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lorei-writes · 4 months

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Winter Flower

Chapter XIX: Wither

Masamune x OC [Hana] Summary: Hana wakes up in the gardens of Azuchi castle without any recollection of her past. Who is she? What was she doing there? And most importantly – what is she supposed to do now? Placed under supervision of Lord Date, Hana has to find her footing in the unfamiliar reality of the warring states. Series Masterlist

Content Warnings: attempted sexual assault, injury

Spring is already here.

“I’ve know, flower. I’ve known all along.”

I stare at Tatusoki with wide eyes. The room fades away, the only meaningful thing left the thin smile gracing his lips as he reaches to caress my cheek. He pushes my hair back behind my ear.

“I –”

“You were quite amusing, yes, spinning all those tales thinking I would not verify their credibility. You seemed so relieved whenever you ‘tricked’ me, delighted even.” Something flickers within his eyes as he takes a deep breath. Tatsuoki looks away from me and towards his father, a heavy sigh heaving his chest. “But all things end, and so did our game. You lost, flower… And since you’re blooming, you now must wither.”

Tatsuoki leans down one last time, his hands deftly plucking the bottle of sake from mine. Giving in to his demands has become so natural by now that I offer it willingly. I can merely watch as he unplugs it and lifts it to his lips to take a sip from it, staring at me all the while. He brings it down, however, his gaze holding mine captive.

“Close your eyes,” he orders and I oblige. The moment I do, alcohol pours down my clothes.

“Perhaps there exists a time in which you were forgiven,” he whispers, perhaps with a tinge of bitterness to his voice. I can only guess, though. The last thing I see is his back.

The door slams shut just as my back hits the ground. I turn my head towards the force that pulled me down, the face of lord Saitou hanging just above mine. He is old, that man, wrinkly and with brown splotches, thinning hair falling over his forehead. Blueish violet eyes pierce through me. I open my lips to protest, but he forces a kiss upon them, his hands on my shoulders pinning me in place with strength that should not belong to the man of his age. He tastes of fish and swan, the tinge of sake burning at the back of my throat as he takes it further.

Wither, Tatsuoki said. But I don’t want to. Not yet.

Fingers of his left hand trace the contours of my body, his mouth moving to suck at my neck. It stings when he bites me, the sentiment echoing somewhere much deeper in my body.

My arms want to move, so I let them; my legs want to kick, so they become absolved of all worry and pain. It is worth a broken finger to get him off me. It is worth a bleeding lip or bruised neck – any and all of my struggle will be forgotten, I am certain, for as long as I successfully drive him away. However, it is hard to breath when your windpipe is being squeezed. Perhaps he does not care whether I am alive or dead…

I kick again. Blindly. At him, in front of myself, anywhere. Anywhere. Everywhere.

Something falls. Something shatters.

At first, I do not realise what has happened. Only that he isn’t on me anymore. It is worthy a relieved breath, but that too passes as heat engulfs me and I realise I am burning. Broken lantern lies on its side by the table, fire lapping over my alcohol soaked clothes.

Lord Saitou stares at me.

There is the bottle on the floor. Its edges are sharp, sharpened by its fall. My fingers curl around its neck, and it is hard to shake off the thought that I may crush it the very way mine was being crushed just a breath earlier.

The tatami flame.

The way I am it feels somewhat gratifying, cleansing. I take a step forward, followed by another one. Lord Saitou pulls back. He is searching for something, rather franticly, but he does not appear to be able to find it… I don’t wait for that to change. My hands tremble, but I cannot allow him to either arm himself or to get away. I cannot allow him to shout for help. To get more people involved.

I run. I run until I can run no more, until my hands are slick, until I finally can hear his voice. It comes in rasp pained screams, just as desperate as the hands he uses to free himself off me... Until he falters to fall back eventually. The smoke makes it hard to breathe.

Has anybody heard him?

Is anybody going to come here?

To find me here?

I look at my hands, as red as when I first woke up. Redder. Hot. Too hot, but not yet hurt – and it is this single observation that has me remember that I burn. I tear my kimono off, free myself of my undergarments. All layers need to go here and now if I am to survive.

Survive.

I fall to the floor. Here, here I can see… somewhat, somewhat clearly. I make my way towards the door on all fours, although it is littered with pieces of broken ceramic and glass. Somehow, there is lots of it. Lots.

The corridor is much cooler than the banquet hall. Perhaps that is the very reason that I shake now, alongside the thousands of steps sounding off between my temples. The threat seems both real and imaginary at the same time, so much so that the world spins, the vertigo having me lean against the wall. I stay here, telling myself this will stop, but… it does not. If anything, it gets worse, the smell of cooked meat coming from the room making me nauseous.

There should be no food left there.

There is no food left there.

And how come nobody is here?

My mouth salivates. I cannot possibly swallow it down. My stomach churns, acid surging up my throat the very next moment, spilling from my mouth and onto the floor. It is empty, but it still heaves me. This smell is the worst. Hair, cloth, meat… No.

I need to go.

Stumbling over my feet, I push forward, half propped against the blackening wall. The further away from the banquet hall I am, the more suspicious does the quiet seem; however, I do come to understand it eventually. There simply truly is nobody in here, or much rather, on the inside of the castle. Commotion roars outside.

The layout of the corridors is not any less confusing than when I was led to the courtyard. I do not know how to get to the entrance from wherever it may be that I am now, however, I do manage to find my way to the investigation room. The table still sits there, just as it has for days on end, our cups still waiting on top of it. I turn my eyes away and hurry towards the balcony, slam the door open, rush to the railing, to then —

Freeze.

They are here.

The Date are here!

My knees weaken at the sight of the familiar crescent moon, fiery light glinting ominously in the gold of the armour ornament. My eyes prick from smoke. I want to shout, to call out to him and to tell him to please, take me away from here. However, my throat feels tight and any sounds I make are meek, rasped, not quite understandable even to myself. I look again, the fire coming from above casting shadows over the battle down below. Swords clash against swords, engulfed in the storm that is the riffles’ roar. Wood burns, the shrieking of strained boards breathing new fear into me.

I need to go.

My legs tremble, but even if clumsy, they do run when I force them to. If I want to breathe tomorrow too, I must hurry after all. I don’t think I will be able to make it if the castle collapses. I will get lost in the smoke…

So… Legs…

Please.

Go.

The corridors are offensively long. My feet smack against the hard wood. It feels oddly slick now, but I somehow manage not to stumble. Forward, forward, forward, even though I do not know where I’m going. There’s not a trail I could follow. Not a trail I can —

“Hana!” I can hear my name being called. Ai. I turn towards her immediately, and there she is, arms waving in the air at the entrance to one of the staff rooms. “Here!”

It is a kitchen. The pots still wait in their places, fire still buzzes under the stove – it is only I and Ai that are not static. Hand in hand, she pulls me along.

“What happened?!” She stops abruptly.

“I –” my voice breaks. This seems to be enough of a reply. Ai runs over to one of the counters and pulls a sort of apron from below it, then wraps it around me.

