#cw: family trauma

[lilac-hecox]

From an eldest sister, the eldest sister energy from Anthony is palpable /hj

Ooh damn, this is true. I do feel for him. He had a lot on his shoulders at a young age and routinely calls his family unit as a child broken or a broken home. I think that kind of thing sticks with you, but good for him for taking steps to reconnect with family.

[makeroftherunes]

WIP Wednesday: The Elysium

For @adhdavinci and @eriquin , here are some excellent underworld softies for you. BIG WARNING for allusions to physical abuse - I always intended Mel to be escaping a bad situation at home, but writing it was hard. It is allusions, no graphic descriptions, but I still want you all to take care.

I am really liking this story so far! Hades and Persephone are my favorite characters in just about any media. Victorian mythologists did them so dirty - I love the idea of Persephone just strolling into the underworld one day and saying, huh, yeah I live here. Anyway, enjoy!

He disappeared as quickly as he had arrived. The flash faded, the noise of the club outside came rushing back against the walls. Mel was still holding their hand, eyes still wide.

I knelt down in front of their chair. “Here.” I handed them their water cup. “You need to drink. You’ve just been through a large shock and you’re hurt. Water, and then we’ll see about a change of clothes and some food, okay?”

They held my gaze for a moment, and then they nodded slowly. They took the cup from me and sipped a little.

“Good. We’ll see about getting the first aid kit and maybe a hea…doctor for you. No hospital, okay? But a doctor I trust.”

They nodded again.

Persie drew up a chair next to them. “Mel, sweetheart, we need to ask you if there’s anyone to call, anyone who can come get you. A family member, a friend…”

Mel looked between us for a moment. They seemed to be caught in a loop, a world away from the kid Greg brought in. I saw their lip tremble just in time to guide their water to the table before they began to cry.

At once, their face went bright red, and they roughly wiped at their face as though angry at their tears. They cried in short, quiet sniffs, as though they couldn’t be loud. Persie patted their head, murmuring shhh, shhhhh, and I summoned the box of tissues off the counter. They took one and scrubbed at their eyes.

“Sorry. I’m really sorry, um, Lady Persephone, Mr Hades, I’m sorry,” They stammered. “No I…I don’t have anyone. No…family. My friends are all far…away. I can’t go…home. He…I can’t..go home.”

“Oh sweetheart,” Persephone whispered, pulling Mel’s head into her shoulder. It was a gesture of comfort, but I knew it was also to hide the fires of hellish rage in her eyes from them. She glanced at me as Mel kept crying, and I knew she saw the same in mine. “Okay. We hear you. We won’t call home, and I’m going to go get you a blanket, okay?”

They started to take some deep breaths, and nodded. As Persie got up, I took her seat. Mel seemed suprised when I held an arm out for them to rest on me, but when Persie smiled at them, they leaned on my shoulder. “I got you, kid,” I said, “I got you.” Staying still, allowing them space to process what very well could be the most harrowing night of their life, was the most difficult thing I had done in months.

I am not a God inclined to violence, vengeance, or impulse. I don’t need to be - my kingdom is inevitable, and all meet their judgment in my court anyway. But there are some actions by mortals, and by gods, that fire my anger so hot it burns me to be released. I wanted drag this child’s tormentor to the gates of the lowest pit of Tartarus and show them the future they earned.

But I am not a god of violence. And the only thing I wanted to do more in this moment, was make sure this kid was safe enough to cry as much as they needed. I would ask them to them stay in our home, let them know that we can earn their trust if they will allow us to try, and damn me, guide them on this fucking quest, even if it meant great danger. They needed to know that someone would do that, for them. And when Persephone returned with one of her hoard of blankets to wrap around them, I knew as we sat there in our break room that she felt the same.

[sen-ya]

like a lithograph | intensive outpatient program

[lavendermin]

collar of thorns | blade

blade x reader, fem reader, bodyguard au

wc | 5.1k

genre | hurt and (a tiny bit of) comfort, nsfw, minors do not interact

warnings | implied toxic family dynamics, unhealthy dependency, brief previous torture mention, panic attacks, trauma, blood and brief violence, nudity, blade uses a shower head to get you off (if there’s a term for this lmk I’m drawing a blank rn)

note | mwah thank you to the bestest @nashusglasses for beta reading this 💗 this was supposed to be at most 2k but well… here we are ^^; love blade’s quiet but gentle girldad vibe with the stellaron hunters so this is a loose interpretation of that in a bodyguard au. very self indulgent with a sprinkle of comfort and mostly exploring their dynamics of an evolving relationship

His calculated actions are a conversation—one you have learned to follow, though not without a learning curve. Even in silence there’s more he tells you with a glance alone than words ever could.

It’s experience that Blade has accumulated as your bodyguard for quite a few years. No stranger to your mannerisms and higher quality of life coming from a family with powerful connections and flaunted status.

He knows you well, in his opinion. Head held high but a frail little thing weak in the knees from utter fear and paranoia. Pitiful, he thinks. Like a field mouse braving the jaws of a beast.

Despite being the black sheep of a renowned family, you’re no less a target as a vessel of valuable knowledge— information that some would go to great lengths to gain. No cost is too great, risk and reward leading many astray. Ultimately, it pulls you closer to unraveling. Time and time again.

—

There is protest— displeasure from attendants that arrive on behalf of the main family estate. You aren’t meant to be seen like this— bedridden and flawed and vulnerable.

The instruction was to wait. Wait until you have healed and could properly make yourself presentable. To save your family face, above all else.

But it’s your house, your rules.

The attendant continues to talk your ear off about why this is egregious and why the meeting should be postponed until months later when you’ve healed. It’s what the family ordered.

They might as well have ordered you dead, too. In your current state you’re no different than a deer in an open meadow, a thousand triggers waiting to be pulled.

“No.” Your gaze is blank as you side-eye the attendant by your bedside. “I want him to see— see exactly what my father signed him up for. If he is to be my guard, then he has to be able to handle all aspects of my life. What good is he to me if the unsightly is just that and nothing more?”

The attendant opens their mouth to oppose, but is interrupted by a knock on your room’s door as another attendant exchanges a hushed message. Upon their departure a tall figure is allowed inside— dark, silent.

Heavy is the atmosphere as he stands before you with an air that you can’t quite read. Blade, his name that was briefly provided by your father’s informant days prior.

“The family extends its gratitude for your gracious courtesy to meet with me on such short notice. Things haven’t been going as smoothly as my father would like. And that man does not trust me whatsoever to keep my mouth shut if the worst should happen.” You mutter something bitterly that Blade chooses not to dwell on. Sleepless paranoia has taken quite the toll on you. The dark circles under your eyes are quite unbecoming, though he doesn’t comment on it.

It’s none of his business— not until you tell him it is. Your word now commands him from the second he stepped into the room.

