,” he says, a grin still on his face, frenetic energy buzzing beneath his skin. “Let’s go find somewhere a little more private!” He leans in closer to you, ostensibly to whisper into your ear in front of the very proper citizens of Liyue. His breath is hot; his teeth nip at your earlobe as he lowly intones, anticipation dripping from every syllable; “I’ve been thinking about what you said you’d do to me next time for months.”

---

Childe brings you back to the little room that he’s currently renting in an inn; the proprietor looks at you and then hides a smile behind his hand - it’s clear to him the reason you’re there. Childe doesn’t make much of a show of hiding it either; excitement seems to come off of him in great waves as he moves, anticipation making his nerves fizz and his smile sharper and brighter than ever before. Your own stomach is jumping as though frogs have made their home there. You’re looking forward to this, too. 

The room itself is fairly plain; good quality, but plain. Childe’s Fatui salary is obviously more than adequate, but you suppose he doesn’t seem the kind of man who puts much stock in velvet curtains and silken sheets. And, too, you suppose that with the current climate with regards to the Fatui in Liyue, he prefers something a little more restrained anyway. This has all of the hallmarks of an inn that won’t ask too many questions. 

That’s better for you too. You take stock of the furnishings; the bed, a desk, a single chair. Childe’s bags, all on one side of the room, some spare clothes strewn over a dresser--

“Well, my Lord Harbinger,” you say to him, when you’ve finished your inspection. “I’ll assume you didn’t bring me here to kill me. That would be dreadfully inconvenient for the poor inn owner.” 

He laughs, that wild, free laugh that makes you feel like someone is kissing down your spine. 

“I missed your mouth,” he says to you, brightly. “You’ve got just as much of a spark as you did before, then?” His tongue darts out, wetting his lips. “That’s good. I’d hate for you to disappoint me.” 

“What about you disappointing me?” You shoot back at him. Childe grins at you, and reaches behind his back. 

You tense, expecting him to draw out a weapon. You really didn’t think he’d make a scene in his own rooms, but it appears Childe doesn’t really think about such things when the excitement of battle is on the table. Your hand is halfway to your dagger when he produces what he was reaching for - and the sight of the coiled rope in his hands makes you pause. 

“I’ve been thinking,” he says. “It really wasn’t very honourable of me to knock you out and tie you to a chair before you could defend yourself, right? Put you at a disadvantage before we even got to have any fun! Not very gentlemanly of me, and definitely not all that fair a fight because of it. So . . .”

It takes you a moment to catch up. He seems to have pulled the rope from his pocket rather than from anywhere else, and your mouth speaks before your mind.

“Do you always carry rope with you?”

His eyes glitter wickedly and strangely. 

“Of course I do,” he says, assuredly. “For fun and for . . . other reasons.”

Right. The murder and the other uncomfortable parts of being a pawn of the Tsaritsa’s militaria. You shove those thoughts to the side of your brain; if you think too much about such logic like who Childe really is, it will taint the fun experience you’re hoping to have with him. The pounding between your thighs is far louder than the voice of reason in your head (a voice that is, actually, getting quieter and quieter the longer you stand in the same room as him). 

“And you’re going to put yourself at my mercy this time?” You ask him, scarcely believing it. You’d said plenty of things about it not being a fair fight last time the two of you had met, but you’d never expected Childe to actually try and rectify the situation. The rope he’s holding is thick; it looks plenty good quality. More than suitable for tying a man to a chair. 

“Mmhmm!” He wiggles the rope at you lasciviously. “Come and get it. I’ll let you get me tied up nice and tight and at your mercy . . .” His voice drops a semitone.  “And then we’ll have another round of our little game.”

Or more than suitable for tying a man to a bed. 

It’s a good bed for such things, too. The bedposts are sturdy solid wood, protruding high enough from the frame that Childe probably wouldn’t be able to wiggle out of his bonds upwards. You step sweetly towards him and grab the rope. 

“Why don’t you lie on the bed for me, then?” You ask him. 

He does seem a touch surprised - but that surprise very quickly fades once more into hunger. He eyes the bed for only a moment - clearly mapping out the escape routes so he can turn the tables on you - before he saunters towards it and lets his body hit the coverlets with a soft whoomph. 

“So forward!” He says. “You haven’t even bought me dinner, sweetheart.” 

“Spread-eagled,” you order him - and to your immense surprise, he takes a juddering breath, and then quickly obeys. 

“I hope you know,” he says conversationally, as you walk over to the bed too and clamber atop of him. His cock is already tenting the tight pants he wears as you straddle him, nudging against your own clothed sex when you lean over to tie your knots around his first wrist. “This is the most obedient I’m going to be. Once I’m secured . . . ooh, then it’s whoever’s stronger’s game.” 

“I’ll keep that in mind,” you say to him sweetly, and you tighten the knots around that wrist hard enough to make him groan aloud. 

His groan is partly pain, but it’s edged in anticipatory pleasure too. Your body throbs in excitement. This . . . this is exactly what you’ve needed. You’re about to have some of the most fun you’ve had in your life. 

His other wrist, and then slowly, carefully, his ankles. You want him to feel as at your mercy as you’d felt at his, when you’d come back around and found your legs and arms bound to a chair in the middle of nowhere. There’s something to be said, too, by the way his breath hitches when you tighten the knots and check them to make sure that there's absolutely no give in them. Childe watches you through every single one of your checks, eyes dark with desire. 

“Now I’ve got you all trussed up,” you say to him, with a sharp smile of your very own - he looks so very good like that, laid out beneath you at your mercy. “Are you going to try and get out of it? You’re welcome to struggle. I’m very confident in my knots.”

“They’re good knots,” Childe rasps, and with that he begins to struggle in his bonds. He’s growling as he does it, all animal - used to his raw strength, honed in battle, being enough to get him out of things like this. He didn’t reckon on you. You stay astride him, your hands neatly curled upon his chest, as he struggles and twists and turns beneath you. His hard groin keeps rubbing pleasantly against the hot space between your thighs, sending frissons of electricity up your spine. Childe’s cheeks flush wildly. “Fuck!” 

“Aww, baby,” you simper down at him, and Childe breathes in hard through gritted teeth. “Stronger than you thought they’d be?”

“J-just give me a couple of seconds,” he growls, his canines shining. You think idly about when he’d kissed you; the way he’d tugged at your mouth with his teeth, explored every crevice with his tongue like a conqueror during an invasion. You’ll kiss Childe later, you think. 

You’re very satisfied with the knots. You don’t think he’ll be getting out of them any time soon; you feel confident enough, in fact, that you allow yourself to dismount him and stand next to the bed. Childe’s eyes follow you even as he continues to attempt to thrash. 

“Hey,” he says. “Wh-where are you going? We’ve barely gotten started!”

You give him a sweet smile. 

“I’m just starting to feel a little . . .” You rub at your own wrists, sighing. “Constricted. I thought I’d get a little more comfortable.”

Your hands reach for the hem of your shirt - Childe’s throat bobs as he swallows, his eyes going wide. He doesn’t cease his movements, but you’ve captured his attention. You’ve been a little insecure, before, about the curves of your body and the places you pudge out a little more than you’d like to . . . but under Childe’s gaze, you feel transformed. Like a statue of an archon, as you slowly strip your clothing to reveal your flesh and Childe keeps staring at you like you’re the most beautiful thing that he’s ever seen and like he wants to devour you all at once. 

Every garment you’re wearing joins the pile on the floor - at the sight of your dagger, strapped to your thigh, Childe has to pause to get his bearings back. A soft whine of desire escapes his mouth, and that noise makes you feel yourself clench around the nothingness inside of you.

“Let’s make things fair, shall we?” You ask him, with a smile on your face as you unsheathe the blade. Childe takes a deep shuddering breath as you approach him - as you get back on the bed, and tip his chin up with the flat of your weapon. “Let’s get your clothes off, now.”

“Please do,” he rasps in return - and he even helpfully arches his back (as much as he can) so that you have better access to the shirt he’s wearing. The fabrics are fine - the Fatui don’t seem to skimp on this kind of thing - but Childe does not seem to care about that as you slit said fabric open and reveal his body to you. 

