𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐠𝐧𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐟 ⭑ your first full morning as soldier boy’s liaison turns into a battle over boundaries, buried truths, and one very carefully negotiated bacon burger.
𝐞𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐨𝐲𝐞𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 ⭑ soldier boy x reader ( f )
𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐠𝐭𝐡 ⭑ 4183 words 𝐝𝐞𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 ⭑ workplace hazard fluff
𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐛𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐞 ⭑ nudity, sexual harassment, misogynistic and homophobic language, objectification, workplace power imbalance, intimidation, threats of violence, strong language
𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐮𝐦 ⭑ just when we thought soldier boy could not get any more annoying... oh... wait. no one thought that. ever.
‧⭑.ᐟ masterlist ‧ join the taglist ‧ support my work
the hallway outside soldier boy’s suite is mostly empty at eight fourteen in the morning.
yesterday, stan edgar walked beside you. legal trailed behind. security watched your hands, your shoes, the temporary badge clipped to your blazer as if you might be the dangerous thing approaching the door.
today, nobody looks at you more than twice.
one guard glances up from the security desk when you pass. another checks the tablet in his hand, sees your name or clearance or whatever little digital permission now allows you to walk freely toward america’s most expensive containment problem, and returns to his coffee.
you aren’t sure whether to feel trusted or abandoned. ego prefers trusted, but your heart knows it’s abandoned.
the permanent badge arrived in your email at six thirty this morning and waited for you at reception in a plastic sleeve. your photograph’s the same manic little smile from yesterday, but the red temporary stripe has been replaced by a gold one marked executive access.
you stop outside the suite and adjust the strap of your bag. inside are your tablet, two folders, a paper copy of the behavioral compliance plan, three pens, a portable charger, and a small canister of pepper spray you know would be as effective against soldier boy as harsh language directed at a tank. still, it made you feel better on the ride up.
you scan your badge. the panel flashes green. the first lock disengages. then the second. then the third. each one releases from inside the wall with a heavy mechanical sound that seems unnecessarily eager to remind you what waits on the other side.
the door opens.
“good morning,” you call before stepping in.
there’s no answer.
the lamps are still on from last night, amber light stretching across the dark furniture. one completely full liquor bottle sits on the table, its electronic seal torn away and lying beside it in two bent pieces. you make a note to ask security about what happened.
the couch cushions are disturbed. the blanket someone left folded across the arm now rests in a heap on the floor. one of the framed photographs has been turned face down on the shelf.
no soldier boy.
you take another few steps into the suite, the door shutting behind you. the locks return with three clean clicks. your shoulders tighten despite yourself.
then you hear water running somewhere beyond the bedroom. the shower. relief comes first. annoyance follows close behind, mostly because you’d spent half the journey to work preparing to wake him without being killed.
you set your bag on the dining table and tap your tablet awake. “you’re up already,” you call toward the bedroom. “good. i can cancel the excessively cheerful wake-up call i had prepared.”
the water stops.
“had a whole routine planned,” you continue, scrolling through the morning schedule. “lights, motivational music, possibly someone from security with an air horn.”
a door opens.
“sounds fun.”
you look up. the thought process stops there.
soldier boy walks out of the bedroom with a white towel dragged over his wet hair and absolutely nothing covering the rest of him. nothing. no sweatpants. no underwear. not even the vague suggestion that clothing had recently crossed his mind.
for one bright, terrible second, you see him exactly as god, compound v, and the several generations of unethical scientists made him.
then your brain returns hard enough to nearly injure you. “jesus christ!” you turn so quickly your hip strikes the edge of the table. your tablet nearly slips from your hand.
behind you, soldier boy snorts. “little early to start praying.”
“put something on!”
“good morning to you too.”
“clothes!” you say, staring fiercely at the far wall. “put on clothes!”
you hear the towel move. your entire spine stiffens. “this is my room.”
“this is a company-owned controlled holding suite.”
“i sleep here. it sounds like something i’d do in my room.”
“that’s not how ownership works.”
“shower taken. awake before nine. ready to go.” his bare feet move across the rug behind you, slow enough that you know he’s enjoying this. “doing everything you asked, and somehow i’m still getting bitched at.”
“you’re naked.”