“You’re going to tell me everything later.”

I nod. It’s a promise.

Ai grasps my arm again, and surely enough, the courtyard soon spreads before us, tens of vaguely familiar men clashing against armoured soldiers. Flaming arrows set the sky ablaze, however, the air remains cold. Oh, how I love this cold now.

“The gate’s broken,” Ai shouts as loudly as her throat allows her to. “The young lord has disappeared, and –”

Her voice fades away, or perhaps it is that she has stopped her talk. We both to a halt, although for probably vastly different reasons. It’s been a while since my body believed it to be safe, and now that I see his familiar face, I cannot move. My eyes water in presence of the storm brewing above the cobalt waters that are Masamune’s gaze. He is gold and he is scarlet, dried down crimson dying his coat, slickly stuck onto the silver of his blade. If I could, I’d force myself to step towards him… However, his expression scares a part of me – it is hardened, ruthless, cool having replaced his usual boyish warmth. I have only seen this look once before.

“Out of the way, lass,” he orders. I know that he means it, that I should oblige… Yet my knees won’t budge. My feet have sprouted roots, or so it feels. My lips part to at least ask why, but my voice shies away when faced with the cool steel Masamune raises above his head, both hands firmly on the hilt —

I am pushed. I land shoulders first into the dirty, metal catching onto metal just where I stood a breath earlier. Ai tugs onto my arm to get me away from him… them, my throat tightening as I realise who has saved me just now and from whom. Tatsuoki spares me a single glance, his brow wrinkling as he returns his attention to Masamune.

“Have I not warned you, flower?”

I only blink. Masamune prepares to strike him from the side, however, the blow is parried again. Tatsuoki’s hands tremble under the impact. He readjusts his grip, red flames flickering, their reflection locked within his blade.

“You’re quite full of yourself to be this distracted.”

“No, it’s the opposite, in fact,” he snorts, wind seemingly gathering the incandescent ashes to crown his head. Tatsuoki looks towards the sky. “I have not won a single match against you, Masamune. And I will not win now. But neither will you.”

The tenshu of the castle has begun to collapse, the upper floors following suit, flaming debris taking place of shooting stars. The balcony of Tatsuoki’s study falls just where he has stood. When has he disappeared? I do not know. I grasp onto Ai, but she is hardly able to offer me any support now – she trembles just the way I do, if not worse. We somehow manage to get off the ground. Men shout after men, air filling with pained groans on top of the cries of maids as neighing horses drum their hooves against the moistened soil, all sound combining into a dizzying boiling commotion.

A hand shoots to shake my shoulder.

“Hana!” Kojuro roars. It is Kojuro, flesh and bones, and hopefully blood that is not his own. “You need to get to the rear. Now.”

That does make sense, yes. I should. I nod, uncertain how to exactly achieve that, but not any less determined – or, quite to the contrary. I am so resigned my body takes over, hauling both me and Ai towards the gates, indifferent towards any of the surrounding threats.

“Hana,” she says, sounding mildly hollow. Her fingers grip onto my shoulder, the apron, or whatever this garment is, crumpling below her nails. “Hana… He… He would have…” her voice breaks, a sob spilling out of her, the more of its kind following in its trace the further away we get from the castle. The forest does not seem to care about human affairs, tree branches above us swaying lightly, rocked by lukewarm gales.

“He would have,” I agree, surprised by my own willingness to admit it. “He would – He would have –”

We stop to catch our breaths, or for my vision to refocus itself. The world is much too blurry to allow for safe travel, although I do not understand the sudden change. It was fine just a moment ago, so why…

Oh. The moonlight streaming through the leaves answers my question for me. Spring is already here.

Series tag list: @cheese-ception @nuttytani

#masamune date #ikesen masamune #ikemen sengoku masamune #ikesen #ikemen sengoku #ikemen series

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mel-0n-earth · 2 months

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BG3 February Writing Challenge: Day 3

Day Three (SFW): First encounter with their love interest (LI)

Link to the original prompt list

[Again, I'm using this writing challenge as an excuse to develop some ideas I had for a Kar'niss x Tav fic. I wrote a bit about my OC Tav in my fills for Day One and Day Two.]

Shadows crawled and swirled and gripped and strangled like so many vines in a gossamer jungle of night. Yes, as did sun bring forth seed from soil, so did shadow draw the Lady’s deeds into fruition. Yet Kar’niss could not thrive in such darkness as did his Lady, no. No, no, no—it was his Majesty’s light that guided him through throngs of gloom and rot to seek out followers anew, to lead the acolytes to her temple atop the moonlit tower. He would do as she asked, for as long as she asked. What more had he than her voice like molten gold in his fractured mind?

She spoke to him now—whispers crawling like spiderlings, or more aptly, wriggling like a worm. Lead, it said. Lead them to the tower. And pleased he was to appease his Mistress.

Then a shadow, a flicker in a corner, leaving a trace like the smoking wick of a snuffed candle. Something was here, waiting, watching. For whom? Or what, for that matter?

The Lady bristled.

“’Ere, web arse, something moved up there,” the goblin said, voice crunching like tiny bones. “Want me to drag it out?”

A glimmer, a flash in his mind, like branches of lightning connecting in the sky and driving earthward in a shower of spark and dirt. Then, a figure where shadow once was, a sole figure standing defiant amidst the gloom—no, no, not any soul. True soul.

Such a strange sight to decipher in the dark—neither male nor female, drow but not drow. Such an oddity would be lost in the rank and file of Menzoberranzan, swallowed in the limen of their placelessness. A rancid giggle escaped his throat, cackling, keening.

“Such a strange servant you have chosen, my Queen. Yet even drow have folded in your dark. How have they survived? Where is their lantern?”

A raised brow, a downturned mouth, reading, measuring, deciding. And yet, unafraid. Strange to see, so very strange.

“The Absolute guided me here,” they declared (such assurance to their voice—warm, regal even. Even if Kar’niss could not decipher their place in the grand design, yet it seemed this one knew it well, wore it like a mantle). “She said I was to take yours.”

Oh, how his mind spun with that. Loyal he had remained, yet loyalty hardly bore the same weight as survival—such a word, survival, the Underdark had brought him to loathe it.

Survival—he’d said once before, in another life. One loses something when their existence is reduced to such a trite notion. Why survive when I could live?

FOOL, fool he was. The spider bitch had not liked that—no, not at all. Blessed was he to stumble into his Majesty’s light. Better off he was crawling on eight legs on the surface than on all fours before the noble Houses of Menzoberranzan.

Yet her voice was silent now. Surely, if she objected, his Lady would say so? Was he to take her silence as acceptance? A confirmation of truth? It seemed so…

“Very well. If it is your will, they can have it.”

A glint in violet eyes, pale and glowing in the dark, like quartz in dark stone, a precious thing born of the very earth. Once, he might’ve written a song about such a lovely thing, plucked it from the vestiges of his long-shattered lyre—no more. That fool was long dead, back bowed and broken to beastly form. Only the servant remained.