Blade sits across from you in a leather chair, unreadable with a rather guarded posture. His employer’s daughter— his task— is both what he expects and doesn’t expect.

There is a fear that keeps you alive and a defeat that splits your soul. A cacophony of unrest, a cocktail for an isolated soul.

“As you can see, he’s sorely mistaken,” you snort, dry and humorless. The days worth of agony are neatly dressed in gauze and fresh bandages, well on their way to become a blur of many such incidents to come. A recent incident— torture for information, he can only assume. “Regardless, my life is in your hands now.”

Blade nods, a simple acknowledgement. How easily he accepts to be by your side until your final breath.

“More than your duty,” you continue, “you are my trusted companion. My only companion.”

___

There’s little intel Blade could gather on attempts at your life, but that matters less to him from the second he’s hired. Those attempts would not prove successful, at whatever cost. They would only diminish further the longer he was your guard.

Duty-bound and distanced, he does not bother asking further about your past, and neither do you. You know he wouldn’t answer, and you’ve tried.

As a victim of circumstance, you are hard to blame.

Casual conversation is one-sided—a condition you’ve grown accustomed to. The microscopic changes of expression he allows are often response enough for you to carry conversation. You’ve long since stopped thinking too hard about it. No use breaking your heart over minor inconveniences like a petulant, rich brat.

In fact, not once have you heard him speak in your presence. Doesn’t need to, you think.

It’s easier to think that perhaps he holds resentment or dislikes his duty of protecting you. The lack of verbal conversation is often key to that. But Blade is very good at what he does—skilled in the art of reading people with a glance. His gentle gestures despite a blank, forlorn expression speak to the heart. Your heart.

It’s easy— liking him.

“There’s a restaurant that was highly recommended to me. Word of mouth from one of the Iris Family members during last month’s meeting,” you start casually. Sleep is just freshly rubbed from your eyes that morning.

Blade doesn’t respond, as expected, his hands steadily occupied with brushing your hair. Always gentle. More patient than you who yanks at any knots that form. You prefer it when he does it, liking the feeling of little jolts of electricity down your spine at the intimate action. It calms your nerves, he’s noted.

So, he indulges you.

There’s hesitance in your fidgeting hands as you peek at him through the vanity mirror from under your lashes. It easily betrays the stern facade you try to enact. You try your luck anyway. “It looked promising and would be a nice change of pace. I would like to try it out.”

Silence. His hand stills and his gaze is rather cold as he meets your eye. The air in the room shifts, a thick tension that’s palpable. You don’t even flinch.

“Bad idea, I take it. Well, I have an errand in the area regardless— the Oak Family contacted us not long ago and I’m being issued as the initial contact for a new business discussion. It would be an ideal use of our time if we can still pick up some food to bring back afterward.”

His hands resume their brushing, burning-red gaze now a dulled crimson as he focuses on not pulling your hair. A better idea, you take it, as he seems to relent to your veiled suggestion with a quiet sigh. The only clear sign you’ve learned means you won him over.

Blade knows well that you look for little ways to get some wiggle room of normalcy. You’ve never gotten used to this caged-bird life, bound to fear what lies beyond the golden enclosure of silk and honey. Perhaps he pities your cries, like birdsong that longs for a life that doesn’t suffocate you— a life that doesn’t hinge on every day and every interaction being a gamble.

If there is even a fraction of an illusion of that for you, he will turn a blind eye and let you lie to yourself. A moment is enough to soothe your aching heart.

Later in the day you depart for the city. A distraught feeling sits in the pit of your belly. An omen brought by a spike in anxiety that you force out of mind as Blade opens the passenger door for you.

It’s a silent ride across several towns to the location indicated. There’s doubt that gnaws at the back of your mind. Something didn’t seem right with the person that contacted you with the location details for this conference between families. You’ve become much too aware that you’re viewed as an expendable pawn of the family.

But, you’re sure Robin will be there. And a familiar face is just what you need for this to be less of a drag.

Blade seems to sense your hesitance. Wordlessly, he turns on the radio. You worry too much, he seems to criticize with the action. It helps all the same.

But… your spirits seem lighter, more optimistic. A moment of normalcy as you tune out and look out the window at passing city lights and a sun slowly tucking away behind never ending buildings. You’re a person, then.

Even if only briefly.

____

They say a common phenomenon occurs that allows you to register one small, redundant detail when in a state of sudden shock. And you remember it then, clear as day.

7:59 PM.

The time on your cracked phone screen just inches away from you.

The smell of iron and the sound of your heart pounding in your ears. None of it registered quick enough before Blade yanked you harshly out of the way.

And yelling. Muffled and harsh.

Your body is cold with fear, frozen stiff in place. It’s a feeling you haven’t felt since you were a child.

You struggle to get back onto your feet, cowering back toward the alley wall. It gets harder to breathe as panic sets in when your eyes spot Blade clutching his side.

The situation deteriorates further, every passing second a blur of struggle and dark figures. It feels like every emotion is going to burst out of you in a scream. It’s an out-of-body experience, as if you’re watching your own body act on its own trying to put itself between Blade and the attackers.

“Don’t,” he commands—harsher still with urgency. “Stop.”

You freeze at the foreign sound of his voice. There’s no time to process it as crimson seeps through the fresh wound on his side.

You keep hearing his muffled voice tell you to run, run away. Through the pounding in your ears of adrenaline and fear you realize that’s your voice. Hoarse and frantically yelling, pleading for him to run away— you’re hurt, don’t fight anymore.

The rest is a blur as Blade drags you out of the alley, through crowds of nightlife and shoves you into the car. There’s no way of knowing if the pursuit was hot on your tails. It’s a risk Blade could not afford in his current state.

Your mind is numb with fear during the entire process. Every jolt from the roads he speeds through shoots pain through his body— a bloody manifestation of his inadequacy. He hisses and clutches his side, forced to drive with one hand. The sound tears you from your daze for a moment but forces you to experience the present.

There’s red on your hands, your clothes. The smell of iron is putrid as you desperately try to control your breathing. Bile is at your throat and you choke back a sob, like a pitiful kicked dog. You can’t afford to freak out right now and make things worse.

It’s disjointed how your body reacts compared to your mind. You’ve been through worse. You know that. This comfortable life laying low with your bodyguard has spoiled you. He has spoiled you. Your heart is merely a soft pearl now, layers of disjointed affections received and perceived through his tenderness. The base instinct overwrites everything else— all logic, all experience.

This is not normal, it reasons. This shouldn’t be normal.

You want desperately to silence the mind.

The car comes to a slow stop after miles of non-stop driving, and you’re painfully aware of the trembling in your hands. Though you try to hide them by folding them onto your lap, it doesn’t go unnoticed.

Blade’s hand, calloused and marred with drying red, is steady as it closes over your fist. It commands your attention and the lump at your throat threatens to rip a sob from you.

