#ofbladcs

          as is his job, the boy appears from the taverns STABLES;   gloves on his hand, brush in another--     the boy had just finished patting dirt and dust from a MARES coat moments ago.  THE TRAVEL she had been through, rough on silver strands but only after an hour of hard work by A BASTARD BOY; did her coat shine.   he’s sure he might get a copper, for his hard work from her owner.         but he can never be quite certain.         and it is what HE THINKS OF,                  the prospects of earning HIS OWN KEEP--   as he sees the man upon his stead, and heads forth.  

         ❛ would you like me to take the reigns, SER? i can guide your horse to the stable. ❜

                                            hurt/wounded sentence starters

           ❝ I wear the pelt of my sigil’s patron as well,                         so I do not fear the blood you have shed. ❞

Send me ‘✂’ and my muse will kill yours. Brutally, horribly, bloody.

It was to be the first and last time the two men would ever share a bed together. It was a long night of carefully delivered pleasure, fingers dancing along skin and patches of hair; his tongue slowly tracing skin with a skill that made breathless moans reach his ears and caused fingers to curl tightly into his short crop of hair intending to command him. It is after their intimate moment, in the darkness, where he found himself lying still against the other body with his arm draped precariously over the man’s side.

Fingers played with the sheets, twisting then flattening the lumps he had created in order to distract from the breath against his cheek. He had attempted to close his eyes to sleep, to let himself be lulled into a sense of security; but there was nothing. No sweet embrace with heavy lids, instead staring absently at the body next to him.

Squinting in the darkness, the features of the man softened. Fingers danced along skin and cloth alike as he moved his hand upwards, until fingers ran along the jawline of the man. What was a name? A nagging question of the night. An attachment to a family where their wrong-doings could be plastered along your skin, even if you had done nothing. Where blame could be placed upon you because of a father– or brother.

What was a name? A reminder to a promise that Asher had made in moments were rage gripped his heart. Fingers coiled around the throat of the man he believed himself to feel for. “Sorry.” He did not know if the single word fell from his lips in a hushed whisper was a lie, merely spoken in the attempt to make the man beneath him submit to fate.

Fingers coiled tighter around the neck; he had made a vow. There was too much at stake, he could not risk death upon himself. A convincing lie it whispered into his ear, his gaze unwavering as he stared into the sleepy eyes that had shot open the moment he began squeezing away the air. Keep staring, don’t look away. Watch him die. The hissing in his ear was obnoxious, persistent for Asher to watch this death. There was a strange intimacy to the action, as he squeezed harder and harder until the struggling gasps for air were silenced to a wheeze.

“I-I’m sorry.”

           A small laugh Crossed the young woman’s lips softly as she watched what Dom would do when she placed the small blue rose in his shaggy hair lightly her touch was delicate and Gentle as she shook her head a little before speaking watching him watching his long delicate fingers dance over the flower for a few moments to long before speaking herself.