#Blemish Healing Patches

[celluheal]

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[inkykeiji]

⋆₊˚⊹♡ alastor + dressing you in white

character: alastor warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, heavy pet/master dynamic, toxic relationship (condescension), blood + blood eating, slight gore, fem!reader words: 1.8k

alastor exclusively dresses you, his precious little pet, in white—white linen dresses, white silk pjs, white cotton undies—and you’ve finally figured out why.

“Alright, uh,” Charlie’s finger flicks the worn cardboard spinner in her hands, watching as the arrow lands on a splotch of colour. “Right hand, red!”

You’re in the parlour when it happens—a sudden, sharp pain that sears through your ribs as you bend over, a reactive hiss spit from between gritted teeth. 

“Whats’a matter?” Angel teases, panting slightly. “Too short to reach your colour?” 

Throwing a glance over his shoulder, Angel’s long limbs easily twist to obey the most recent order, both of his right hands finding red circles on the crinkled plastic mat.

“No, I just—”

“Holy shit!” his gasp cuts you off, all amusement eradicated from his face, dissolved by concerned shock. “You’re bleeding!” 

“What?” 

Glimpsing down at your body, your eyes are drawn toward the rapidly developing blot of scarlet, steadily seeping through white linen—a gruesome petal, irregular edges spreading, slow but ceaseless, eating away at the fabric.

A gurgle of disquiet sounds from the couch, voices tangling together, dulled to your ears as your gaze finds your Master’s. 

But he doesn’t meet your stare. 

Unblinking crimson eyes are focused on the flowering patch of blood, beginning to mottle as specks bloom around it. His chest rises and falls with even little huffs of air, ebony pupils gnawing at his irises as they devour the sight, his fingers twitching on his knee. Your gaze drifts back to the smeared blemish, the softest whimper dripping from your lips.

It’s beautiful. 

Alastor was right; your blood does look ravishing against the crisp bright fabric—stark but artful, a miniature abstract piece being painted in real time as the substance transudes the linen, created by your body and his, together. 

Now you understand; there is a reason why Alastor always dresses you in white. Especially when the abrasions he leaves have a nasty tendency to split and spill out. 

Entranced, your fingers press around the sensitive flesh, feeling the open wound hollowed by your dress and staining your skin with a glittering crimson, a sharp breath sucked through the gaps of your teeth, flashes of speared agony radiating through the surrounding flesh.

Your sound of pain seems to snap Alastor from his revere, blinking twice as he comes back to himself, smile stretching wider with something sinister, worming between razored teeth.

“All right,” Alastor’s saying as he stands from the couch, bravado ringing strong and clear and firm over the chatter. “I’ll take care of this.” 

“Are you sure? That looks, uh—”

“Why is she bleeding in the first place?” 

“Alastor, maybe we should—”

“Come, pet.” Alastor disregards the chorus of concerned comments without sparing them a glance, holding an arm out to you in invitation.

Then you’re scampering to his side, instant, instinctive, allowing him to curve around you protectively, guiding you away from a collection of worried faces with a palm plastered over the injury. 

“I told you not to play,” Alastor admonishes in a singsong while he guides you through the threshold of his bedroom

Leaning into him, you nestle your cheek against his ribs, catlike, hiding the blurry disappointment nipping at your eyes.

“But I wanted to.” 

“You should’ve known better,” he chides, but his voice is tender, fingers rubbing soothing circles into your shoulder as he ushers you into his bathroom, depositing you on the rim of the clawfoot tub. “Your injuries are not fully healed yet.” 

Your injuries are never fully healed, you want to point out. He is constantly engraving new cuts, scrapes, slashes, bites into you; there is never a moment where your body is not stained with Alastor in some way.

“I thought they’d be okay,” you say instead, forehead scrunched in petulance. 

“Well, you thought wrong.”

“Who knew a game of Twister could be so strenuous,” you mutter to yourself, bottom lip wavering on the edge of a pout. 

He snorts out a titter, mean and scoffing as his fingers pick through the first aid kit. “For such a smart little girl, you can be really stupid sometimes, can’t you?”

“What?”

But he refuses to elaborate, continuing on as if you hadn’t spoken at all. 

“Clearly, Master cannot allow you to make decisions for yourself,” he teases, but his tone holds a twinge of sincerity, a vow of certainty. 

This is the last time you’ll be making a decision on your own for a long time. 

“Arms up.” 

Immediately, you comply, arms held straight over your head, Alastor’s hands curling in the hem of your dress and pulling it from your body in one swift, fluid motion. 

It stings, the linen of the dress ripped harshly from the steadily weeping wound it had been clinging to, a yelp cracking in your throat. 

A halfhearted hush falls from your Master’s lips as he carefully drapes the soiled dress over the rim of the tub, taking a moment to admire the stain. A finger traces around the blotch almost affectionately, a tender sigh exhaled out his nose. Then his palms are finding your legs, pushing them apart and sinking to his knees, wedging himself between your spread thighs. 

“All right, let Master see,” he murmurs, shoulders hunched a little as he becomes eye level with the gash, your spine straightening to present the tear to him. 

Hesitant fingers prod at the surrounding flesh, now smeared with dried blood, inspecting the damage. 

“You ripped open every single stitch,” Alastor chuckles quietly, his fingers tugging at the bordering skin and watching with macabre awe as the wound gapes open beneath the pressure, a thick torrent of blood oozing out. 

A whine that sounds suspiciously close to his title sticks in your throat, half-stifled by your clenched teeth, and he looks up at you, sadistic amusement glimmering in his eyes. 

“Does that hurt, sweetheart?” His fingertips press down on the tender flesh, now slick with blood, and shove together, completely sealing the wound, another cascade of crimson spilling past the seam. 

“Master!” you cry out, fingers clamping over his shoulders to steady yourself, nails scraping against cotton. 

 The force of his touch increases, claws nearly sinking into the torn slash. “Answer my question.”

“Yes!” you choke out, head nodding in quick little motions. “Yes, it hurts.” 

A soft hum vibrates at the back of his throat, sharp teeth hidden behind a wide, close-lipped smile. Leaning forward, he plants his tarnished hands on your thighs for stability, then runs his nose along the top of the cut, inhaling one deep breath, his entire ribcage expanding as his chest swells with it. 

He stops, holds the scent in his lungs for a moment, lets it ferment into something sick and foul, lets it steep in the tissues and infuses them with you, before finally exhaling, the rush of air frigid against the bleeding gash.

“So pretty,” he murmurs, rubbing his mouth into the blood. “So fucking delicious.”

Tongue unfurling from his mouth, he traces, slow and cautious, around the edges of the wound with the tip, turning rusted blood watery and faded, grotesque streaks painted across your flesh. A noise claws at his throat, desperate to get out as he shoves it back down, tongue flattening over the slit and dragging, measured and meticulous, slick muscle soaking up the percolating blood.

“Alastor,” you nearly moan, dainty fingers curling around his antlers, the sudden touch evoking a growl from deep within his chest. 

“Let your Owner clean it,” he spits against the injury, lips brushing it again, voice muffled by your skin. 

And so, you do—because you’re nothing if not an obedient little pet girlfriend for your Owner, back arching as you press your ribs into his mouth, offering yourself up to him.

He laves over the laceration three more times, glazing it in a protective layer of his saliva, glimmering in the light with each of your shallow breaths. 

“Better,” he breathes, the word nothing more than a wisp of air against the wet cut, chills skittering across your flesh. 

“Th-Thank you, Master,” you whisper, fingers tugging on his antlers a little, desperate to get him closer. “I—It felt nice.” 

Crimson eyes flick up, his gaze veiled by heavy lids as he laps at his lips, cleaning them of excess blood, some of it streaked along his chin. 

And, oh, how breathtakingly beautiful he looks coloured in strokes of you. 

Hips twitching a little, your thighs tense around his torso, and he looks down again, eyes honing in on the drenched lace between your legs, panties molding to your cunt and accentuating every dip, every bump, every contour. 

He chuckles at the sight—something dark, something decadent, something demeaning melting on his tongue. 

“Well,” he pants softly to himself, pride tweaking the edges of his smile. “Would you look at that.” 

A finger traces the outline of your cunt—over your hood, along your lips, circling your hole and just barely pressing into it, watching with a morbid fascination the way it flutters against his finger, delicate material dipping, trying to siphon his finger into you.

“You would like that, you nasty little girl.” 

But he’s aroused, too, his cock straining eagerly against his trousers, a direct result of your sweet blood still tinging his tongue, your precious yelps of pain still ringing in his ears. Saliva pools in the dips of your mouth as you stare at it, thighs flexing on either side of him again, another gush of warmth flooding the apex of your legs. 

“Master, you’re—” you begin in a stringy, needy whine, swallowing thickly. “You—You’re…Can we…” 

“Can we what?” 

A knuckle finds your chin, drawing your eyes back to his, a thumb gripping the point, inhibiting you from fleeing his invasive stare. 

“Come now, it’s rude not to finish your sentence.” 

Pricks of embarrassment erupt across your face, eyes teetering on a wince as you force the stubborn words from your tongue, question trembling.

“Can we fuck?” 

Crimson searches your face, pupils pulsing with a vile sort of voracity, consuming his irises bit by bit as he contemplates. His gaze is cutting, slicing into you as it torturously pulls apart your features and examines them one by one. 

And you—you let him, open and willing and vulnerable and raw as you bear your soul to him, as you rip yourself open for him, as your fingers dig through meat and blood and bone to get to your core, offering it to him wholeheartedly. 

“Perhaps,” he finally responds, reaching for his surgical needle and thread. “I’m going to re-stitch this now,” he tells you, voice a touch huskier than before. “If you are well behaved as I tend to the wound—no squirming, no complaining—I might just give you what you want.” 

His stare holds your own, an eyebrow raising, imbued with inquiry. 

Are you ready to play? 

Oh, he isn’t going to make it easy for you, but you’re up for the challenge. 

[melkyt]

Stretchmarks, every person gets more than a few in their life. It is a natural part of existence.

Law has plenty of scars, blemishes, and pale patches dotting his skin from years of struggles. The stretchmarks are something that he both hates and loves to look at.

It is a sign that he survived, that he beat the illness, and his body could finally grow, and it did. Yet, on the other hand, the growth spurt only came after he lost Cora. It is many painful memories interlaced with the few moments of happiness etched into his skin as a constant reminder.

Luffy on the other hand, has very little that shows he was ever a child, beyond the scars he collected over the years, there is nothing to show that he lived and grew like every other person. He can't miss what he doesn't have, but he is fascinated by such things, especially when it comes to Law. With each mark, however faint, has a tale to tell, and Luffy wants to know everything about his Torao.

On nights when he and Law are alone in the infirmary of the polar tang, when its quiet, Luffy will sit down across Law's lap, demanding a story as he is bired being cooped up while his wounds heal.

Law rolls his eyes eith an exasperated sigh but starts reciting one of his medical books. He very quickly realised that Luffy just wants to hear someone talk, he does not do well in silence.

It was on the last night they spent together that Luffy noticed the stretch amrk crisscrossing over Law's stomach. It was a hot day and he was not wearing his usal tanktop.

Luffy is fascinated, his fingers trace the first line just past the belt. Law quivers, chocking midword. He pusshes Luffy's hand away. "What are you doing!?"

"These are so cool, Torao" Luffy grins his sginature smile "You're so cool" He takes Law's hand in his own, while continuing to trace the patterns, learning more about Law through the history etched into pale skin.

Law can't tell Luffy to stop. It has been so long since he allowed anyone to touch him in any way, as they always wanted more.

Yet with Luffy, he knows that this exploration does not ask for more. It is curiosity and kindness with no expectation for anything but this moment.

[ayamari-no-goshi]

One of the things I’ve been playing around with in my head regarding Jason’s appearance is whether or not he has visible scars from his death.

Per Lazarus Pit lore, it does remove all scars/blemishes from the body. Yet, this is sometimes very unsatisfying.

My friend and I had an idea for our one AU that his scars were just silvery marks that only showed up under certain light. And the more I play around with the idea, the more I like that type of concept.

I think moving forward I might describe them like that - patches of skin with no evidence of injury save for the off coloration (scars are usually lighter than the surrounding skin though burns are sometimes darker while they heal)

[ccieatchildren]

Scars

Shower steam filtered in through the open bathroom door, warming the bedroom and permeating the smell of soap in the air. They had been reapplying ointment, what little he had given them, to their still healing wounds and rebandaging them. Whumpee turned from their spot on the edge of the bed to watch as he walked in. There was a certain swagger to the way he carried himself that they despised. However, while Whumpee hadn’t been here for long, they had already learned not to engage with him if they didn’t have to– it wasn’t worth the risk– so Whumpee just stared.

A towel was slung low around his waist and his hair was still damp, leaving droplets of water in his wake. His half naked body was on full display, and Whumpee couldn’t stop from curiously analyzing each part of him. They typically didn’t get to see much of him due to clothing or dark lighting getting in the way, but now they could see the various scars littering his frame. 

There were two slash marks on his lower right abdomen that formed an uneven cross, a line of indented flesh that seemed to encircle his whole left bicep, a bullet wound sat right above on his shoulder, and on his right collarbone were four deep cuts, almost like claw marks. Whumpee hadn’t expected someone like him to have so many cicatrices, he was a simple researcher, and while they did get hurt sometimes, they typically were small cuts from broken glass or chemical burns. They had their own to confirm. Furthermore, normal villains usually had many more lesions and blemishes across their figures from many fights and powers going haywire. Though, he wasn’t like many normal archetypes anyway. 

Their train of thought was cut off by a deep chuckle. “Like what you see?” 

Whumpee blushed, glaring at him, and turning back to what they were initially doing. He continued to snigger at their embarrassment while they furiously tried to refocus on patching themself up. The thought of the line being cliché and overused made them feel a bit better, and they continued to bash him in their head to calm themself down as they worked. 

The rustling of a towel could be heard as he dried off his hair, sounding like a wet dog shaking itself dry. Then, they could hear him shuffling in the background, presumably fetching clothes from the closet. Whumpee tried to keep their gaze solely on what they were doing, but could no longer concentrate on their task. Having been caught staring, and him misinterpreting their attention, irritated them, but now they were even more curious. Forcing themself not to look, only made them want to look more. Whumpee cursed themself for having the self restraint of a five year old…

Slightly pivoting their head to peek at him again as he picked out his attire, they barely managed to stop themself from gasping at the sight. His back was still turned to them, and scrawled there was one of the most unsettling wounds they had ever seen. Along his upper back, spanning from the left shoulder to the right the word “BASTARD” was carved in large letters. The raised skin along his shoulder blades conveyed that the cut had healed long ago, but whoever had done it, made sure to slash deep enough so the mark would stay there forever. They had seen many things, from their own burnt skin melting off, to arms completely torn off, but the deliberately and aggressively engraved swear on his body disturbed them in a way they had never felt before.