“Good,” their voice came once more (no, not a mantle—more a sovereign’s ring, to be honored with a gentle hand, a touch of lips, a gesture of gratitude for having briefly brushed with such splendor). “You may go now.”

A pit formed in his stomach, large and cavernous.

“Go?!” the goblin screeched. “Whatcha mean go?”

“We can’t go without you,” the orc pleaded. “The shadows would tear us to pieces!”

Kar’niss hesitated—only for a moment. Then, a snarl, a drawing of brows, anger brewed with confusion to boil in his belly. “This is not her Majesty’s will,” he hissed, all seven eyes burning in his skull-cage.

The not-drow’s eyes narrowed, striking him like a holy beacon in the dark. “The Absolute wants you to go,” they hissed, serpent-like, deadly and exquisite in equal measure. “Now.”

The voice did not sound as his Lady’s did, yet it struck a similar chord in his fractured mind—reason in the madness, harmony among the discord, beauty amidst ugliness. He would bow to it. He would obey.

“If it is her majesty’s will—”

“You can’t be serious!” the brute fool of an orc shouted. “You know what’s out there!”

Righteous anger blazed through him, devouring sense in its wake. The words fell sharp from his tongue, like daggers buried in a corpse. Did they not see? They were under their Lady’s scrutiny. This was a test—one he did not plan to fail, for he had already suffered the full extent of his failures. “If it is her majesty’s will,” he seethed, throat bubbling with delirium, “Then we. Shall. WALK!”—

--a blinking of many eyes, their fragile figures kaleidoscopic in his vision, copies upon copies of doomed and daunted faces regarding him with disbelief. Yet he would not be swayed. They had spoken—his Majesty had spoken—

“She will protect us,” he said, voice wrapping around his own fear like a child’s blanket. “She must.”

He cast aside his Lady’s light, and crawled stumbling into the choking dark.

As the shadows slit him open, boring their tendrils into the last dredges of his sanity, he felt life slip from between his clawed and blackened fingers. Close, so close was he to his death, his salvation. It would all be over soon, the Lady’s shadows would consume his disgraced form, and silence would settle over the scattered fragments of his mind.

But it seems he would be granted no such mercy. Instead, a voice came to him, slithering and familiar.

I’m not done with you yet, my pet, the Spider Queen crooned from out the Demonweb. It would be far more fun to see how thoroughly they might break you.

Kar’niss’s eyes went wide, and a scream tore his throat as the shadows dissipated and his body began the process of slowly, agonizingly, knitting itself back together.

The fool’s journey, it seemed, had only just begun.

#I have no clear idea of where I'm going with this #think the little mermaid but instead he is a drider #even I do not yet fully comprehend my vision #bg3ficfeb #day three #bg3 #kar'niss #OC Tav #Tav x Kar'niss

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insomniac-jay · 1 year

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DC OC | Venus Parks

Venus Luella Parks is a member of Star Sapphire Corps and owner of a Violet ring. She came to join the corps after her ex boyfriend cheated on her while she was touring as a DJ. After getting her revenge, she began to do work for the Zamarons as she was now a full member of the Star Sapphire Corps.

During one of her missions, she met Green Lantern Kyle Rayner and the two began talking. Eventually they both fell in love, fueling power to Venus's ring.

@calciumcryptid @peachyblkdemonslayer @autisticichihime

#jay's dc ocs #green lantern oc #green lantern #star sapphire #dc oc #oc: venus/star sapphire

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dxndxrxvxbe · 1 month

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This is a remake of my first star sapphire oc I made a few years ago. I changed her a lot but I like her way better now and I actually have drawing equipment instead of the ol fingers on a broken phone screen thing.

#star sapphire #star sapphire corps #violet lantern #Pink lantern #young justice oc #dcu oc #dc oc #oc art #fem oc #lantern corps #Violet lantern corps

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serpentmythos · 3 months

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Do you have an oc or a bit of your writing you’ve been thinking about or wanting to talk about lately?

WHY YES I DO, THANK YOU. HAVE MY DEMON SLAYER OC:

Xiaolan Matsunade was born in the Yoshiwara district to a courtesan of the Kyogoku House and one of her many clients. Her mother passed away shortly after birth, and she has no knowledge of her father. She was raised by the courtesans and elderly manager of the Kyogoku House, referring to the courtesans as her sisters and the manager as "Grannie'. While growing up, she was trained in a variety of classic entertainment arts like dancing, reciting poetry, and playing the shamisen. However, her favorite thing to do is perform the traditional tea ceremony for her sister's clients.

Xiaolan is a kind and soft spoken young woman, who's years of being raised in the red lantern district taught her to be hyperaware of her surroundings. Shockingly perceptive, she's stolen potential client's hearts with the way she would cater to their whims while her sisters worked, bringing snacks, refreshments/alcohol, paper and ink stones, whatever the men may need in that moment without being told. A twitch of a finger, curl of the lips, a stolen glance at an object, Xiaolan has learned to interpret each one with startling accuracy. Despite her skills, she had yet to service a client in the brothel herself, instead acting as a lady-in-waiting to the oiran there.

Xiaolan took after her mother in terms of looks, sharing the woman's deep violet eyes, fair complexion, and balanced, just-curvy-enough figure developing as she grows up. However, she has her father's indigo black hair, which she normally keeps styled in a loose bun. Regardless of style, her hair is almost always held in place by her mother's favorite accessory, a long silver hairpin accented with a blue crystal butterfly charm.

Following the battle with Daki and Gyuutaro in Yoshiwara, Xiaolan joined the Demon Hunters as part of the Kakushi, hoping to one day meet the Demon Slayers who helped save her adopted family, and the people of Yoshiwara.

And a 3am shower thought that has consumed my brain:

Xiaolan meeting Inosuke when he's disguised as an oiran, fully believing him to be a girl at the time given his more effeminate facial features. Of course, this pisses him off, but for the sake of the mission, he can't blow his cover. So Xiaolan treats him as any girl would treat her friends. They talk and spend time together helping around the brothel, maybe Inosuke coming to "tolerate" (we all know he'd never admit to liking something outside of fighting and food) her hanging out with him.

One night, Xiaolan wakes Inosuke up to ask if he wants to join her in sneaking out of the brothel to visit a night market taking place outside of the walls of the Yoshiwara District. They sneak out, and Inosuke actually enjoys himself, eating tasty street food and watching Xiaolan swindle free trinkets by flirting with any young men manning the stalls. They come to a perfume stall, and the owner tries to sell some to the two "girls". Xiaolan is torn between two scents and asks Inosuke to pick between the two of them for her. Whichever one he picks is the one she gets. But wait, shit, she's too short on coinage, and the stall owner doesn't fall for her flirtations. After a few seconds and seeing Xiaolan's disappointed expression, being the King of No Impulse Control, Inosuke just yoinks the little pot with the perfumed oil in it and fucking BOOKS it, yelling for Xiaolan to run. They spend the rest of the night ducking in and out of the rows of vendors, hiding from the perfume stall owner and the night market guards before sneaking back into the brothel just before sunrise. He gives her the perfume, and she surprises him with a small wooden carving of a boar she got from one of the vendors, as a thank you for nabbing the solid perfume for her.