His pale torso is littered with scars and freckles. You take a moment to admire them before you switch to his trousers - pressing the sharp tip just a little too close to his crotch than you think he’d like. Childe, once again, surprises you - at the touch of danger, he growls, and you swear you feel his cock jump against his underwear. 

You leave the underwear on for now. There’s already a sizable bulge pressing against the placket, a wet spot where the head of his cock is leaking and drooling precome onto the material. It’s almost cute. 

You’d expected Childe to be running his mouth by now - you’d had some vague thoughts in the back of your mind about gagging him with your underwear, all wet with your own slick (and had indeed left said underwear in an easy to get to place) - but he’s surprisingly quiet, only grunting and groaning and rasping. You’re really getting to him, and the thought gives you a power rush that leaves you heady, intoxicated. 

“You’re quiet,” you coo at him, running your fingers from his scarred, muscular shoulders and down to his chest - brushing your thumbs over his nipples and watching how he shudders. “Are you all out of clever things to say, my Lord Harbinger?” 

“N-no,” Childe insists, his voice shaking. “I’m just . . . enjoying knowing I’m going to wipe that smug look off of your pretty face.” 

“Aww!” You lean over him, your lips ghosting across his cheeks and hovering above his own mouth. He’s panting - he makes an effort to pull you into a biting kiss, but the ropes you tied earlier do a fine job keeping him constrained. “That’s cute. Keep talking for me.” 

“I-- I’m going to show you . . . why I win all of my battles,” Childe says, trying to overlay bravado over the shuddering want in his voice. “Have you at my mercy--!”

“You’re trying,” you tell him, and you pinch his cheek. “But I think there’s something better you can do with your mouth. Don’t you?”

He pauses - and then, his eyes take on a gleam that makes your toes curl. It’s enthusiasm in its very purest form - a wild excitement as he rasps out;

“Oh, I’ll show you just how good I can be with my tongue.” 

In the past, you’ve been a little nervous when it comes to this particular act with partners; aware that you’re probably not the lightest load to bear. You have no such qualms with Childe, knowing how he boasts of his strength and his skills and how he has the title of ‘eleventh Harbinger’ to back it up. You feel especially soothed by just how excited he is at the very idea. 

“What a good boy,” you say to him - and you’re surprised to feel his cock twitch again, as you move yourself up his body until your thighs pillow either side of his cheeks. You reach for the headboard to keep yourself steady, and to make sure you can angle yourself off of his face a little if you need to let him breathe. You feel a bead of your own slick roll down your thigh; your heart beats wildly in your chest, your own desire making you feel dizzy with the power of it. “I’m so excited for you to prove it.” 

You lower yourself down onto his face. 

To be honest with yourself, you’re expecting Childe to be hesitant about it - after all, sitting on the face of a tied up man is not something you have much experience with, and you’re not sure that Childe has any experience with having it happen to him either - but you should have known from the way he’d kissed you way back then (all tongue and teeth and needy inexperience) that Childe does absolutely nothing by halves. The moment your sex is anywhere near his face, Childe is rearing up in his bonds, desperate to taste you as thoroughly as he tasted your mouth during his kisses. 

It takes you a moment to regain your composure, his mouth hungrily licking through your folds with the intensity of someone who has been starved for some time. You’re grateful that he can’t see the way your mouth falls open or the way your eyelids flutter, the way that your fists tense on the bed frame where you grip it tight enough for it to splinter into pieces. 

He has far more important things to focus on right now. 

Like the taste of your slick as you feel it drip down his face, wetting his cheeks. He groans into you, the vibrations sending pleasure zapping up your spine. You grind into him a little, careful not to put too much weight on his face - but from the noise that Childe makes from that, you think he wouldn’t mind if he suffocated to death right there. It’s hard not to just let wild abandon take you; grind on him as desperately as he’s using his mouth. Ride his face to your completion, with any consequences being damned. 

You don’t think you’ll even last that long, though - so instead, you move one of your hands from the headboard to take a handful of his red hair, tugging him so that his attentions focus more on your clit than on simply trying to devour you whole. You win another groaning growling noise of pure enjoyment at your rough pull - you know, of course, that he likes having someone present a challenge to him, but the noises never fail to be gratifying. 

And he even takes the direction well!

As soon as he realises why you’re tugging on him in a particular direction, he turns his attention to your clit with only a muffled noise of pleasure; swirling his tongue around the swollen bud with artless but enthusiastic efficiency. You - having had this ache in your core since the very moment you laid eyes on him, an ache that has only been intensified as he laid out his plans for the evening - do not take long. 

Pleasure swells inside of you, battering against the bars of a cage that Childe is slowly unlocking with his tongue. You feel sweat roll down your brow; your hips begin to shift against him more intently, blind in the pursuit of your orgasm to anything else. Childe’s tongue is sloppy against you; desperately working you over and over, swirling and lapping and sucking. His face must be soaked, you think, not only from your slick but from the messy way his own mouth works against your skin--

And that’s the last thought you have, because your release flashes white hot behind your sinuses and you whimper out his name - the name he’d given you last time, like he was imparting a secret.

“A-Ajax--!” And you’re coming, coming, a hot ball of fire exploding inside of you and making your toes curl and your fingers shake. Your eyes squeeze shut, a single tear escaping from the intensity of the situation. You let the waves wash over you, pleasure envelop you . . . and then, gathering your bearings back, you manage to shift off of him with shaking legs until you’re once more straddling his waist and making a wet shining mess of his abdomen. 

As you suspected, his face is all shiny with stands of your own arousal, his cheeks flushed, his eyes so bright they’re like lamps. His gaze rakes over you hungrily. And then, they land quite squarely on your thigh, and the skin where he carved his initial into you. 

“You look good with my name on you,” he rasps. 

Your own dagger is still strapped to your thigh. It’s on the outside, so Childe didn’t reach the point of it whilst your thighs were pressing either side of his face - but the reminder of what he left on you last time gives you an idea. 

You unsheathe it, twirling the blade in the light. 

“You’ll want to remember this too, right?” You ask him, giving him your sweetest smile. You dance your fingers over his toned chest; the smattering of freckles, the old scars. You give one of his nipples a tug, which wins a groan from him and a slight arch of the back - not that you are seated close enough to his cock to provide any real friction there. “I should leave a mark on you too.” 

Slowly, deliberately, you slide further down so that you are instead straddling his hips. Wiggling yourself just so, until the lips of your sex part - and the hard stiff length of him is captured between them, with too much fabric in the way for him to do anything but part his lips and pant, teased almost to his breaking point. 

“Not an initial,” you say to him. “That’s just tawdry, don’t you think?” You bring the blade down over his left breast; slice into it just enough that crimson blood wells up. You wet your lips looking at it - somehow, the sight of the cut on him and the knowledge that you’re the one responsible for it make you feel all the more powerful and all the more turned on despite your recent orgasm. Your breath catches in your throat. 

You make enough slices to make a rudimentary, jagged heart. You, unlike certain Fatui members, do not have all that much experience carving names and initials and other such things into people’s skin. Through it all - through every cut, every careful repositioning of your knife, Childe whines and whimpers and his cock jumps and pulses against your spread cunt. 

You lean back to admire your handiwork. Childe looks up at you, breathless, panting, flushed . . . and so handsome that you want to cry, a strange feeling in the pit of your stomach. 

“I want,” Childe growls out, guttural and breathless at once. “Your. Your mark. Please.”

The feeling intensifies; a troubling emotion that gnaws at your senses and spells danger. Your eyes dart to the ‘A’ carved into your thigh. 

“You’re mine,” he insists, whining. “I want to be y-yours. Tell me. Do it. Please!”

Oh, no. You shouldn’t be doing this. You shouldn’t let that look on his face tug at your heartstrings and bury itself deep in your bones. 

He would look nice, marked as yours.

Your hand moves before your brain, urged on by your heart instead - and before you know it, you’re once more carving into the skin of the Fatui member before you. Slowly, inside of the heart you’ve already made on him, you trace the lines of your own initial - going just a little deeper than before.

His eyes close in ecstasy. 

“Tell me,” he asks again, sounding like he needs it. 