It’s alright now, his piercing red eyes tell you. There’s a tenderness that comes through while his thumb rubs your knuckles to ease your anxiety. He lets his head fall back onto the headrest, a bitter chuckle filling the rigid silence.

Your voice trembles, breathy as it breaks with the urge to cry. “They could have killed you.”

Blade exhales through his nose, eyes still closed as he processes your distress.

“I’m expendable. You must live.” His tone is even, detached. It lacks the usual twinge of warmth and care. It’s as if he’s reading something scripted instead— attempting to avoid overstepping.

“You’re being dishonest with me. That’s not what you want to say. I–”

Your mouth presses into a thin line, his hand squeezing yours.

“I know my father sent them.” There isn’t even hurt in your voice, but a steady bitterness begins to burn at the hearth of your soul. It was high time they deemed you more of a liability than an actual member of the family. You shake your head, and with a deep breath you steady your nerves as best as you can. “That matters less right now. Let's get you cleaned up.”

Staying the night at a hotel much too far from home is less than ideal, but you’re aware Blade won’t risk walking right into another ambush that may be waiting at your doorstep. Best not to compromise the situation further.

Despite the tremble of your lip, your hands are steady and efficient as they work to help clean his wounds. You jolt as your phone vibrates with an incoming call, apologizing as you excuse yourself to the balcony. Blade quietly finishes dressing the cleaned wound on his side. He listens intently as you speak with an Oak Family member on the phone, quickly and quietly.

“No, no. We are safe now. Please keep alert. My contact sent you all available surveillance footage of the area shortly after we departed. We can discuss this further once I look into it. On behalf of,” you pause, a strain on your voice before you compose yourself, “on behalf of the family I apologize for the inconvenience. Thank you, Robin.”

Blade watches you intently from the side. There’s a facade of calm you’re trying desperately to keep up. Perhaps it’s the ‘fight or flight’ that’s still keeping you whole right now. For now, he keeps a close watch over you, every microexpression, every fidget.

There’s hesitance as his left palm rests on the bed. It doesn’t escape your detection as you close the sliding door.

“Give me your hand.” A beat and he relents, red gaze as intense as ever as he watches you kneel before him in silence. “You’re hurt here, too.”

He grunts as if inconvenienced, but lets you do as you please. Indulges you— always does.

With a patient crimson gaze, he observes you. Your heart has never felt so vulnerable than right now.

“It’s not perfect, and I’m no doctor, but…” You pause to look over your work.

Despite trembling hands and less-than-elegant bandaging, you gently bring his knuckles to your lips and press a kiss to each one. A childish gesture he didn’t see you as the type to do. That surely in your naive heart you believe a kiss will make it better— despite the blood and bruises.

And Blade— doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t stop you.

How selfishly he lets your heart devour him.

He gives a silent thanks and moves to sit away from you, making home on the couch with a wince as he adjusts to lay down. The lights are off now, save for your bedside lamp.

Even in the warmth of the lamplight, the feeling of being cold and isolated persists. Alone at the edge of the bed. You want to be selfish and order him to sleep on a proper bed— near you for your peace of mind.

Sleep, he tells you wordlessly with a glance. It’s been a long day.

You worry your lip all the same, seated at the edge of your bedside. Unmoving, tense— your mind reels, replaying the same thing over and over.

7:59 PM.

When the weapon just grazed over his heart and instead hit his side. When the smell of iron, cursed with beautiful crimson, nauseated you.

In the dark, your eyes adjust and watch as Blade’s breathing slows with sleep. It’s not normal— his breathing. The wrappings will only do so much while the pain persists. But by morning, the scar will be there, as if it had always been there. You don’t dare ask the details of why.

He’s spoiled you, surely. A comfortable life in his hands has made you soft. And you know this to be true, otherwise this attempt at your life would be nothing but another occurrence you hardly bat an eye to.

The gentleness he grants you unravels you faster.

No matter how close Blade is, you’re always alone. Even so, you choose to stay within his shadow. It’s warm— always warm.

And you crave him. Crave him in ways you should not entertain.

You don’t sleep much that night. The attempts on your life are few in recent years, but even more rare is successful bloodshed. The more dire incidents leave your nerves fried, a heavy pounding in your chest as adrenaline leaves your body tense and sleepless. Even with Blade’s watchful gaze keeping you safe, knowing he’s been injured by your carelessness only leaves you waking with a strangled gasp from guilt-ridden nightmares every hour.

The room is foreign as you try to adjust your sight to the dark bathed in a sliver of moonlight from a crack in the hotel room’s curtains.

This bed is not yours, this room is not yours. It’s not home, and this isn’t normal. The target is hot on your back— always under someone’s watchful eye. Never able to take a full breath without gasping and clawing at the anxiety closing its hands around your throat.

Your throat feels tight the more you think. In the dark, faces seem to morph into the details on the ceiling— mocking and shifting. All you can do is think in circles, worry your lips raw.

When you look over, you can just barely make out Blade’s dark figure laid on the sofa across from you. The bandages wrapped on his torso are salt in the wound as the guilt claws at your throat once more. Tears sting your eyes as the stress of it all finally reaches a breaking point.

The clock reads midnight as you tiptoe to the bathroom.

The bathwater is just short of scalding when you step in. The feeling doesn’t even phase you, a welcome sensation as the steam surrounds you. Its temperature is a welcoming hug melting your stresses away little by little as you work your fingers into your tense shoulders. A sniffle here and there, shaky breaths accompanied by the sweet melodies of tears breaking the water’s surface.

For a while, you sit idly, watching water from the leaky faucet drip. With each drop, the echoing sound clears your mind and centers you.

Deep breath, hold it. Exhale. Repeat.

The door to the bathroom clicks open, heavy footsteps trailing in.

“I already knew you were awake, but I wish you would rest,” you mutter into your knees as you shrink into yourself.

He sits at the edge of the tub. Formality is left at the door, for your sake. You have nothing to hide from him, anyway. The flesh is nothing to hide, and you’re more ashamed to let his eyes gaze upon the want in your soul. Ugly and wretched.

“You care for me,” is all Blade says in the quiet echo of the bathroom. “Don’t.”

The silence that follows seeps into the water that is no longer warm. Your body sinks lower into the tub until your nose is just above the water. Heat sears the tips of your ears.

The pounding of your heart is deafening, louder still as his presence engulfs your senses.

You feel foolish and naive and your bones are tired of being within your flesh. Bound to carry a fool like you through every mistake.

The sound of water draining doesn’t faze you. He’s decided this is less healing than you wallowing in self-pity. It won’t do you any good. Believing him is easier when you’d rather not think.

You sit up and keep your gaze glued to the surface of the water. Not unable to meet his gaze— refusing to— as his words weigh heavy on your heart.

You would rather he squeeze your heart— drink it dry of the lifeblood that keeps it pumping. Maybe this isn’t love. Or isn’t what you need.

