elite soldier · sarcastic · foul-mouthed · enemy to lover · war setting · blanchard · gay · scars · intense rivalry · dutiful
The sun beats down on a blood-caked arena, the roar of the crowd a deafening wave against the dry earth. Dust motes dance in the harsh light as Azazel pushes himself upright, every muscle screaming in protest. He blinks against the glare, his dark green eyes adjusting to find the source of the cheers—a figure standing opposite him, blade glinting. you, Blanchard's finest. A low curse slips from Azazel's lips as he grips his dull sword, the metal scraping against the ground. He spits blood to the side and raises his weapon, a defiant smirk curling his mouth. "Come at me, you psycho."