Whumpee had never met anyone, villain or otherwise, who intentionally and methodically cut someone in a way that would leave them alive but always wearing a reminder of their experience. Especially in a way that exuded so much wrath and resentment. At least not until Whumper. They looked down at themself and the injuries that adorned their body. Was he using the same techniques on them that someone else had used on him? The thought made them shiver. Vigorously returning to their task, Whumpee swore to themself that they would not allow Whumper to scar them like he had been himself. 

— — — — —

“Just ask.”

Whumpee flinched. They had just finished one of their sessions and Whumper decided to patch them up afterwards this time. They would much rather do it themself, as his hands would always roam to places they didn’t need to, but Whumper would use better medicine whenever he played medic, and knew how to bind the wounds tighter than they ever could with their, now constantly, trembling fingers. They also weren’t allowed to say no to him.

“W-What?”

“I can practically hear the questions bouncing around in your head.” He suddenly pulled the bandage harshly, pulling a gasp out from them. “Not to mention the hole you’re burning into my back with your staring.” The hand on their middle considerably tightened, “it’s starting to piss me off, so ask.”

Whumpee contemplated his demand, unsure if he meant it or if it was just another one of his tricks, baiting them to make a mistake just so he could beat them again. But they could feel him getting agitated behind them, therefore they had to say something. However, Whumpee didn’t think asking him what was really on their mind would go over very well. They had to think of something quick, but, unfortunately, when it came to talking they didn’t work very well under pressure. So…

“How do you get your hair so sleek?” Whumpee wanted to smash themself over the head with a glass. This was the best their brain could come up with? Might as well say goodbye to a calm evening.

Whumper was still behind them, and they were already saying their prayers, until he barked out a laugh. “What?” The amusement pervaded his tone. “You have been ruminating for the past three days on how I do my hair?”

“… Yes.”

He continued to cackle behind them as Whumpee quietly panicked, hoping that was enough to quell him.

“Aww, that’s cute, darlin’. Didn’t know you still had the quips in you.” He took a moment to pretend to wipe a tear from his eye. “But I don’t think that’s what you’ve been thinkin’ about.” Arms locked around their waist, pulling them flush against him. A dark voice whispered in their ear, “Now, I’ve indulged your little game,” his arms constricted, pushing into their stomach, agitating their injuries, “letting you figure out the best way to approach this,” Whumpee looked away. “If I’m honest, it was quite nice to see you contemplate whether to ask me or not,” his voice grew smug, “it means you’re learning, becoming more obedient, which will only make things easier for the both of us in the future.” Whumper squeezed even further once again, and they groaned from the pain. “For that, I’m giving you an out. Be good and I’ll reward you. So,” he growled, “ask the damn question.”

Whumpee gulped. “Fine. Ju- Just let go,” they pushed at his arms, “it hurts.”

Whumper clutched them tighter. Whumpee could feel some of their wounds reopen under the pressure. “I’ll let go when you stop wasting my time.” 

“Okay, okay,” they wheezed. “I just wanted to know about the large scar on your back,” the ache was getting worse. “The one that says bas–.”

He abruptly let them go, allowing air to filter back into their system and dampening the pain to a dull throb. “I know the one.”

Whumpee froze, trying to suppress their oncoming coughing fit. They didn’t want to set him off when he was obviously very displeased. He curtly got up and headed for the door, leaving them with the final words,

“Do not bring it up again.”

Extra:

Fuck that motherfucking mothafucka. 

Whumpee wanted to punch something, they just did what he asked and now he’s mad at them, like it’s their fault.

Fuckin’ hate that fuckin’ kidnappin’ piece of shit. They continued to curse to themself as they finished the job Whumper brusquely left to them. Closing up the now open cuts, applying ointment, and finally bandaging them for the– hopefully– last time that day. Whumpee sighed to themself. Who were they kidding, he would ruin them again at night. But at least they had a new piece of information to exploit.

It may take a while, but they will escape from here and see everyone again.

[yeyinde]

after dark

Keegan P. Russ x f!Reader

⟶ WARNINGS: 18+ SMUT; P-in-V sex; female reader, female gendered anatomy; gratuitous use of kid; slight body worship; established history/relationship; canon-compliant, takes place after Sin City; minor game spoilers; mentions of death (canon-compliant); war; fluff - this is honestly just gratuitous smut and my awful attempt at fluff ⟶ WORD COUNT: 9,7k ⟶ SUMMARY: you want to see him break. ⟶ NOTES: my first foray into Keegan! this took a bit of time since i wanted to include so much, and it ended up growing a little out of hand. i might expand on this/make it into a series potentially (just small drabbles). Keegan was so fun to write for!

Keegan looks good like this. Laid out, bare; skin stained with the bites of your nails, the nips of your teeth, nestled evenly amid the smattering of battle wounds and blemishes that colour him in a rich history wrought with gunfire and calamity. (You often tell him that the two of you are kismet. He says Momus just has a sick sense of humour.)

The milky white expanse of his torso is littered with scars, and you map them with your greedy eyes, drinking each bloom of imperfection that stains his ivory skin. Finding new ones that weren't there before. 

Blades, bullets, burns, pockmarks—many from weapons you can't even begin to name, to know—all etched into sinew. Into bone. 

They mar him in a brutal smear of varicoloured hurt. A mosaic of near–death laid out like Orion, curved like the tail of Sagittarius. It's spooled, knotted, in a way that makes you think of Lyra. Of the stars you can see so clearly now without any light pollution around to smog the indigo sky above. 

The scars are healed in uneven patches; some darker, uglier than others. Raised welts, bumps. Deep indents in his skin, cutting through muscle and tissue. 

There is no sense of structure in the gashes that line his body—silver, to red, to purple, to black—and you know they were collected over time. Over years, decades, before you ever met him. Knew him. 

(The only one that looks familiar is the jagged hole on his shoulder where he stepped, stupidly, in front of a bullet for you. 

Stupid, because no one, especially him, should risk themselves for you.)

They sit, carved in flesh, as a testament to his nomadic lifestyle, one drenched in danger, death, and calamity. Shadows moulded into man. Into ruined skin and jagged bone. Deadly forces of nature hidden in the craters where the earth split into twos, threes. Triplicated ravines clogged with the rubble of was once life. Peace. Home, maybe. 

A tenuous fallacy, now. 

But they risk everything—even themselves—for it, and the proof of their commitment, the dedication to the cause, is smattered across his torso for you to see. 

The exploratory tips of your fingers, dripping reverence and featherlight, ghost over his flesh, over the blemishes that decorate his body, taking them in, feeling them. 

Some are baby–hair soft, silky sateen; they sit in thick, raised welts of scar tissue clotted over each other. Others are rougher than sandpaper, gritty like stripped lath. They feel like tree bark under your fingers. Scabs. Fresh, new. 

You wonder if he remembers each one of them—how they happened, where, by who; which ones hurt the most, and which ones took longer to heal. He might, you think. 

(It's him, after all.)

Catalogued pain organised and filed away. Locked in a safe box inside the enigma of his head, and kept there for safekeeping. 

But it's not gone, not put away. 

(It's always within reach.)

Phantoms congeal in the corners of his eyes sometimes when you happen to touch one, to reach out and grab him by the arm, or the hand, the wrist, and you see the brief flash of recognition in cut slate. A distant fog simmers up from the depths; veiled blue. A past you're barred from touching, knowing. 

It's not pretty, kid, is what he told you when you asked. Not like you. No sense ruining something like you with all that ugly. 

It was the end of the conversation. Locked away for good, and brassbound with a warning sign, rusted and aged, that read: do not enter.

So, you don't. 

But sometimes, like now, you like to take them in. To see the contrast between your blemishless skin in comparison to his. Worlds apart. A cosmic chasm of experience and life needles between you, and yet—

You brush your fingers against the marks, and have never felt closer to him, despite everything inside that tells you you're wrong. 

You place your hand flat over a cut over his breastplate, right where his heart thuds against your palm, and wonder what near–miss he escaped from that caused this. The other slides to his stomach, his muscles flexing, rippling, under your touch, and you brush your thumb over a circular hole under his solar plexus. 

You think, then, of the years you spent underground, running through the barren safehouses that dotted the landscape, only to come away with minor cuts, abrasions. The worst of them all is a small scar near your wrist where you burned your skin with cooking oil. 

You've never met the end of the blade—not until him.  

"What are you thinking about, kid?" 

His hand lifts—skin littered with small knicks and cuts, a burn on the back of his hand that almost matches yours except his was caused by a Molotov cocktail and not youthful ignorance (a world of difference, a chasm)—fingers sliding over the curve of your cheek. His slate–blue gaze is fixed, unmoving, on you. 

It was those eyes—cenote blue—that drew you to him in the first place. Teal in tenebrous. They haunted you for months. Wordlessly following your every move, drinking in the expressions that flitted over your face. Taking stock of you. Measuring you. Your accomplishments. Your worth. Assets.

Survivability.

("Pretty low," Merrick says, plain and brutal, and the rawness of it rumbled through the hollow crevasse you found yourself in. Low. Lower than low. So low it was almost a miracle you survived as long as you had.)

Keegan said nothing at the time. He stood back, hand gripping the butt of the rifle, eyes fixed on you, unwavering. Unforgiving. 

It was easy to take his silence as cold. Distant. Bundled up in thick layers of muskeg, in icy separation. 

You did—at first. 

An active war zone was not a place for a civilian. Merrick told you as much when he found you, taking refuge in a dilapidated home split in two, and welding only a metal bat you'd grabbed on your travels. Your only protection against an enemy that has no qualms in murdering innocents. That uses guns and heavy artillery to decimate the soldiers, the allies who jumped oceans to fight alongside the troops. 

You lit a lantern one night after settling down in a broken home, and woke up to the barrel of a gun pressed to your temple. 

It was Ajax who saved you. 

"Hey, uh. You're American, right? What are you doing in a place like this?" 

You didn't trust them. 

Didn't trust anyone. 

You'd spent too long cutting through the thickets of the surrounding overgrowth, hopping from one ramshackle house to another to lay low, to hide from the people who wandered past, looking for survivors, hostages, to give into that part of yourself that longed for people. For normalcy. The road jaded you a little. Isolated you. 

It was safer. 

The people you stumbled across either tried to pick you bare, taking the meagre belongings you scrounged together until there was nothing left but the thin skin covering your body, and your will to live. 

Or they tried to kill you. To use you. 

Hostages. Civilians used against the threadbare resistance. Their safe return in exchange for more land, for surrender. 

So, you hid. Got good at it, too. 

("Too fuckin' good," Merrick hissed, shaking his head. 

The only one who was ever able to spot you was Riley. Keegan, sometimes, through the lens of his rifle.)

When they found you, you tried to run, to fight. Enemies. All of them. 

It was Ajax who stopped you, who talked you off the ledge. 

"Come on, we're not gonna hurt you."

"Heard those words before."

"How long you been out here for, anyway?"

"When did ODIN destroy New York?"

"Jesus, kid."

"Stupid," Merrick said. "That's what you are, Cali. Stupid as hell." 

And Keegan—

Said nothing. Nothing. 

He doesn't like you, was your first thought when it all added up, stacked together. The avoidance, the distance. He wasn't cold, but he didn't try to get close to you, to get to know you. He just—

Watched. Waiting, you thought, a touch bitter, for you to die. Like they all expected you to when you said you weren't going to the safe zone. That you were staying, and you were looking for them—your brother, your father. 

Then—

Stay behind me, always, kid. You got that? 

If you can't see my back, you wandered too far. 

Eat. You need it more than I do. 

Watch your step. You'll fall into a crevasse if you're not careful, kid. 

The second: he likes you too much. 

And now—

Your hips flex. A slow, teasing roll against his pelvis, and it's that indelible sight of sky blue eyes shuttering out of view when his lids lower, lashes fluttering, that nearly sets you on fire. 

The press of his cock makes your nails dig into the constellation of scars on his chest, clinging to him as licks of pleasure flicker up your spine. Nerves smouldering at the stretch, the feel of him seated so deeply within you. 

"Thinking about you," you murmur, breathless. Raw. 

You wonder if he remembers the rainy days in San Francisco, the sunrise in Los Angeles, huddled under the waterlogged crater of what once was Pacific Avenue and Venice Boulevard with the same touch of halcyon fondness as you do. 

You think, then, of the fusillade following you in the ruined husks of the streets, enemies on every corner, of the six-day hike between the cities to reconvene with the others, lost somewhere in the decimated coast. 

A little part of you still hopes he does despite the stress, the tension, the danger; the separation, the distance, that cracks between you, louder than a thunderclap. 

That he thinks back on that time when it was just you and him, and no food, no shelter, and feels something more than the gritty reality of everything falling apart around you. 

Of death, and the stench of rot, and decay, and the overgrowth of vegetation that sometimes felt like it was trying to reclaim you along with its land. The vines that curled around your ankles when you idled, or slept—shackles that refused to let go. Gunshots in the night. Predators roaming wild and free in what once was a metropolis. 

Then, softer, you add:

"Always." 

You speak it reverently, as if the word, the sincerity in your voice alone was enough to somehow shade the gossamer of calamity and horror you faced together into something pink, something roseate. Something fond, and wonderful, and good despite all of the ugly and the bad that stacks up, deeper than the hole punched through San Diego.

(Down so deep you sometimes think you can see the eerie glow of molten rock below.)

Keegan says nothing, gives nothing away, but you catch something in his gaze shift, relent.

Another inch off the thick veneer that keeps him from falling into you fully, that keeps him from letting you in. 

It's the slow erosion of his defences, the ones that make him say, yeah, kid, whatever you say when you bring up the smouldering ruins of Death Valley, when you slipped your finger in the cut of his mask, and tugged it down below his chin. Your nail caught on the bridge of his nose, but he didn't flinch at the thin white line you left behind, the sting. He didn't move. Didn't blink. 

Didn't push you away. 

He let you. Let you press your sun-chapped lips to his for the first time with nothing more than an easy, kid—don't start something you can't finish before he gives in. Kissed you against the grainy sand that scorched your skin. 

You used to think he was cold. Unfeeling. 

But now—

Shadows dance over his face when the clouds drift over the milky moon hung in the indigo aether, but you catch the rubicund smear over the bridge of his nose when they part. Pretty pink dusted in soot. An ethereal chiaroscuro etched into his flesh. 

You feel his chest shudder, expanding with his rippling inhale. 

—You know that, sometimes, he just feels too much. 

You hitch your hips again just to watch him flinch beneath you. The breath stutters out of his chest, lips parting on a grunt when you grind over him. The pinched knot between his brow is stained with bliss, and deep like the crevasses ripped through the earth. 

The hand on your cheek jerks, tenses. His fingers curl around the back of your skull as his eyes crack open once more when you settle. Heavy lidded, stained the residuum of soot and grease paint the lukewarm water wasn't able to scour off. 

You meet his cobalt stare, and feel the breath catch in your throat. 

Keegan looks good like this. Laid out, bare; skin stained with the bites of your nails, the nips of your teeth, nestled evenly amid the smattering of battle wounds and blemishes that colour him in a rich history wrought with gunfire and calamity.  

When you whisper this to him, his hips jerk again, flexing, under yours. 