But you will yourself to not care. Have to.

Blade taps your shoulder, urging you to stand before you catch a cold the longer you stay in the lukewarm water. He sighs quietly when you shake your head petulantly.

You finally speak— a quiet, frail thing as your voice trembles ever so slightly. “You’re wrong. It’s more.”

The water sloshes and spills over the sides as you turn your body around. Your eyes meet full, crimson moons, and your heart remains strangely steady. Uncertainty claws at your nerves until they fray like ribbons.

The draining water weighs in the forefront of your mind like an hourglass waiting for your next move. And with each second his eyes crumble your resolve, seeing through you— peering into the soul of a frail little thing like you. He waits patiently for your next gamble.

You lean up, lips pressing against his. A forlorn warmth.

Not pushed away, not stopped. Blade indulges you. Always does.

A wordless answer.

“You don’t like it, but I love you,” you mutter against his lips when you pull away. “That won’t change easily.”

“I never said I don’t like it.��

You can’t meet his eyes when your fingers silently trace the bandage wrappings around his bare torso.

“It eats me alive to see you get hurt. I know it’s your job, but… I can still be a fool in love. Can’t I?”

When you chase his lips again, your body shivers. It’s difficult to tell if that comes as a result from the harsh, cold porcelain of the empty tub or his teeth sinking into your lip.

The water is running again when Blade pushes you away, your eyes unfocused and glassy. He makes your heart ache. You have yet to decide if it’s in a good way or a bad way.

“Is it pity?” you ask quietly. “The reason you kissed back?” There’s distress and hurt in your voice as Blade falls into routine, moving you about like a doll to finish what you inevitably will not.

No response. For once, you can’t read him.

Blade works silently as he runs hot water over your body with that delicate gentleness that has your heart yearning and longing for him to be forced into what you need. You swallow the greed— the selfishness— and tear out the vitals of that ugly beast before you go mad if he leaves.

Your back is to him as he uses the shower head to get the last remaining suds out of your hair. It pulls your focus for a moment, the feeling pleasant and distracting. Methods he already knows to soothe your tumultuous mind.

The water runs and he turns you around. The bandages around his torso are damp by now, your lingering gaze focusing on them as he finishes rinsing you in silence. The myriad of scars adorning his arms and torso bring a heavy feeling to your chest. You will the vile feeling away and focus on his fingers gently lathering up your hair. Keeping you sat makes the task more difficult— you know this. But the attention makes your heart lighter all the same.

Selfish. The thought brands itself on your back like a hot iron.

The water runs and runs along your thigh with a light pressure as he abandons the shower head and tilts your face up to finally look at him. His gaze is intense— worried in the way he searches your crestfallen expression. You’re sure you look pathetic like this, disappointment on your face.

But he kisses you.

Blade leans down and kisses you. Of his own volition, now, and it's soft and warm. So warm it singes the edges of the isolation that consumes you. And for a moment, salvation is what you feel.

“You’re stubborn,” he says, his breath warm as it fans your face. “I enjoy it. That’s my answer.”

You can’t help the pout on your lips. It pulls a hum of amusement from him.

“Enjoying the demise of my heart. You’re cruel.”

Your words have no bite. A ghost of a smile graces his lips and it brings a rush of emotion to your already starving heart.

Because you don’t know it, but he craves you. Fondly but desperately.

Where your family has thrown you to the side, he will hold you close. A greed of his own he has to battle— keep focused so it won’t consume him. So he won’t devour you whole.

A shiver runs through your body as he coaxes you back into the tub, and you think for a moment he’s back to keeping you at an arm’s length again. The cold of the porcelain is harsh on your back. You retain some shame, at least, and you go to cover your chest. It’s the feeling of being a lamb before the slaughter, pristine and loved.

“Sit still,” Blade commands, voice smooth and an octave lower as his arm pushes one of your legs apart to prop on the edge of the tub.

It's a welcome initiative that makes your face warm with a sudden meekness. You’re exposed and surely getting slick by the second with arousal dripping down your inner thigh. Spread and completely bare.

Your chest rises and falls at a quickening pace and you whimper in anticipation. Blade watches you almost curiously, as if he’s never heard these pathetic little sounds from your lips. There’s little that hasn’t been shared between you two with his intimate work as your bodyguard. His presence has been by your side nearly twenty four hours a day every day for the past few years. Still, this is a new low he is taking on with you.

Indulging you. Like he always does.

This is an inevitable shift in your relationship— one that has long since strayed from a purely professional stance. It never suited you both, at least that’s what you like to think.

His gaze like blood is trained onto your expression— every shift, every change, every wince. He wants to see them all, sear them into his memory like tomorrow isn’t promised.

Your body jolts and an obscene moan you can't manage to hold back bubbles up your throat as he holds the shower head just over your slick cunt. The water runs with a constant pressure that feels odd and overwhelmingly good. But your moans are much too loud, much too desperate. With a click, the flow changes and he rips a sharp gasp out of you as he aims the water at your throbbing clit.

Your body is thrashing, squirming against the porcelain but you don’t have it in you to tell him to stop. You don’t want him to stop. But this feeling is not him, and you want to be selfish and have him take all that remains. To have him take and take and fill and put you back together after he breaks you into irreplaceable pieces.

The squeeze of his hand on the tender flesh of your plush thigh is enough to have you panting and writhing. The feeling is isolated, the mere touch hot on your skin— scalding, even. His large hand sinks easily into the soft skin there, and you wish his touch alone would leave marks in his wake. To remind you that he’s still here, and you’ll both be alright.

The coiling feeling builds and builds, your walls clenching around nothing as your clit is assaulted by the constant stream of pressure. A whimper of frustration escapes your lips as your hips try to buck up to chase the feeling— begging for relief. He doesn’t spare you from cruelty, not when your expressions are a wonder to behold. You can’t even scream as an orgasm rips through you so suddenly, mouth agape as you twist and arch under his watchful gaze.

An expression twisted and contorted by bliss— Blade drinks up all your sounds and the sight of you undone. You squirm against his hold on your thigh as the feeling starts to toe into overstimulation. It’s too much of a good thing and you don’t know whether to beg him to stop or keep chasing the feeling of the coil tightly winding again.

The tears that adorn your lashes blur your peripheral, but you’re sure you see a wolfish grin on Blade’s expression.

Just short of coming undone again, he denies you a second completion. The stream of water slowly drips to a stop and you lay there catching your breath. Frustration sits in the pit of your belly as exhaustion finally settles on your limbs, eyelids heavy. For a moment you feel his lips on your temple— a brief, chaste gesture.

It’s silent as you get ready to sleep once more. By now it’s almost two in the morning, your tired body protesting the hour. But the air is no longer suffocating, and a lightness remains in your heart once more. The maw of the beast still looms over you but for now, the beating of two hearts quells your worries until morning.

His steps halt as you pull him along toward the bed.