This all happens before the battle with Daki. Xiaolan makes it out of the chaos safely, but she never saw Inosuke again. She was heartbroken, looking for him afterward. He wasn't with the line up of bodies following the demon battle, so Xiaolan fully believed her friend was still alive out there somewhere, despite the Kyogoku survivors saying otherwise. "She" had to be alive, "she" was too stubborn and clever to die like that! They never recovered a body, after all, right?!

Eventually, the damage is repaired, and life in the Yoshiwara District returns to normal after a time. That's when she hears rumors from the other courtesans about the Demon Slayer Corp saving everybody that night. Maybe they knew something about her friend, or at the very least they could give her a lead! So she joins the Demon Slayers as a member of the Kakushi, to see if she can figure anything out. Years go by, nobody knows anything, or if they do, they weren't willing to tell her. So eventually, her goal of finding out what happened to Inosuke fades, and she falls into the rhythm of her duties as a Kakushi.

Until one day, almost 10 years after their run through the Night Market, Inosuke is brought in after a mission to be treated at the Butterfly Mansion for injuries he sustained. He wakes up in the usual hospital bed, but something is different this time. There's a faint, but DISTINCTLY FAMILIAR scent filling his nostrils through his mask, forcefully YANKING almost-forgotten memories from his early years in the Demon Slayer Corp back to the forefront of his mind...

Where did he remember this crisp, floral, and woody scent from? A scent so reminiscent of spring on the mountainside... Why was it tugging at his heartstrings, and filling him with such a deep sense of loss and longing for something? No, not something... SomeONE. Finally the muffled sounds of voices outside the room catch his attention, and he grits his teeth against the pain in his limbs as he pulls himself to his feet, aiming to demand whoever was out there if they could smell it, too. Ignoring the cries of the attendants Kiyo, Sumi, and Naho of how he needed to lie back down, to think of how upset Lady Aoi would be if he didn't heal properly! He all but rips open the door to see Shinobu speaking with a Kakushi woman, carrying a wrapped bundle gently in her arms. The Insect Hashira simply gazes up at him with the same soft smile she always wore, but the sudden slamming of the door made the Kakushi woman jump, gazing up at the peircing blue eyes of his mask with her own deep violet ones. Inosuke opening his mouth and then shutting it again as the gears in his head turned over and over again.

The scent was eminating the strongest off of her.

#demon slayer #demon slayer oc #inosuke hashibira #demon slayer inosuke #inosuke x oc #xiaolan matsunade

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vodka-and-ocs · 2 months

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WELCOME TO MY PERSONAL OC HELL

Abby Idris

Ada Amakiir (later Galanodel)

Adel Weiss

Alexana

Amber

Andromeda

Andy

Antares

Arbus Lawrence

Ari

Ariane Serta

Aster Nordström

Audrey

Bajern

Basil

Clarabell "Bell"

Barnard "Bernie"

Bleuet

Nathaniel "Brownie" Brown

Calliope

Camille James

Canopus

Cantique

Cassandra

Cecil

Cepheus

Cerys

Charlie

Cirrus

Claudia

Cobalt Nightingale (formerly Song)

Corbin

Dante

Daryl Galanodel

David Ceese

Deneb

Dust

Elaine

Eris Winberg

Etna

Eugenia

Eve

Fireweed

Narangerel "Gan" Purev

Gary Khan

George

Grace

Halley

Hazel Brown

Hedd

Helen C.C. Kobena (the C.C. stands for Craterellus Cornucopioides)

Hemlock

(The) Hero

Herophilus

Hillen Eke

Himari Fujimori

Hortense

Hyacinth

Hyo

Irina

Isabelle de la Tour

Jak'raadun'zaerazylym "Silver Jack"

Jackie Lantern

Jessica

Jupiter

Kal Idris

Kamon

Keion Galanis

Kohaku

Kris "Krill"

Lakar

Laurel Walters

(Idris) Lavellan

Leco

Levi Eke

Lewis Glory

Lian

Linus

Liz (short for Lizard, allegedly)

Loveshot

Lyr Galanodel

Malachite

Marcus

Marine

Mars

Mashael

Maul

Mavra

Megrim

Mercury ? (later Lawrence)

Mercy

Merryweather

Messier

Miel

Miracle

Mirage

Mournblade

Mushi ? (later Skoll)

Nadeem

Narcissus

Neptune

Nero

Nora Eke

Nur

Octave

Opal

Ophélie

Orpheus

Ortica

Ouroboros

Owen

Pea

Pendula

Persimmon "Percy"

Philomena

Phoebe Hobbes

Pickle

Pluto Cedeño

Poe K. Amon

Poem

Polaris

Prisme

Proxima

Rat

Ravi

Rena Idris

Rigel

Robjorn "Rob"

Sanctity

Saturn

Scylla

Sedna Ramanantsoa

Sepsha

Shrimp

Silas

Sinistre

Sirius

Sol Nordström

Swift J1818.0

Sylvia

Teeth

Temperance

Thej Mahariel

Tobias

Turmoil

Ulysses

Valerie (Valentine, Raphael, ...) Heart

Vega

Vell

Vincenza "Vinny" Fontanelli

Violet

Viridian

Will Frey

Willow

Wisteria

Yori Kamiya

Zelda

[lonely avatar]

#oc list #i have a few more like adelheid eleonor trystan mattheus johann father nightingale lians parents etc but theyre background characters tbh #like yes goerge the gnome who never showed up is also here but HE has a design so he can stay.#anyway this is why my oc list is a big blurb on names instead of a neat list with last names. because its FUCKING LONG #i need a version i can reblog without mobile users vowing to kill me on sight #lewis' unnamed mother also exists but isn't present. due to the aforementionned lack of name #ive got 160+ guys some are just a little too abstract for this list #long post

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owl-witch-prompts · 9 months

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OC Masterlist: The Ocs

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marvus-xoloto · 1 year

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can't stop thinking about Auriel and his moirail, Nawali. I make a lot of girl OCs, so it's fun to make some guys. Basic info under the cut for my own future reference, and for any interested <3

Auriel Anonymous (caste name unknown... to us ;o) hehe). He/him and gay.

Sign: LECER, sign of the loyalist (olive+blood+prospit)

Lusus: big fat tom catcoon (british short hair cat/raccoon; roundest motherfucker you ever did see.) His names is literally just Tom.

Strife specibus: idk yet ^^ I've been thinking curtaincall!kind where he just. Smothers you with red velvet curtains lmfao.

God tier: heir of blood

Land: Land of Mirrors and Velvet

Hobbies: owns a coffee shop (for the gossip, but also bc he loves to bake); theatre kid (loves troll shakespeare)

Job: professional impersonator; works with reconaissance

Quirk: terrible, forced cat puns, glitched text every 23 words.