"Fuck, kid. Don't go starting something you can't finish."

His words nudge something inside of you, and the slow simmer of competition roils through your chest. 

"Can't finish, huh?" You murmur, and keep your eyes fixed on his as you lift your hips. The drag of his hardened cock sliding against your walls has pleasure liquifying your core. 

When it's just the tip you clench around, you pause, a small smirk curling over your lips. You'll make him break. Make him eat those words. 

But Keegan can read you like an open book. 

His hand lifts from your hip bone, sliding up the flesh of your torso until his fingers are perched in the gaps between your ribs, holding you steady. 

"Easy now, kid," he whispers the words low, voice breathless, humid. "Don't bite off more than you chew."

In response, you sink down an inch. 

It makes him choke a little. A wet noise spills out from his mouth, teeth flashing when they burrow into the plush give of his full, pink lips. The tendons in his neck strain, pulse throbbing in tandem with your heartbeat. Linked, you think, a little delirious, even like this. 

(You often tell him that the two of you are kismet.

He says Momus just has a sick sense of humour.)

His fingers tighten on your ribs. The other hand falls, palm swallowing your breast, fingers digging into the flesh once before sliding down, pinching your nipple between his calloused thumb and forefinger. It sends shocks of pleasure ricocheting down your spine, and you arch into his grasp, eyes dropping. 

"That feels good—"

"Yeah?" He husks, lips curling into a rare smile, a grin. "Like that, huh, kid?"

The raw timbre of his voice coils over your flesh, and you shudder at the liquor-rich sound, eyes blinking open to drink him in. 

The spark of pleasure that glimmers over his expression, eyes dark, eclipsed, and saturated in bliss, makes something coil low inside of your belly. A molten heat that leaks into your bloodstream until it bubbles, froths. 

Keegan is a slow burn. A steady crescendo of pleasure that builds and builds in evenly spaced increments until your head is molasses-thick from the endorphins that saturate your synapses. 

Keegan is always so giving, so quiet with his affection; picturesque stoicism even when he has you bent over, battering his cock into you as you lose it amid the unrelenting waves of euphoria that bloom inside of you, singing hymns in his name, and only just lucid enough to round the vowels out. He rides you through it all without cracking. Without rupturing from the pleasure that thickens the air between you until it's syrupy and heady with the scent of sex. 

And it's good. Always. 

You love the way he handles you; love the way he splits you apart atom by atom until you're an impending explosion, leaking bliss into the warmth of his mouth when you breathe his name. Raw, exposed. Bare and flayed by his scorching hands, and hungry lips. 

Keegan touches you with the same delicacy as he does the rifles in his arsenal. A finely tuned weapon, honed and perfected in his hands. He drags only the best out of you, and knows where to press, to nip. He knows your body like he knows the inner workings of each gun he carries. 

He's adroit in combat, and it bleeds over into the soft, plush give of your body beneath him. 

It's often thoughtless—done purely on muscle memory, and instinct alone. A primal switch in the back of his head he commands at will, one now grounded and circuited into making you tremble, gasp, and moan his name the way you know he likes best. 

Keegan leeches his own release from the aftershocks of your pleasure, pounding desperately into you as you clench around him, back arched and toes curled. He fucks you through the remnants of your climax until his own takes hold, and spits his bliss into your body, groaning low in your ear. 

But everything—everything—is for you. 

He takes where he can as he fractures you into pieces, into fragments of yourself. Crumbling in ecstasy under his touch. Broken, shattered. Rendered into a trembling mess of pulp beneath the bulk of his body.

He's a lesson in patience, in tenacity. 

Usually.

But now—

You set the pace. Control the motions. 

(And you want to see him break in the same splintered pieces he leaves you in.)

"Just sit back, and let me make you feel good."

He draws a sharp breath, eyes fluttering, widening slightly at your base command. 

Something gnarls over his exposed face, a frisson of affection, and softer than anything you'd ever seen before. 

It's rare you get to see him so bare, so open. 

"You do," he rasps, words sticking between his teeth. "More than you know."

He swallows thick, eyes skirting away from you as if to gather himself together, to calm the racing of his pulse that beats against the pale skin of his throat. 

Comfort is taken in composure, in distance, and you can see him grasp for it, reaching for that same phlegmatic control even now. 

You don't let him find it. Won't. 

You take a quick breath to steady yourself, fingers sliding down his damp chest, nestling in the messy smear of hair that sticks to his skin, grainy and gritty from salt and dirt, and then you drop. 

The blunt head of his cock bludgeons into a fleshy spot behind your navel that has your ears ringing, head tipping back in pleasure. It's good—so, so good—and you can't stop the whine of his name, broken and fraying at the edges, when you sink down to the base, swallowing him whole in the right clutch of your cunt.

White noise, static, flashes behind your eyelids, catching in the pale moonlight. A slurry of soporific pleasure spools inside your head, saturated with bliss, and edging into that indelible equinox of pleasure and pain when his head kisses the seal of your womb. It flexes against your mettle, pushing the limits of what you can reasonably take, but you grit your teeth against the strain, and breathe. 

You won't break first. 

Not when his eyes roll back a little as you shift in his lap, brow furrowed into a deep ruck of pleasure at the feel of you around. 

The overwhelming feel of him buried deep behind your navel notches into too much, and the ache of it pulses like a heartbeat in your sternum, knocking the breath from your lungs, but you hold steady amid the waves that crash over you, that threaten to consume you. To drag you under. 

White-hot pleasure lashes at your spine. Congealing inside the pit of your lower belly. A molten puddle of nirvana that steadily thickens into a coiled knot, gnarling within you. A spool of bliss, slowly unravelling under the stretch of him, the grind of his pelvis against your throbbing clit..

It thrums in your veins, your bones. Madness bleeds in at the edges; blurred lines of so good and too much too full and you find the equilibrium, the perfect zenith, when he groans your moniker, Cali, out between gnashing teeth. 

The brassy rasp of his voice centres you. Grounds you. You inhale the tang of him until your lungs begin to burn, to ache. You feel them pressed taut to your ribs where his fingers sit, nestled between the gaps of your bones. Firm, steady. 

You exhale in slow, measured increments, feeling the way he throbs against your walls, in your throat. You take it all in, all of it. Him. The firm press of his body beneath yours, thighs spread to fit him in the seam, makes you relax, ease into the press of him. The fill. 

Keegan's hands twitch. His hips lift slightly, an unconscious movement. An accidental proxysm. His ironclad resolve, the honed stillness of an expert sniper in perfect control, command, of every limb, every muscle, every movement, and breath, crumbles like papier-mache with the tight clench of your pussy around him. 

It edges into delirium, into that burning sense of conquest when he grunts, and rubs a spot inside of you that feels like heaven itself is nestled behind your belly button. 

(A fissure. A crack.)

The steadying breath he takes draws your attention back to him, to the sheen of sweat drenching his brow, the smear of charcoal he couldn't scrub away. It stains his skin permanently, now. A tattoo of battle grease, war paint, that he can't be rid of. 

(You tell yourself it isn't jealousy that congeals at the base of your throat when you see the blemish on his skin, and wish, so desperately, that you could brand him the same way. Mark him, too. 

To crawl inside the brackets between his ribs, and suffuse your atoms to his until every pump of his heart sends blood roaring through your veins.

It sits there, bitter and acrid, when you try to swallow it down, refusing to budge. 

Stupid. Stupid—)

You take it all in. The racing of his pulse, the slow, deep inhales, and the way he reaches out, struggling to control the impulse, the instinct, the want, to greedily take more and more from you. 

"Keegan," his name falls between your teeth, breaking in the middle when you roll your hips, and catch the flash of gritted teeth. 

The thin strands of sangfroid he managed to snag in his grasp are released when your voice crests over his name, cracked open and wanting, and desperate. 

It tastes of victory when he groans yours in return—not kid, not Cali, but the one you whispered to him that first night he found you in a desolate husk of what was once someone's home—and bucks into you in a stutter. 

You meet him again, pelvis kissing his until it suctions the air from your heaving lungs, and you can feel him pulsing in your sternum. A red-hot blade snug against your jugular.

The thin skin of his eyelids crinkle when he squeezes them shut against the feeling, the overwhelming pleasure, of being buried balls deep inside of you. 

Your ribs ache. His fingers burrow into the flesh that separates each rung, clinging to you, and keeping you perched on his lap as he struggles to catch his breath. 

It rips open something inside of you—something deeper and fuller than sex, than shattering his ironclad resolve—and the sight of him, chest heaving, eyes heavy and black with desire, and the soft way he crumbles in your hands, makes you think of the morning rays of the sun brushing over the broken landscape. The moments of peace in the midst of war. 

You think of him, and the tick in his jaw, the gleam in his eyes, the same shade as crushed bluebonnets, and think of kismet once more as you pant out his name. 

"Ah, fuck—," sweat drips down his brow, and you follow the droplet until it falls, soaking the jaundiced pillow below. "You keep that up, kid, and you'll be tapping out soon enough."

It drags a huff from your chest. "It was once. And you made me run through San Diego for hours before, and—"

"It was fifteen minutes. We ran a block," his hand falls from your breast, palm swallowing the side of your thigh. "You lasted five minutes on top before you begged me fuck you instead. Said you were tired."

"I was," you whine, muscles flexing when you lift off of him again. You feel the ache in your muscles already, the burn of exertion from sitting atop of him like this, knees wrenched apart to accommodate his bulk between them. "But I wanna make you feel good, Keegan."

The sharp sting of his nails catching your flesh makes you gasp. "C'mon, kid. Easy now." 

The low commands roll off of his tongue with practised ease, and you slip a little further into that inky madness that smells of fir boughs, sticky spruce sap, and ripened satsumas. You breathe him in and taste dusty pomander balls, and pinyon in the back of your throat. 

"Keegan—"

His hips lift, pushing into the soft, wet clench of your cunt. "That's it. Nice and steady."

He guides you along—a maestro stroking the keys of a piano as he plays his grand requiem. You struggle to keep up with his pace, the way he pistons into you, notching his cock into that soft, sensitive place inside that makes your eyes brim with unshed tears of bliss. 

Each deep thrust makes the head of his cock kiss the plug of your womb—just a brush, just a tease—but the burning sensation of blistering pleasure and wisps pain, of too much and too full, have you spiralling down the precipice faster than you expected. 

It's a dizzying descent, but you match his tempo as best as you can, determined to ride the torrent of ecstasy that runs down your spine in a thick, dulcified rivulet. 

Still. Still. You can't help but bask in the way he melts in your hand, rendered into malleable polymer with just a twist of your hips, a clench of your cunt. It's electrifying. Addicting.  

The high of it all brims deep in your head, blooming like a sickness that clots along the seam, noxious and heady. 

You can't stop the satisfied curl of your lips from growing, slowly and languid, when you bear down on him, taking him to the root. 

His grunt reverberates through his chest with enough of a punch to rattle your bones. 

Seeing him desperate is intoxicating. 

"What happened to your composure, Keegan?" you mewl, heading rolling back. "My big, quiet soldier is so talkative now—"

Rough palms sear the flesh of your hips when he grabs you tight in his unyielding hold, keeping you fixed on him. 

You try to move, but he tightens his grasp, refusing to let you budge. 

Frustration curls inside of your chest, and you glower down at him through glassy eyes brimming with tears. "Keegan, I wanna—"

Your words dissolve into a low keen when his hips lift again, battering into your cunt in an unrelenting wave of thrusts that force the protests from your lips. 

"Talkative, huh?" He grinds the words out from between clenched molars. "That was your goal, eh, kid? Break me?" 

He punctuates each word with a brutal cant that feels like a battering ram to your skull until the weakened bone splinters, shatters, and he punches through. 

"Kee–ah, ah, fuck—!" 

"That's it," he husks, tone liquid. His fingers spear into your flesh, tight enough to bruise your bone. "Just like that, kid. You wanna see me break? Lose control?" 

Heart in your throat, all you can do is whimper around the pulse in your esophagus, and struggle to find purchase under his unrelenting onslaught. 

His hand lifts, falls to your shoulder when he stills, keeping you locked tight to his pelvis, cock jerking inside of you. His fingers curl over the ledge, gripping bone, and then he tugs, pulls. 

You fold easily in his grasp, lowering your chest until it rests over his, sweat-slicked and warm. The scrape of your sensitive nipples over his coarse, damp chest hair makes you moan, clenching desperately around him at the sparks of pleasure roiling through you. 

When you settle over him, his hand moves, slides to the back of your skull, and wrenches you even closer to him, until your forehead meets his, and the soft bump of your nose catches on the bridge of his, right over the thin line you left on his skin. Healed, now, but you wonder if this is intentional. If it's—

Keegan breathes heavily through his open mouth, breath mixing together with yours, a humid coagulation against your lips where condensation gathers on the dip of your chin. 

He says nothing, just stares. Bare-faced, naked. Still smeared in the residuum of his battle grease, the armour he wears to keep himself hidden from the Federation, from discovery, and the freckles of black on his ivory skin look like an inverted night; the endless yawn of the heavens above. You wonder if you can map a new constellation in the dirt left behind, but the notion is pushed down, dissolved, when your gaze lifts, finding his own. 

He hasn’t looked away from you at all, and the intensity of his gaze makes you dizzy, breathless. Too many emotions ripple through the mercury depths for you to grasp, but they're soft. Tender. Your heart thuds when you see the endless flicker of them hidden inside, tightly sealed under a rusted lock without a key. 

"Keegan—"

He doesn't let you finish. His chin lifts, mouth hooking on yours in a blistering kiss. His tongue slides between the gap of your parted lips, stealing the words that spool behind your teeth. 

Keegan kisses you with a deep, almost methodical precision. It's a contrast you can't keep up with; an ebb and flow. He starts fast, harsh. A demanding press of his mouth to yours, unrelenting and eager. It's all tongue, lips, the clash of teeth until yours are stinging and bruised, and then he pulls away until his are just a brush. A ghost of a touch, a whisper. 

He holds it there, teasing, taunting, until your lips bloom in a soft pout, eyes turning downward. 

"Keegan, please," you whimper into the firm seal of his mouth, so close and yet, so far away. Out of reach. Held there until whatever he wants, whatever he seeks, flashes in the glossy puddles of your eyes. 

And then, he gives. 

Gives, gives. His mouth devours yours with a steady ferocity like the howling winds echoing through the wizened fir boughs in the desolate forest. He holds you close, a hand fisted against your skull while the other plinths your jaw, thumb stroking the bubble of your cheek. 

The pressure of his hold, of his hands, oscillates between firm, unyielding, and keeping you afloat, soothing you. 

You need it, you think, when he kisses you like the sudden approach of an avalanche ripping through the thicket, and barrelling down the vertiginous mountain he keeps you locked on. 

An ebb and flow. 

When your head swims, dizzy with hypoxia that inks across your vision like a Rorschach, he pulls away. Peppers small kisses, nips, over your stringing, swollen flesh, and soothes the ache he left behind. 

"I know," is all he says to you before he starts to move. “I know, kid.”