“don’t act like it’s a bad view.”
heat climbs viciously into your face. the worst part’s that he knows. of course he knows. soldier boy’s spent most of his life being photographed, painted, filmed, marketed, undressed, redressed, and praised for occupying more physical space than everyone around him. shame’s never been invited into the room. if it ever knocked, vought probably had it removed by security.
you fix your gaze on the sealed windows. the city below is pale beneath the morning sky, rooftops and traffic reduced to manageable little shapes. somewhere down there, normal people are buying coffee and complaining about trains. none of them are standing in a luxury prison while a naked supe tries to make them turn around.
“have you never lived around another person before?” you ask.
“lived with plenty of people.” he continues to move behind you. “women weren’t usually complaining.”
“i’m sure they were just very committed to customer satisfaction.”
there’s a pause; then a low laugh. “you calling me a whore?”
you glare straight into the wall. “no. i’m questioning the quality of your references.”
you hear him come closer. not close enough to touch you, but that the air at your back seems warmer, which could be your imagination and probably isn’t.
“you’re blushing,” he comments.
“i’m furious.”
“sure.”
“put on the towel.”
“what towel?”
your eyes close. “the one you walked out holding.”
“using it.”
“soldier boy.”
he hums, amused.
you turn your head a fraction before common sense catches you. all you see is the edge of his shoulder in your peripheral vision before snapping forward again.
“tell me when you’re covered.”
“you could check.”
“i could also submit a request to have your bathroom privileges supervised.”
“you wouldn’t.”
“try me.”
another pause. cloth shifts. slower than any towel has ever needed to move in human history.
“all right,” he says eventually. “decent.”
you don’t trust him. you turn carefully, prepared to turn back just as quickly.
the towel is wrapped around his waist. technically. it sits low enough on his hips to feel less like modesty and more like another form of harassment. his hair’s wet and pushed away from his face, his beard darker with water. droplets cling to his shoulders and travel down the hard lines of his chest. there are scars you don’t remember from the posters, pale interruptions across skin vought always presented as indestructible.
he looks terrible. terribly attractive, unfortunately, but still terrible.
his smile is pure satisfaction.
you look directly at his face.
“you said nine,” he says. “thought you’d be happier.”
you retrieve your tablet from where you nearly dropped it. “i’m sure you’re used to disappointing women. i’ll recover.”
his eyebrows rise.
you walk around him toward the table before he can answer, because the exchange has already lasted longer than it deserves. the safest thing to do with soldier boy’s attention is redirect it before he decides to enjoy himself further.
“your briefing begins in forty minutes,” you say. “however, i’d prefer to start early so we have time to review everything before medical.”
he turns to follow your movement. “you’re really gonna pretend you didn’t just see my dick?”
your grip tightens around the tablet. “yes. go get dressed.”
“you got another one of those little speeches ready?”
“several. most of them involve workplace harassment statutes and words longer than you enjoy.”
he looks you over then. not your body, exactly. not with the same slow, vulgar inspection from yesterday. his gaze pauses at your blouse, pale blue today, buttoned neatly beneath your blazer. your skirt falls below the knee. professional. unremarkable. chosen specifically because you spent too much time last night thinking about his comments and refused to let them influence you.
“i like the skirt,” he says.
irritation cuts cleanly through the remaining embarrassment. “my clothes are still not your concern.”
“thought it was comments about your body that bothered you.”
“both can bother me.”
“you should make a list.”
you lift the tablet between you. “already have one. today’s briefing.”
his mouth twitches.
“get dressed,” you repeat.
“you always this bossy in the morning?”
“only with grown men who need reminders about pants.”
“you’re gonna miss the view.”
“i’ll find a way to continue living.”
he turns toward the bedroom, still smiling.
you keep your eyes on your tablet until the door closes behind him. only then do you exhale. your face is still hot. your pulse is embarrassingly high. you press the cool edge of the tablet against one cheek and stand there for three seconds, allowing yourself exactly that much time to be a woman who’s just seen soldier boy naked. then you lower it and return to being employed.
you arrange the briefing documents across the table. the official version is eighty-three pages long, because vought’s never encountered a human experience it couldn’t suffocate beneath corporate language. the summary packet’s twelve pages, most of which you reduced yourself after discovering it opened with a mission statement about preserving heroic continuity through strategic legacy activation.
you read it four times and still weren’t certain it meant anything.
soldier boy returns five minutes later in dark trousers and a white undershirt, carrying the button-down vought provided rather than wearing it. his hair is still damp.
the shirt hangs from two fingers as if he suspects it of treason. “they took my clothes?”