Basic appearance: 5'9 and fat. I hc him to look like a combo between Jack Black and Harvey Guilen. Curly haired like a roman. Wears tiny little spectacles and a generally smug but friendly face. Mimics your facial expressions as you speak (unconscious habit). Horns... hmm. The lesft on is like two kitty ears and the right one is like a curious kitty tail, sharpened to a point.

Nawali Amanis, transmasc he/they mlm.

Sign: SCORITTARIUS, sign of the doubtful (cerulean+void+derse)

Lusus: Little bitty mantis *shrug* he's named for the amantis nawai, which is a teeny tiny mantis species. He's very affectionate but so vulnerable to being stepped on, and needs to eat a lot of moths.

Strife specibus: scythe!kind

God tier: mage of void

Land: Land of flickering candles and windchimes

Hobbies: strings up a bunch of glass lanterns in the woods around his hive to capture moths for his lusus (he collects and pins them; the ones he's collected before are dinner for his lusus); makes fancy little terrariums; hybridizes poisonous plants and breeds venomous insects.

Job: works on the black market supplying drugs (to cure or to kill, makes no difference to him unless he's on a downswing); also supplies fancy terrariums to indigo and violet bloods (uses this as a way to get Auriel in to their hives).

Quirk: Talks pretty. Haltingly. Concisely. Carefully. Uses few words. Proper grammar. !!UN LESS!! !!HESD ON AN!! !!UPSIWGN!! or.... on a downswing.......

Basic appearance: 6'1 and slender. Honestly he looks like David Chiang (the model) in my head: very striking and delicate looking. Horns look like his sign. Wears eccintric, wizard-style clothing in bold prints. Always barefoot; his floors in his hive are filthy.

#silas.txt #my ocs #auriel #nawali

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red-riding-wood · 1 year

Text

Time in a Bottle

Pairing: Emit Flesti x Female OC (not a well-established one, though)

Fandom: Faraway, So Close! (1993), sequel to Wings of Desire (1987)

Summary: A fallen angel bargains with Time for immortality after realizing how beautiful yet transient life is.

WARNINGS: explicit sex/smut. But it's the most poetic smut I'm ever gonna feckin write WC: 5677

This fic is a part of my Willem Dafoe Challenge.

Tag list: @glitter-and-gasoline, @giona45-5

Read on AO3 if you prefer. Otherwise, story below cut!

Time is hunting me.

An old, cadaverous woman collapses from her electric throne beside me, eyes glazing and thin lips stretching pale, crinkled skin taut over bony cheeks and hollowed eye-sockets as she wails her final, silent words.

I was taught to see the beauty in everything of Father’s creation – even death – and although, now that I’ve fallen, now that my world is a wondrous palette of colour, and I can feel the kiss of the sea against my skin and the warmth of a fire when my bones ache from cold and fatigue, I still cannot seem to find the beauty in the absence of life. Maybe that was really why I fell, perhaps to learn a lesson.

The woman is barely clinging to life – life, that is beautiful, that is fleeting, yet potent; life, that is the kindest gift and the greatest curse one can receive. She is afraid, she is weak, she is crumpled in a ball on the unforgiving concrete like a fetus that has never left the womb.

I do not see the beauty in death. I do not see the poetry in its inevitability or its balance.

Half of the crowd around me carry on their way, casting no more than a quick glance at the dying woman. I cannot blame them; I would not want to waste a second of my life on death, either.

The other half converges, like a tide crashing around me, their shouts tangling thick into the air as they scramble to aid her. Don’t they know, it’s useless. Don’t they know, this will be them in twenty or thirty years and they’re wasting those years ordering coffee that doesn’t have enough sugar and reading the front page of useless drabble and diving to save a stranger whose last breath has already left her withering lungs.

A glimmer winks on the ground, and catches my eye; I bend to pick up a compact that fell from her purse, and everyone is either too unconcerned by the tragedy or too deeply-swallowed by it to notice.

I flip open the compact to reveal a polished mirror as clear as the crystals I’d spotted in a shop window not even five minutes ago, and in its clarity I glimpse the pockets of grey that have formed beneath my vessel’s bottom lashes, the furrow of a brow sewn by stress, the eyes that, in life, are so absent of it.

I am left standing in the midst of the crowd, suddenly feeling numb, and I roll my head back to glimpse a figure emerging from around the corner of a shop, his shoulder leaning against the brick.

His eyes are a cold blue that pierce my soul. His suit is black as death. His hair is a deep brown, like when people soften their coffee with a dash of cream. His gaze is haunting, eviscerating, lingering.

Someone jostles my shoulder, and I swing my head to regard them. They are rushing to the old woman’s aid.

When I look back, he is gone.

Time is running from me.

I follow him down the long stretch of the alley, the black of his suit blending with the drab colours the passerby citizens wear, but I keep my eye trained on the glimpses I catch of his shoulder bobbing in the crowd. There is a festival being set up in this alley; paper lanterns brush my cranium from where they are loosely strung from the side of each building, vibrant hues of violet and red and blue. A man, with tangled dreadlocks and tattered clothing and nails imbued with grime, plucks away at the metal strings of his guitar, casting wonderful notes to the air that smells of scented candles and exotic food; if I had a dime, I would stop for a moment to listen and plunk it in the tin that sits in front of him for change.

If I had the time, I would also stop by the railing that borders the sea, let my fingers curl around the metal railing and suppress a shiver as the ocean breeze caresses my skin and blows the hair back from my shoulders. The man in the black suit leads me out here, along the bricks of the pier. The crowds are thinning now, but I cannot seem to keep pace with him.

He effortlessly traverses the uneven steps of a small bar. SALLY’S, 1029 BLEAKER STREET. The black of his suit is swallowed by the door that swings shut with a chime of shrill bells.

The same bells announce my presence as I pull open the door, the tang of seaweed and the sharp bite of the ocean winds blanketed by the bitter notes of rum and whiskey, and the slightest trace of smoke that is expelled by two candles sat either side of the bar.

Tick.

The cruel, piercing sound of a clock drills itself into the marrow of my bones, the synapses of my mind. It nearly makes me flinch. Why is it so loud?

The bar is silent, but not even the creak of my boots against the flooring is enough to cause such a great stirring of unease. It is silent because it is empty, void of even a bartender, despite the neon OPEN sign I read outside its window.

At least, it would be empty, if it weren’t for the man who turns to face me, steely blue eyes meeting mine and his expression passive, until the slightest quirk of a smile pulls at his lip, creasing a sharp cheekbone.

Tick.

I take another step forward, and the floorboards creak as if to warn me, but I didn’t know fear until I fell, and I’m not about to start bowing to it now.

“You’re – “

“Emit Flesti,” he says, and outstretches a hand for me to shake. His blue eyes come alive, glitter like how the sun dapples the surface of the waves on the ocean.

I eye his hand cautiously, and, after exactly three more ticks of the tenebrous clock, finally reciprocate, finding the exchange awkward. I don’t know how long to hold his grip, or how quickly to move my arm, but his flesh is warm against mine, and he guides me through the motion as if he’s done this a million times.