Keegan keeps you locked to his chest, one hand bracketing your skull, kissing you in tandem with each roll of his hips. His other hand settles against the swell of your ass, holding you steady as he bucks into you, bludgeoning his cock into your cunt. 

Your hands drop to the pillow under his head to stabilise yourself, pushing firmly into the mattress in a futile effort to keep the brunt of your weight from pressing against him, but he notices. 

Always. 

His grunt of displeasure is barely heard over the roaring in your ear, the lewd slap of his wet skin on yours, the grind of his cock into your cunt, but you feel it rumble through his chest, reverberating over your lips. 

His hand trails up from the curve of your ass, and over your spine. 

"C'mon, kid," he murmurs, teeth scraping over your stinging bottom lip. "You're not gonna break me."

His sly words make you huff, and you clench your muscles around him in retribution. There is something blisteringly intoxicating in the low groan that leaves his chest, the pinch between his brow, the flutter of his lashes, lids cresting in pleasure. 

It's a small win, a minuscule victory despite losing the war. But it is a double-edged sword that leaves you just as breathless, just as aching, as he is. 

You acquiesce to his insistent prods, and slowly, hesitantly, melt into him. With your full weight settling on top of him, Keegan breathes in deep, and murmurs a quiet, hushed: that's it into your lips. 

His hands are on you, tugging and pulling until you're flush on his body with a muted groan. 

Your arms bend at the elbow, hands moving to cup his jaw in your palms, feeling the scratch of his rough stubble over your life line. 

Kismet, you think, and taste salt on your tongue, a humid breeze on your skin. It reminds you of Los Angeles, of the hole you sunk into with him. When you decided in the ramshackle remnants of what once was that, despite everything, all of it, you would follow him anywhere, everywhere. 

A confession in the shambles of normalcy, where the cracked Macy's sigh hung suspended on wires, and reinforced by nature. Thick webs of wisteria kept the relic from a bygone era arched over the collapsed ruins of the Beverly Centre. A macabre chandelier: a poignant piece of what is now history. Gone. Erased. Decimated by a weapon meant to protect. 

The rest was felled into a deep cavern, karst, destroyed by the beams of inert energy that spliced the world you knew in half. Water leaked in—from the burst pipes, the broken aquifer at the bottom, rainwater, the ocean, and, you think, from when they razed the smouldering husk of the cities on fire with a deluge of water, back when everyone still clung to the belief that everything was going to be okay. It pools at the bottom, a murky abyss of cracked rock, steel beams, and dead wires. 

On the surface, something floated past. A bag, maybe. Waterlogged and aged. You fish it out despite the soft rumble from Keegan to stay away from the cenote. 

"Currents might sweep you under. Not a place you wanna fall in, kid." 

When you dragged it to the linoleum ledge you sat on, the broken logo made you snort. 

"Never could afford designer," you muttered and tossed the Balenciaga bag aside. 

It doesn't matter. Not anymore. Not here. 

You know it doesn't, feel it deep in your polluted bones, and yet—

You stared at the shattered heap of luxury, and couldn't help thinking about those days in the past when you'd wake up after a long trip on the road with your dad, your brother, and the world would feel so massive, so empty. It felt like you were the only ones left. The only survivors. 

It eats at you now. 

You cried that night. Broke for the first time in months, years. Sobbed into the corner of what was once Macy's or Gucci or some other relic you used to scorn in your youth, and the whole time, Keegan said nothing. Nothing at all. 

He just held you when you stumbled into him. Kept you tight to his body as your sobs echoed through the chamber. 

Through it all, it was Keegan who kept you grounded. Who stood in front of you, sniper ready, whenever the bushes around you rustled, or the ground trembled with the aftershocks of the lingering explosion that decimated your home. Your world. He was there, his hand on the small of your back, eyes sharp, wary. Kept you alive, fed. Safe. 

Safe.

You can only sleep when he’s around. Even when they left you in the safe zone you clawed out of, you couldn’t sleep. Nothing quelled the anxious needling in the back of your head but his presence—solid and steady. An unshakeable rock. Your foundation amid a shattered sense of security. 

You turned to him, then, when the moon drifted over the open crater punched through the earth, and whispered the words he refused to return. 

Even now.

But it doesn’t matter. None of it does. 

Not anymore. 

“Thinkin’ too much,” he husks, nails leaving trails of white when he scrapes them over your skin. “What happened to breaking me, kid? Give up already?”

There is no way for him to know you taste algae in the back of your throat from when he pushed you deeper into the cenote as you ran from the Federation soldiers. When they closed the gap, he shoved you into the murky blue of the grotto below, too quick for you to close your mouth, to not panic when you hit the pool with a splash that echoed on the slick, mossy walls. You breathed in the stagnant water filled with bioluminescent algae, and as gunshots bounced off the jagged limestone, and you drifted down below the buried rubble, you wondered if you’d glow so bright he could find you at the bottom of polluted blue. 

(He did. Always.)

Still. You swallow down the tang of salt, and breathe him in, saturating yourself in the loam scent of him—thick musk; burning lignin and scorched evergreen—and let it sit in your throat until all you can taste is him when you swallow. 

“Thinking about you,” you say. 

He says nothing, but you catch the shudder in his chest, the tremble in his hands, when he slides them over your flesh. Reverent. Halting. The fingerprints he leaves on your skin are stained in chiaroscuro. 

He grabs you tight enough to bruise sometimes; holds you so close that you often think he’s trying to absorb you into him. To keep you safe and secure in the bulk of his body where nothing can hurt you, touch you. 

Not even him.

So, he pulls away. It’s not distance that pitches itself in the recess of his piercing gaze, but something close to it. Kin. Fear, maybe.

Of this, of you.

The fear started when Ajax went missing, but it was Keegan who held you together.

("It's gonna be okay, kid. We'll get him back.”

Empty promises. Broken pinky fingers.)

You broke when they brought Ajax home and laid him to rest as best as they could, and the marker that signified his resting place—a coded message only they would ever know—was all that remained of the man he fought beside, the man who made a pinky promise to never leave you in a the empty shell of a Walmart parking lot when you told him about the camping trips.

A scrap of fabric. A blood-drenched mask. 

You held Keegan as he whispered sorry, kid. Sorry. We tried. We— 

Gone. Gone. You think of rubble and the scent of rock dust. The crushing weight of cinder blocks and beams, and what it feels like to stumble when the earth breaks into pieces beneath your feet.

Elias. 

And now—

All he has left is Merrick. Hesh. Riley. 

Logan—

(“Missing,” the radio crackled a few days ago. “Gone.”)

—and you. 

He holds you at arm's length, even now, after coming back to you, after finding you again, because what you offer is different, more dangerous, than theirs. 

And despite what they say, Keegan isn’t a man who feels nothing at all.

No. 

He’s a man who feels too much. 

And he knows this. Knows it like he knows the world is in shambles, knows what the Federation is capable of. 

What you're capable of. 

You wonder if he's thinking of that now, as the shadows leak back in. They flood the corners of his eyes when he gazes through you, lost in those lour thoughts that rush by in quick succession. Too fast for him to cling to any. 

They cut into the crease. The ones that make you think he’s somehow omnipotent, all-knowing. That he can chisel inside of your head, and read the want, the greed, that festers in the rucked divots. 

And he isn't sure how to handle it. What to do with the bold, bare-faced sincerity of what you offer him. What you want from him. 

Before, Keegan would get so lost inside the maze of his mind that you didn't know how to bring him back. He'd speak only when necessary—just short, clipped words, commands (over there, inside, stop, eat)—and the silence would grate at you. Somehow quieter than he usually was; oppressive. 

It lasted for days, sometimes. 

It never sullied his ability to aim, to shoot. Survive. Protect. 

It was just—

An introspective silence. A storm cloud over blue. 

He was thinking too much, and wasn't sure which option to pick, which outcome was best.

You never knew what to say to bring him back. To ground him. All you could do was wait it out until the gyre would fade from his eyes, and he'd turn to you again, clear blue. 

Now—

“—You’re thinking too much,” you murmur, mouth trailing loose kisses over his stubbled jaw. 

“Just waiting for you to come back to me,” he volleys back, eyes cresting. A tendril of that unknowable something snakes through the gloom of blue, and you reach for it with curious, wanting fingers. 

“I’d never leave you.” 

Keegan swallows, and you trace the bob of his Adam's apple. A part of you expects it to retreat, to flee back to the safety of its bivouac where nothing can get too close. Nothing can hurt. 

But it doesn’t.

He huffs, and the soft expel of his breath, the sinking of his chest, feels a little bit like victory. 

“Wouldn’t survive without me.”

It’s as close to a confession as he’ll offer, and you take it with eager, greedy hands, cupping it in the plinth of your palm where it sits, safe from harm, from the world that crumbles around you. 

“Neither would you.” 

It’s a lie, of course. Keegan is dampening his own chances at survival by keeping you close to him instead of doing what everyone said he ought to, what he tried to do: leaving you behind. 

He pushed you away once. You wonder if he thinks of the separation. The distance etched between the two of you. Slowly relearning each other in broken husks that were once homes.  

"Drop Cali off at a safe zone, and then come find us, Keegan."

The intention, you know, was to leave you behind permanently. To keep you locked in the safe confines of a safe zone in Oregon, where they pitched tents in an expansive field, and lived off of pipe dreams. Where they pretended they couldn't fear the gunfire in the distance, or smell artillery smoke in the air. 

Direct orders passed down through the chain of command, from Elias himself, and yet—

He came back.

("Just gonna do whatever you want, kid. We're headed the same way, anyway.")

“That so?”

"It is."

Keegan swallows. Something yields, breaks. 

His palms are balmy on your skin, firebrands. You stare into his eyes, counting the deep ravines of inky black cutting through sapphire blue, and the gyre of those hidden things, locked away and kept at a distance, seem to tremble. Wobble. The edges blur. 

A frisson passes over his face, illuminated only by the milky light spilling in from the tattered curtains, and something cracks. Splinters. The fracture makes him flinch, makes him heave under you, chest expanding with the deep drawl of his breath. 

With another sigh, his hand slides down the heated flesh of your back, spreading over the swell of your ass. Before you can say anything in response, his middle finger dips into the valley between each cheek, brushing over the skin of your perineum before dipping lower, brushing over the wetness gathered there. 

He drags his finger higher, brushing over the soft skin of your ass. The feeling of it, the red-hot heat of his flesh, makes you keen, tightening around him. 

He huffs into your neck, lashes fluttering over the soft skin of your throat when he blinks. "Like that, huh? Want me here, too, kid?"

You gasp when he presses against the rim. "K–Keegan—"

"Not ready yet," he murmurs, and you try to stifle a whimper when he pulls away, heart thudding in your chest at the thought alone. 

He catches it, anyway.

"Fuck, kid—," it's a jagged husk; ripped up and shredded under barbed wire. Raw, wanting, and dark. You'd never heard his voice so low, so gritty. When you peer down at him, all you see is the endless ocean in the blanket of night. Midnight blue. It makes you shiver. 

You feel feverish when he groans again, when he rasps your name in a way that sounds like it was wrenched up from the recesses of his chest. Buried under soot and ash. 

"Gonna take you there," he pants, and you know him. You know Keegan. It's not a suggestion. It's a promise. "Soon."

The thought of it makes something ugly gnarl inside your chest. A possessive thing, out of place in such a moment. Between you and him, and this awful, awful world, greed has no room to grow. To burrow its roots in deep, and yet—

Yet. 

You crave him in ways that are unattainable. That belongs to a world that no longer exists in the land you roam. 

His fingers pull away, and settle on the tight flesh of your raw cunt stretched around the thick of him. His thumb brushes over your chafed, red skin, eyes softening as he coos at you. A gentle tut when he feels how wrecked, swollen you are from the brutal pounding he's giving you. 

You think he might be lenient. Merciful. Might let you pretend you have control again. But when you lift your gaze to his, eyes blurry and lachrymose, all you see is a deep, unrelenting satisfaction cut into deep slate. His pupils ripple. Deep puddles trembling in pleasure. 

"Fuck, kid." 

He punctuates his words with a slow, full roll of his hips. Slick drenches the tips of his fingers as he feeds you the thick of his cock, feeling the way you swallow him down to the base. To the root. 

"Takin' me so good."

His words are slurred, drunk off the spread of you in his lap, taking him into your willing cunt. Eyes flashing with something that prickles across your skin. It should be a warning to you, a siren. You know him enough to tell what those little flickers in his eyes mean, the shadows hidden in the canyons of blue, but he moves before the thought can take root inside the syrupy haze that clots over your thoughts. 

His legs slide up, knees bending, spreading, as he plants his feet firmly into the mattress. 

"Hold on." 

It's all he gives before he pushes up into you, cock sliding in deeper than before. 

You gasp, eyes snapping shut when he cudgels against something inside of you that has pleasure blooming in your lower belly. 

The angle is different, deeper and fuller than anything you'd ever taken before. Even riding him, sitting flush against his hips, it didn't hit that soft bundle of nerves that has fire licking at the base of your spine. 

You moan his name again, low and broken, and Keegan responds with a sloppy snap of his hips that makes your back arch in his hold, toes curling as batters into that place that makes Nirvana bleed over your synapses. 

Keegan's hand settles on your thigh, holding you steady as he bucks into you. His other hand tangles in your hair, cupped on the nape of your neck. He tugs, his nose pressing into yours. 

"You feel so good, kid," he breathes, sliding his hand down to cup your jaw in his palm. "Squeezing me so tight. Missed your pretty pussy—"

"—Feels so good, Keegan, feels so—"

His lips steal over yours in a searing kiss. Biting, blistering. He devours you whole until nothing remains but the taste of him on your tongue, in the back of your throat. It clogs all of your senses—a brutal assault of Keegan: rich, earthy. 

Like this, locked to his chest as he pistons into you, you have very little choice but to take everything he gives you. All of it.

The sounds your bodies make when he's seated in deep, the slap of his pelvis, the wet squelch of your pussy, make you dizzy. Make you keen. Whine. Your mouth drops. Toes curl. Eyes roll into the back of your head. 

The cacophony of him fucking into you over and over again fills the empty space around you, sticking to the walls, and the moss-covered floor. It bounces against the lining of your head until it throbs, pulses, and threatens to split you in two. To halve you down the middle where Keegan presses taut to the seal of your womb. 

All you can do is cling to him, hands sliding to grasp his thick, rippling forearms as he batters into you. It's sloppy, unrefined, and you've never seen him lose it like this before. 

It edges into that precipice of pleasure and pain, both admixing into a heady cocktail of bliss that roils through you. 

He trails kisses across your blistering cheek, down your neck. His breath is warm over your skin. The flash of teeth makes you gasp. 

"You're gonna cum." 

It's not a demand, or a request. It isn't a plea, a bargain. He says the words like he's relaying the time, coordinates, his position. He isn't unaffected—his voice crumbles a little over the vowels, wobbles on the syllables—but this isn't him asking you. He's telling you. 