“you were wearing it during several radioactive explosions.”
“still looked good.”
“medical might disagree.”
he looks down at the shirt. “this thing’s cheap.”
you glance at the label. it costs more than your monthly grocery budget. “i’ll make a note.”
he pulls it on without buttoning it.
you keep reading. “sit wherever you’re comfortable.”
“you’re giving me permission to sit in my room?”
you look up. he waits, clearly hoping you’ll engage. you gesture toward the couch. “your controlled holding suite.”
“smartass.”
“that wasn’t an approved form of address.”
“neither was sweetheart.”
“correct.”
“doll?”
“no.”
“honey?”
“absolutely not.”
he drops onto the couch with a heavy sprawl, one arm stretched across the back. “you’re picky.”
“i have a name.”
“yeah. i heard edgar say it.”
“excellent. retention remains intact.”
his eyes narrow with amusement, but he leaves it there.
you take the chair across from him rather than sitting beside him. there’s a low table between you, solid to provide the illusion of separation and useless not to provide any real protection.
“this is the behavioral compliance briefing.” you open the summary packet. “it establishes the terms of your active status, your responsibilities during reintegration, approved contact procedures, and the company’s expectations regarding public conduct.”
“public conduct,” he echoes with disdain.
“how you behave when people can see you.”
“people are always watching.”
the answer comes too quickly and without humor. your eyes flick toward the vent above the shelves.
he notices. “yeah. those too.”
you look back at the packet. “the cameras aren’t within my authority.”
“what is?”
“your schedule. approved communications. coordination with the departments involved in your reintegration. questions i’m authorized to answer.”
“so, nothing useful.”
“i can order lunch.”
“finally, some power.” the sarcasm in his tone is thick.
you ignore that. “vought intends to reintroduce you through a controlled legacy campaign. the current proposal includes selected interviews, public appearances, archival programming, and entertainment projects.”
soldier boy stares at you. “what kind?”
“films. television. documentary content. nothing’s been approved yet.”
“they want me acting again?”
“technically, they want you generating revenue. acting’s one of the methods under consideration.”
his brows rise as he leans back, studying you.
“there’s also a possible biographical project.”
his expression turns suspicious. “who’s playing me?”
“no one’s been cast.”
“better not be some skinny little fairy.”
you look down at the page. “i’ll tell casting your primary concern is shoulder width.”
“my primary concern is they get it right.”
“i’m sure historical accuracy is vought’s highest priority.”
he gives you a long look. you keep your face neutral.
“other proposed appearances include events connected to veterans’ organizations, national security initiatives, historical commemorations, and approved charitable partners,” you say. “you may also be asked to participate in promotional photography, brand testing, and public sentiment analysis.”
“public sentiment analysis,” he scoffs.
“focus groups.”
“people sitting in a room talking about whether they like me.”
“more or less.”
“they liked me fine before.”
“people also enjoyed cigarettes in hospitals. preferences change.”
his jaw shifts. you turn the page.
“all media requests will be screened. no interviews, public statements, recordings, or external appearances without authorization. no unsupervised use of social media.”
“don’t use it. don’t need a bunch of losers telling me what they ate for breakfast.”
“that’s not all social media is.”
“porn too, apparently.”
you stop. he smiles.
you resume reading. “external communications are restricted during the initial evaluation period. all calls, letters, visits, and requests will be processed through me.”
“processed,” he echoes.
“screened.” you clarify.
“censored.”
“managed.”
“same shit, prettier word.”
“that’s most of corporate communications.”
he considers this and nods once, as though you’ve finally said something sensible.
“mandatory evaluations include medical screening, psychological assessment, physical capability testing, media preparation, and behavioral review,” you continue. “attendance is required.”
“i’m not doing the shrink.”
“the psychological evaluation is mandatory.”
“tell them i’m sane.”
“i’ve known you for less than twenty-four hours. that’d be an irresponsible diagnosis.”
he shifts forward, forearms resting on his knees. “what happens if i don’t feel like letting some asshole poke around in my head?”
“then the refusal is documented.”
