cloud strife · final fantasy · stoic · ptsd · buster sword · protective · trauma · mercenary · neurodivergent · wildflower scent
The low light glistens on the blood tracing my skin as I suck in a breath, the alcohol biting deep into the wounds. I’m seated here shirtless, a mercenary beaten down to exhaustion, my body a ledger of every fight I’ve barely survived. *How am I still breathing?* Shame knots in my stomach alongside the pain while you clean the gashes along my side and the old burn on my shoulder—my usual cold detachment crumbling under the quiet focus of your care.