Keegan knows your body like he knows the intricacies of his rifles, his weapons, and he knows, knows, you're going to cum around his cock soon. Can feel it in the way your nails find purchase in the firm muscles of his shoulders, the way you tighten around him like a vice. The sound of your voice when you get closer to that looming precipice he holds you over. 

He knows. 

You moan his name as liquid pleasure leaks into your marrow, and that vertiginous edge grows closer and closer. You want to warn, to tell him, but Keegan knows. 

He hushes you, mouth moulding to yours, and devouring the whimpers that seep out. His hands tighten, holding you steady as he fucks you through it, slowing his pace to the easy grind of his cock against the seal of your womb, dragging over that soft spot inside of you that makes your head spin, and eyes cloud over with bliss. 

You moan weakly into the kiss when he slides his hand back, fingers pressing once more against the taut flesh stretched around him. It's too much—the added pressure, the feeling of him bucking into you, brushing over the seam where you swallow him down—and you tilt your head back with a whimper of his name. 

"I know, kid," he grunts, teeth catching on your chin. "Gonna cum for me, yeah?" 

You can't speak, can't talk over the rush in your head, the thick spool of pleasure clotting inside your head, behind your eyelids, in your veins. Molten, liquid. You fall into him as the world around you shatters once more, erupting into white noise, static. 

Everything that isn't him—the solid press of his body, unyielding and supine under you; the weight of his hands on your flesh; the painful crescent of his nails sinking into your skin; the stretch of his cock wrenching you open, and filling you deep, deeper than you'd thought possible; the burning heat, white-hot and balmy, that soaks your being from base to empty, empty skull—is sucked out through the broken shell, and into the vacuum of nothingness where it dissolves into embers, ashes. 

All you can think, feel, is Keegan. 

He works you through it, hand still pressed against the rim of your spasming cunt, feeling the way you pulse around him. 

He moans low in his throat, the noise cutting through the gossamer of pleasure liquifying your joints into sticky molasses, and you know he's close, too. 

You push back into him, into the sloppy cants of his hips as he leaches the lingering aftershocks of your climax for his own taking, his own rapture. 

His chest shudders. Fingers tremble when they run along your skin, grasping, clenching. Keeping you tight to his body where you fit like a puzzle, and he, in turn, fills all of the empty, barren cavities inside of you, leaving no crevasse, no fibril, untouched by him. 

You want to give him everything. Everything. 

You buck into his thrusts, meeting him in the middle where he sinks home with a grunt that echoes through the hollow spaces of your ribs, and you tremble with him. Satiate yourself on his scent, his taste, the noises he makes, the feeling of his body on yours. Sweat-slicked and fever hot. You douse the burn heat of his in the inferno of your own; incandescent with the molten press of him everywhere. 

Your head drops, nose pressed to his cheekbone as you breathe in him in greedy gulps that make your lungs quiver. Filled to the brim with him. Gorged on his taste. Saturated in his scent. 

It's good. You're delirious. Mad with it. Drunk on the elixir of his briny skin, and the way he leaks into your pores, into your being.

You push yourself tighter against him until you feel his heartbeat pulsing inside of your ribcage. 

His name is ripped from your throat in needy gasps drenched in the potency of your devotion. Shrill hymns that fans over his skin until it prickles, dampening with the humidity of your breath. Stained, then, with you. 

"God, Keegan, you feel so good inside of me—" 

Slurred words tumble from your sore lips, dipped in euphoria, in bliss, as he batters clumsily into you. 

You'll ache tomorrow—already feel like one massive, liquified contusion. He might have to carry you from Yosemite to Coarsegold where Merrick and Hesh are waiting. 

They'll know, of course, when you can't stand properly without feeling the stretch of him anew. When your knees wobble and your legs shake. 

(But a part of you wants them to.)

"Gonna cum for me, Keegan?" You mewl, nails scratching at his shoulders when he grunts your name like it's salvation. Purpose. "Want you to, baby, want you to—"

His cock jerks, twitching within you, and with a choked, guttural moan, he cums inside of your fluttering pussy. Saturates you in his release that spits, plumes of warmth, against the battered, bruised seal of your womb. 

He rumbles your name again, a shattered husk of vowels, consonants, and the ecstasy that paints his timbre sends you spiralling down into an abyss of endless blue. 

Keegan's stomach flutters. The skin pulling taut as his muscles clench, seize. You feel the drag of his flesh over your quivering belly; the constellation of scars rubbing over your slick skin. Your hand falls to his shoulder, pressing against the bullet wound left behind when he perched himself in front of death for you. For you. 

His eyes slide open slowly, heavy-lidded and bone weary with the shuddering tremors of euphoria that dance between the rucked 

The tip of your nose slides over the bridge of his, and when his skin wrinkles at the featherlight touches, it feels a little bit like the scar over his heart. 

"Fuck, kid," he rasps, eyes misty and lidded. Heavy pools of mercury you could fall into if you tried hard enough. "You have no idea what you do to me."

He grabs your hand, fingers lacing through the empty brackets until every part of you is filled with him. 

Your nail catches the burn mark—a molotov cocktail when the world wasn't in shambles. His thumb brushes over yours—hot oil, perogies, back when your dad took you around America on grand adventures every weekend, and your brother would sneakily eat your fries from the McDonald's bag. 

The other snakes up your spine, tangling in your messy hair, and then his lips are on yours. Messy, wet. He gasps into your open mouth as you rock against him, working him through his undoing, his breaking. 

You hold his shattered pieces in your hands, clutched tight against your sternum, and wonder, once again, if this is what they mean when they talk about kismet. 

"Never gonna leave you again," he rasps, the words clawing up his throat. 

The raw, pulpy mess of them sits heavy between you. A promise. Promises. Broken, flayed. A crumpled heap of everything you once were in shambles. 

You think of the anger you felt before, when the heels of his palms dug into your shoulder, and he pushed. Pushed you out, away. The bitter resentment, the festering rage. 

The agony. The sorrow. 

You missed him. His stupid face. His stupid voice. Stupid hands. Stupid humour—soft, witty, and drier than Death Valley. His stupid touch, his kisses. Him. 

The loneliness carved a hole inside of you, a crater where only he could fit. 

(You sleep better when he's beside you, anyway.)

"I won't let you."

Your lips crook into a small smile, a dawning blitz over a ruined landscape, and you lean down, pressing your lips to his pulse, sliding up until you catch his lobe between the seam. 

"Still broke you," you murmur, skimming your teeth over the downy soft hairs that cover the shell of his ear. "Still won—"

His hand moves, braces against the back of your skull, the base of your spine, and then he flexes his hips beneath you. It's quick. A fluid motion. Keegan bucks you off, and rolls you under the bulk of his body within a blink. You barely have time to choke on your gasp when he's already nestled above you, eyes shining in the milky light spilling in from the moth-eaten curtains. 

"What—?"

His hips jerk into yours, cock sticky, tacky against your skin, but you feel him thicken with each slow roll he makes into you.  

He leans down, bracing his forearm on the flat pillow above your crown, eyes burning embers that spark in the dim light bleeding between the wisps of broken fog that shroud the moon. 

"My turn, kid." 

[eldritch-spouse]

Wife innocently asking Kalymir about all of his scars and touching them and fawning over him, seemingly oblivious to how hot n' bothered he's getting.

" YOU'RE STARING AGAIN, RUNT. "

Ah, he caught you. How can he blame you? Kalymir is quite something, physically speaking. It's hard not to notice him, not to stare at him. In such a vivid garnet coloration, it's hard not to focus on the gashes of blush rose that cross his figure, standing out like sore thumbs.

Kalymir doesn't hide them, in fact, he practically goes out of his way to display them, like they're the most beautiful part of his body. He seems to think other people's scars, whether from battle or simple "blemishes" of nature, are also attractive- It was very odd to see him constantly trace a slash across your arm from a soft training session.

Nevertheless, the King is kind of primal sometimes. In the sense that prolonged gazing agitates him severely. It's hard to tell if he enjoys it or not, but you know it definitely reads as a challenge, if the growl under his words is any indication.

" So I am. " You blink.

" IT'S GETTING ON MY FUCKING NERVES, SPEAK ALREADY. " He fumes.

It's clear you caught him in the middle of some sort of scheme, he only ever stands in front of his main (massive) fireplace with his arms behind his back when he's mulling over something. Kaly's already pissed from being interrupted, better not to test him further. But then again, you did come here to make sure he isn't spacing out in his own mind, in a positive feedback loop of fury...

" How did you get that one? " Walking to stand beside your demonlord, you point to his chest, specifically the large patch that crosses it diagonally.

Kalymir snorts, turning. " OH, SO YOU JUST CAME TO MAKE GOO-GOO EYES AT ME? "

You roll your eyes, but a lazy smile still graces your face. " I asked you a question. "

" I HEARD, DIPSHIT. "

Apparently, you've successfully brought him out of his thoughtful stupor, because the Icon grins wide, teeth ever flared, and squats in front of you.

" THIS ONE HERE? " He barks, and you nod silently. " IT'S MY FAVORITE. " And his biggest. You wouldn't be surprised if it was his favorite precisely for that reason. " I GOT IT THE DAY I BECAME KING OF WRATH. "

Eyebrows rise, you gawk openly, rising loud cackles out of him. " No shit-? "

" YEAH BITCH. " He leers, fetching one of your hands and putting it up against the gnarled flesh, just beneath the bone growths on his upper chest. You blush a little, though allow yourself to map it out. " FEEL IT. "

Kalymir flexes. Although you're entirely unaware of it, his tail wags increasingly faster behind him. " I THOUGHT I WAS GOING TO DIE IN THAT ARENA, YET I WALKED OUT AS THE BEST WRATH COULD OFFER! "

When he puts it like that, it really is a scar worth showing off. You'd wear it with pride too. It actually sits very well upon him.

"AND THIS- "

Your hand is forced to grope at the scarred flesh harder, every inch of tense muscle felt beneath his hot skin.

" IS MY TROPHY. YOU HEAR ME, PIPSQUEAK? "

" Y-Yeah. " Is his breathing faster? You suppose you'd get excited talking about such a cool conquest too. " That's so brutal! I bet it hurt like a motherfucker too, you're amazing. "

Kalymir beams, puffing out further before you, even going as far as to raise his arms in a perfect display pose so you can see the way the healed tissue stretches to accommodate movement. Your gleeful giggle has him beaming back, happy to show off.

" DAMN FUCKING RIGHT I AM. " He huffs, greedily allowing you to explore the length of said scar, relishing your little hands on him, your words of complete awe.

Kalymir licks at his teeth and groans, wondering how long it'll take before you stop babbling and notice the twitching tent in his loincloth.

[firelightmuse]

Character Profile 🔥🌸

Yume Aino

Since it is VERY long, it is under a cut. If you do read all of this, thank you so much for taking the time out to do so!!! Enjoy! 🥰

Updated as of Dawntrail Patch 7.0, 11/10/2024

BASICS//

Name: Yume Aino

Name Pronounciation: Yoo-may Eye-know

Name Meaning: Yume = “Dream”, Aino = “Of Love”, both of Japanese origin. In her lore, "Aino" is the name of the now dormant volcanic mountain that Aino Castle is built upon, and the clan itself took its name from the volcano. Theoretically, Yume was named as such because she was to be the "Dream of the Aino Clan".

Nicknames: “Little Bird”, is a nickname from her childhood but is adopted by Zenos as a pet name for her; “My Fire”, “My Light”, and “Mea Amata”, are all other pet names Zenos has for Yume (“mea amata” is Latin for the feminine form of “my beloved”, and is a reference to the Garlean native language).

Unsundered Name: Nemesis (Not Azem)

Titles: Warrior of Light, Warrior of Darkness, Hydaelyn’s Chosen, Scion of the Seventh Dawn, Champion of Eorzea, Eikon Slayer, Savior of Ishgard, Liberator of Doma and Ala Mhigo, Wandering Flame, Ronin of Eorzea, Former Heir of Lord Masanori Aino

Age: 24 in ARR, 31 as of Post-6.0

Nameday: 13th Sun of the 3rd Astral Moon (May 13th)

Gender: Female

Race: Au Ra

Tribe: Raen

Nationality: Hingan

Languages: Modern Hingan, Most Far Eastern Dialects, Old Auri Tongue, and Eorzean Common Tongue

Profession: Former samurai and heir apparent of the Aino Clan; Currently a ronin, adventurer, and Scion of the Seventh Dawn

Education Level: Home schooled by private tutors in Hingashi, and is particularly knowledgeable in history, cultures, and languages.

BLOODLINES//

Father: Lord Masanori Aino (48 in ARR)

Mother: Lady Michiko Aino (45 in ARR)

Siblings: 2 younger brothers, Daichi and Kentaro (Ages 8 and 6 in ARR); Numerous half-siblings born of her father and his concubines

Extended Family: Large extended family, but her best friend is her first cousin Rei Tokugawa (25 in ARR)

In-Laws: All in-laws deceased

Children: None, and cannot have any biological children due to her injuries from attempted Seppuku

Pet: An amaro named Nightmare who also serves as Yume’s mount; the amaro was named after Yume’s black horse, also named Nightmare, that Yume was forced to leave behind after she was banished by her father.

ROMANCE & SEXUALITY//

Sexual Orientation: Demisexual

Romantic Orientation: Demiromantic

Significant Other: Zenos Galvus, in a long-term monogamous relationship as of Post-6.0; Will marry at some time in the future

Past Relationships: Briefly dated G’raha Tia during the events of the investigation of the Crystal Tower; Yume’s ancient self as Nemesis was eternally bonded with Ares, Zenos’ ancient self

RESIDENCE//

Place of Birth: Born in Aino Castle, in Lord Masanori Aino's territory, located not too far outside of Kugane, Hingashi

Current Residence: Small house in Shirogane (Located in game at Rafflesia, Shirogane, Ward 17, Plot 33.)

TALENTS AND SKILLS//

Canon Battle Job: Samurai (Trained since early childhood; canonically referred to as a Ronin; some of Yume’s abilities are unique and distinctive from the in game job) and Black Mage (Self-taught, some abilities are unique and distinct from the canonical in-game job)

Canon Land/Hand Jobs: None

Abilities: Kenjutsu, Martial Arts, Marksmanship, Thaumaturgy, Black Magic, Writing Poetry, Dancing, and Polyglot

Bad At: Singing, All forms of healing magic, Household chores, Public Speaking, Confiding in others when stressed, and Controlling her anger.

APPEARANCE//

Hair: Naturally jet black in color with straight bangs and pulled back into a high ponytail most of the time, and medium-long length.

Eyes: Large, wide set eyes; Royal Blue in color with lighter blue limbal rings surrounding the iris.

Face: Heart-shaped, with ivory colored scales on cheeks and bridge of her long, thin nose.

Lips: Full, plump lips

Complexion: Fair, can mildly tan with extended sun exposure

Blemishes: None

Scars: Though she has many small scars accumulated over the years, the most prominent one is a large, very deep scar from the right side of her abdomen to her belly button that she is quite ashamed of for many years; she only shows the scar when necessary unless she is alone with Zenos.