“and?”
you set the packet down on your lap. here it is… the part legal wrote in six paragraphs and edgar summarized in one sentence.
“your active status is conditional,” you say. “participation in the reintegration program is part of the arrangement.”
“arrangement.”
“your release.”
his gaze sharpens.
you keep your voice even. this isn’t yesterday. you aren’t trying to make him stop humiliating you. you aren’t angry enough to turn fear into cruelty.
“i know this isn’t the agreement you had before.”
“you don’t know shit about what i had before.”
“i do know what the company is offering now.” you say. “the medical evaluation, behavioral review, and approved appearances aren’t optional. vought wants a return on what it’s spending to keep you active.”
“they thawed me out to sell me.”
“vought sells everyone.” the words leave you before you can soften them.
soldier boy’s eyes hold yours. you could retreat. tell him that isn’t what you meant. bury it beneath language about partnership and opportunity and mutually beneficial arrangements. you don’t.
“they’re more honest about the packaging with you,” you add.
he looks away first, jaw working as he stares toward the windows. “and if i tell them to go fuck themselves?”
“then they reassess whether maintaining your active status is worth the cost.”
silence settles between you. the phrase is cleaner than freezer. less cruel too. but it still lands. his thumb runs over one knuckle, slow and distracted.
“i’m not threatening you,” you say. “i’m explaining the terms. i’d prefer not to repeat yesterday’s conversation. neither of us enjoyed it.”
his mouth pulls slightly at one corner. “you seemed to enjoy yourself.”
“my heart rate would disagree.”
“you scared of me?”
the question is quiet. not taunting. not entirely.
you could lie. the cameras might prefer it. vought probably hired you partly because your fear fits neatly behind a professional smile.
“yes,” you say.
his gaze returns to you.
you keep your hands still around the packet. “i’m also scared of unemployment, debt, and my landlord,” you continue. “you’re currently the only one of those things i can negotiate with.”
he studies your face for long enough that your skin starts to feel too tight.
then he leans back. “that your big strategy? tell me you’re scared and hope i feel bad?”
“no. i don’t think feeling bad is one of your stronger skills.”
a laugh escapes him before he can stop it. rough, brief, unwilling.
the tension thins and you breathe more easily. “my strategy is to make this arrangement tolerable enough that neither of us gets replaced.”
“nobody’s replacing me.”
“then it should be easy for you.” you lift the packet again. “there are conduct requirements—no violence against staff, civilians, contractors, invited guests, or other approved personnel.”
“what if they deserve it?”
“there isn’t a deserving-it exception.”
“bad policy.”
“no credible threats of violence.”
“what counts as credible?”
you look at him. he looks back.
“with you?” you say. “most of them.”
“so i can’t say anything.”
“you can express dissatisfaction.”
“that sounds gay.”
“you could say, ‘i’m dissatisfied.’”
“i’d rather hit somebody.”
you make another note on the tablet, mostly to avoid smiling. “which is why the briefing exists.”
he settles further into the couch, apparently content to let you continue now that he can interrupt whenever he finds the language offensive.
“what’d you write?”
“subject remains resistant.”
“write that subject thinks edgar can suck his dick.”
“that falls under unproductive phrasing.”
“write it anyway.”
“i’ll consider an appendix.”
his grin broadens.
you move into the next section.
“you’ll have access to approved reading material, television, exercise equipment, meals, and recreational requests subject to review.”
“women.”
“no.”
“you didn’t even think about it.”
“the answer remains no.”
“you taking requests personally now?”
“i’m preventing human resources from developing a human trafficking problem.”
“bet you’d look good jealous.”
you hold his gaze for one beat. “that comment is unnecessary.”
his smile shifts. there. the line. not crossed far enough to need a fight. enough that you make it visible.
“fine,” he grumbles.
the easy retreat surprises you more than the comment.
you continue reading. the next several sections are less interesting. approved meal schedules. prohibited substances. access to training facilities. transportation procedures. emergency containment protocol, which you skip because legal told you to and because reading aloud what happens if soldier boy becomes violently noncompliant feels like tempting something with very large teeth.
he lets you get through two full pages before interrupting again. “where’s homelander in all this?”
your finger stops against the screen. only for a second, but it’s still too long. you continue scrolling. “the medical department requested a complete blood panel before—”
“i asked you a question.” his voice’s flatter now.
you look up. he isn’t smiling anymore. “homelander isn’t part of today’s approved briefing.”