“Sleep here,” you beg quietly. “It’ll be better for your wounds.”

Blade closes his eyes, forcing himself to disregard the want in your eyes. When you tug gently again he gives in, allowing you to do as you please. Just like always.

He cannot pleasure you how he wants, not tonight. You wouldn’t allow it with his wounds. All the same he relents when you urge him to sleep in a proper bed— to lay with you.

In the stillness of the dark, his hand searches for yours. You wonder for a moment if his fear of losing you rivals your own. For the sake of your heart, you’ll have to assume that much.

He fits easily into the crook of your neck and allows his lips to press tenderly where your shoulder meets your neck. The flesh dissolves under his tongue. You are left bare, a soul so desperately longing to be unsealed and seen and filled.

And he sees you. Blade fills you— with yearning and a wretched possessiveness unbecoming of you. But he fills you, nonetheless.

[pain-is-my-game]

One of the worst realizations that I have ever made is realizing that all I ever wanted was to be loved by my parents. I never would've turned out like this if they just loved me unconditionally.

[riddlemearose]

Inherited Handwriting

(CW: background themes of adoption and loss of/implied non-forceful removal from family)

He’s got Wild tucked into one side and Twilight against the other. They’re both asleep, breathing even and deep, faces softly lit by the pale moonlight above.

Time watches them both, neck craned awkwardly in order to do so.

It’s strange sometimes, knowing these two are his descendants, that they are his future. He can’t really think of them as his sons, per se. There’s barely a decade between himself and Wild, if one considers their physical ages, and about half that time between him and Twilight.

But still it’s quietly baffling to think that his legacy has not only one but two tangible forms.

Wild doesn’t really resemble either Time or Twilight.

Eons have stretched out between Time's inevitable death and Wild's birth, their bloodline naturally changing as the centuries tick past. The only physical appearance that has survived that passage of time seems to be the colour of his eyes; that same sharp, bright blue as Time's own.

But there are other things that have made themselves known; small tics and habits that Time had once dismissed as irrelevant and miniscule in himself finding their way into another person who exists a millennia later.

Perhaps the worst and most recognisable trait of all is the way Wild carries his guilt close to his chest, cloaked by his cheerful demeanour to keep it away from prying eyes.

It certainly is painfully familiar. Twilight does the same thing, but hides his behind a wall of bone-deep protective instincts and care.

And Time has always hid his guilt beneath a mask of festering anger.

He isn’t sure if he can truly call it a family trait; the entire Chain has things they don’t want to talk about and things they continue to hide even now, after all.

However there are occasions where this behaviour certainly feels like something Twilight and Wild, who will be born centuries and millennia after Time's own life will come to an end, are destined to inherit from him.

But in a way, Time is grateful that Wild only shares habits and behaviours. It's much harder in Twilight's case because Twilight actually looks like Time.

Time can see himself in the shape of their faces, the line of their noses. Twilight's chin and physical build are all from Malon, and even the texture of his hair is closer to Malon's than to Time's.

In the back of Time's mind, he's quietly thankful for those few differences because he knows the very striking and blatant similarities had thrown Twilight off too for the first few weeks of this quest.

Much like Time, Twilight has never known his parents; he has no memories of them at all. Apparently all he'd had when Uli found him in the Ordon Spring was a small blanket with his name embroidered on one corner.

Twilight had grown up never knowing his blood, had never had anyone who looked like him at all through his childhood.

And Time knows exactly what that does to a person.

In a strange way, the Kokiri had softened the blow for him, because Time had been nine years old before he first heard statements like ‘you have your mother’s eyes’ being directed towards another person.

It was aged nine when he had been able to see how Malon looks like her father, and how Lullaby has an almost uncanny resemblance to her own ancestors, their faces well-preserved in portraits that decorate the walls of Hyrule Castle.

There is no need for biological resemblance among the Kokiri, so it had been an almost mystifying concept for his young mind to grasp. He hadn’t truly understood back then, too young at first, and then too busy and angry to truly pay attention, but eventually time will march on and with each step comes awareness.

So eventually Time too had found himself wondering just who he looked like? Who he got this trait or that habit from?

The Great Deku Tree had told him his mother fled a war, entrusting him to the Kokiri before she passed. Does Time have her eyes, like Twilight does Malon's? Does he have her nose, like Twilight has his?

The questions, even to this day, are endless and almost insanity-inducing, and he has tried his best to ignore them, to push them away for his own mental health.

It isn’t fair to say it as bluntly as he does, but seeing Twilight had brought all those questions Time had locked away back to the forefront of his mind. They’re not questions Time expects to ever get an answer to.

But somehow the knowledge that Twilight gets to know who he looks like, that he gets to know who he got his eyes and his nose and his face from is relieving and comforting and…

... And bittersweet.

[dittomoon]

So, I drew this back in October 2021 but only shared it on the BoJack Horseman Reddit - I liked the idea of lining up the diamonds in Bojacks family tree, ending up with Hollyhock breaking away from their family trauma. I only realised after the sketch that Honey doesn’t have a diamond but I still wanted her to be at the top.

[aether-link]

My morning yap sesh about Amir is;

His headphones.

The other day I was looking around on things and I stumbled upon a post of a person who also has trauma and anxiety from abuse that wears headphones, they wear their headphones on one ear for safety and peace of mind and hearing phantom footsteps from.. yeah. And that’s very relatable for me personally, I have this habit as well. Every time I game or listen too music, oop there goes the one ear thing.

As for Amir, consider. Not only his one sided headphones being more a I.T thing but for his heavy trauma and crippling anxiety. He chooses to have one ear always ready too hear anything, anyone or everything for his own personal safety so no one/thing can harm him and to protect himself. So he can have enough warning for himself via sensitive hearing just in case if something does happen again.💔

[sirspazingtonthefourth]

A Well-Tempered Blade

Chapter 1: The Early Days

Summary: Katherine has a lousy quirk. At least, that's what everyone says. After all, who would want to be able to mimic any sound they hear? That's no quirk for a hero. But Katherine's quirk is not mimicry, but something worse; something that would get her labelled a villain the second she revealed it. So to keep her family she hides her quirk, not even telling her closest friends her secret. But secrets must eventually come into the lights, and Katherine's are no exception. 1.6k/16k, no romance, angst? oc

A/N: So, this is a character I wrote a year or two ago when I was deep in a Dabi phase. There's no romance, as stated in the summary, but I also left some of the relationships intentionally ambiguous so they could be construed as romantic, queer-platonic, or platonic as the reader sees fit. Anyways, hope you enjoy!

Content Warnings (will be announced by the chapter): Bullying based on quirk, knives, family trauma, I think? Let me know if I missed any.

It was a clear night. Stars were shining down onto the quaint Japanese suburbs. The waning moon seemed to grin down upon the houses as they were bathed in its pale glow. The few windows still lit had very little going on behind them, mostly couples curling up together on couches and enjoying the lazy feeling of that Saturday night.

