#formerlyasprite

[summonsofink]

Davyd going on a lil compliment spree

[orphanerdualscars]

@formerlyasprite (pick any muse u want, Im not making a post for each blog stinky) started following you!

Ahoy, ahoy t' me blog. I be Orphaner Dualscar.

[ultra-rage]

@formerlyasprite ewwwwwwwwwwwwww

dont get it twisted, loser, you missed ME.

[embellishedbookworm]

@formerlyasprite replied to your post “hi i did some late night computer surgery, is...”:

no

​liar. :p

[coralcalypso]

@formerlyasprite Let’s get takoyaki. I’ll pay.

[djsangos]

yessssss

[reddeliciousauce]

@formerlyasprite fucking scab ‼️⁉️

[graviconscientia]

>You can't remember the last time you moved this quickly. You can't remember the last time you've been this scared.

>Medical kit, he said. Bloody, he said. I am not afraid of blood, you said.

>You held back But I am terrified of losing you.

>You don't even think about what you look like, only making sure you put your hair up. Blood. He's hurt. Be sterile. Hair out of my eyes. Wash everything. Stitches. I can do that. It's going to hurt him. I have to do that. He's conscious. Was he not? How long? What happened? Does it matter?

>You grab the kit he mentioned from the kitchen, then move to the bathroom, where he said he'd be. You told him not to move. It was a coin toss if he listened. He did. And he was right. He was bloody.

>Memories flash through your vision-- soldiers covered in every colour, violet seeping into your floorboards, your own teal dripping from your shoulder, your waist, your face, teenagers with sour expressions and wounded pride and shallow injuries-- as soon as you see his gold splattered every which way. The wings that he has sprouted are an afterthought; he is bleeding, and you must make it stop. He needs help, and he asked you. You won't fail him.

>It's quiet, how you approach him, soft in your speech, and gentle in your touches to his hair. Everything will be fine, you say. Everything is going to be alright, my love. Your heart is in your throat, and you feel tears burning your eyes. But this is not time for tears, and there is no room for fear, and you will not leave until you have fixed what you can. So you clean your hands, keep them light against such fragile skin, warm water and soft cloth washing away blood and sweat. You wrap the base of his new extremities in gauze, extremely careful in wiping his feathers of viscera, brows furrowed as you listen for any sort of discomfort. There can't be any more. You will not be a source of it.

>You're methodical, checking his back, his arms, every bit of him that you can see. Perhaps, if you focus on the task, and not how it makes you feel, you'll be able to hold it together. Just until he can't see you. In the silence, as you brush his hair away from his forehead, and hold fast to his hand, you wonder how frightened he must've been, how much pain he's faced today, and why, of all people, he contacted you first.

>But those, you think, are questions for another day. For now, you sit on the bathroom floor with Davyd, watching, waiting, wishing that he never suffers like this again.