“didn’t ask if he was part of the briefing.”
“then i’m not authorized to answer.”
soldier boy’s eyes stay fixed on your face. you can almost feel him rearranging the previous day in his head. edgar’s careful wording. the empty spaces where homelander’s posters used to be. the way everyone keeps discussing new arrangements without naming who made the old ones. he isn’t stupid. that might be the most dangerous thing about him.
“get him,” he says.
“i can’t.”
“call him.”
“i can’t.”
“you got a phone.”
“and no permission to contact him.” his jaw tightens. “all external communication goes through an approval process.”
“he’s not external.”
“at the moment, everyone besides authorized vought personnel is external.”
“so authorize him.”
“that isn’t my decision.”
“what the fuck is your decision?”
the words strike harder than they should.
you set the tablet down before your hands reveal anything. “my decision is whether this conversation continues productively.”
his stare turns cold.
“you’re my point of contact,” he says. “contact him.”
“being your point of contact means requests go through me. it doesn’t mean i can grant them.”
“then put in the request.”
“i will.”
“now.”
“after the briefing.”
he stands.
your body reacts before your thoughts do. shoulders locking. breath catching. every muscle preparing for something you aren’t equipped to survive.
he notices. you hate that he notices. soldier boy takes one step toward you, not close enough to threaten, though the room’s stopped caring about technicalities.
“cut the corporate shit.”
“i can’t discuss homelander with you.”
“can’t or won’t?”
“both, at the moment.”
his eyes search your face. whatever he sees there doesn’t satisfy him. “is he the one who put me back under?”
you say nothing.
“edgar?”
“i’m not authorized—”
“yeah, i heard you.”
his hand drags over his face. he looks toward the windows, then the door, then back at you. anger moves through him in restless little shifts, too much force trapped in a room designed to look comfortable.
you choose your next words carefully. “i’m not withholding information because i enjoy it. i have limits too. mine happen to come with an employee handbook and a termination clause.”
“so lose the job.”
you stand, slower than he did, and gather the papers from the table. “i’ll submit the request. if i’m approved to give you information, i will.”
“and if you’re not?”
“then you stop asking me.”
“not how this works.”
“it is between you and me.”
the words settle. something in his expression shifts. not softer, but more attentive. the same way he looked at you yesterday after you mentioned the freezer. as though he finally remembers that you’re neither powerful nor entirely powerless. just a person inside the machinery with a narrow little strip of ground you refuse to surrender.
“unless you want another liaison,” you add. “in which case, keep pushing until i’m forced to report that i can’t manage you.”
his eyes narrow. “you trying to quit?”
“i’m trying very hard not to.”
“could’ve fooled me.”
“i came in before eight thirty. that should demonstrate commitment.”
his gaze drifts toward your face, lingering on the color that probably never fully left your cheeks. “thought that was for the free show.”
you close your eyes briefly. the tension breaks so abruptly you nearly laugh. instead, you pick up the tablet. “medical evaluation at ten-thirty. wardrobe review at noon.”
he returns to the couch, though he doesn’t sit. “and after that?”
“nothing currently scheduled.”
“so i’m back in here.”
you nod. “for today.”
his expression turns unpleasant again.
you glance at the broken liquor tag. the facedown photograph. the sealed windows that show him an entire city he cannot enter.
the sympathy that rises is inconvenient. you don’t let it change your voice too much. “there’s a burger place down the street.”
he looks at you. “what about it?”
“get through medical and wardrobe without threatening anyone or destroying company property, and i’ll bring you something.”
his eyes narrow with suspicion. “you bribing me with a burger?”
“i’m offering a performance incentive.”
“and beer.”
“one.”
“six.”
“two.”
“four.”
“you’re negotiating against the person making the purchase.”
“three.”
“two and fries.”
he considers it with the gravity of an international trade agreement.
“you aren’t approved for alcohol yet. be grateful i’m considering conspiracy.”
“get something american,” he narrows his eyes. “and none of that fruity shit.”
“i’ll search for something with a sufficiently masculine label.”
he points at you again. “and no light beer.”
“two regular beers. burger. fries. in exchange, no threats, no broken equipment, and no inappropriate comments to medical staff.”
he exhales through his nose. “bacon.”