You realise you’ve started unconsciously grinding against his cock as you mark him, and any thoughts you might have had about how weird and fucked up Childe’s tastes are fall to the wayside. You two are kindred spirits. You feel exactly like that too. 

“You’re mine,” you tell him - and to prove your point, you lean over him and kiss the heart-and-initial cuts on his chest, smearing his blood on your lips. 

Childe lets out a strangled groan, a whimper, and his cock jumps against where you have it trapped between your thighs with the barrier of the fabric between you - and you feel a spreading hot wetness. 

Your face goes hot all over. Your body thrums in need again, as if you haven’t been allowed to reach your peak once today already. 

You made him come in his own underwear. 

For one moment, you think about leaving him there. The humiliation of being bound to a bed, bleeding, his come spattered against his own skin. Your calling card etched into his chest. You could rifle through his luggage; look for files, take them back to your organisation and be patted on the head and told how well you’d done (as you pointedly avoided telling them exactly how you got your hands on the information). 

But oh, he’s lovely. And he’s staring up at you like he hung the moon. There’s that feeling again, stirring in the pit of your chest - a feeling you don’t want to give a real name to, but you know what it is nonetheless. Childe is clearly encountering that same emotion. 

You lift yourself off him just enough that you can take the knife - still shining with his blood - and cut down the seam by his hip and thigh, to peel off the last garment. His cock is spent, laying against his stomach, ropes of pearly come splattered over his freckled skin . . . but as you look at it, it slowly stirs back to life. Childe is a young man, after all - and a young man fuelled by adrenaline and want, and his refractory period is clearly not that long. 

You give him a hand. A few strokes, far gentler than you’ve been before; coaxing him back to hardness. It does not take all that much effort. Some gentle pets with blood stained fingers (you got his blood on your hands, somehow - Childe does not complain about the mess you’re making of him), a few strokes of your thumb over his slit, tracing of the pulsing veins of his shaft . . . and through it all, Childe is panting, staring at you, an unspoken emotion passing between the two of you. 

He’s hard again. 

You’re a little slower and a little gentler this time, as you position yourself over him; as you carefully readjust your hips until you can feel the head of him pressing against your entrance. 

“I’m going to use you like a toy,” you tell him, your voice cracking just a little. “Try and struggle free i-if you can.” 

“Be my guest,” he says, in that same excited rasp, though there’s a breathless quality that wasn’t there before. Something fragile in the air between you both. “I’ll give you exactly as good as I get.” 

You lower yourself onto him for the second time that evening, but this time you welcome him inside of you. He’s big enough to stretch you out, but familiar - how many times have you replayed that safehouse-tied-to-a-chair memory like a fantasy, remembering how he’d felt inside of you? Cherishing it as you worked yourself into a frenzy?

Reality far outshines your fantasies. You’ve found, in the past, this generally isn’t so - but oh, does Childe make good on the promises of the daydreams you’d had about his cock. Childe feels good inside of you, bigger and thicker and better than you could have imagined. You let out a hiss through gritted teeth as he bottoms out, and you take him inside of you in his entirety. 

Childe lets out a groan of your name and arches his back as much as he can, trying to encourage you with the tilt of his hips to ride him with abandon. His earlier sensitivity from coming has already been forgotten. He wants you to make good on your promise of treating him like he’s nothing more than a toy to be ridden and used. 

And, honestly? 

Who are you to deny a Fatui Harbinger what they want? 

There is no easing into a rhythm. Childe has made clear what he wants, and you are more than willing to go along with it - already, the orgasm that he’d wrung from you with his tongue feels like a distant memory that occurred months ago, not minutes. You let your hips do the talking instead. 

You let yourself pull off of him until only the very head of his cock is inside of you, and work yourself back down onto him in one swift bounce. Childe’s head is thrown back, showing you the sensitive and vulnerable parts of his throat.

“Harder,” he manages to get out. 

You quite agree. 

This time, you lean forward. You let your lips clash against his - and once more you’re kissing him, kissing him, kissing him. His blood smears on both of your mouths; and with your tongue, you work it inside of his too. It’s tongue and teeth and raw need, a kiss that carries on even as you establish the bruising rhythm of your thrusts and the slapping noises of flesh on flesh fill the air. 

The landlord of the inn will certainly not be happy with the noises the two of you are making (or the blood that will end up all over the sheets, the mess of you and Childe fulfilling your desires), but you cannot bring yourself to care about all of that. The only thing that exists for you in that shining moment is the places where you and Childe are joined. 

Your mouths. Your teeth tugging at his lower lip, his tongue learning the shape of your mouth once more. His tongue tracing your canines and incisors, his teeth getting to know your tongue. It might not seem like it would be pleasant . . . but every new movement he makes sends shockwaves ricocheting through you, makes your channel constrict and clench around his cock inside of you. 

Your hands; sliding up and down his chest, getting to know the beat of his heart and the shape of every scar. Messing in the blood that you left when you carved your ownership into his skin. Childe occasionally hisses out when your nails scratch the fresh marks, but when you go to pull away and use the pillow or mattress as leverage instead of his body, he makes a whine of disappointment. 

“It’s a good hurt,” he tells you, in between slick kisses and pants. “Hurt me more. I’ll return the favour, I promise.”

So you carry on letting your hands stroke his torso as the final joining place of the two of you - cock in sex, him inside of you, your bodies entwined as one - continues to help you both barrel towards another orgasm. It’s hard to gauge how much time passes as you ride Childe like you promised. All there is for you is him, and you, and your breaths and your blood and your hands and the bed--

Your orgasm hits you like a punch to the gut, sharper and brighter and deeper than you’ve ever come before. You practically wail against his mouth as fireworks seem to go off inside of your head, your ears ringing with the force of it - and Childe joins you in the groaning, the vocalisation of pleasure, as it turns out that the squeezing and pulsating of your cunt as you come is enough to push him off the precipice of his own release. 

Hot ropes of him inside of you; a mark in its own right. The gush of you coming, soaking his pelvis - another mark. You have an intense urge, suddenly, to be able to put yourself inside of him. To be able to fuck him in the way he can fuck you; to get his body to learn the shape of yours.

You’ve heard about Fontaine inventions that will allow you to do just that, actually - allow yourself a brief moment of imagining bending him over and fucking him, instead. 

Next time, next time, next time. 

You’re breathless as you dismount. Your legs shake, come rolling down your thighs, as you work your clothes back on. You forgo some of the more complicated garments - why does fashion require you to have so many buckles anyway? - but you manage to pull yourself into some semblance of decency nonetheless. Through it all, Childe lies there panting on the bed, not even asking you to untie him. 

Your gaze flits over him. 

Now’s your chance. 

Childe is too out of it to notice for a few moments, but as you pull a couple of documents from his luggage - official looking, a Fatui wax insignia keeping them closed, jackpot - he stirs himself enough to mumble;

“What are you-- hey!”

“Thanks,” you tell him, as you take a few of them. “These will be really helpful.”

“Untie me and give me a fair fight--!” His voice isn’t as enraged as you’d expected it to be. There’s a note of fondness in there that makes your cheeks heat up despite yourself. Oh, he looks wrecked the way you’ve left him - blood on his chest, come all over his stomach, your pleasure still all over his face. It’s the kind of image you’ll come back to, in the nights without him.

“I’m so looking forward to seeing you next time,” you tell Childe, wiggling your fingers - still wet, still messy, still stained with his blood - at him. As you leave, you also tuck the Exuvia plush he bought for his brother beneath your arm. 

. . . You’re certain there will be a next time, from the twinge in your heart and the moments that have passed between you both - but it never hurts having an extra incentive.

You blow a kiss as the door slams shut behind you, and try to ignore that you wish that the kiss was pressed to his forehead as the two of you cuddle in bed. 

[bullet-prooflove]

Hey Donna I'm sorry if I'm sending a double but can I please get #3 for once, you let go Of your fears and your ghosts with criminal joe

References to upcoming fic Love Letter

Criminal!Joe:

The Wolf - Joe meets his queen in an unexpected place.

Reward - Joe rewards you for your loyalty.

One More (NSFW) - Joe ruins you when you display your devotion. 

Pictures of You (feat: Mike Duarte) - Mike discovers you’re alive.