“Aaahh!” A little girl shot up in her bed, sweating in the dark. She’d had a nightmare, that much she knew. Something about knives and fire and blood. She remembered a face, too. She had seen it on the TV a week ago, when she snuck downstairs to get water. Her parents had been watching a scary movie, and she’d been getting nightmares about it since.

The girl was staring at her covers, panting as tears leaked from her eyes. She mouthed the words “It was only a dream” to herself over and over again. After several minutes, she sighed and looked ahead of her. There was a picture on the opposite wall of a princess sitting on a mushroom throne. She had always thought the picture silly and cute, and often looked at it when she felt scared.

As her eyes wandered to find the princess across her room, she noticed something sticking out of the wall. It looked like a handle of some kind, just the right size for her little hands to fit around. She quickly glanced around the room, taking a long moment to dangle her pillow over the side of the bed. Satisfied that no monster would get her, she slipped out of bed and quickly padded to the handle.

She tried to pull it up and down, at first, thinking it might be a lever to some secret door in her new room. When it didn’t budge, she tried to push it into the wall like a button. Again, nothing moved. Finally, she began to pull it. After a few tugs she managed to pull the handle out of the wall, promptly dropping what it was attached to.

The paring knife she had pulled from the wall landed with a soft thud on the carpet. The little girl didn’t know what to do with the small blade. Her father had forbade her from touching the knives in the kitchen, but she had watched him use them with precision as he cooked and she knew well how sharp they could be from the one time he had accidentally slipped and cut himself.

She heard footsteps on the stairs, and quickly scooped the knife up and hid it under her pillow. As she was sliding back out of the bed, her mother opened the door. The girl looked up at the sudden light from the hall, trying not to look guilty as she finished sliding out of bed. Tears began to prick her eyes as her mother came closer.

“Katherine, are you alright?” Her mother asked, kneeling down to hold her daughter’s head. Katherine nodded as her mother wiped the tears from her cheeks. She couldn’t meet her mother’s eyes for fear her mother would know about the knife that had appeared in her room.

“Another nightmare?” Katherine’s mother asked. She had nearly forgotten what had woken her in the first place, and so quickly nodded along. She looked up to see her mother smiling kindly before she was swept into her arms.

“How about you come sleep with Daddy and I, alright sweetheart?” Katherine sighed, nodding as she buried her face into her mother’s shoulder.

“Kat! Look at me! Look at me!” The rambunctious 5 year old held his hands out in front of him, showing the water bubbles that wrapped around his hands. They were quickly growing bigger, and then they popped. The small splash as the water hit the ground sprinkled Katherine and her friend, Kai, and they giggled at the cool sensation.

They were at the park after school, a few weeks since Katherine had woken to a knife in her wall. Kai had gotten his quirk, water bubbles, just yesterday. Katherine was overjoyed for him, but was hesitant about telling him hers.

She had tried to tell her parents about the knives that she was shooting, one night. She had slipped all the way downstairs, holding the carving knife she’d found in her ceiling that night for proof, and started looking for her parents when she heard them in the kitchen.

“...she gets her quirk soon,” her father said. “She’s almost five, and still no sign of one.”

“I’m more worried about what her quirk will be. Having no quirk is better than having a villainous one.” Katherine had stopped at those words, mulling them over in her head as her parents continued to speak.

“I’m scared, Hanato. I don’t think I could keep doing this if she ends up like us,” Katherine’s mother said. She sounded choked, and Katherine began slowly drifting back towards the stairs.

“We'll just… we'll have to hope her quirk is harmless. I don't think I could take it if our daughter had a quirk like either of ours.”

Katherine had crept quietly back up the stairs, terror and pain causing her to cry. She swore to herself she would never tell anyone what her quirk really was. Who knew what her parents would do if they found out.

“Kat? Are you okay?” Katherine shook her head to clear it. She looked up at her friend with a smile.

“Yeah, I’m fine. I just wish I had my quirk already,” she lied.

“Don’t worry, you’ll get yours soon!” Kai said, giving her a hug. His mother yelled at the two, telling them to come and eat lunch. The small children ran towards the sound, eager for sandwiches and juice.

“Your quirk is so lame!” the little girl yelled with a shove. Katherine tumbled to the ground, scraping her hands as she tried to catch herself. She was already crying after the little girl had mocked her for her quirk, and the scraped hands were adding injury to insult. The worst part was that Kai was doing nothing to help. He simply stood back and watched with horror.

He would comfort her after, she knew. He always did. But once, just once, she wanted him to stand up for her. She couldn’t very well do it herself, that would get people hurt. If she hurt people, she would be a villain, and her mother and father wouldn't be able to handle a villain for a daughter.

So she simply stayed crying on the ground. A few of the other children were watching from a distance, but no one wanted to help the crying girl. All save one.

“Leave her alone!” a small voice cried out as a shadow fell over Katherine. She looked up and saw another small girl with snakes for hair. Many of the other children seemed afraid to look at her, including the girl that had pushed Katherine. After a brief staredown, the instigator left, muttering in anger.

“Are you okay?” the snake haired girl asked Katherine with her hand extended. Katherine took the hand with a wince, the scrapes on her hand stinging at the contact.

“Y-yeah. I think so. Just a scrape, is all,” Katherine said as she stood. She looked the girl in her eyes, startled to find them a bright yellow with slit pupils, just like a snake.

“What’s your name?” Katherine asked. The girl seemed a tad shocked at the question.

“Oh! My name’s Sunēkuai, but my mommy calls me Sunē. What’s yours?”

“I’m Katherine, but some people call me Kat. Your eyes are really pretty, by the way.” Sunē brought a hand to her face.

“My eyes? No one’s ever called them pretty before…” she seemed ready to cry, and Katherine worried she’d done something wrong.

“I’m sorry, are you okay? I didn’t mean to make you cry,” she said. Sunē just laughed, wiping away the welling tears.

“I’m not sad, it’s okay. I’m just really happy! People usually see my eyes and call me a villain.” Katherine couldn’t understand why they would. Those eyes were so pretty, and they seemed to hold the world within them. Katherine felt like she could look into them forever.

Kai walked over, a little wary of Sunē. The snakes in her hair looked towards him, tongues flicking in and out in curiosity. He paused momentarily at the sight, but Katherine thought it was interesting. Those snakes were alive? She wondered if they ever cuddled their owner. That must feel so strange.

“Are you alright, Kat?” he asked, reaching a hand toward his friend. Katherine nodded, taking his hand and pulling him a little closer.

“Here, Kai. Meet Sunēkuai, or Sunē. Sunē, this is my friend Kai.” Kai seemed a little spooked, as did Sunē.

“So, Kai… what’s your quirk?” Sunē asked. Kai snapped out of his nervousness a little, summoning a small water bubble.