Emit straightens his suit jacket once our handshake breaks, and eyes me with that sea-gaze. “And I know exactly who you are. I’ve been expecting you.”

“Is my kind really that predictable?” I ask, tilting my head to the side.

His eyes narrow a fraction as he studies me, and he says, “You’re lost. Scared. Confused. Trying desperately to cling to a world you have only just discovered, a life that has only just been birthed.”

Tick.

I swallow, and say, “You’re right… but how do you know? You’re not able to read minds.”

“I’ve been around a while. Learned to grow observant. And you angels are all terribly easy to read. You want something only I can give. That’s why you’re here.”

I rake my gaze across him, across that polished suit, that matching black tie, that neatly-styled hair that retreats primly over his ears and teases the line of his neck, that ever-so-slight twinge of a smirk that curves his lip upward as if he knows something I don’t. Dressed and presented more like one of Satan’s glorified businessmen than one of the ancients.

I meet his gaze again, and step forward. “And if you’re smart…” I say, chin high and tone imbued with confidence. Angels are threatening when they want to be, and though I have fallen, I am certain I haven’t lost my edge. “… you’ll grant me my wish.”

Emit mirrors my stride, bringing the two of us closer. His scent is sweet, and irritatingly familiar. The smirk disappears from his features, and he says, “Your very existence here defies the natural order, causes an eddy of disruption and chaos in the cogs of a machine that are designed to function without your interference. Why would I bend the natural order for one fallen angel?”

Tick.

The cruel incipience of wrath begins to bubble in my stomach, and I bring myself another stride closer so that I am only an inch or two from him now; mousy lashes flick down, those steely blue eyes studying each groove and ridge of my face, before landing in my own, piercing through them and wrapping their icy tendrils around my soul. I swallow, a weight inexplicably forming in my throat, and glare up at him.

“Because if you don’t…” I growl. “I will get my wings back, if only to spite you. And I will rain all of Heaven down on you – or all of Hell, if I have to.”

The corner of his mouth curls upward again, creases his sharp jaw, and he speaks around a gleeful smirk as his eyes remain latched to my soul, “You angels are always smite first, ask questions later. But you, you’re only human now. You’re only bark, no bite.”

My nostrils flare, and my wrath churns in my gut, effervesces into the pockets of my chest that have been stripped bare of what I cannot define, nor can I find.

“I think you’ll find my bite to be equally as vicious,” I hiss from between clenched teeth, my gaze darting madly across twin blues that are so still frustratingly still, so disconcertingly locked onto my own. Does he even blink?

His smirk broadens, those twin blues glitter and narrow, and he says, “In the long run, I’m usually the one that does the biting.”

Tick.

His breath is hot against my face, flutters my lashes, and I swallow again as a new sensation – foreign to me, peculiar, rather disquieting yet strangely exhilarating in nature – tickles at my ribs. For a moment, I am lighter; I am free of the wrath that chains me to the earth.

But then I am heavier, as the weight of his words sinks in; I deflate, my shoulders sinking along with my exhale and my chin dipping, dragging my eyes from his. I am reminded of the transience of time and of my limited opportunity to experience my father’s beautiful creation.

Time is poison.

I turn my shoulder and start towards the wide, spotless windows that frame each side of the door. Outside, I glimpse the ivory of the seagulls cutting the pastel blue of the sky, the sea frothing at the hull of a sailboat, the tides that glitter like diamonds below the warm caress of the sun.

The final pillars of my wrath topple, and the pockets inside of me erupt into an abyss that aches to be filled with something anew. I am hollow. I am lost. I am helpless.

My disconsolation strings itself thick into my words as I breathe, a tear rimming my eye, “The world is so much more beautiful down here than it was up there. I don’t ever want to part from it. I want to paint it, limn its happenings into magnificent stories, to traverse its every mountain and canyon.”

My fingertips brush the glass of the window, and the tear rolls down my burning cheek. I am called by the restlessness of the waves, by the warmth of the sun, by the freedom of the gulls that ride the air currents.

“I have been rebirthed,” I tell him. “And I will not let this slip away. In Heaven, I was a soldier, a cog. Here, I am…” I shutter my eyes, and bite my lip; the saltiness of my tear on my tongue tastes like the ocean. And then I turn back to face the man, and I finish, “… alive.”

He is silent. But he blinks.

Tick.

I step forward again, though without the same portent weight, and I say, “If I do not bring you terror, do I at least stir in you some form of pity?” I am begging, pleading with my words now. “Do you have any ounce of humanity? Or do you just make sure that the cogs keep turning in the clock?”

We are maybe an inch apart now, and as I stare into those eyes, so swathed in steel-blue mystery, I wish that I could read minds again, if only in this moment, to read his.

And then, as if my wish comes true, a dash of sadness, streaking so fleetingly across them like a shooting star, manifests, and I seem to hold my breath in my chest, surrendering my soul to their intense stare.

“You’re forgetting that I have always seen in colour,” he says, his pride vanished along with but a vestige of his smirk. His face seems to soften around sharp features. “I have witnessed the joy of a doting mother. I have glimpsed the turmoil of loss. I have felt the cold on my flesh and the sun on my face. But it is not my job to pity. If I did, the clock would cease to function, and the order would fall into chaos.”

Tick.

And then suddenly it feels not as if I am searching for the answers in his gaze, but he in mine; his countenance is unnervingly solemn, his eyes no longer of impenetrable steel, but of a feather: delicate, wandering, listless.

And he says, “Have you considered, little angel, that I too am as much of a cog in the machine?” A challenge washes over the somber blue of his eyes, sparking something between us that is so suffocating palpable, it threatens to crush what little thread of hope there is in my chest, constricts my throat so that my disquieted swallow must be audible to his ears.

Tick.

The clock must surely be mocking me. I cannot seem to find my words, cannot seem to find a solution in the maelstrom that is my mind, cannot find solace in my florid thoughts or the life that is passing so pointedly one second at a time.

And I find myself with no solution, no wrath, no hope – lost, to a reality that I cannot smite. All I can do now is string out this one word, so feeble in its whispered impotence,

“Please.”

Time is cruel.

He doesn’t have to speak to tell me my answer, and I choke out my next breath on that crippling absence of hope, gaze lowering to the aged floorboards as if in submission. They too have become a victim to time, and must rot in debility.

“I cannot grant you immortality,” he says. “It would cause too much of a disturbance down here, upstairs. But perhaps I can give you something -- a token, for your will.”

My head rolls back, my eyes seeking his in confusion and wariness. His visage glimmers past my shimmery veil of unshed tears.

“Tell me…” he says. “… if you could stretch one moment into a thousand, if you could relive it as many times as you desired, what would it be?”

I blink, and the tears fall, and his visage sharpens. “A token? Minutes ago, you were mocking my will. Is this some cruel trick?”

He shakes his head. “It’s not a trick. Now, answer my question. What would it be?”

Tick.

The clock is drilling deeper than my mind or my marrow now; it is burrowing itself into my soul, withering its light, and past its deathly pursuit I cannot seem to find an answer to his question. I want everything that I described to him – I want to live, want to be eternal. How can I possibly choose one moment of my barely-beginning and so swiftly-ending life?