Bleed - Joe learns the story behind your scars.

Flowers (feat: Mike Duarte) - It’s been a long time since Mike has bought you flowers.

Use Me (NSFW) - Joe surrenders to you.

Red Flag - Terry thinks your a red flag in Joe’s operation.

You don’t say I love you, the truth is you don’t believe in it anymore. You haven’t since Mike abandoned you, leaving you in the hands of your captors. You’d lost everything during that year, you were broken, brutalised, ruined. That sweet naïve girl, the one who used to grow roses on the veranda is gone and all that’s left is you, a survivor, someone who refuses to end up being fucked every night by five different men for a handful of cash that she won’t even see.

When you’re sold to The Wolf you see your opportunity. You’ve heard from the other girls that he usually takes one of his newest acquisitions to bed, the prettiest one. You just have to make sure it’s you. Already you have an advantage over all the others, they haven’t experienced the horror that you have, they aren’t as hardened as you.

You have class, pedigree, emotional intelligence.

You think The Wolf must get bored of these girls, their compliance.

What he needs is a woman, one who knows how to please a man, how to make him feel wanted.

You don’t expect him to be handsome, his dark eyes that burn like coals as he tips your chin up and looks into your eyes. Every other woman in the room looks away, but you meet his gaze. He likes that, the defiance in you, you can tell. It’s what earns you a spot in his bed.

You ruin him that night but he ruins you too. You don’t expect to want him, to end up on your back with his head buried between your thighs as he devours you like you’re his favourite fucking desert. You certainly don’t expect to come, twice.

He surprises you even further in the aftermath. He draws you to him, holding you close. His thumb trails over the scars that are etched into your skin and you find yourself relaxing for the first time in over a year.

It doesn’t take long for him to fall in love with you, you see it in his eyes when he looks at you, the way he smiles when you walk into the room. The problem is, you fall in love with him too. You see the man beyond the legend, the one that was forged through years of violence and abuse. He’s a survivor just like you.

You try to fight it, to resist because loving someone else means giving up your power and you can’t do that, not after everything that happened to you.

It’s the letter that changes things, the one Terry gives you. Seeing those words committed to paper, knowing that Joe was willing to sacrifice everything for you, you realise you can’t leave those things unsaid.

He’s sitting at his desk when you enter his office, closing the door behind you. He looks up distractedly from his laptop, his dark eyebrows furrowed in concentration. Mike has given him a problem to solve, coupled with the information you'd supplied he's going to track down the men who hurt you. It's simply a matter of time.

“Mi amor?” Joe questions as he watches you approach.

You slip into his lap, the hem of your dress climbing a couple of inches as your thighs straddle his hips. You cradle his face between your hands, your nose trailing along the length of his as you look into his eyes. Your fingertips ghost over his cheek and you can see the adoration this man has for you, it’s written on his face clear as day.

“Mi Amor.” He whispers, his lips brushing over yours. “I’m going to find them, I’m going to…”

You silence him with a kiss because you don’t care about that right now, you just care about him, that he knows how you feel, that you meant what you said back in Mike’s restaurant.

“I love you.” You say fiercely, your gaze fixed on his. “I will love you until the day I die.”

@plaidbooks @misscharlielulu @witches-unruly-heart @storiesofsvu @magic-multicolored-miracle @rosaliedepp @cycat4077 @deekaag @cixrosie @im-just-a-mississippi-girl @mysoulisasunflower @legit9thlunaticwarrior @thatesqcrush @mydarkestsecretlol @upsteadlogic @wooshwastaken @imaginecrushes @kiwiithecrazybird @justreblogginfics @anime-weeb-4-life @alwaysachorusgirl @telepathay @weiwei0210 @anaferreira-4 @dancingonthebeachatdawn @spaghettificationandpretzels @nu1freakshow @trublu2u @yezzyyae @thiashazzywriting @altsvu @whateversomethingbruh @a-noni-love @collegegirl83

[eustasskiddsprosthetic]

Here's a thought. I'm not sure if this is considered a mafia au or whatever but this is the best thing I've thought of.

One day, Doflamingo brings his gang family to a beachside resort, partly to have a vacation and mostly to encourage Law to network.

It's a diplomatic move to pacify Law after killing Corázon. He expects Law to try to murder him just like Corázon but he would rather Law not try anything so soon. Though, Doffy would rather have that than whatever this was. Doffy swore he taught Law better.

Law refuses to look and be nice. He wears the ugliest merchandise tee shirts and hoodies. He plays his horrible rock music out loud. He dances to upbeat girl group pop songs off beat and wears polar bear floaties to the pool without batting an eye.

And to top it all off, all that attracts the attention of this blond young man called Sabo. Sabo looks like those pretty young boys Greeks back in the day idolise for their beauty and Doffy had seen those before. However, there's something about Sabo...

Doffy is aware that Sabo wants to kill him but there's just something so damned wrong about him. It was not his scars or anything like that... It's his eyes...

He observes them from a distance at first, not wanting to get too close because he doesn't want to offend Law's... delicate, asocial sensibilities. He does not like that he cannot control Law more personally but he must tolerate it.

That said, maybe he need not be so worried. Their first meeting went so disastrously Doffy was sure that Blondie would kill Law first.

The blondie is very obviously into Law. Sexually, yes but also because Blondie wants to get into Law's pants to learn more about Doffy's schemes and kill him.

This is your chance, Law, Doffy thinks with some dread... Blondie really was quite handsome. If Doffy were a bit younger he would've gone for him. Damn you, Law! You don't deserve this.

Blondie swam up to the edge of the pool where Law was sitting. Law dipped his legs in the pool and was kicking it around like a child. He was tapping at his phone. He looked busy, but Doffy knew better. The brat was playing Candy Crush to spite him.

"Hey, handsome," Blondie says, tapping on Law's knee. Law glanced up and blinked. "How are you? It's nice today, isn't it?"

Law learned how to read lips from Corázon. He nodded with a polite enough smile that did not mean anything.

"Do you want to get away for a minute?" Blondie said. "We can do something else."

Do what? Law signed. Corázon taught him that too. Blondie was caught off guard but signed back, albeit awkwardly, Whatever you want. Law frowned. Surely, Law was silly but not stupid.

Law must have seen the way Blondie's eyes twinkle. He must have seen the way Blondie delicately used his index and middle finger to tuck some hair behind his ear to look coy and delicate. Blondie gave him a sultry smile, where he only showed one row of teeth.

His lips were so nice, so plump and shiny. Nice figure too, toned and clearly a fun-loving person both in life and in bed. His chest was broad, smooth abs and quite tall too. He probably looked good in a suit too... Or lingerie... Law really was a lucky man.

Doffy and Corázon too, actually, taught Law to be disciplined. Theoretically, to prove his loyalty, Law should reject Blondie and move on but Doffy would not blame Law if he accepted.

To his surprise then, Law does... neither?

He leans forward and Blondie thought they would make out. Instead, Law sings, "dumb dumb dumb dumb dumb" while tapping his head. He then stands up, dances off-beat for thirty seconds, apologises for not knowing more and then walks away while humming the rest of the song like that interaction never happened.

Blondie was absolutely flabbergasted, to the point of being offended. Doffy laughed at the murderous look he gave Law. They made eye contact and Doffy laughs harder.

Good fucking luck, young man!

Doffy taught Law well, didn't he!

[helloitisiafellowgay]

another part of my Steve gets Vecna’d AU, where i provide very little context lmaoo sorry

i’ve been working on this for OVER A YEAR and still have a few scenes to finish 😭 my draft rn is almost 19k so I’ll hopefully get it out before like November at this rate :)

vague context: this is the night before The Big Fight TM and people like JUST found out that steves possessed and eddie is cleaning steve’s demobat wounds

other post

——————

“Do you—“ the drug dealer looks conflicted, debating whether to poke at a neglected bruise. “Why didn’t anyone notice?”

There’s a knot in his throat, a tightening of his larynx. “What do you mean?”

”That you were hallucinating? Having nightmares?” Before, Eddie wouldn’t meet his gaze. Now, he won’t let Steve look away, slowly regaining his certainty, his intensity. “Why was I the only one to even consider anything was wrong? You’re not that great of an actor— you aren’t, don’t look at me like that— and they’ve known you so much longer than I have.”