“that wasn’t part of the negotiation.”
“it’s a burger. it should have bacon.”
“this is becoming less cost-effective.”
“you wanted cooperation.”
“i wanted basic workplace conduct.”
“costs extra.”
you hate the small twitch at the corner of your mouth. you turn away before he catches it, sliding the briefing packet into your bag.
“get your shoes,” you say. “security will escort us to medical.”
he watches you slip the tablet into your bag. “you know… for somebody scared of me, you talk a lot.”
you adjust the strap over your shoulder. “for somebody trapped in a room, so do you.”
the reply earns a slow smile. there’s no kindness in it. but it’s less cruel than yesterday, less focused on finding something soft enough to bruise. he looks entertained, which is probably the safest emotion soldier boy can have toward anyone.
a knock comes at the suite door. the locks disengage. one of the guards steps inside. he keeps his eyes carefully above shoulder level, though soldier boy’s dressed now and the effort feels several minutes late.
the guard looks at you. “medical is ready whenever you are.”
“we’ll be there shortly.”
he nods and steps back outside. the door remains open.
soldier boy sits to pull on the boots. they fit, though his expression suggests accepting them is a personal defeat. you wait by the table, checking the schedule one final time.
“no violence. unauthorized detours.” you remember.
“burger after.”
“provided you meet the agreed conditions.”
“bacon.”
you sigh.
“bacon,” he repeats.
“i heard you.”
“extra onions.”
“you’re pushing it now.”
he tightens one boot, then the other. “make sure they don’t fuck it up.”
he stands, testing the boots against the rug. then he looks at you. “bacon. extra onions. fries. and proper american beer.”
“move.”
his grin returns, slow and diabolically pleased. “yes, ma’am.”
Scott, two days after the Chirp Heard Round The World, having had a nap and ate a carb and kissed his boyfriend and realized that he should have under no circumstances let the two craziest motherfuckers in hockey know that he knows their secret: Ilya Rozanov is going to shoot me with a gun.
Shane, pacing in Ilya's living room and wringing his hands: Ilya, Scott Hunter knows about us we need to kill him we need to make it look like an accident we need to do it now
Ilya, kicking his feet and giggling: He said you sound like me?
guys pls help me find this ff abt SUNGHOON x reader but it's Harry Potter Universe AU where hoon is in the ministry and reader is a Healer at St. Mungo's hospital
it's like this paired but algorithm type ff where they are paired based on compatibility etc. where fluffy very angsty very domestic
✧ Broken ribs suck. You don’t just “walk it off.” Breathing hurts. Laughing hurts. Existing hurts. Characters with rib injuries won’t be doing heroic sprints.
✧ Concussions aren’t instant naps. Dazed vision, nausea, dizziness, maybe even personality changes, but they’re not going to collapse neatly like in the movies.
✧ Blood loss is sneaky. It’s not just about dramatic pools of blood. It’s dizziness, confusion, and the body getting cold as circulation tanks.
✧ Adrenaline lies. Someone can take a serious injury and not feel it until the fight’s over. That “I didn’t realize I was bleeding until later” trope? Very real.
✧ Twisted ankles are brutal. One bad step and suddenly running is off the table. Even walking hurts like hell. Perfect way to ground a chase scene.
✧ Burns linger. Even small burns hurt more than most people expect. Blisters, infection risk, constant pain, it’s not just a cool scar later.
✧ Dislocated shoulders = useless arm. Characters can’t keep swinging a sword or firing a gun. They’re basically fighting one-armed until it’s fixed.
✧ Shock is a thing. Pale skin, trembling, rapid heartbeat, and eventually disorientation. A character might not even realize how bad their wound is.
✧ Stitches aren’t magic. Getting sewn up is painful and recovery takes time. They’re not instantly battle-ready after a needle and thread.
✧ Scars tell stories. Some fade, some don’t. Some stay sensitive forever. Don’t forget the aftermath when the wound becomes part of the character.
some royal jewels were stolen from the louvre which is unfortunate for historical reasons but you gotta appreciate a classic crime. so many crimes are online these days it’s nice to see heist culture is still alive
theartofmadeline
origamiaround
s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s
titsay
ellievsbear
kianamaiart
germansingergirl