“You seem to be the expert,” I say, my tone so bitter in contrast to the sweetness of his cologne. “What would it be?”

Perhaps only time will tell.

The curve of his mouth pulls back into his smirk that could rival the Devil’s, and his glittering eyes drag across my face as if he is painting it into his mind for eternity. A thread seems to materialize between us, pulling taut and drawing me closer to his warm breath and toothy grin. I recognize his scent now – vanilla, the bean they grind in the coffee shops for their specialty brews with exorbitant prices.

A sharply-pitched sound snaps me from my heady trance, and I flinch, my lips parted in a silent gasp as I watch his lip curl over his teeth in a whistle.

And the world falls silent; the relentless ticking finally ceases, and out of the corner of my eye, I see that the clock’s hand has frozen.

His warm breath is mingling with mine now, his lips soft yet burning hot as hellfire against my own. Blackness coats my eyelids as I shutter them, and though tentative, I melt into him, drawing my vessel closer to his by that thread that I discern now to be desire. I move my lips against his in an uneven rhythm yet insatiable intensity, and I draw my hand up along his suit, fingers grasping insensibly at his tie. He is much more assured with his touch; one hand is fastened around my waist, while the other explores my breast through the fabric of my shirt, dragging a thumb across a perked nipple and stirring an unbridled breath from my lungs. He turns me like the hand of the clock, and presses my lower spine against the edge of the bar.

When we draw apart, I am weightless again, and that foreign feeling once again teases my ribs, flutters my stomach and pools magma between thighs that squirm against the hardness of his slacks. Lust, I ascertain; I have never experienced it because I have never been kissed, or touched in this way that seems to electrify every nerve and raise goose-bumps along my flesh – or even think, really, about this element of humanity. Life is so full of surprises, so faceted in its pleasures that I fear I may never uncover all of them.

His eyes are half-lidded, blue tides turning darkly with want that mirrors my own, and his warm breaths come swifter, panted against my flushed cheeks. The effulgence of the sun, as it had just begun to dip into afternoon, washes the finer strands of his dusky locks in a buttery, chestnut-gold, and shadows the sharp features of his face, every line bold, purposeful, sculpted as fearlessly as an angel’s blade. And in our proximity, I find a flaw in his design; his teeth, at first distractingly white, are gapped, slightly crooked, but it makes him more human than a cog, completes the artistry of this moment in such a way that makes my heart ache with yearning.

Time is beautiful.

“Is that it?” I ask him, raising a brow as my tongue darts hungrily between my lips and I let my hips rock with explosive impatience against his. I am as greedy as I am wrathful.

He smirks, and takes this as his cue to continue, for he lifts me onto the bar, both hands now cradling my waist, his body gliding between my legs; I part them in eager acceptance, hips once more seeming to have a mind of their own as they rut against his. I link an arm around his neck and pull him to me in a kiss that I have every intention to deepen to its farthest limits. My other hand slips from his tie and reaches for the buckle on his belt; I yank the leather past its loop as fiercely as I would shed armour after a battle.

He breaks our kiss, my teeth snagging his bottom lip as he pulls back, and I expect him to chastise me for not being more careful with what is likely an expensive belt, but he grins at me and says, “There’s no rush. In this moment, time is all yours.”

If this isn’t all some cruel trick, then he is right; I should savour this, relish in its sordid bliss.

My fingers reach almost instinctively to his jaw, brushing the sharp line of bone in reverence, my touch more delicate than it had been even with Father’s most treasured artifacts. They linger there for a moment, before dipping below his chin, running down the lines of his throat and thumbing the ridge of his clavicle beneath the collar of his shirt.

But I find myself blocked by the fabric, by the tie around his neck, and so my fingers thread through the weave of the tie, tugging gently as I swallow, almost ashamed, my cheeks ruddy and warm.

He smirks, but says nothing, and loosens his tie in one fluid motion, undoing the two ends so that they fall around his neck. He knows I’ve never done this before.

I unfasten the first few buttons of his shirt, my fingers now gliding across flesh that burns hot, that burns living – flesh that thrums, steady, with the beating of a seemingly-mortal heart.

Though fascinated, I let my hand travel some more, leaving the volcanic veneer of his flesh and letting it slip back over his shirt, running down the thin fabric until my fingertips tease the hem of his slacks, and I notice his eyes flutter, irises darkening with ink black, as I begin to grope at him through fabric that is frustratingly denser than his shirt. I feel him twitch beneath my palm. I bite my lip, a jolt of electricity shocking me from the depth of my core to the top of my skull, and a demur smile quirks at the line of my mouth as he moans out a beautiful sound, hot breaths fanning my already-burning cheeks.

Fingers tighten around my waist, and he leans in again, our lips brushing and our breaths panted fervently against each other’s teeth before I pull back, only half an inch or so, to smirk and say, “What happened to ‘no rush’?”

“That was before you decided to take advantage of the situation,” he huffs, mousy lashes shrouding those ocean eyes as his gaze darts to my lips to the line of my breasts to the hem of the fabric that he thumbs above my hipbone. For someone who can command the clock with a mere whistle, he is surprisingly impatient in this moment that he can stretch to eternity if he so desires.

“I’m only making use of my token,” I tell him, a thread of mischief entwining itself into my tone, and I notice him catch his teeth in his lip. Our noses are brushing, breaths still entangled, and I bring my hand up to undo the slacks that have been forgoing my descent into debauchery.

He is eager to shed my clothing; my shirt comes down at my elbows from buttons that may have been popped, my boots clatter to the floor, my trousers are slipped from the bare of my legs and goosebumps raise along the flesh, the lacquer of the bar colder than I had initially thought.

He looks me in the eyes as he sidles my panties down my hips, oceans seeming to catch fire, surely turning mine to molten rock.

I shiver, not from the cold, but from the light fabric that brushes the crest of my toes, and then he has all of me before him – all of my vessel, in her battered, bruised flesh and her sunken eyes but her purity.

Long fingers pry my legs apart, and he breaths his question down the nape of my neck, setting the fine hairs on end, “And you’re sure you don’t want your wings back?” His voice has dropped into something husky, something dark. But it does not bring me fear. Only want.

I swallow, tongue dry, the moisture perhaps evaporated from the magma that bubbles from the very core of me to the top of my head, and I spare the thought only a moment of consideration.

I never want to go back. To go back would be to live an eternal nightmare. And would that be any better than a fleeting dream?

And his touch, it feels too heavenly to be a sin, the sharp, sun-kissed lines on his softened face too angelic to be of Hell.

“Yes,” I breathe, running my hand down the bare trail I had revealed of his chest, fascinated still by the faint thrumming of his heart and the flesh that has become volcanic as mine, still burning to the touch.

His lip twinges into a smirk, the flash of gapped teeth and sparkling eyes in my vision before it undulates, seems as if I have been thrust underwater, staring through the surface of the waves and catching the glitter of two suns tinted by blue.