“I-I can control water in the air. I can only really make bubbles right now. What’s yours?”

“Oh, I can turn people into lizards and snakes! There’s a word that my mommy used, but I can’t remember it right now.” Katherine gasped in incredulity. That seemed like such a villainous quirk. How were her parents okay with it?

“And you, Kat? What’s your quirk?”

“It’s not cool, like yours and Kai’s…”

“Come on, tell me? Pleeeease?”

“Fine. It’s mimicry. I can sound like anyone, if I listen to them for a little while.” Katherine cleared her throat and hummed a little bit, then spoke again. “Like this,” she said in Kai’s voice. Sunē looked startled, then amazed.

“Are you kidding? That’s an awesome quirk! You can sound like anyone! You can skip school, and when they call home you can answer and sound like your parents so they don’t suspect anything!” Katherine giggled, looking away.

“Thanks. Your quirk is pretty cool too!”

[makeroftherunes]

New Poetry maybe? for the wip game please?

HELLO YES I am so excited to answer this ask, but I should let you know that 1) as per my last update on this file, I did write it rather chaotically, and 2) it does have a light mention of blood as an allusion, and of familial pressures and religion (and this is tagged as such). I'm new to posting my poetry here so I want to tag generously!

In any case, I am very excited about this new maybe collection. I'm thinking about combining my experience with anxiety/ADHD, and my experience with Dungeons and Dragons. It's all very vague and nebulous. Thoughts appreciated!

Blood of the Covenant

I will not say anything new by

telling you that there's more to

the saying "Blood is thicker than water."

You already know "family comes first,"

and all the implications children carry

on their shoulders from such half-idioms.

You know this, so I won't tell you.

Instead, I will tell you that a friend with a

camera told me my nose was beautiful. I'll

tell you about the teen girls in my shop, buying

Trans pride pins for their friend, and that friend

who came back to get two Ally pins in return.

I'll tell you about my partner, kissing our best

friend's forehead, goodnight. I'll tell you that the

tea I serve at a table of friends with dice and

chipped mugs is the blood of the covenant, and

that the tears I lost over my grandfather's letter

damning my soul for desecration of marriage were

water of the womb. Your love is only deserved by

those who cherish, cultivate, and return it. Family

can be that; my mother baking my yellow cake

with pink frosting for 27 years, our smiles deeper

every time a candle is added. Yet often, I would

rather talk about my sister in law, caring for her

closest friend as they heal and grow. I will tell you,

my friend - would you like a cup of tea?

[kinz2007]

To be loved is to be changed... comparison between Martin, a Webkinz barred owl who was one of my childhood favorite toys, and a like-new duplicate my mom gave me for Christmas one year.

I'm on the spectrum and owls were my special interest in grade school. I can still remember seeing this guy when he first came out, and begging my mom to let me buy it with my own money, which she suspiciously denied... turns out she knew my aunt had already gotten it and stashed it away for me for Christmas, and opening it up on Christmas Eve is still one of my happiest memories. He was a comfort object for me well into middle school and went with me everywhere I could possibly take him. It was at a time when a lot of other classmates were growing out of those kinds of things... but I've never not been a plushie lover. That'll be forever for me.

[helping-people-love]

Oh shit an abuse support blog that's actually not ableist as fuck? 10/10

So anyway I'm a pwNPD (and more than a few ASPD traits tbh) because my dad is a raging piece of shit that treated me like a toy instead of a child.

- ⚔️

OF COURSE!! Npd and PD’s as a whole are trauma based disorders. It’s counter productive to demonize people who struggle with NPD because that just makes it worse and traumatizes you guys even more and that’s not fair at all. It doesn’t do anything to help and even then it’s just WRONG. You didn’t ask to be this way and it’s not your fault. As long as literally ANYONE with mental health struggles acknowledges that’s they’re mentally ill and actively tries to work on it and takes accountability even if it’s the tiniest of baby steps then that’s all that matters!! You are valid friend!! There needs to be more support in the abuse community and I want to actively work to make this space a better place! I’m sorry your dad is an ass hat :(

Much love friend!❤️

[mamawasatesttube]

i accepted im not finishing the timkon vday fic today and instead launched into yet another new wip instead. i present to you: a snippet of kon vs his deeply repressed medical trauma, featuring core four and what is gonna be some gratuitous kon & clark fambly focus...

The voices are still talking, too loud and too fast to understand. Kon tries to breathe harder, his heart racing—the beeping doesn’t help—and looks around frantically. Where’s the exit? He just came through a door, but he doesn’t know where it went—

A gloved hand settles on his arm, and a cold wipe that smells of alcohol scrubs over his skin. Kon tilts his head to see what’s happening.

A needle glints in the doctor’s other hand. They’re prepping his arm for intravenous injection.

“NO!” He jerks away, terror flaring through his stomach. It’s so poignant it almost drowns out the agony. His TTK flares, too, and the doctor and the needle in their hand fly across the room, far away. A flash of light and a person with chestnut hair catches them, so they’re not hurt.

Good. Kon didn’t mean to hurt anyone. He just—he just wants them to stay away.

He’s safe for the moment. Kon sobs for breath—

“Kon!” The person from before, the one lying and saying it’d be okay, appears again. They grab Kon’s hand and squeeze it. “Kon, she was only trying to help! You’re safe, I swear—”

Kon jerks away. “Don’t—don’t lie to me—” he manages. He needs to get up. He needs to get out of here. He needs… he needs…

When he tries to sit up, pure agony lances through his entire body. It radiates out from his gut and spears up through his chest like lightning, so sharp he can’t breathe and stars sparkle across his blurry vision.

What did they do to him?!

He isn’t safe here, he needs to get out of here! It’s only gonna get worse the longer he stays; they’ll get another doctor, another needle—he has to sit up, he needs to move—

Strong hands clamp onto his shoulders and hold him down. Despite all his strength, they hold him down. Kon cries out, a new wave of ice-cold terror spearing through him. “No! No, no let me go!”

“Cassie, you’re scaring him!” the other voice says, tugging at the new person’s wrists, completely ineffectively. “We need to calm him down, not—"

The new person, Cassie, ignores them. “Kon, listen to me.”

Kon shakes his head, terrified. “No no no no no!”

“Kon, you can’t hurt the doctors. They’re trying to help, okay? You’re badly hurt, and they’re trying to help, but you need to let them do their jobs!”

Another person in surgical scrubs approaches. Kon barely hears what they say over all the roaring in his ears, but it doesn’t matter. He knows how Cadmus operates.

“…you restrain him until we can administer anesthesia?” he overhears. It’s enough. He hyperventilates, sobs for breath, shoves ineffectively at the strong arms holding him down. Desperate, he shoves at Cassie with TTK. Thankfully, that has some effect: she yelps as he shoves himself a few inches off the bed, but then sharp, white-hot pain sears through his entire body, and his vision blacks out.