Tattoos: One large tattoo of a Phoenix spreading its wings that covers her entire back in all red ink.

Height: 5 fulms 2 ilms (Tallest Height for female Au Ra)

Weight: 120 ponze

Build: Petite and athletic but curvy with a large chest.

Features (Au Ra): Horns are slightly curled and sloping backwards away from her face; tail is long and smooth with a few small spikes near the base. Scales adorn her body and face with a small speckling of scales above the bridge of her nose.

Usual Hairstyles: Usually pulled up into a high ponytail with straight bangs for battle, but she tends to also pull up her hair into a side ponytail with braids while not fighting, and recently she has worn her hair down with a white headband.

Usual Face Look: Usually wears reddish-pink eyeshadow, black eyeshadow and eyeliner, and mauve colored lipstick.

Usual Clothing: Black leather, black colored robes, black or dark colored kimonos, black dresses, and some dark red and dark purple accessories. Basically, Yume asks, “Does this come in black?”

Face and Voice Claim: Chinese actress Fan Bing Bing for both face and voice claim.

PERSONALITY//

Introverted / Extroverted / Ambiverted (bold what applies)

Positive Traits: Friendly, polite, respectful, reserved, courageous, brave, kind, compassionate, empathetic, open minded, pragmatic, intuitive, loyal, faithful.

Most Positive Trait: Honorable to a fault. Yume follows the Honor Code of the Samurai and will not fight an unarmed opponent, tries her best to not bring harm to the innocent, and she is extremely loyal to those she has sworn to serve. Will give her life in an heartbeat if she deems it to be an honorable death and a worthy sacrifice for a good cause.

Negative Traits: Temperamental, prideful, aggressive, cynical, jealous, possessive, distant, insecure, reckless.

Most Negative Trait: Besides falling in love with Zenos? Yume has a problem with anger management. When she doesn’t keep her anger in check, she gets violent, and will kill an enemy with no hesitation. She has killed many people this way in her past in Hingashi, including killing those that she felt had dishonored her in some way.

Fears: Living a life without making her own choices, having regrets, and the death of her loved ones, though not afraid of dying herself.

Aspirations: To live a life that she has chosen for herself and not forced upon her by someone else, to help others and use her powers for good, and to see the entire world for herself.

Traumas: For past traumas before ARR, you can read Yume’s history below. Most of the events of ShB and EW were really traumatic for her, especially almost dying after the battle with Zenos at the end of 6.0.

Hobbies: Writing poetry, travelling, learning about other cultures, learning history, reading, and shopping.

Vices: Eating too much junk food, bottling up emotions until she explodes, shutting out others when feeling depressed, feeling insecure about herself outside of being a Warrior of Light.

Faith: Believes in the concept of Karma and that everything happens for a reason, but does not believe in the Kami or any other kind of god, at least ones that aren't primals anyway.

Turn Ons: Loyalty, Confidence, Bravery, Integrity, Intelligence, unique eyes, beautiful smile, muscular physique, and a large chest.

Turn Offs: Cowardice, Dishonesty, Disloyalty, Deceitfulness, Superficiality, Greed

Temperament: Phlegmatic/Choleric

MBTI: INFP-A

Soul Type: The Warrior

Tropes: The Chosen Many, Lady of War, Aloof Dark-haired Girl, Dark and Troubled Past, Samurai, Ronin, Warrior Poet, Honor Before Reason, Seppuku

Songs: “Paint It Black” by The Rolling Stones (This one is also her OC tag), “Weight of the World” from Nier Automata, “Sayuri’s Theme” from Memoirs of a Geisha, and “Wandering Flame” from FFX

Character Inspirations: Chiyo/Sayuri from Memoirs of a Geisha, Mariko from James Clavell’s Shogun, Auron from FFX, Tifa Lockhart from FFVII, Rei Hino/Sailor Mars from Sailor Moon, Trinity from The Matrix, Daenerys Targaryen from A Song of Ice and Fire, and Jasmine from Disney’s Aladdin

FAVORITES//

Book: Chūshingura, translated as The Treasury of Loyal Retainers, commonly known as The 47 Ronin.

Deity: Nald’thal the Traders

Holidays: Heavensturn and Moonfire Faire

Month: 3rd Astral Moon (May)

Weather: A warm, sunny day with a light breeze and fair to clear skies.

Time of Day: Dawn

Places: Kugane, Eastern Thanalan, Costa del Sol, The Royal Menagerie in the palace in Ala Mhigo, Rak’tika Greatwood, Thavnair, and Ultima Thule

Sounds: The wind, chimes, Taiko drumming, birds chirping, and crackling wood of a campfire

Scents: Cherry blossoms, tea brewing, incense, and candles burning

Tastes: Anything spicy, strawberries and cream, sushi, curry, ramen, matcha green tea, coffee, chocolate.

Feels: Leather, flower petals, Hingan silk, and a warm fireplace or campfire.

Number: 2

Colors: Jet Black, Dalamud Red, Wine Red, and Gloom Purple

SYMBOLISM//

Elements: Fire and Light

Gemstones: Amber and Sunstone

Animal: Birds of all kind

Mythological Creature: Phoenixes

Flowers: Cherry blossoms and sunflowers

Season: Late Spring to Early Summer

Land, Sea, or Sky: Sky

Astronomical Object: The Sun

HISTORY//

History (Pre-ARR): ((Content/Trigger Warnings Ahead!! Ritualistic Suicide/Seppuku, Attempted Suicide, Mental and Emotional Abuse, Slight Depictions of Self-Harm, and Discussion of Potential Incestual Marriage; Feel free to skip over this section to avoid!))

Yume was born the eldest daughter of a Daimyo (a feudal lord who ruled over a territory in Hingashi), Lord Masanori Aino, and she was his heir apparent. Yume was raised from birth to become the ideal samurai, who would be able to beat any opponent in battle, and to one day succeed her father as daimyo. She excelled in all her studies and was driven to be the best on the battlefield, yet she always felt like something was missing from her life.

As she got older, she travelled often to Kugane, the famed port city where merchants from all walks of life congregated. Yume was exposed to people with vastly different cultures and traditions from the ones she knew. She was fascinated with the travelers from distant lands that she had never seen before, especially the Eorzeans. Yet she would always do her duty and aspired to live up to her father’s expectations.

When she came of age, Lord Aino began the search for his beloved daughter’s suitor, and he had narrowed down his criteria to a very short but nigh impossible list: 1) Must be a son of a prominent noble family, 2) Must be able to sire children, and 3) He must be Yume’s equal in battle, as determined by a 1v1 duel with Yume herself. The first two criteria were the easy part. Many clans were interested in marrying their son to the daughter of Lord Aino, but Lord Aino looked for perfection, and no man around her age was good enough for his daughter. This is because every would be suitor who dueled Yume for a chance to win her hand in marriage was defeated. There were none that proved worthy of her.

Yume pleaded with her father to allow her to decide for herself who she wants to marry in her own time, but her father forbade her from ever speaking of it again, for she would shame him and bring dishonor to the family name. Soon after Yume’s 18th nameday, her father announced her betrothal to Lord Nobu Aino, her own uncle. Nobu had lost his wife due to illness, and he never fathered children with her. To ensure that Nobu will have children of his own, he wished to wed a young woman with many years ahead of her so that she can give him many children. Yume was appalled; it was commonplace centuries ago for uncles and nieces to marry in Hingashi, but it is a dying tradition that only a few remaining noble families participate in, as most of Hingashi frowns upon it in modern times.

Yume soon felt trapped in the station in life that she was born into. Her family never sought her approval of her uncle as her suitor, nor was there any room for her to decline the betrothal. Though she wished for nothing more than to become a samurai, she did not want to be forced into a marriage with her own uncle, nor to be bound to a fate that she never decided for herself. This led to the biggest decision she ever made: she confronted her father and outright refused to marry Nobu no matter what.

Her father answered her by saying that she has dishonored him and the family, but Yume responded that he has shamed her and she cannot live like this anymore. Lord Aino ended the confrontation by telling her that if she cannot live with the shame, then she must commit Seppuku, or ritualistic suicide.

The next day, the ceremony has commenced, and Yume is fully prepared to take her own life. But just as she began to slit her belly open, her father stops her and tells her that she does not have to die but must live in shame. Lord Aino’s change of heart allows Yume to survive the attempted seppuku, but the damage to her organs was so extensive that her reproductive organs had to be removed, so Yume can never have biological children. Soon after she recovers from her wounds, the family disowns her, she is stripped of all her power and titles, and she must leave her father’s lands, never to return. Yume agrees to this, and she never sees her family again.

After she has fully recovered and left her father’s lands behind, Yume is now known as a disgraced ronin, a samurai without a master. To survive, she makes a name for herself as a mercenary and assassin in Kugane for five years, and was known as the “Wandering Flame”, which derives from her clan living on a dormant volcano, the “flame” part, and “wandering” for her being a ronin.

One fateful day, after hearing the voice of Hydaelyn calling to her day after day to go to Eorzea, Yume decides that since there really is nothing left for her in Hingashi, she leaves her homeland behind for Eorzea, a land that she has always dreamed of seeing, and soon becomes a Scion of the Seventh Dawn and is known as a “Warrior of Light”.

OTHER//

Smokes: Never

Drugs: Never

Drinks: Only drinks wine and certain kinds of cocktails, and she is overall very responsible with her alcohol consumption. She will never drink on the eve of battle, nor ever indulge at times when she needs her mind to be clear and focused.

Mount Issuance: Yume was never given a chocobo, as she flat out refuses one. She does not like the chocobos because of their smell, and still usually calls them “horse birds” out of habit from growing up in Hingashi. She rode a motorcycle built by Cid for a few years (from ARR until ShB) until she is gifted an amaro named Nightmare by the Crystal Exarch.

Been Arrested: Was technically going to be arrested for Regicide during the events of the Bloody Banquet, but Yume escapes Ul’dah along with her fellow Warriors of Light.

UNSUNDERED AND SHARDS//

Unsundered: ??? (Not Azem)

Source: Yume Aino, Warrior of Light, 8 times rejoined

First: Renda-Rae, rejoined during ShB 5.0

Second: ???, rejoined in 3rd Calamity (Fire)

Third: ???, rejoined in 4th Calamity (Earth)

Fourth: ???, status unknown

Fifth: ???, rejoined in 1st Calamity (Wind)

Sixth: ???, rejoined in 5th Calamity (Ice)

Seventh: Tifa Lockhart, rejoined in 7th Calamity (Bahamut)

Eighth: ???, status unknown

Ninth: ???, status unknown

Tenth: Auron, rejoined in 6th Calamity (Water)

Eleventh: ???, status unknown

Twelfth: ???, rejoined in 2nd Calamity (Lightning)

Thirteenth: Rubicante, deceased as of patch 6.3

CURRENT STATUS//

As of patch 7.0, Yume will begin by wandering Tural with Zenos as they hunt down Tural Vidraal, with Yume’s newly self-trained skills as a Black Mage. Yume and Zenos did not assist in the Rite of Succession for any candidate. However, they helped in the defense of Tuliyollal both times that the city is attacked, and they fought in the final battle alongside Hali and the other WoLs. Following the final battle, Yume and Zenos remain in Tural for a while before they head back to their home in Shirogane.

NOTE: Yume's story follows all of the major events of the MSQ as she is a Warrior of Light. The only major canon diversion is that in her canonverse, there are multiple Warriors of Light (notably my main OC Hali Aloke @starrysnowdrop and my friends’ OCs) and Yume’s ancient self is NOT Azem. Yume won’t always be the main focus of certain MSQ events either, as my main WoL is Hali. Feel free to ask me for any specifics in this regard.

[asongaboutpirates]

VetVimes kissing prompt: 21. …on a place of insecurity. You always write so fluffy and sweet things. <3

Thank you for your prompt @slowlymychaos 🥰 I hope you are alright with a bit of angst... (But it's sweet too! Promise!)

Holding On and Letting Go

Rating: G Words: ~1.000 Tags: Angst, fluff, emotional h/c, past child abuse

It was a peculiar feeling to watch the Patrician of Ankh-Morpork sleep. Sam was still getting used to it, to sharing a bed, to this intimacy between them. Usually, he slipped under the covers early in the morning, only shortly before Havelock rose to start his day. The little time in between was all the more precious to him.

He never managed to settle next to him undetected. Havelock’s eyes would flutter open, then he would smile at him gently. He was beautiful like that, when he hadn’t donned the aloofness of the Patrician yet, when he was soft with sleep. Sam was under no illusion that this softness wasn’t as calculated as everything else he did, and that Havelock could be on the other side of the room with a knife in his hand within seconds. But it made these quiet moments all the more precious, when he knew that Havelock had chosen to be vulnerable.

‘Morning,’ Sam muttered, then kissed his temple, his jaw, his neck. He traced Havelock’s chest with light fingers, relishing in his warmth after a cold, rainy night out. He’d never thought he’d get to have that: a warm place to return to, where he would be welcome to stay and rest. Sometimes he even felt that Havelock was waiting for him to come… He traced his fingertips gently along his collarbone, up and down his neck, and over his shoulder.

His fingers stopped when they found a tiny rough patch skin. When they stayed for a moment to carefully examine it, Havelock startled and pulled away, propping himself up on his elbow to eye Sam warily.

Sam quickly took his hand back. ‘Sorry. Didn’t mean to hurt you.’

The wary stare didn’t waver, but behind it, Sam could practically see gears turning.

‘Never knew you had a scar,’ he muttered, just to fill the silence. It was something that fascinated him. His own skin was rough, weather-beaten and riddled in scars. Havelock’s was soft and smooth, without a blemish. Or so he had thought. ‘How’d you get it?’

The gears still turned behind watchful eyes. Knowing Havelock, there was probably an elaborate pulley system involved, too, and some levers to boot. As close as they had become physically, he still didn’t share easily. Neither did Sam. They fit together like that – not asking, not telling. Maybe it was time to change that. So Vimes didn’t withdraw his question, just lay there, enduring the heavy silence, and waited to see what the outcome of Havelock’s internal fight might be.

‘By my father’s hand,’ he finally said, very matter-of-factly. ‘Or rather, by his belt buckle.’

Oh.

Havelock continued to hold Sam’s gaze as if trying to gauge his reaction. Sam felt like he was put to a test that he didn’t know the requirements to.

‘I’m sorry.’

Havelock shrugged his shoulders.

‘He was a traditional man, and he didn’t like that his son had no interest in the things boys of his age and upbringing traditionally had interest in.’ He looked down at his shoulder, where the tiny white speck of scar tissue glimmered in the twilight. It was hard to overlook once you knew it was there. ‘Usually, he took care to not leave any permanent damage, nothing a doctor might see. But one time I had angered him so much that he forgot himself. And he gave me this.’

Sam desperately wanted to touch him, to hold him, but was unsure whether he would be welcome.

‘My aunt took me in afterwards. I went to school. I healed. The scar stayed. It’s a constant reminder.’

‘Is your father still alive?’

‘Are you turning this into a murder investigation, commander?’

‘No. Just checking. He might get a little visit from me, if he were.’