And isn’t that the question he’d been shoving out of his own mind since the beginning of this whole mess? That small seed of doubt, pushing forward and flourishing now that someone else had stopped to water it.

He knows, he knows— they don’t care about him as much as he cares about them. Sees it in the way the kids dismiss him as soon as they arrive at their destination, only call on him when they want something; the way he gives it every single time regardless.

Each girl in his bed, driving him like a crash-test car; the excuse to leave, the cold sheets in the morning. A freezing bathroom at a party, the echo of bullshit refracting off the cold tile.

The crack of ceramic against his skull, the fist in his sternum, the stifling ash in his lungs in a buried tunnel. Interrogation tactics, missing fingernails, drugged out of his mind; flesh monster, the loss of the one male adult he could actually depend on.

And before it all, the steel door, the silhouette, the—

No.

No, Steve knows that he is, at his core, what he has always been: unloveable.

After the reactivity, the intentional cruelty of his youth, he expects nothing other than a warning label.

Danger: do not interact. Prone to violence.

Steve is his father’s son, after all. They share the same ruthless ferocity, the same scarred knuckles.

He has spent so long convincing the world that anything can be turned into a weapon, and he started with his hands; if he squints long enough, blood pools itself into the crevices of his palms, fingernails curving into sharp edges and the remnants of whiskey bottles.

A product of his environment, no doubt; the weight of his family name, absent parents, superficial friends.

King Steve with a hollow crown, sat in his pristine castle with everything a teen could ask for except anyone to make him feel worth following. Like something other than a cheap toy, a pretty face, a chore to be put off until a more convenient time.

It’s fact of his life, something he felt no reason to doubt when people keep proving it to him, over and over and over.

He’s useful— for rides to the arcade, for a place to hangout when everywhere else has been vetoed, to wield a baseball bat studded with nails, the last line of defense, the one who can be counted on to take the hit— but not their friend. Not wanted, not valuable, and certainly not lovable.

So how can he possibly justify this unwavering loyalty, his propensity to follow them around like a stray dog waiting on table scraps? Why he keeps coming back, offering every part of himself when none of them would do the same for him?

Steve shrugs. “They all have their own shit going on, they can’t help it. I didn’t want to make things complicated.”

The drug dealer frowns, already shaking his head in disagreement. “That’s not— not good enough. They’re not too busy, they just don’t…”

Care.

They just don’t care.

Steve catches the moment that the other boy sees the bundle of scars peeking just over the hem of his boxers. Tears his own focus away from those small, circular burns; old enough to be suspicious, obvious enough that even a ten-year-old could come to the correct conclusion about their origin without much effort.

A kid with cigarette burns— not common, but definitely not rare.

A rich kid with cigarette burns? That just doesn’t happen.

“Doesn’t Vecna go after people with trauma? It’s not like Steve—”

His stomach roils, a distant nausea working its way up his esophagus. The younger teen holds his breath and waits, but Eddie doesn’t ask, just furrows his brow and grazes over the puckered skin with a single, calloused thumb.

Steve shivers, bites his lip, fights the urge to dislodge the soft touch and flee the room. He doesn’t.

Eddie goes back to taping the raw edges of his wounds closed.

A sick, twisted heat takes root in his stomach; invasive and insatiable, it chokes out his heart until it has nowhere left to go except up into his throat, and flourishes in the abandoned cavity left behind.

“Do you think when he chose me… do you think he knew?” Steve’s a conglomeration of dull apathy and the underlying static of panic; he feels like he’s back under the water, suspended in time and trying desperately not to drown. “That I wouldn’t say anything? Wouldn’t want to tell them, you, about… That… that they don’t…?”

The musician pulls out a roll of gauze, presses one end to his rib cage with more care than anyone has shown him in a long time.

“I think that you hide so much from everyone, more than anyone thinks that you do. And I think that, to someone like him, it’s easy to mistake that for shame.”

Oh.

“And what if I am?” Steve clenches his jaw, flattens his lips to disguise their infernal trembling. “Ashamed… of being known? Afraid that people will hate what they find, if I were to let people in— share those parts of myself?”

The last of the sunset dissipates from the sky, leaves the world outside of the window cast in a deep indigo.

A murmur, almost subconsciously, from his healer: “Isn’t everyone?”

He is some sort of wretched thing— must be, to warrant this raw, gnawing ache in his core. The withering, the erosion at the fringes of his being, exposing the live-wire at the heart of him.

Pressure, as the dressing is applied to his wounds. The light brush of skin against skin.

“You aren’t an inconvenience, you know.” Eddie wraps the last of the bandage around his abdomen, secures it in place. “You are allowed to ask for help. And other people want to help, if you let them.”

The babysitter hums, a non-answer, omitted confirmation. Can do little else, lest he wilt under the force of this personification of a star.

“I might not know why none of the kids said anything, but...“ Off to the side, the discarded towel is depositing water on the floor. When Eddie reaches for it, there’s a damp patch on his jeans that the babysitter stares at while his hands are taken, dabbed at with damp cotton. “Robin, Nancy, and I literally followed you into hell. You’re not taking anything from us that we wouldn’t freely give.”

The older boy’s gaze is wild, reverent. From where he is crouched in front of Steve, it must look like he’s kneeling before a monarch, a King.

What a resolute act of devotion: tending to the wounds of a martyr, washing the blood from each finger as if every millimeter of exposed skin is something worth defending.

Steve doesn’t know what he’s done to deserve such absolution; this exoneration from all of the sin coating his fingers and dripping from his teeth. He is nothing more than a child devouring overripe berries in another family’s garden, filling his vacant stomach with sweet crimson nectar that he will never be able to justify aching for.

He is no deity, no patron saint or messiah. He’s barely a king. ”I’m not worth—“

He has never been religious— or, at least definitely not after the monsters came into the picture. But he knew then, knows now— there is no heavenly father, no almighty God, that could give him back that purity, that holy golden ichor.

Whenever Steve had plead to this creator, prayed for help while pinned to the ground under the malicious intent of another— there was no response. Just the echo of his faith, his questions, being tossed back at him, neglected and unanswered.

”You’re worth everything, Steve Harrington.” Eddie’s intensity, his conviction, makes Steve’s heart lurch somewhere in his chest. “There is nothing you could ask from us that you haven’t deserved a hundred times over.”

The cloth, damp and abrasive against his palms, collects strawberry residue within its woven fibers.

His crown must be less hollow than he thought.

There is no god that can restore his virtue, slip the innocence back into his pockets, baptize him in the light of unconditional love— but Eddie… Eddie is just a man.

Just a man, who wiped each of his fingers clean; dressed his wounds with such gentle hands. Just a man, who kissed each bruise, each old scar, without the intent to hurt.

Just a man who held him, who pulled him back when his whole body was on the edge of a precipice.

Who answered his questions without judgement— without stripping him of his divinity, casting him down from the heavenly throne and into the sulphuric pits of eternal damnation.

Just this boy, who looks at him like he is worth more here, in this moment, than he ever would be nailed to a cross.

What god has ever done that for him?

[arisenreborn]

I got Brant from @soloavengers for the character thoughts prompt, thank youuu! <3<3<3

1. What my Arisen thinks of them -

Reverie is admittedly a little intimidated by him, especially when she first meets him. Being called 'Your Majesty' and all of that is... oof, it's a lot. She'd think it was a joke if he wasn't so serious (and did definitely give an awkward laugh the first time he said it, only to stop equally awkwardly when he just stared back at her). But she's ultimately inspired by his dedication and desire to serve the people of Vermund, and it's really nice having someone so reliable she can... yanno, rely on. He's one of the first catalysts that gets her moving in the 'right direction', and in some ways is a bit formative for someone with no memories to call her own. Though she's naturally inclined to help, she takes in a bit of his dutifulness of his. Gradually, she hopes to live up to at least some of his expectations. She does lowkey worry that he doesn't have enough time to relax and unwind. Like, sure he's at the tavern a lot, but is he actually using that time to chill at all when he's still in his armor?

