#ty julek MWAH
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Haiiii hihihi.. 11 + 16 + 28 for ur Guys .. whomever you wish to discuss :33
hiii MWAH gonna do this for my boys<3
How do they cope with confusion (seek clarification, pretend they understand, etc)?
razakh: generally pretty good at finding out what's going on, usually in a way that implies everyone else in the room is the idiot; gets irritated if he remains confused
fathom: chronically pretending to know what's going on, to the point where it has landed him in charge of this gang of armed maniacs who are infinitely smarter and more powerful than him
What makes their stomach turn?
razakh: he's very frequently nauseous with pain: physical exertion and strain can also trigger this (8str babey) but he's good at hiding it. gore and bloodshed don't do this for him
fathom: he's not really inoculated against blood and guts the way the others are as dark urges, so he's a lot more sensitive to that. also very unsanitary things make him a bit green (figuratively) and spider imagery gets him also<3
Would they prefer a lie over an unpleasant truth?
razakh: unpleasant truth, both to tell and be told - he does not like being lied to, and he will take offence.
fathom: much prefers telling lies (he does not like to say things that will upset people) but he'd rather be told the truth. he likes knowing what's going on:)
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uh UMMM ‘ a flirtatious kiss on the back of the hand ‘ .. dealer’ s choice go wild !!
MWAH ty julek!! did tiawyll....my beautiful angels who I haven't written for in a while gee I hope I remember how !!
They're brooding again.
Perhaps that isn't the right word for what they do (head-down-shoulders-hunched, a dog over the carcass of their own entwined hands) but it's the one he chooses. Praying feels wrong (too pious) and meditating is wrong (too serene): perhaps begging for scraps would be the answer, but the thought is unkind.
His knee brushes theirs. Kindness: a luxury, in these parts. Wyll finds himself reaching for it (reaching for them) all the same, and the warmth of their skin against his is startling to them both.
Their eyes snap open (he doesn't flinch) as he insinuates his fingers with theirs, drags his thumb over a jagged edge of scar tissue he finds there.
“Tiavyn,” he says (soft, like always: gentle with the name that tugs at his throat and squirms, fishbait-thrash) and their eyes are pitch and tar, a fire waiting to happen. He pulls at their hand, more insistent when they resist. Inertia or reluctance, he decides: he won't let them keep this from him. “Come and have something to eat.”
Their fingers clench, spasm; they're going to refuse.
He isn't going to let them.
They open their mouth (I'm not hungry) and Wyll squeezes their clawed fingers in his and pulls their hand to his lips, breathes into the veins below the skin (soft and blue, petal-delicate under their nightorchid pallour) and closes his eyes.
This is not for Mizora: if denying her means denying himself, he will sacrifice watching their face as he presses his lips to their hand. Courtly, just a touch, as he was taught. And then, as no one ever taught him: turn over their hand (thrilling in the way they allow it) and kiss their palm, feel them shudder. Their curled knuckles, where the bruises bloom. Their exhale is shaky.
When he opens his eyes, their stare is hungry.
#bg3 fic#wip wednesday thursday#fllagellant#durgewyll#does this count as Flirtatious.....unclear#MWAH
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