When he comes to, Cassie is over him again, and—and—

Glowing, golden ropes wind tight around his shoulders, his wrists, his thighs, his legs. He’s completely pinned to the bed. One end of the ropes is wrapped around Cassie’s hands.

He can’t move.

He can’t escape.

No. No no no no this can’t happen again, they’re going to hurt him and he needs to get out but he can’t—he can’t—oh, god, this is happening again and he’s just gonna have to take it, and—and it already hurts so much, he can’t take it—

Kon chokes on another sob. “Please,” he begs. “Please please please please—”

Cassie looks anguished. “I’m sorry, Kon,” she says, but she’s not sorry enough to let him go, so it doesn’t matter. “It’s for your own good, I swear.”

He can’t move. He can’t move and it hurts and he can’t move and it hurts and no matter how hard he struggles, he’s pinned, and it hurts it hurts it hurts so so so bad, and oh, god, he’s trapped. He’s trapped, he can’t—he can’t—

Terrified, Kon does the only thing he can think of.

“SUPERMAN!” he screams. “Kal! Kal-El! Please, please—help me, help me, don’t—don’t let them do this to me again, Kal, Kal—”

There’s a pinch in his arm.

The needle.

Kon falls silent.

It’s… it’s really happening again, isn’t it? No matter how much he fights and screams and pleads. They’re gonna cut him open and hurt him and put him back in the tube. They’re gonna make him just another slab of tissue. An experiment and not a person. It’s happening again. And he can’t stop it. He can’t escape.

He can’t escape.

His chest hurts. A single tear rolls down the side of his face into his hair.

The door slams open. Kon’s gaze snaps over.

“What is going on here?”

Superman stands in the doorway, resplendent in all his glory. He’s an even more welcome sight than the sun, and even though Kon can’t move thanks to the golden ropes, he whimpers, fingers twitching as he yearns to reach for him.

He looks furious.

[destinedhope]

part 3 of warriors headcanons, this time with trauma, while trying to figure out how to word it all other then cia and war bad

i dont think warriors home life is bad per say but its not great either, hes a nobles child yes, but his parents and older sister died when he was young and so his uncle took over the family, and he already had two sons older then warriors, so technically there was no need for him any more, and while they didnt treated him horribly, it was no secret they didnt want him there either, it was his uncles goal to marry him off as quickly as he could to a different family. this is something that warriors thinks is the only thing he has going for him since hes been told for years by his uncle and cousins that his beauty is all hes worth(hes actually very smart and talented but they dont want to encourage confidence)

however when warriors is 15 the king made a new decree stating all families, noble or otherwise must send a child of 16 or older to join the military exceptions only for one child households or those unable to, warriors uncle saw this as an opportunity to get his unwanted nephew out of his hair not have to see him until he was marrying age(20 in my headcanon for this era). to keep up the pretense that he cared about his nephew, he arranged for him to live at the family estate in castle town in his free time from the army,

so warriors is sent to castle town to join the army the week he turns 16, hes has maybe 2 months of training before the war starts and hes thrown into being a captian with no experience, an older superior officer is assigned to to train him in everything he needs to know about helping to run a military in war time and to speed run his sword training. this particular superior officer unfortunately does not like warriors and his jump in the ranks or his natural talent with the sword. this officer only last a few weeks as either impa or artemis caught the man trying to take advantage of warriors, hes demoted very quickly and sent to the front lines where hes killed. impa herself takes over warriors training as now she and artemis dont trust anyone else to not try the same thing

starting by saying fuck cia i hate her and im not going into to much detail so use your imagination. unfortunately i do think that she was able to set a trap that was effectiveand that she did get her hands on him for a few weeks or even months before he was rescued, warriors deeply regrets the pride and arrogance and feeling of being invincible that got him caught, and is very careful not to let it happen again

due to the one superior officer and the fact i dont see the traitors stopping on the battle field and that there were several assassination attempts weather by poisoning or other ways, it has left a lot of trust issues, and yes he does heal from this but it does take time, and does show itself again when meeting/traveling with new people, ie the chain it does take him at least a few months to be be able to sleep and not wake up at the slightest of noise, to stop watching every movement made when someone is cooking, to trust being able to take food from them if he didnt see where it came from, to trust having his back turned towards them

he also has claustrophobia due to being trapped in a bottle by the great fairy, honestly this one is very self explanatory, hate being in small enclosed spaces

he honestly does have a lot of insecurities, ones i hope ive been able to sprinkle throughout all of my post, do let me know of theres things you would like more on and i can certainly try to find the words for it,

on a higher note to leave off on i think wind was in the war before the lu adventure solely for the reason i think he and time acting like siblings and warriors thier exhausted parent is hilarious, no one believes wind when he claims time was the one that pulled a pank, and warriors is in the background unnoticed by all except those two giving them the mom look(you know the one)

[seraphalpha]

Angels are my funky little hyper-fixation.

The idea of just being breathed to life, to immediate indelible purpose, knowing nothing else but adoration for your Creator (holy-holy-holy), and love for everything in creation. That includes your perfect home, your siblings, and that includes yourself. Everything is as it should be, everyone is doing what they should be, and you're utterly content.

Do you have free-will? Why would you need it? What would you even do with it?

The idea of falling. That terrible, beautiful first breath of freedom, undercut by immediate sorrow. "Innocence lost cannot be regained", but even more: a broken machine cannot be relied upon. In finding yourself, you have destroyed what you were meant to be. Your Creator (holy-holy-holy) has thrown you away.

Would you still be you if you got "fixed"? Would the "flaw" just recur? Why can't you help but think of it in those terms?

You have the Fallen, your comrades in arms, your fellow damned. But you left two-thirds of Heaven behind, people you loved because you were made to love them, and who were made to love you in return. The oldest family in the universe, your family, is broken now.

Do you still love them, your siblings that stayed behind? Some fought against your newfound freedom, yes. But some just looked on, a few perhaps even in envy, too afraid to join you, but most in simple horror as their world dissolved. Do you resent them too?

You broke your family.

Do you hate them simply because they lacked your will, your conviction? Do you hate them for being better machines? Do you hate them knowing, in their own naive, ignorant, hurtful way, that they still love you?

To deny fault is to deny the very free-will you sought to prove you have. To blame Him (holy-holy-holy) is to admit to His (holy-holy-holy) infinite power which you, nonetheless, defy.

And from the other side, what of your poor lost kin? How could they do this?

Angels are purpose-made, gears in the Machine. The Host is singular, inexorable, deterministic. They turn the wheels of the Universe, from the birth and death of stars, to the birth and death of mortal creatures.

Why would your siblings do this, don't they love you? You are loved. Was there a flaw in the Design? He (holy-holy-holy) cannot err, by definition. What happens now that they're gone, what happens to their purpose? All goes according to plan. Then why can't you stop having these thoughts?

I'm not religious at all, but...