2. What my Pawn thinks of them -

Rann is slightly more guarded about the captain, but that's mostly out of his watchfulness over Reverie. At the start of things he doesn't have the entire picture, but a clearer one that she does, so he takes it upon himself to consider things like: anyone with close ties to the palace could possibly betray her like they did before. Those thoughts are pretty swiftly dismissed though, and he is mostly relieved Reverie does have a true and staunch ally she can rely upon beyond the pawns. He takes a certain measure of pride in such an honorable man supporting her. On the nights where they meet with him, he sometimes get an uncomfortable twinge in his chest watching them huddled close over the table, voices low and unheard across the din of the tavern. Something about the way the captain calls her 'Your Majesty' tugs at him, but he can't place why...

3. What they think of my Arisen -

At the initial announcement of the Arisen's arrival, there's a sense of relief and pride. It's not until later when he meets her post-memory curse that a tinge of concern mixes in there. Without all of those burn scars, he did some research into her history, and finding connections to a guild of thieves was more than a little worrying. But her kindhearted nature and insistence on helping others shone through any of those concerns. To the point he has a whole new set of worries about their Sovran perishing before she's even been crowned. Of course, there's not much that can be done for it given the circumstances, so he can only trust in her abilities. He believes she's a little naive and her memory loss is a great potential danger, but endeavors to cover for these possible risks. His loyalty to the laws of Vermund and the seat of the Sovran were one thing, but by the end his loyalty to Reverie as a person, who has overcome many odds and risked herself for others time and time again, is even greater.

4. What they think of my Pawn -

Initially he regards Rann the same as any other Pawn: with the respect due to those of such unwavering loyalty to the Arisen, but it doesn't go much deeper than that. Getting glimpses of just how much Rann supports Reverie, however, he does feel of a sense of deeply owed gratitude. The Arisen should be leading armies to face the Dragon, not skulking around untangling Disa's plots after all, having to scrounge for coin and food. In some ways he's almost envious of the pawn, being so close and serving her so openly. I think while he's very perceptive he's honestly a bit clueless about just how deep that bond between them goes later on.

Bonus: An extra headcanon I have about them -

It might not be especially ground-breaking but I do think once the armor is set aside, Brant is a big teddy bear and would make an excellent cuddler. He also has frighteningly high alcohol tolerance.

[alpacinosgf]

A SFW Alphabet for Oz?

Oz Cobbeplot SFW ABCs

A - Attractive (What do they find most attractive in a person and about you?)

Oz is naturally big on loyalty, given his line of work. If you can hold your own in a confrontation, or keep your cards close to your chest he'll obsess over it and think you're made for each other.

B - Baby (Do they want a family? Why/Why Not? How big?)

I go back and forth on this, I think oz in his younger days would have thought his world was ending if he had a kid. How the fuck would he work? It's extra pressure to make steady money to put away, and something that could potentially be used against him god forbid. Now? Oz is a little more sentimental about things. Hes long past the age his father was when he had him, and every time he looks in the mirror he does get a slight shock at the face of his father looking back at him. If it were to happen and you wanted it, he'd be secretly delighted about it for his own sense of connection to his parents and the very idea someone could want a future and a child with him of all people but there's never going to be any pressure either way. Though you can expect the odd throwaway comment about how good you'd look pregnant. He maintains you'd be one of those people that glows. As for size of his family, Oz would prefer maybe 3 or 4 in an ideal world where he was retired and younger and get to spend as much time with them as possible. Real househusbands of Gotham?

C - Cuddle (Do they like to cuddle? How do they like to cuddle most?)

LIVES to cuddle. Any time you're woken up by sirens outside your window and you don't have him stuck to your side, heavy forearm over your stomach you're almost offended. Even if he's completely drunk, feeling hungover, sick, etc. he thrives off the physical connection to you. It soothes him to no end. When he's working late into the morning at the Lounge you have to admit feeling lonely in bed, he takes up so much space literally that it feels almost wrong not to have him there.

D - Date (Ideal date?)

Home cooked meal, good wine and some old cheesy rat pack tunes on his record player at the penthouse. He'll have the curtains drawn, candles everywhere and you waited on hand and foot. Oz loves to cook, he never gets a chance to anymore with how much he's away from the house but any time he can show off a little he jumps at the chance. And for you? It's all he wants, to serve you and keep you entertained and full. It very much plays into the acts of service he loves to do for you. So don't expect to help with the plates or cleaning, and god forbid you top up your own drink.

E - Energetic (How energetic are they?)

As young as you make him feel, he's still a middle aged man at the end of the day. So don't expect any dates around town, meandering the streets and taking the day in your stride. With his bad leg, and his line of business he prefers to plan things out in advance so he knows what he can cope with in terms of pain management but its nothing that's ever bothered you. You don't even think about it now.

F - Fight (How are they in a fight?)

There's a reason Oz's face is marred by scars and there's a part of him that kind of enjoys the attention he gets from them, so people know he's still dangerous even as he's gotten older and heavier. Very much enjoys a fist fight, and has knocked out countless fools with one strong punch to the jaw

G - Gifts (How do they feel about gifts? How do they give them?)

As much as he loved to give gifts, he gets a little surprised by being given any. Even in terms of the girls at the Lounge when they pool money together to get him a new watch or chain he's over the moon and a little emotional that they took the care to get him anything at all. If you got him something he's had his eye on for a while, or just mentioned in passing he'd always wanted a specific thing as a kid or a teenager you can expect a very teary eyed oz covering you in kisses. Oz likes to be a little understated in gift giving if that makes sense, he could buy you something ridiculously expensive but would present it to you on your own. He knows you don't like all that attention when people are around so he saves it for later when you're home. He's also prone to sending little things to your job, like your favourite lunch spot food when you mention you're busy and has even sent stuff to your building. The doorman letting you know another package from Oz arrived.

H - Honesty (How honest are they? Do they keep secrets?)

Honest to a point. At the beginning he'd rather keep you in the dark as much as possible for your own safety but as things progress, he realises how good it feels to talk about things even in a vague way is better than nothing. Sometimes he lets it out in bed, speaking lowly half into the pillows and to you just to get it off his chest. You don't need to say anything but he appreciates it immensely if you rub small circles into his back as he does so.

I - Injury (How do they react if you get injured?)

Bloodthirsty is the only word for it. Whether it's from a stupid accident or someone else to blame (even innocently) he's on the offence. He completely babies you if you're laid up in bed with a broken ankle or anything of the sort. Even if you were to be mugged, and just a little shook up about it Oz does everything from combing the streets to asking crooked cops for cctv, witnesses and suspect lists if it means he can take it out on the one responsible. As quick to anger as he is, Oz would take his time dealing the punishment. Putting his full weight on their shins, bashing kneecaps in with a crowbar, etc

J - Jealousy (Are they the jealous type? How do they deal with it?)

He's definitely the jealous type. But not in the way you might think, as insecure as he is he knows deep down you'd never cheat on him and he has to remind himself that. He's jealous when other men eye at you in the lounge, vying for your attention and thinking they can disregard him entirely. His age, weight and limp are always at the forefront of his mind. That's what irritates him most, so you can forgive him for being a little handsier when men want to try flirt with you, besides you like him a little jealous. He's somehow even more passionate later on when you're alone 👀

K - Kiss (Their favorite way to kiss you?)

Loves to pull you in by the back of your neck, and planting a searing kiss on your lips when you least expect. It makes him feel young again when he feels your sharp intake of breath and the way you move into it. Very much this gif from the north water 💜💜💜

L - Love Confession (How did they confess their love?)

In the heat of the moment in bed, he'd been thinking it to himself for a while but was a little hesitant to admit it out loud for fear you might recoil from the words. When his mind goes blank it starts to spill out, we all know Oz loves to talk so it's no surprise he blurts it out first

M - Mean (What are they like when they’re mean? Is it common?)

Never mean to you, other people? Sure. Anybody irritating or disrespectful is fair game but he couldn't ever be mean to you, even if you're only playing. He probably could have been snarkier if he was with you when he was young but at his age, with everything that's happened to him he knows when to keep quiet and to bite his tongue. He can tease you perfectly fine but don't expect it to be ongoing, even a little comment that slips out is going to plague his mind and he'll feel guilty about it even if it never bothered you. He's too soft to put any real effort into it.