I am no stranger to pain, but even I gasp as he seems to split me in two; the magma in my gut seems to solidify, crack, fragment into fiery ropes that slice through me.

I grasp feverishly at his loose shirt, but it only tugs him closer to me, his shattered breath fanning across my collarbone and the strip of hot flesh down his chest meeting mine. I am whelmed by fire, thrust into the deepest pit of Hell only to emerge above the highest clouds of Heaven as new sensations begin to race through me, from where he buries himself inside me all the way out to my forearms, up to the crest of my tingling skull that falls back as lips part in panted, ardent breaths.

His warm lips are on my neck, his hot, shattered breaths coming against it, the graze of his teeth against my flesh as his fingers brace my hips, the chafe of my thighs against the lacquer barely a fragment of the entire innervation.

My muscles seem to tense, my legs kicking upward to engulf his waist, currents of electricity pointing my toes and my loins burning hot as they tuck around him, as if to pull him closer into the inferno that is our lust. My hands have resorted to gripping his shoulders now for stability, though one slips to cradle the hammer of his heart against his ribcage, as if it is mine to hold, if only for this moment.

Though there are no words spoken between us, we create music; there is a rhythm to our fevered breaths, a beauty to our moans that seem to echo their yearning for more, voracious yet elegant.

That is until I am plunged into rapture, my soul grasping at my ribs as if begging to leave my body, my head lost in the ether, my spine a gateway for the streaks of bliss that envelope every nerve, every fiber of my being, and for a moment I am almost afraid that I will combust; my insides burn hotter, and I collapse over the man’s shoulders, my chin settling limp into the groove of his neck.

The guttural sounds that are cast to my ear seem to ground me, bring me back down from my blithe, though I am undone; and so, it seems, is he. I am not sure which one of us is trembling, but despite our plummet back to Earth, we are alive with a hum of energy, and that ethereal thread that had once pulled us close seems to tether, knot. My soul is not reaching for the sky at all, but for him, for the beating of his heart, and for what may as well be an eternity, I let the remnants of what I have been reduced to remain captive against its pulse, let him remained buried inside of me so that that thread never frays.

When he does leave me empty, I ache; my own heart freezes in my chest, and as I pull my head back, strands of messed hair cut my vision as I seek out his eyes.

They are there, their tides finally calmed, but still alive and glittering, still entrapping my soul. His thumb comes to brush along my jaw, and I can feel the tease of his lips against mine, feel the way my soul reaches for his as I sink into the kiss eagerly.

But he pulls away with that gloating smirk, and his sharp whistle stirs the unruly strands of hair from my face. The light moves again across his features, and the faint lamentations of gulls echo in the backdrop of our little, seemingly-separate existence. But it is not the high pitch of his whistle that instills dread heavy in my gut or animates my spent body with a horrid flinch, but the tenebrous note of the clock.

Tick.

---

Humans talk about Heaven as if it is an escape from life, some craved destination that they are all too eager to reach. But they don’t know what they have.

I wouldn’t trade the sunset for anything, the brush of magenta beneath the darkening clouds, the soft glow of fire as the sun melts into the ocean. I wouldn’t trade the touch of a man, the warmth that seeps into every pore, the elation of mind and body. I wouldn’t trade the tinny yet resonating notes of the vagrant’s guitar, the way your soul leaps at every note, the way they become your lifeblood if you allow yourself to sink into them.

I linger a while at the festival in the darkened alleys, trying to mimic some form of dance beneath the glow of the paper lanterns as I bump shoulders with people of all shapes, sizes and energies; once a concrete sea, the city is alive, bursting with colour and music and heady aromas of perfumes and spices.

But as much as I attempt to sink into the lovely notes of the song, the buzzing of life, the lurid yet enchanting lights strung in the air above like pigmented stars, the weight of Emit’s token seems to lift me above it all, the incessant feel of it in my pocket. He had given it to me before I left the bar.

I freeze in my languid motion, my body and soul snared by the steel-blue gaze that peers at me from the sea of bodies. Still swathed in a black suit, he would be almost invisible if he were to step from the glow of the lanterns and into the shadows of the alley, but against the colourful robes and costumes of the crowd, I am amazed that no one else seems to notice him.

A sigh of air crashes from my lungs like a tide, and my shoulders loosen, as his gaze flits down to a pocket-watch that he holds in one hand, the brass winking in the glow of one of the lanterns.

Past the soothing notes of the guitar, I can almost hear the faint yet drilling sound…

Tick.

I blink, and he is gone, and I wonder if he was ever there.

Time is haunting me.

I leave the festival, enter once more the wasteland of the drab streets lit by simple, white lights; I pass by the shop in which I had glimpsed the crystals, know that I am close to where the old woman had perished.

The sidewalk where she fell is empty. The crowd, having dwindled in the absence of light, pass by, as if she had never even existed. The only semblance of her left are the bitter threads of fear that slither across my heart.

I never want to be emptiness, never want to be gone.

The thought is enough to make me look around, casting glances at the shadow of each alley, seeking out the blue-eyed man as if in comfort. But he, too, is gone. And his remnant lies in my pocket.

The air is stale, though the fresh yet salted kiss of the ocean still lingers on my tongue; the sweetness of vanilla seems to have seeped into the fibers of my clothing, and as I settle into the abandoned building I have been subsisting on, hear the patter of the crying roof, the creak of the rotting boards beneath my boots, I keep these gifts with me, bringing my nose to the fabric of my shirt once I free it from my body, roll my tongue in my mouth as if to savour that kiss of the ocean forever.

A storm had broken the dark clouds of the evening, and the patter of rain against the floor seemed to grow louder each minute, seems to mimic that wretched clock in its perfectly-timed beat.

At last, I dig Emit’s token from my pocket. It is a bottle, barely the length of a small dagger. I can just faintly catch the reflection of my vessel’s hollow eyes in the dull sheen of the flickering candlelight that dances across the glass.

The bottle itself is empty, save for a small, folded note.

“Take this,” he’d said, his hot breath raking down the side of my neck as he slipped the bottle into my pocket, that sea-gaze catching mine once more. “Open it whenever you wish to relive the moment.”

I look out the cracked glass of the window, at the newspapers and wrappers that swirls, rampant, in the storm, in the deadness of the street. My soul aches; it yearns to become alive as it stares into the empty.

So I open the bottle, popping the cork and letting the note fall into the palm of a hand I hadn’t realized was shaking until now.

My heart is in my throat as I unfold the note, my breath trapped in my lungs. The unending rain patters against the floor.

It reads:

SALLY’S, 1029 BLEAKER STREET.

Something in my soul stirs, quirks my lip into a smile, and my breath is released from the cruel cage of my lungs, and the pockets of my chest that have been stripped so bare begin to warm with the faintest trace of feeling, of hope, of what I have sought ever since my fall.

Time is mine.

#fanfiction #willem dafoe #writing #emit flesti #faraway so close #1993 #the willem dafoe challenge #my writing #smut #mdni #fanfic #wings of desire

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