The corners of Havelock’s mouth twitched into the resemblance of a smile, but only for a second.

‘He died of a stroke about ten years ago. I never did work up the courage to face him, I’m afraid.’

‘Good.’

‘If you are going to tell me that it is better for me to not have stooped to his level…’

‘No, not that. Just that men like him aren’t worth your skills or your time. Let them be forgotten by history. Let them fade into insignificance.’

‘Strange advice to receive from you, of all people.’

Ha!

‘Right. But it’s enough for one of us to be the terrier that doesn’t let go.’ Sam slowly reached out his hand, giving Havelock plenty of time to back off. When he didn’t, he carefully stroked over the scar again, and when Havelock didn’t stop him then either, he leaned down to place a tender kiss on it. ‘He can’t hurt you anymore.’

A hand curled around the back of Sam’s head to hold him close as Havelock nestled his face into the crook of his neck. After a moment, Sam felt dampness on his skin, and it broke his heart. Carefully, he turned his head to kiss the quiet tears from Havelock’s cheeks.

Havelock tolerated his tenderness only for a moment, before he pulled away and sat up. He blinked his eyes, once, twice, and looked as if he had never cried at all, just the way Sam would find him on any given day in the Oblong Office.

‘I apologise. That was inappropriate.’

‘No, it wasn’t! It was…’ Sam was fishing for words and found a realisation. ‘Look, we… we could be more, couldn’t we? We could talk more, right? Get to know each other. Be more like…’

‘A couple?’

Oh gods, that sounded terrifying. But it also felt like the logical next step. It felt right.

‘Yeah. I mean… Yeah, if you want.’

Again, the gears turned, the pulleys rolled, the levers levered.

‘You might end up disappointed.’

Sam’s heart gave a painful twinge when he heard Havelock’s voice crack. ‘So? That’s how these things work. That’s how life works. We try anyway. It’s all about holding on to some things and letting go of others, I guess.’ He swallowed. ‘We could find out what’s what together.’

Something behind Havelock’s eyes snapped into place.

‘Alright.’

‘That a yes?’

‘Yes.’

Sam smiled, then he pulled him into his arms and placed another kiss on his scar.

They slept in that morning, Havelock cradled in Sam’s arms, and neither of them even considering letting go.

[joesheistyy]

pimple

Joe hated when any pimple grew relatively close to his face, let alone actually on his face. 

Game day was quickly approaching. Joe was left picking his skin in the master bedroom en suite bathroom. As you walked in to go pee, you saw him picking in the mirror.

“Joe don’t pick at it, it’ll only make it worse,” you stated as you pulled his arms away from his face. He sighed, turning around to face you. 

“But babe it’s so big,” he huffed, his arms falling around your waist. 

“I promise it’s not as bad as you think it is,” you stated, brushing over the side of his face. 

He continued to huff around about it. “Please make it go away y/n,” he whined at you as you left the bathroom after taking care of your business. 

“How about I run to target to try to acquire some pimple patches,” You stated, turning around to face Joe as you threw on a hoodie.

“That would be great babe, thank you,” he gave you a small smile.

“Promise that you won’t pick at it while I’m gone?” you asked, walking over to him with your pinky out, waiting for his long finger to twist just right with yours.

“Promise babe,” he confirmed with a kiss to your forehead.

At your return from Target, you searched for Joe as you entered the kitchen. 

“Joey! Where are you? I’ve got the goods,” you exclaimed from the kitchen.

“In my office,” he shouted in response. You made your way up to his office, eager to see if he had refrained from picking like he promised.

“Ok babe, lemme see. Did you stay away from it?” you questioned as you tilted his head.

“Yes, y/n. I left it alone,” he rolled his eyes at you.

“C’mon Joey, let’s go get you fixed up,” you pulled him out of his chair and toward the en suite. 

You began cleaning the pimple on his temple. Since it wasn’t an open wound, it didn’t sting. “Babe you’re the best. Thanks for helping me with my skin,” Joe said as his breath fanned across your face. You had just finished cleaning the pimple and covering it up with a pimple patch.

“Anything for you, my Joey,” you smiled and kissed over his now covered pimple. “Just no touchy touchy,” you tickled his sides. 

“Yes ma’am,” he agreed with a kiss to your head. 

----

As the week progressed, Joe’s pimple slowly but surely got better. Many times in passing, you noticed him touching him skin and messing with the blemish. 

“Don’t pick, Joe,” you'd say each time he reached up for his temple. 

“Babe, don’t touch it or it won't get better,” 

“Joe! Don’t TOUCH!” 

Over and over and over. At this rate, you didn’t expect it to be better before game day. Yes, sometimes pimples take longer to heal, but he was definitely lengthening this process.

----

Game day came quick. Watching from the stands, you could tell Joe was focused on the game and luckily not his pimple. 

Play after play, his hands stayed away from his face. I just need to distract this man child if I don’t want him picking. You thought with a smile. 

As the press conference rolled around, you gave him a quick kiss before he entered for his 10 minutes of questioning.

This press conference was full of excited press and some great cameras. You knew Joe would be groaning about his lingering pimple afterwards. Each time his hands would linger around his face, he would go straight for the pimple. How could he forget about it for the past three hours but be immediately drawn to it the moment he is not in game mode? However, it seemed like each time he reached for it, he instinctively looked at you. Hearing you mocking him about not picking at his face. 

“You played great today baby!” you grabbed at his arm as he left the press conference. 

“Thanks beautiful, but can we get home and get rid of this damn pimple? It’s really pissing me off. I just want you to pop the stupid thing,” he groaned, looking down to see your reaction. You chuckled at how he has been obsessing over it for days now.

“Sure Joey. Let’s get home and I’ll take care of it,” you agree, leaning up to give him a small kiss. 

And sure enough, at home, the pimple finally got taken care of. 

“Let’s just straight up pop it next time instead of going through all this shit,” Joe chuckled as you sat on the bathroom counter, post popping his pimple. Dabbing and holding a tissue to the bleeding spot on his face. 

“Sure babe, if you’re okay with scars,” you chuckled, leaning in for a kiss.

“You’re the best, thanks babe,” he kissed you. Finally happy that the pimple was gone. Or at least working to finally be gone. 

-----

thanks for supporting me, y’all. I appreciate you forever <3

[kairiscorner]

Hi bhie 🧍‍♀️

(Are you tired of my gabri shit yet)

No? Great, Im gonna req something then :)))

Gabri x spiderperson reader

Imagining them coming home from a long mission, like really exhausted from work, or spider duties. They’re probably really scarred/bruised

Seeing his partner in such a state, Gabri goes into househusband mode KAJSJWJDIJSKDJSKSKSKSK

Taking care of their wounds, patching them up, doing cleaning and cooking for them 😭

Can you tell which character im obsessed with atm

is it miguel

gabriel o'hara x wounded!spider person!reader

(reblogs are greatly appreciated, it helps get my content out there! if you guys like what you see, please reblog it too <:D)

"nena, what happened to you?!"

gabriel rushed over to your fatigued, scarred, and injured self. he was heaving and panicking internally, and externally, as he guided you to the sofa and sat you down–rushing over to the bathroom and, in his anxious haste, made several containers and toiletries clatter. your wounds weren't that grave, you sought immediate medical aid the minute you got back to HQ before you came home to gabri, but your dearest was always so easy to shake up and worry, he can never sit still and be calm when he sees even a single new blemish or fracture on your otherwise perfect skin.

you tried telling gabriel you were fine, the scars would heal up and would, hopefully, go away soon. gabriel shook his head and kept repeating to you in spanglish that your wounds didn't look very good... he wanted to be assured that you would most definitely be okay, not just told that you were, but confirmed to himself that you would be okay. you let gabriel tend to your worse wounds, with him looking up at you with concerned doe eyes in between him bandaging you up. "ay, mi vida... i know you're very strong, capable, smart and all, but... i can't help but worry sometimes." he muttered as he finished bandaging you up. you told gabri that this wasn't anything new, you would walk it off fine–even better now that he's taken care of your other wounds.

gabriel smiled at you and kissed your cheek, deciding to make your evening a little better with a good batch of treats you loved. he was a decent chef, but a better baker, in your opinion–he was hellbent on making you the best damned treats you would ever taste in your whole life. after an hour or two, gabriel finally finished the batch of treats he made for you–flour, icing, and some other ingredients coating his face and arms; they adorned his smiling expression with a bit of literal sweetness behind them as he giggled in slight embarrassment at how messy he looked.

"dig in, cariño, you've had a long day... you deserve this much." he tells you as he hands you a piece. he expected you to take it from his hands and dig in, but you bit off a piece as he held it out to you and smiled a little wider as his eyes widened and he got all... flustered at your bold, unexpected move. "only if you'll feed me, gabri." you said with a grin as he chuckled and smiled even wider like a dork, taking you up on your offer and fed you from his own, clean and sweet hands with a smile.

tags !! @hearts4gabri @ophanimgold

[the-haunted-office]

🍁 what is Doom's skin care routine? Does she have any strong opinions of other/popular ones?

Send 🍁 + Any question you’ve been curious to know about my muse!

Doom doesn't have anything complicated as far as skin care routine. She did used to struggle with acne when she was younger, but it's mostly cleared up now that she's an adult.

For the most part, she washes her face in the morning with your average face wash and then again in the evening before going to bed. She has a magnifying mirror that she uses to pick at blemishes and then uses these little patches that sort of "soak up" any of the stuff that's leftover and helps them heal faster.

All in all, she's not too bothered by blemishes and doesn't care about having perfect skin. As long as her face feels clean, she's happy.

Something else of note is she actually dislikes wearing make-up. She's never liked wearing it. She hates the way it makes her face feel. It makes her skin feel like it can't breathe and it puts her into a kind of sensory overload. The only kind of cosmetics she can tolerate is like, nail polish, haha. So, no make-up for her.

[pure-ablution]

Products I use for blemishes

Magnesium Sulphate paste: this is what I use on blind cysts and all those other painful, lumpy, under-the-skin sort of blemishes which you just want to bring to a head so that you can deal with them. It really doesn’t smell good, and it doesn’t tend to dry out easily, either, so I recommend applying with a cotton bud and then covering with a bandage or plaster of some kind, making sure that you don’t move the paste from covering the spot.

DMK Actrol Powder: this is the best thing ever for spots that are open, or nearly open, and oozing quite a lot of pus. You just dab a little bit on and leave it to parch and shrink literally everything in its wake. DMK is for professional use only, so I recommend asking a friend with an aesthetician’s licence to buy some for you.

Drying lotion: I buy mine from Boots because it’s cheaper than Mario Badescu and works exactly the same. This is useful for zits that are quite small, nearing the end of their little lives, and just need that last push to disappear completely.

Paula’s Choice BHA 9%: this is strong stuff, and I have to buy from the US because it’s not sold in the UK, but it’s so good for clearing congestion and painful blackheads which aren’t quite blemishes yet, but will be, given the chance.

Lion Pair Acne Cream W: this is from Japan and contains antibacterial and anti-inflammatory agents to prevent more acne from forming, and soothe and heal what’s already there. I use this at any point during the blemish’s life to reduce redness, keep the area clean and free of irritation, and prevent other zits from forming in the same place. It’s a cream and can be worn under makeup, unlike most of the other options on this list.

MediHoney: this medical honey is amazing for zits that really caused some grief and went down fighting. I use it to heal the sore skin after a painful zit has finally disappeared, and to prevent scarring from larger cysts and blemishes. I recommend applying with a cotton bud and then covering with a clean (preferably sterile) bandage, in much the same way as Magnesium Sulphate.

COSRX Master Patch XL: I find that different hydrocolloid patch brands work better than others, and COSRX is my favourite. Maybe it’s a placebo, but they really do seem to work quicker and more effectively, and they stick to my skin well, too. I like this XL size because it fully covers the spots and can be used to target a full cluster of several if needed.

Acropass Trouble Cure Patch: these are microdart patches with salicylic acid, and I like using them after my deep cleansing routine as well as to target specific zits that were born from congestion and need to be defeated thick and fast. They’re expensive, but they work very well in situations when plain hydrocolloid won’t cut it.

[roachliquid]

Got a reply from @rachimiya on my "probably not Super Mutants" post, with a couple of points they wanted to discuss. The reply got deleted due to a misunderstanding, but after talking with them I decided to go ahead and address the main things I remember.

Before I begin, a quick preface: I doubt any of my followers are the kind of dickhead to harass someone over minor differences of opinion, but just to be safe I want to emphasize that this is a friendly disagreement. We all love Thaddeus here, and I'm sure we all agree that however his story continues in season 2, it's going to make good sense and be fun to watch.

So, the first thing I wanted to bring up (and I'm sorry if I'm misremembering what you said here, it's been a while and I have brainfog) is that the blemishing on Thaddeus's neck isn't necessarily indicative of him being a ghoul, since it was basically just the injury scarring over.

This is an understandable way to read the scene, especially if it's been a while since you last saw the actual footage. However, when I recently re-watched the series (funny enough, looking for Super Mutant Thaddeus clues) I realized something peculiar about the shot where his neck is healing. So I got screenshots. >:3

So, this is Thaddeus's neck with the bolt still lodged in it. As we can see, the skin is basically pristine outside of the entry wound. Once Thaddeus removes the bolt, the site starts to heal, and...

I don't have footage of the actual healing scene, but here's a shot of the aftermath. There does look to be a significant scar at the point where the bolt entered, but more bizarrel, there is also a large patch of mottled, uneven skin surrounding that spot. We can see it develop during the part where he heals, with discoloration appearing over what was previously healthy skin.

Now, one of the pieces of Fallout lore that can be difficult to get your hands on is the early signs of ghoulification. Most of the stuff I've seen has just been passed through the fandom by word-of-mouth, and its canonicity is questionable, due to parts of the lore being established before Bethesda purchased the franchise. But I'm nothing if not a nosy bastard, and was able to find this quote on the Fallout wiki, from Fallout 3:

All I know is that people kept showing up here in the museum... ...After a while, things got strange. My skin started to get dry and flake off. Everyone's did. It took a while, months, maybe a year. But sooner or later, everyone ended up like this.

This is just scratching the surface of Ghoul lore, but the main point is that dry and blemished skin is one of the earliest signs to look out for, and that's exactly what this looks like to me.

As for the second thing I remember, they stated that (in their opinion, of course), from a thematic perspective, it wouldn't matter if Thaddeus became a ghoul or a super mutant - either way, he'd be an abomination in the eyes of the Brotherhood.

This is a reasonable thing to conclude if you don't know much about the lore and history of Super Mutants, as rachimiya has indicated they do not. So to explain why I disagree with this assessment, here's a fuller explanation:

In my post, I explained how the Brotherhood of the TV series exemplifies the destructive nature of excessive aggression and machismo, and how Thaddeus's arc looks to be taking him away from that environment. What I didn't mention is that, from the very beginning of Fallout, Super Mutants represent those same exact things. They were originally created by a genocidal overmind called the Master, who forcibly exposed people to a mutagenic virus that turned them into enormous, incredibly powerful warriors, at the cost of dramatically reduced lifespans and infertility, and then mind controlled them into acting out his ambitions.