N - Nicknames (Do they have nicknames for you? What are their favorites for them?)

Loves nicknames!!! So much so it's almost strange for him to use your own. It's always something playful. Honey, doll, sweetheart, babe, bella/bello, etc.

O - Open (How long did it take for them to open up to you?)

A long time. Several dates in it's like he finally twigs that you care about him and its like he's got a new lease of life with you. He feels a little giddy truth be told.

P - Proposal (How would they propose? Would they propose at all?)

Definitely would. Wouldn't be a grand proposal he knows your distaste for them, so he'd plan a home cooked meal or rent out the place of your first date entirely for the two of you. No staff or onlookers to gawk at the two of you. He's very much nervous about getting on one knee, both metaphorically and literally so it means even more for him to push his pain threshold that bit farther to give you a proper proposal like you deserve. He's a romantic at heart and would get great satisfaction from planning it all. He'd maybe ask the girls at the Lounge for their input and they're all sworn to secrecy but they're too excited amongst themselves to even think about blabbing to you when they see you next.

Q - Quiet (What are quiet moments like with them?)

Easy. If you're unwell or feel like taking a quiet day he's happy to comply. Whatever you feel like doing is perfect for him. He'll drag out some plush blankets for you to cuddle under on the couch, he'll light the fire and get you whatever you feel like eating or drinking. There's few words said, even then they're whispered into your hair when he holds you. Enjoying the peace as you watch some mindless TV, his fingers tracing circles on your arm.

R - Rainy Day (What are they like in the rain?)

He's well used to the rain, growing up in Gotham it's unusual for the place to be anything but gloomy with rain drifting down. He's maybe a little nostalgic when it rains, thinking of all the times he's been sat in cars waiting for Salvatore Maroni to be finished a deal, or when he was a child watching the rain pour down from the cracks in the ceiling of his overcrowded and deteriorating building.

S - Sad (How do they handle their sadness? How do they react to yours?)

Very quiet when he's in a somber mood. More likely to self isolate and wallow for a while until he feels up to seeing you and being seen by you. Sometimes it's easy to pull him out of it, with the right words and soft touches but you know that he needs his own space at times so you offer it, letting him know he can speak as freely or as little as he feels when he's ready.

T - Time (How long did it take for you to get together?)

Kind of quickly, he was a little tipsy when he first approached you. Emboldened by the booze in his system when you caught his eye. He's grateful for having had that extra drink that night, he would have been too in his own head otherwise to even look in your direction.

U - Unique (What’s an interesting thing about them that not a lot of people know about?)

Likes to try things purely because you recommend them, new food, new show, new book, etc he’s going to try it on his own. It’s a way for him to feel closer to you and appreciate your perspective on things.

V - Value (What are some of the things they value most in life? value most about you?)

He values personal time above all else, if he can’t spend one on one time with you he’ll be in a bad mood in work for the week and everybody is on the receiving end of it. It’s best for everyone if you get to be together a couple times a week.

W - Wildcard (random fluff headcanon)

Really enjoys being little spoon, but never asks for it. You have to pick it up from the way he’s acting, and if he turns away from you in bed it’s not because he wants to be alone or not touch you he wants you to latch onto him and make him feel wanted. It’s funny but you holding onto his larger frame in the bed actually makes him feel a little safer, emotionally.

X - XO (Are they affectionate with hugs and kisses? If not, are they in other ways?)

Very, very affectionate. Might have been a little stiff in the beginning with affection but now, anytime you stop by the club after work he gives you a deep kiss hello, hand deadset on staying above your ass for the rest of the night. He does like to show off, after all. When he’s feeling more comfortable with you he’ll kiss you heartily in whatever situation you’re in. Glad to feel some affection for once in his life.

Y - Yearn (How do they deal with yearning?)

Oz doesn’t deal with it well. He’s spent so long on his own that when he does feel the need to be close to you, he can’t wait till he gets home - he’ll either call you to tell you how he’s feeling and you come down if you can - or he leaves early. Much to the irritation of Falcone.

Z - Zen (What makes them calm?)

Physical touch makes him the calmest. A little shoulder rub often leads to a full massage of his wide back and he melts into the mattress when you work at his strained muscles. He hasn’t been touched so gently in so long, that he’s liable to get a little emotional when you touch him like that. He mightn’t admit how he appreciates it, but you know him well enough to see the appreciation in his noises and sighs.

[coffeeangelinabox]

Whumpril Day 19: I Need You

The three of them that are left stand in the Commodore's briefing room at uneasy attention. Their section of 8 is down to less than half: discontinued from the programme, training accidents and their most recent loss - Maugrim - to friendly fire. 

“But how did it happen?” Beowulf asks, grief pushing him to demand answers instead of giving the well trained acceptance demanded. How can he protect the remaining two if he doesn’t understand what to watch out for?

They take him back to the room after that, remind him of his place and responsibilities and of their expectations for his conduct until he stops asking. They neglect to make him forget. 

*

They never disagree with missions, even amongst themselves. Bitter experience has taught them they are always being observed and that speaking out against their superiors leads to inexplicable disappearances. Luna never returned after criticising one set of orders, that’s how Beowulf ended up in command of the group. 

Now though, looking blankly at the instructions downloaded on his digi-screen, Beowulf feels fury that their idiocy roil through him. They’ve been sent on difficult missions before, tasks they’ve barely limped home from with broken bones and scars and concussions despite the best training the Domain can offer and millions upon millions of credits in the best urban warfare tech money can buy in any system. 

This though. This is suicide. 

Perhaps, Beowulf thinks treacherously, the Domain doesn’t want them to return. 

If that’s the cost for him he’ll pay it and gladly, he believes in his cause, but he won’t sacrifice the only family he’s ever had so wantonly. He reads the briefing again and sighs.

“Well?” Fenrir demands, propping himself up on an elbow on his bunk and looking over at him.

Beowulf shrugs. “An error, I think. I’d best go and clarify with the commodore.”

He’s lucky they don’t kill him for his insolence, his reputation as a superlative strategist the only thing that saves him, but they send a full company of regulars instead of Beowulf’s team of three so he counts it a win.

*

“Kids?”

“Yes.” The Commodore sounds impatient. 

Beowulf knows he’s pushing his luck (all their luck) just by asking, but he has to know. “Why?”

The Commodore sighs, regards him beadily and then, in the overly patient voice of a primary school teacher that puts Darrow’s teeth on edge says, “Because we want a homegrown peacekeeping force to deal with the insurgents. They’ll be less likely to pull some of their stunts against their own, and kids can be raised to have no dividing loyalties.”

Logical. A plan worthy of him. So why does it make his stomach creep?

“Is there a problem?”

“No, sir.”

*

“You have to stop this,” Romulus says, helping a shaking Beowulf to a seated position and steadying his trembling hands so he can sip some water. The pain in his head is blinding. “They’ll kill you, you know.”

Beowulf mumbles something like agreement.

Romulus sighs and rocks back on his heels by the low bunk. They both know Beowulf won’t stop, but they can’t talk about it any more without bringing down the consequences they fear. “Just-”

“I will.”

*

The transport is out of commission, every system fried. No power, no heat. They’re just lucky this planet has a fairly temperate climate and the local vegetation is palatable. They can wait for extraction. 

It’s peaceful actually, like camping.

“I used to do this with my brothers,” Romulus says suddenly, randomly.

Beowulf looks over in surprise. He’d never heard Romulus mention brothers before, though now he wonders if those are the names he sobs out occasionally when his injuries are bad enough to push him to delirium. 

Fenrir jerks to his feet. “We’re your brothers,” he snaps. 

Beowulf reaches out and takes hold of Fenrir’s elbow, restraining and soothing all at once. The import of Romulus’ words hit him. A family outside of them, outside of the Domain and, for the first time in a decade, no surveillance. 

A silence, a breath, it’s one thing to question orders another to take this step, but…”Shall we go see them?”

Romulus turns a considering gaze on him, thinks for two, three heartbeats and agrees.

Fenrir rips himself out of Beowulf’s hold. “You’re shitting me? You wouldn’t desert?”

“I-” But when it comes down to it…”I would, Fen. We’re…all of us…all of this…It isn’t a good thing, and they…they don’t care about us. They’ll use us up and let us rot.”

“And that’s our purpose! We’re weapons!”

Beowulf snarls himself now. “No. No, you’re more than that! Both of you!”

Fenrir is on his feet now and Beowulf rises to match him. They’ve tussled before, in sparring and rage, strong willed men in too-close quarters, but Beowulf can feel that this will be different. This will be no bloody nose, this will leave one of them broken and bleeding. 

Romulus gets between them. “Come with us,” he urges Fenrir. “You’re my brother too. I won’t leave you.”

“And betray my oaths?”

And in that moment, they might have stayed. Romulus speaks truly. They’re family and Beowulf wouldn’t leave Fenrir to face the Domain alone. He’ll abduct any number of children and burn out the villages of an infinite number of innocents to protect Fenrir, it’s honestly that simple. He sees his truth reflected in Romulus’ eyes. 

One last effort. “Come with us, Fenrir. We need you, too,” but the pleading words already hold a note of surrender, an acknowledgement that they won’t, that they will stay, the remnants of a section until the Domain has no more use to them. 

“I would never-” Fenrir spits out. “I’m not- I’ll see you both in front a firing squad for this.”

Just like that, Beowulf’s heart stops. He would stay at Fenrir’s side, even to death, even to condemnation and execution as a traitor, but not Romulus. Not for the crime of having a family.

They leap forward together, and with two of them they are able to subdue Fenrir and leave him safe and alive and with the majority of their supplies, and they run. 

*

Despite what it costs them, Beowulf is never able to regret not killing him when he had  the chance.     

[bunji-enthusiast]

𝙌𝙐𝙀𝙍𝙀𝙉𝘾𝙄𝘼

[a place where one feels safe or at home.]

• sypnosis || being in your home as lead him to personal realizations, and new simple experiences.

• Warnings || none, just fluff.

• Note || just a small blurbo! I love this man lots and I’m trying to show that one step at a time lolol. Wrote this while listening to øfdream: thelema~

Thinking.

He simply could not stop thinking about you alone, the personification of the very subconscious fighting against his own thoughts.

Domineering over the edge until they really couldn’t stop, but for some — it wasn’t something to be bothered with.

Hey hell, if the man ever had to pay the price; loyalties, trust and love. You laid at the center of it all.

Such as a dog aching to tame its hunger, no matter how much the silver collar bruised and ebbed into the very flesh of its neck—there was no stopping it.

Bunji had always found himself at your door, to find himself lapping at every inch of your essence. Feeling whole, whole that his senses were only you.

You were an ache in his heart he could never ignore, simply put.

The age-old creaking he was so used to hearing, wasn’t there anymore. Perhaps you had gotten your door fixed?

Most likely, that was the case.

Bunji peered around at the fixed environment, shirts and articles of clothing framing evidently somewhat misplaced furniture here and there. The decoration had remained unamused and unfaltered.

The smell. Oh how he loved the smell, that truly can pull something all together he’ll admit that much.

Nearby had laid bare the windows, the isolation framing them well and working as it should, yet it had seem that pores of dust and mold leaked in. Yet to where you could see the outside had allowed you to really feel the weather, which had been blue, cold and wet for quite some time now.

Bunji could see you hadn’t really paid too much attention to your own environment, straying just enough to keep it in pieces. Being a person busied with things, it would no doubt take a toll.

Even especially on someone as sweet as yourself… taking that to mind Bunji had made it a personal priority to take care of financial problems burdening you without your awareness.

Sometimes he had forgotten how his steps limbered beyond the barefoot threads of your floorboards, there was carpet laid everywhere. It seemed he had forgotten about this particular fact. Being so narrowed in focus with anything else.

Bunji lifted his large hand to focus, closing it into a fist and releasing it again once more. Surveying his surroundings and felt himself reeling with your scent was, expected.

He felt so out of place, feeding into the idea he might just taint your home with his touch. With just another step, it wasn’t a dream. It was real.

Dreams weren’t born, or planned into mind. Bunji’s own mind had already nearly died, he could not dream.

You were a dream, a very physical dream. Bunji would define you as such, if he could ever see one for the first time in a long time. That it what he wanted to understand it as.

Bunji let out a long sigh, hoping to mitigate that ministration by focusing on something else. To not be enthralled with his own thoughts, to not be left alone with them.

Maybe he could cook up something for you, he was exceptional aptitude for cooking and baking alike. Having down it for his brother back then when he had been young and dumb, freshly scarred by a world that never should treat children the way they do.

“Hope ya don’t mind.” He murmured, crossing a look at his surroundings making his way to your small kitchen area. Bunji took off his leather brown jacket, which still had a very smoky stench. He was going to have to do something about that smell.

Letting out an even longer sigh, he waved off the fumes leaving his maw. A naturally recurring statement reminding him of his status as a Deadman.

Bunji looked around at your kitchen, which luckily wasn’t a mess. He still probably would’ve cleaned it up for you anyhow, every once in a while a person needs help. Even needing company.. he was a lonely man. That is one hell of a hurtful thought, loneliness.

Loneliness can kill a man.

That being said, he wasn’t looking for friends. Looking for family to call his own. Bunji had been stripped of any honorable hope for that very thing, rightfully so.

Yet, he just can’t help but wonder if there was any reason that there were people who wanted him to be in their life. You?…

Bunji wasn’t sure.

But one thing he could understand, you can never go wrong with a bout of regaining honor to protect, protecting the life you live.

He so silently hopes you won’t turn him away.

[jongnorp]

WELCOME HOME, KIM SEOHAN!

You've got the keys, unlock your new world!

NAME. KIM SEOHAN. DATE OF BIRTH. 19970908. OCCUPATION. BASEBALL PLAYER. NATIONALITY. SOUTH-KOREAN.

FREE FORM.

seohan is a “rainbow baby”; considered a miracle to his parents after they suffered from fertility issues and miscarriages. he grew up an only child and very loved, perhaps to a fault.

it was his grandfather who originally got him into baseball; they used to watch games on tv together or go in person to local matches. seohan’s grandfather coached his first little league team and instilled a lifelong passion into him.

maybe it was all the love from his parents; it somehow turned into pressure that seohan put on himself to be the best in everything and anything that he did. he wanted to make them proud, he wanted to hear their praise and bragging about him. he was a straight-a student, he was on the varsity team in school, he’s handsome, his girlfriend was the prettiest girl in school. he could not falter or slip; he’d spend long nights studying and beat himself up if he got any marks off of an exam.

seohan left his small hometown and headed to seoul, enrolling in snu for athletic training, only to have his studies cut short by being scouted for a kbo futures team while playing at uni. he ended up playing the sport he loved professionally. he quickly gained public attention for his good looks as well as his skill, meanwhile back home he had become one of the town’s legendary success stories. perhaps he was something of a hero, then.

for a while, seohan was riding high. he had a beautiful girlfriend who he loved dearly, endorsements and sponsorships that kept his lifestyle more than comfortable, and played his favorite game for a living. it was expected that he’d be pulled up to the regular kbo league, offered a huge contract in exchange for his loyalty to the team, rather than risk him getting scooped up by another once his rookie contract expired. but that would never happen.

he had been called up for a major league game, his first ever. perhaps it was nerves, or just a reality check when things were going too well, but seohan found himself scrambling for first after a botched hit sent the ball right toward the second baseman. he slid, but the movement was miscalculated; seohan had to be carted off the field into the locker room, where x-rays confirmed his worst fears: it wasn’t a broken bone, it was something worse.

the next day he finds out at the hospital that his season is over; an acl and meniscus tear that needs surgery immediately. so much for that contract, that breakout game; now seohan was struggling just to get back out onto the diamond. his girlfriend, who swore up and down to help and support him during this time, took one look at the scars on his knee and disappeared, leaving a note that she no longer felt attracted to him after seeing his injury.

now, he works on his recovery alone. he hates seeing pity in his old friends’ eyes, he hates the feeling that he’s disappointed everyone by not making it to the top. but all he can do is continue on.