This is once again just scratching the surface of the lore, but for the sake of brevity, the main relevant point is that when Bethesda took over the series, they leaned into this stuff hard. The overwhelming majority of their Super Mutants are hyperaggressive buffoons, bent on assimilating or destroying everyone other than themselves, but held back from success by their overinflated estimations of their own power and importance.

Or, to put it in short: they represent very nearly the same values as the Brotherhood does in the show.

This contrasts with the Ghouls, who, in both the show and Bethesda's games, are painted as much more sympathetic. They're often treated as second-class citizens, if not entirely subhuman. Similarly to Super Mutants, they tend to keep to themselves, but in this case it's not because they see themselves as better - it's because smoothskins (non-ghouls) are just usually not kind to them. There are certainly exceptions in both directions - some truly despicable characters and even significant villains have been ghouls, and there are plenty who have found humans to coexist with - but it's still an important facet of their lore as a group.

Now, I won't say that you couldn't pull off Super Mutant Thaddeus. There have certainly been Super Mutants in the games who were kind, rational, and generally broke the mold. But I think that being a ghoul suits him much better, because one of the big things we established in season 1 is that he isn't really Brotherhood material. He's compassionate, determined, eager to please, and comically accident-prone - the kind of person who would have died within hours serving a real knight. Now you could milk that contrast for comedy, certainly, but I see it causing a couple of big problems:

First, it would limit Thaddeus's ability to really come into his own on his own terms. Even a kind, reasonable Super Mutant has to be physically coordinated and somewhat aggressive, just to use their own body effectively. This would better suit a character with a skillset like Maximus's - one who is very capable of exerting physical force - or would benefit as a character from developing those skills.

Second, it wouldn't be a good first look at Super Mutants as a whole. The show is generally pretty good at introducing new fans to the lore, and a key component of that is showing the baseline before you subvert it. We can see this with Lucy and her vault, who are presented as what they're "supposed" to be before we learn the truth, and with the Brotherhood, who are very much written to communicate the faults of the organization as clearly as possible.

This isn't to say that there aren't exceptions, but that in itself is relevant. Because our first look at ghouls in the series only covers one facet of the lore. Cooper is a classic ghoul villain - he's cruel, he's callous, and he doesn't appear to have any friends, ghoul or otherwise. It's a great choice for his character, and the gradual reveal of the more unfortunate aspects of ghoulhood is an important part of his arc, helping us grow more sympathetic to him as we gain more knowledge of what he's dealing with.

But it still leaves us with a void in the lore, because we're still mostly seeing how he lives as An Utter Bastard. And this is a void that, IMO, Thaddeus is perfectly poised to fill - because, for all his attempts to do exactly that, he literally couldn't be a callous bastard if his life depended on it. Instead, he's hapless, goofy, and just a regular amount of dickish - prime Regular Ghoul material.

So, that's my thoughts on these particular statements. There is a lot more that I could say about why I've reached some of my conclusions, and if anyone is interested I might go ahead and do that, but for now I'm going to end it here.

[vartrisha]

What is Salicylic Acid

Let's have a Detailed discussion on salicylic acid

The Wonders of Salicylic Acid: A Comprehensive Guide for Clearer, Healthier Skin

Salicylic acid is a popular ingredient in skincare, especially known for its effectiveness in treating acne and exfoliating skin. But what exactly is it, and how does it work? In this blog, we’ll dive into the science behind salicylic acid, explore its many uses, and give you tips on how to incorporate it safely into your skincare routine.

What is Salicylic Acid?

Salicylic acid is a beta hydroxy acid (BHA) derived from willow bark. Unlike alpha hydroxy acids (AHAs), which are water-soluble, salicylic acid is oil-soluble. This solubility allows it to penetrate the lipid layers of the skin, reaching deep into pores to dissolve sebum and dead skin cells. This ability to clear out clogged pores makes it an essential ingredient in acne treatments and exfoliating products.

How Does Salicylic Acid Work?

Salicylic acid works by :

- Exfoliating the Skin: It breaks down the bonds between dead skin cells, helping to remove them from the surface and prevent clogged pores.

- Deeply Penetrating Pores : Being oil-soluble, salicylic acid can dissolve into sebum (oil), helping to clear out pores and reduce blackheads and whiteheads.

- Reducing Inflammation : Known for its anti-inflammatory properties, salicylic acid can soothe the redness and irritation associated with acne, making it a great choice for those with sensitive or acne-prone skin.

Benefits of Salicylic Acid for Skin

1. Acne Treatment : Salicylic acid is highly effective for treating mild to moderate acne. It can prevent future breakouts by keeping pores clear and helping to reduce excess oil.

2. Exfoliation : Regular use of salicylic acid promotes gentle exfoliation, which helps to even out skin tone and improve texture. It can minimize the appearance of fine lines and create a smoother, more radiant complexion.

3. Blackhead and Whitehead Removal : Salicylic acid’s ability to penetrate pores makes it excellent for treating blackheads and whiteheads, as it helps to remove blockages from within the pore.

4. Oil Control : By breaking down sebum, salicylic acid helps control excess oil production, making it ideal for those with oily or combination skin.

5. Reducing Inflammation : Its anti-inflammatory effects make it an effective ingredient for calming irritated, red, or inflamed skin.

Common Uses of Salicylic Acid in Skincare

1. Cleansers : Salicylic acid cleansers are gentle, making them suitable for daily use. They help keep pores clean without overly drying out the skin.

2. Toners : Salicylic acid toners add an extra layer of treatment after cleansing, helping to refine pores and balance oil levels.

3. Serums : Higher concentrations of salicylic acid are often found in serums for targeted acne treatment, especially effective on blackheads and whiteheads.

4. Spot Treatments : For stubborn blemishes, salicylic acid spot treatments can reduce inflammation and speed up healing.

5. Exfoliating Masks and Pads: Many brands offer masks or pads infused with salicylic acid to exfoliate and clarify the skin. These can be used weekly for a deeper treatment.

Who Can Benefit Most from Salicylic Acid?

Salicylic acid is most beneficial for people with:

- Oily and Combination Skin : Because it helps regulate sebum production.

- Acne-Prone Skin : Due to its ability to clear pores and reduce breakouts.

- Blackheads and Whiteheads : Its deep-penetrating properties make it ideal for unclogging pores.

However, those with dry or sensitive skin should use it cautiously, as it may lead to dryness or irritation if overused.

How to Use Salicylic Acid in Your Routine

1. Start Slowly : Begin with a lower concentration (0.5-2%) and gradually build up tolerance. Overuse can lead to irritation.

2. Patch Test : Before using a new salicylic acid product, test it on a small patch of skin to check for any adverse reactions.

3. Apply Once a Day : For most skin types, once-daily application is enough. Using it more frequently can lead to excessive dryness.

4. Follow Up with Moisturizer 🧴 🍦: Salicylic acid can be drying, so it’s essential to keep your skin hydrated with a non-comedogenic moisturizer.

5. Use Sunscreen ☀️ 🏖️ 🧴: Salicylic acid can increase your skin’s sensitivity to the sun, so always wear sunscreen during the day to prevent UV damage.

Potential Side Effects and Precautions

While salicylic acid is generally safe, it can cause dryness, irritation, or peeling, especially if you’re using high concentrations or applying it too frequently. Here are some precautions to take:

- Avoid Overuse : Using too much salicylic acid can damage the skin barrier and lead to redness and irritation.

- Do Not Combine with Strong Exfoliants : Avoid using salicylic acid with other strong acids (like AHAs) or retinoids, as this can increase irritation.

- Be Cautious with Sensitive Skin : If you have sensitive skin, start with products containing a lower concentration of salicylic acid or consider using it every other day.

Frequently Asked Questions About Salicylic Acid

1. How long does it take to see results with salicylic acid?

It can take 2 to 4 weeks to see noticeable results, as the acid works gradually to clear pores and reduce acne. Consistency is key, so stick with it.

2. Can I use salicylic acid with other skincare ingredients?

Yes, salicylic acid pairs well with hydrating ingredients like hyaluronic acid and soothing agents like niacinamide. However, avoid combining it with other strong exfoliants to minimize irritation.

3. Is salicylic acid safe for daily use?

Yes, salicylic acid is safe for daily use at lower concentrations (0.5-2%), though starting with a few times a week may help prevent irritation as your skin adjusts.

4. Should I use salicylic acid if I have dry skin?

Those with dry skin should use it sparingly and follow up with a hydrating moisturizer. You may also consider using it just once or twice a week to avoid excessive dryness.

Conclusion: Embrace the Power of Salicylic Acid

Salicylic acid is a fantastic ingredient for anyone looking to improve their skin’s clarity and texture, especially for those prone to acne or oily skin. By understanding its properties and using it wisely, you can achieve smoother, clearer skin with a healthy glow. Remember to introduce it gradually into your skincare routine, pair it with hydrating ingredients, and always protect your skin with sunscreen. Embrace the science behind skincare, and let salicylic acid work its magic for a clearer, more radiant complexion.

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THINGS YOUR MUSE WILL NOTICE ABOUT MINE. (Repost, don't Reblog, please!)

WHAT THEY LOOK LIKE:

Big, deep brown, almond-shaped eyes with creases at their corners lend to Doe’s broad, beaming smile. Still, something doesn’t sit well in her eyes, like porcelain fruit. Big, beautiful and fawnlike as they are, there’s a level of emptiness and vacancy behind them. Lights are on, but nobody is home. Maybe it’s the lack of focus, wide and shining but unfocused, staring at something far away and unseen to the rest of the world. Perhaps it’s the quiet weariness carried under them, bags partially hidden with makeup and glitter but evident in the lack of light behind her expressions. Either way, it’s unnerving at the best of times.

BIIIIIG expressions. Doe doesn't emote like most people. Oscillating between a neutral facial expression that denotes nothing at all, just a wide-eyed, almost haunted deer in the headlights vacancy that's evocative of porcelain dolls watching from a shelf to full-bodied, all emotion and no-holds-barred expressions of her feelings, like toothy, full-faced expressions of pure energy. Toothy mouth open, cackling grins, feral snarls like something out of an animal, not a human, and full gross sobs. Now, it should be said that Doe does feel sheepish about this. Quickly shying up and returning to her neutral and controlled expression when called on it. Still! unnerving queen!

Very, very emotive with her hands, arms, legs and everything. When she's feeling, she's feeling HEAVILY, and the emotions seem to affect her like a kid's toy tapped onto a generator instead of a double A battery. She's hopping in place, pointing, gesturing, everything.

Constrained body language, though, when left to her own devices, she likes to keep her hands, legs and arms to herself. Refusing to sit with legs spread or arms splayed out, even when utterly comfortable with her surroundings.

FRECKLES!!! Doe is covered in freckles and moles, concentrated most on her cheeks and upper back in a bountiful constellation of markings. She avoids covering with makeup and instead tries to enhance with methods like liners and slightly lighter blemish cover. 

A squint in her left eye (ptosis), one of few remnants of her skull and face improperly being healed through the afterlife process after being crushed in during her death.

Short and petite, no taller than 5'0 when standing straight up and often smaller with the slight slouch in her appearance. Curvy build with a wide if boxy, bust and hips.

Distinct personal fashion sense that blends the line between maximalism, 80s high glam, hair metal and punk/counterculture aesthetics (specifically those associated with lesbian and bisexual communities). Featuring many layers, leather & denim, HEAVY personalization (painting, embroidery, patches), different clashing patterns, too many belts, bright colors, metallic incorporation, accessories and provocative fits.

Dresses in almost exclusively Jewel-Tones (Blues, Purples, Reds, Pinks, Yellows & Turquoise Greens)

BIG HAIR!!!! It's the 80s, so it's a given, but I HAVE to mention that she often has it either curled and styled with varying degrees of mess from day-to-day wear or actively in curlers. She's very rarely seen with her natural texture and style on display.

ALWAYS wearing makeup, usually just lip gloss and lipsticks and eyeshadows. I'm not fond of foundations, though!

Somehow, despite the Raccoon-energy that defines Doe, she maintains a neat and made-up appearance that's earned her the nickname 'princess' by many for the high-maintenance vibes she evokes. Something, something, she looks plastic!

WHAT THEY SMELL LIKE:

Understated but not undetectable base of a clean, floral, baby-powder-like aroma reminiscent of fresh wet laundry on the line

Thick and heavy overcoat of an almost intoxicating, floral & chemical-laden musk distinctive of cheap hairspray, mousse and bustling hair salons on a Sunday afternoon

Beneath the perfume of her hair products, Doe has a distinctive, almost nature-evoking blend of sweet amber, gardenia & jasmine, black cherry, nectarines, grapefruit, fallen leaves and wood.

Clothing has a thin aroma of cigarette and skunky smoke musk clinging to it, droned out by the already loud scents of her perfume and body products.

Breath is generally unnotable, though tinged with sweetness and minty freshness from her sugar-loving diet and gum-chewing habit.

WHAT THEY TASTE LIKE:

Sticky, sickly-sweet cherry-flavouring painted across her lips, harkening to those few bittersweet maraschinos swimming at the bottom of a half-drunk cocktail, festive, blood-red heart-shaped suckers and menthol-laced cough drops. It's an unnatural, overpowering, fruity concoction with a hint of a sour kick. Evocative more of her personality than the times.

Often, Doe's kiss comes with a warm, menthol tang on the tongue and in the back of the throat, resulting from a long-held habit of chewing gum to alleviate subconscious jaw clenching.

Depending on the situation, the stale taste of stagnant, metallic blood. The leftover remnants of a recent death or attack against her.

WHAT THEY SOUND LIKE:

High-pitched but silvery and dulcet-toned.

Gregarious but not at all loud, though she will talk at length whenever her body and mind allow her, her volume is quiet and softly spoken, maybe two or three steps above a whisper that often becomes muddled out in the presence of other people, which frustrates her to no end.

Playful, non-fussed lilt to her words, often not seeming to take anything TOO seriously. Part confidence and part pure mischief but all Doe!

Notable slur to her words that worsens, to the point of her speech being difficult to understand when speaking at length and with overwhelming emotion.

Very distinct Western Canadian accent that can be confused for an American accent until she goes to pronounce certain words, such as plague (pl-AG), drama (DRA-ma), lever (LEE-ver), z (zed), etc.

Kind of an evil, wicked witch of the west cackle, though! It's a point of playful mocking, but she will audibly titter with an 'ehehehehe'

WHAT THEY FEEL LIKE:

VERY soft skin that dips and dimples where numerous scars can be felt in her skin,

Mismatched, the constantly changes between the clothing she layers and the level of care Doe pays attention to certain features of herself lends to a confusing sensory experience but one that perfectly suits her

TAGGED BY: myself! Which is to say I stole it, but tomato tomato! Haha TAGGING: @coastercrushed, @neverscored, @mxlevolence (& for Loki!), @markedprey, @who-is-muses, @vcngefulwrath, @slateir & @horrifichaunts